-While in Columbus, Ohio for a show earlier this year, I went into a 7-Eleven in the middle of the afternoon and tried to buy one beer.  The clerk looked at me like I had three heads and told me I had to buy the whole six-pack.  I tried to explain to him that in New York City you can buy as few beers as you want in the local delis.  He wouldn’t have it.  I think he might have even muttered “cheap bastard” as I walked out, six-pack in hand.  But the fact is, budgeting is a survival skill that all twentysomethings must master.  That’s why we show up five minutes early for open bars and collect dimes and quarters in an empty forty sitting on the coffee table.  Without our parents’ dole anymore, times are tight.  Those coins are more than just a future six-pack – they’re winds of change.

-If you’ve just graduated college, by now you’ve begun wrangling with the landlord of your shitty-ass off-campus apartment to give you back your security deposit.  I’ll never forget the invoice my nine housemates and I received the summer after graduation.  It listed as damages left behind: “holes the size of people” and “bags full of piss and beer.”  We got 200 bucks back.  Total.

-I hypothesize that the amount of money that chicks spend on clothes, waxing, shoes, and handbags is roughly equivalent to the amount of money that dudes spend on chicks.  If guys were actually into shopping, it’d throw off the whole balance.  But we’re definitely not.  Case in point: at the airport on the way to Columbus, I showed my driver’s license with a photo of me taken in 1996 at the checkpoint.  I looked down and realized I was wearing the exact same shirt I was wearing in the picture.

-Everyone’s got the figure-out-the-check guy in their group of friends.  As soon as the check comes after a big dinner, I immediately pass it to either Brian or Triplet #2.  It is their sacred responsibility to divide up the bill among a dozen drunken idiots who all either only have twenties or want to pay with a credit card.  And without fail, after all the money is counted, figure-out-the-check guy will have to yell out, “OK, who didn’t pay?  Hello?  Yo!  Guys!  Who the fuck didn’t pay!?”

-It is me, or has tipping just gotten way out of control?  Ever try to tip “only” 15%?  People look at you like you stabbed the waiter in the heart.  And cab drivers, forget it.  These guys get 20% just for driving you around the block.  It’s fucking ridiculous.  I believe our society is doomed unless we return to only tipping big for exceptional service, or, uh, you know, if the waitress has cannons.

-I just read in Sports Illustrated that my alma mater, the University of Pennsylvania, has a school funds-sponsored club that partnered with a gambling web site last year to organize a campus-wide poker tournament.  At first I thought it was wrong for Penn to encourage an activity that could lead to exorbitant sums of money being depleted in an instant.  Then I realized it’s been encouraging that for years.  It’s called, “Going to Penn.”

-The other day, I noticed that the guy standing in front of me in this humongous line at the grocery store was only buying two limes.  And after an absurd twenty-minute wait on line, he paid for his prize in nickels and dimes.  As he gathered a stray penny or two, he happened to glance at me and I said, “Tequila, huh?”  “You know it,” he replied.  I smiled, paid for my one beer, and left, the winds of change blowing softly in the distance.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I just saw a commercial for Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper.  And I thought to myself, wow, I have absolutely no idea what that could possibly taste like.

-You know the five-second rule whereby if you drop food on the floor, you can still pick it up within five seconds and eat it?  I think we need to implement one for chapstick.  I’m always dropping it (since I’m fucking addicted and carry it everywhere), and last time it rolled onto a carpet and the tip got all fuzzy.  I just wiped it off on my forearm and went about my day.  So you see how some sort of rule or guideline could have really been beneficial in this situation?  Yeah, me neither.

-I came to the self-realization the other day that I have a very annoying habit.  Whenever I walk into a room, I make a little comment about the temperature.  I’ll say, “Hey guys!  Long time, no see.  It’s kind of cold in here isn’t it?” or “Yo, sorry I’m late.  Is it a little stuffy or is it me?”  I also make little comments about people’s clothes, career, and hygiene.  But as far as I know, they don’t seem to mind that.

-You know when someone walks out of an elevator and doesn’t expect to see you standing right there and they look up and get all startled for a second?  I love that.

-You think every time an NBA player goes to the movies, the person behind him moans, “Oh man!”

-Were you aware that those two little dots that sometimes appear over the letters ‘a’ and ‘o’ in German words are actually called an “umlaut”?  I totally thought it was called “that Motley Crue symbol thingy.”

-Have you ever taken your cell phone with you to the bathroom, and while you’re taking care of business, a call comes in that you really have to take?  So you pick it up and begin to talk while you’re finishing up, but then realize you’re faced with a dilemma – to flush or not to flush.  The person on the phone won’t stop talking long enough to put them on hold, so if you flush, they’ll know you were dropping a deuce while on an important call.  If you don’t flush, that’s just disgusting.  And if in the midst of this crisis you drop your chapstick, well, then you’re just fucked.

-And, finally, a few weeks ago in Union Square I spotted a girl wearing the strangest outfit – a pair of jeans with one normal leg and one leg cut off to shorts-length.  I’m not kidding.  I got to thinking that the whole half-pants/half-shorts thing could be the newest fashion trend.  Why not?  If I told you three years ago that chicks around the world would start wearing belts around their waist, but not in the actual belt loops, you’d look at me and call me crazy.  Then you’d probably ask, “Karo, isn’t that the same shirt you’ve been wearing since tenth grade?”  And I’d grab my well-worn collar and say, “Um, is it a little stuffy in here?”  Fuck me!

HOME

-The other day, I was reading about these bugs called cicadas that lie dormant underground for seventeen years.  Then, after seventeen years, they come out, they mate, and then they die the next day.  And I couldn’t help but wonder, how much would it suck to be the guy that doesn’t hook up that night?

-When presented with the prospect of hitting the bars after a long day of work, human males will always carefully consider their options.  The angel on one shoulder says, “Stay home!  You’re gonna have two overpriced beers and want to leave in ten minutes anyway.  Plus you just got that gourmet new porno.”  But the devil on the other shoulder simply says, “But if you go out, you might hook up.”  Ever wonder where the devil is later, when you’re paying for those expensive drinks and there’s not a chick in sight?  I bet he’s trying to fuck the angel.

-And as much energy as guys expend attempting to hook up, girls expend an equal amount thwarting our advances.  I’ve found that the less a girl wants to hook up with a guy she meets at a bar, the more outlandish an excuse she’ll give, and it will often be accompanied by blatant giggling and eye rolling with her nearby girl friends.  And nothing inspires confidence in a guy like a giggling, eye-rolling girl telling you she has to leave because her bi-racial, lesbian half-sister’s Bat Mitzvah is in the morning.

-If a girl does actually decide to go home with a guy, she’ll often try to be stern and lay down the law as to how far the hook-up is going to go.  However, instead of being dejected, guys are usually elated because we then expect to get one notch below where the line was drawn.  If a girl says, “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with you,” we’re thinking, “Awesome.  Blow job!”

-As for me, I’ve been dating Girlfriend for a whopping year and three months.  This is a good time, because we’re way past the standard “cross-pollination” phase of our relationship.   That was the time, after we first started going out, when all my friends asked me if Girlfriend knew hot chicks, and all of Girlfriend’s friends asked her if I knew cute boys.  Then they all met, a few from my side hooked up with a few from her side, drama ensued, and everything got a little awkward.  Luckily, everyone on both sides was immature enough to simply avoid each other until it eventually blew over.

-I will say that Girlfriend and I make for quite the inebriated couple.  Our first kiss was, as expected, a drunken dance floor make-out at a bar.  As it turns out, Girlfriend not only doesn’t remember our first kiss, she doesn’t even remember being there.

-In the end, hook-ups come in many varieties and can lead to all sorts of weird relationships.  For instance, my buddy Seth lives at home with his parents and is dating a girl that also lives at home with her parents.  And what’s hotter than rent-free, semi-private sex?  I also know a girl my age that is dating a guy still in college.  Weird, because I thought that chicks figured out never to sleep at a frat house by the time they were sophomores.  And let’s not forget our friends the cicadas.  Imagine waiting seventeen years for a chance to hook up but coming home empty-handed.  The other bugs are trying to make you feel better, but it’s totally not working.  They’re like, “Hey man, look on the bright side – at least you’ve got six hands to jerk off with.  I’d just do it quickly, because we’re gonna die in about fifteen minutes.”

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Is it weird that when I walk by bakeries and delis in the city, I try to memorize what the top cookie on the pile in the window looks like so that when I pass by three days later I’ll know if it’s just been sitting there?  I’m guessing yes.

-Do you think tattoo artists are ever like, “Listen, I’m sorry but I really think you’re way too drunk right now.”

-Memo to George Lucas: dude, we’re all gonna see the movie.  Enough with all the promotion already.  I really don’t need Chewbacca dental floss.

-By the way, if you’re a dork, but your Facebook or MySpace profile features a picture of you with the one hot chick you happen to know, you’re still a dork.

-English Muffins are neither English nor muffins.  Discuss.

-Speaking of which, did you know there was huge election in Britain a few weeks ago?  Yeah, me neither.  How about that.

-Could there be any more run, walk, bike, or jog-a-thons going on this summer?  Why combine charity with something boring like exercise?  Why not combine it with sex?  Or booze?  Or what about Star Wars?  I’m pretty sure Star Wars is available.

-So I’ve just wrapped up touring colleges for the semester.  And what a wet and wild, popped-collar-filled adventure it was.  Two things I noticed: at every campus I went to, at least one person told me that Playboy had named the school library one of the best places in the country to pick up girls.  Uh, no they didn’t.  Also, on numerous occasions it was explained to me that the lack of sorority houses on campus was due to a law that a certain amount of girls living in the same house is considered a brothel.  Yeah, that’s not true either – it’s an urban myth.  I’d say you guys were all smoking crack, but with drug tests at work coming up for the graduating seniors, that’s probably not the case.

-My five med school friends have finally graduated and become real, live doctors.  Two of them, Dr. Shermdog and Dr. Triplet #3, are training to become orthopedic surgeons.  The other three, Dr. Chris, Dr. Seth, and Dr. Adam, are going to be anesthesiologists.  Supposedly orthopedics is more “hard-core” while anesthesiology has a better lifestyle.  But I bet they all watch “Scrubs” and totally nitpick.

-And, finally, I actually do have one more school performance coming up.  I’m going to be speaking to the senior class at my high school next week.  It should definitely be an interesting experience.  When I graduated from good ‘ol Plainview JFK High eight long years ago, never did I think I’d be invited back to do something like this.  The devil on my shoulder is telling me to hit on the senior girls, but that’s one seventeen-year-old itch I will not be scratching.  Fuck me.

HOME

-Congratulations Class of 2005!  You’re about to earn your college degree.  You’re probably feeling excited, anxious, saddened, and hungover all at once.  Don’t worry, that’s normal.  I should know.  I’m Class of 2001.  I’m you in four years.  I live in a place called the “real world.”  We’re very excited that you’ll be joining us soon (especially if you’re a hot chick with low standards).  This is your welcome guide.

-You know how some people are always saying that life only gets better after college?  They’re lying.  Life gets much, much worse.  One moment you’re doing jagerbombs in a frat house basement, and next thing you know you’re sitting in a cubicle staring at the beanie baby atop of your co-worker’s computer monitor.  But don’t freak out!  Once you get the hang of things, life will eventually get a lot better, better even than college.  Then shit kinda evens out.  Right now, I’m about even.  Trust me, even is good.

-Soon, you will get your own credit card.  It’s kind of cool.  You’ll even find out that you can earn “points” toward free stuff by spending lots of money.  Also cool, right?  Wrong!  Points do nothing.  I have about 10 billion American Express points.  You know what I’ve earned?  A one-way flight with layovers…that I need to book two years in advance…and sit in the bathroom.

-You know how in the “American Pie” movies, Kevin always calls his older and, presumably wiser, brother, who is at some business conference or something, and asks him for sex advice?  You’re the older brother now.  Trippy, huh?

-The hardest part about your transition to the real world will be your transition to the working world.  First job out of college sucks?  Don’t sweat it.  Of the ten members of my incoming Wall Street class, nine of us don’t even work for the company anymore.  Also, two of us are married, two of us are getting an MBA, and one of us tells dick jokes for a living (that’s me).  The point is, who the hell knows where your career or your life will take you?  Your first job is all about networking, doing data entry hungover, and daring the guy in the next cubicle to jerk off in the office bathroom.

-I have a cut on my lip from doing a kegstand last weekend.  That’s right.  I’m twenty-five and I still do kegstands.  Some people my age and older might read this and think, “Wow, that Karo is really immature.  When is he going to grow up?”  And to those people I say: shut the hell up.  To me, a kegstand is the ultimate display of post-college defiance.  Because a kegstand requires two things that are not always readily accessible in the real world: a keg and enough crazy friends willing to hold you up.  And so, Class of 2005, if in four years you can look around and find both, then take heart.  You are now even.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I try to do everything online, that way I can avoid speaking to humans as much as possible.  Anyway, my cousin had twin boys about a year and a half ago and recently had them tested to see if they were identical.  The sad thing was that I was less excited about finding out they’re identical than about the fact that the lab sent the test results via email.

-Have you ever been eating something and casually looking at the box at the same time, and you glance at the Nutrition Facts and realize that you’ve just shoveled about eight “serving sizes” into your mouth in one sitting?

-I used to eat Subway like almost every day and exercise regularly.  Now I find myself eating a lot of junk food and avoiding the gym.  It’s like I’m doing Jared’s diet in reverse.

-The other day, I saw this girl I knew in the street.  She was wearing sweats.  I said to her, “Oh, did you just come from the gym?”  She was like, “No.”  Oops…

-I’ve been using Crest whitening strips on my teeth for the past week.  So far, the only noticeable result has been me staring at my mouth in every mirror that I pass and thinking, “Hmm, do my teeth seem whiter?  They seem like they might be whiter.  Oh hell, I don’t remember what the fuck they used to look like anyway!”

-Why can’t I get these damn Kelly Clarkson songs out of my head!?  It can’t be because I bought them on iTunes and listen to them all the time, can it?

-Recently, I was in a rush to catch a train and so when I bought a magazine for $3.95, I told the guy to keep the change.  I think that he thought I was being all snobby for rejecting the nickel, but really I just couldn’t wait.  Now I feel bad.  This was like two weeks ago.  Either I have a very strong conscience, or these whitening strips are going to my brain.

-In my apartment I have one of those TVs that require two remotes – one to turn it on and one to change the channel and volume.  Like clockwork, every time someone comes over, I’ll leave the room and then come back a minute later to find my friend standing helplessly in front of the scrambled TV, remote in each hand, wondering how pressing one wrong button could have possibly caused the utter disaster now before him.  I usually put my arm around my friend and say, “Don’t worry.  It happens to a lot of people.  You know, with there being so many remotes and all.  We’re gonna get through this.  Idiot.”

-And, finally, in my travels performing at colleges across the country this semester, I was introduced to the shot I mentioned earlier – the jagerbomb (Jagermeister mixed with Red Bull).  Whoever thought of combining two of the most disgusting drinks at the bar, giving it a cool name, and then charging six bucks a shot is, well, a fucking genius.  Class of 2005, I gotta hand it to you.  You’ve come up with yet another way to make me puke.  I have a feeling you guys are gonna be just fine out here in the real world.  In fact, first round of ‘bombs is on the house.  I could use the credit card points.  Fuck me.

HOME

-Last Saturday, I had some friends over to booze and christen my new apartment.  Everyone brought the requisite sixer.  When my former roommate Brian arrived with his girlfriend, I noticed they were carrying a six-pack as well as a bottle of champagne.  Immediately, my spider-sense began tingling.  Brian would never shell out for a bottle of bubbly just because I got a new place.  Instinctively, I glanced over at his girlfriend – and happened to spot a rock on her finger.  And that’s when I figured out that Brian had gotten engaged.  Holy shit!  Engaged?  Dom Perignon?  What happened to the Brian we all know and love?  Then he whipped out some cheap, plastic, disposable champagne glasses and I thought – oh, there he is.

-At first I was a little miffed because Brian didn’t give me any indication when he was going to pop the question.  Afterward, he told me he just really wanted to keep it a secret and that I have a tendency to get drunk, say things I shouldn’t, and break everything.  I protested but Brian said, “Honestly Karo, we call you the Human Security Deposit.”

-I just want to point out that Brian got engaged about three months after we stopped living together, but he’s known he’d be marrying his girlfriend for quite some time.  So in essence, I lived with a married couple for at least a year.  You know how fucking weird and unhealthy that was?  I actually used to yell at Brian for keeping the toilet seat…down!

-Of course, with an engagement party, a bachelor party, a bachelorette party, a bridal shower, a rehearsal dinner, and then the actual wedding, the engagement is just the beginning of a yearlong series of events celebrating every incremental step of the process.  It’s like Billy Madison is getting married.

-As I said, Brian’s getting engaged has pretty much been a done deal for a while.  But do you have that friend that has been dating someone for like eight years but refuses to even discuss the possibility of marriage?  I love talking to them because they always get so overly defensive.  I’m like, “So, heard about Brian?  I guess you’re next, huh?”  And they’re like, “Whoah, whoah, whoah, not even close!  We’re not even thinking of considering even maybe getting engaged!  Possibly a few years from now.  I want to take it slow.  Very slow.  Really, really slow.  Like unnecessarily, painfully protracted, drawn-out slow – that’s the kind of slow I’m looking for.”

-I think the strangest situation will be after the wedding, when I hang out with Brian and his fiancee as husband and wife.  Hanging out with married people my own age is really awkward.  You know, because they’re married and I’m still human.

-This Labor Day, I’ll be attending my frat buddy Joey’s wedding.  He’s the first guy in our pledge class to get married.  Fraternity weddings (or “freddings”) have to be a lot different than your run-of-the mill wedding.  I imagine freddings to involve a lot more drinking and perhaps some streaking.  I know for a fact that Joey had to hire a special fredding photographer skilled in the art of shooting human pyramids.

-And let me just say, Brian, dear old friend, congratulations on your engagement.  I couldn’t be happier for you.  But you might want to stock up on those plastic glasses for the wedding.  They don’t call me the Human Security Deposit for nothing!

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Pre-engaged Brian shared with me an interesting theory a few weeks ago: bad basketball games are a great place to pick up girls.  His thinking goes like this: when two bad teams are playing, dads who have season tickets often give their tickets away, presumably to their hot daughters.  Ergo, bad basketball games are often filled with hot chicks.  Hey, at least the Lakers and Knicks had one thing going for them this season.

-When I first moved into my new apartment, Brian asked me if I brought my high school yearbook.  I said no, because I’m only subletting the apartment.  And then Brian shared with me yet another of his theories: whether or not you have your high school yearbook in your current abode is the real test of whether you’re going to be staying there for a while.  Not bad, right?  Before I compared Brian to Billy Madison, but really he’s like Albert Einstein.  You know, if Einstein’s theories employed faulty logic and made no real useful contribution to society.

-People love to tell me how big a place they could get in their town for the price of my studio apartment in New York City.  Listen, if I really wanted a four-story townhouse with private pool, I’d live in Omaha.  But I mean, come on, you guys don’t even have a basketball team, let alone one that sucks enough to attract hot girls!

-My first few weeks in my new apartment were strange because the doormen didn’t recognize me yet and thus asked suspiciously, “Can I help you, sir?” every time I walked in.  And nothing says “welcome home” like a burly guy in a poorly-tailored uniform blocking your path when you really have to take a shit.

-As my longtime fans know, I fucking hate slow walkers.  I hated them in college when they’d stroll leisurely in front of me, blocking my path when I was late for class.  And I hate them in New York, clogging the sidewalks as they stop to take pictures every half-block.  But now I’ve witnessed a new, horrible breed of slow-walker that’s only 1/8 the size.  That’s right: “mini-walkers.”  Seriously parents, when you’re walking down a narrow stairway to catch a subway train that’s about to take off and I’m right behind you, PICK UP your fucking little toddler and carry that snot-nosed brat.  If you haven’t noticed, your kid is three.  He can’t fucking reach the handrail.  He walks one step every minute.  And I can’t squeeze by because then I’ll crush him.  Seriously, it’s like walking behind a giant, broken slinky.

-And, finally, one of the most uncomfortable aspects of living with Brian and his girlfriend was jockeying for couch position.  If I’d come home and the two of them were already on the couch, caressing each other, there would really be nowhere for me to sit comfortably.  Sometimes I’d even plant myself on the couch long before Brian and his girlfriend came home, just to ensure that I had a spot in front of the TV for the night.  Living in my own place is glorious because I have the couch all to myself.  And that was one of my first thoughts the morning I woke up after the night of debauchery that followed Brian’s engagement announcement.  But as I gleefully reclined on my very own couch, I felt a horrific, shooting pain in my leg.  And that’s when I saw what I’d sat on – a jagged piece of a cheap, plastic, disposable champagne glass.  Fuck me!

HOME

-FREEEEEEDOM!!!  After three months (that’s 89 days or 2,136 hours or 7.7 million seconds) of living at home with my parents, I’ve finally sprung loose and moved back to good ol’ New York City.  No more asking my dad for rides.  No more having my mom throw out my old, holey underwear against my will.  I’ve returned to civilization and I’m ready to experience the city in all of its glory once again.  Just as soon as I can replace those eleven pairs of boxers.

-You learn a lot about your parents when you move back home at twenty-five.  For instance, my dad’s advice consists of eight interchangeable catchphrases: “Don’t worry about anyone but yourself,” “Sometimes you gotta pay your dues,” “It’ll put hair on your chest,” “It builds character,” “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do,” “Go ask your mother,” “Always look out for number one,” and my personal favorite, “Show some class for God’s sake.”

-My mom, on the other hand, is incapable of remembering my email address, no matter how many times I tell her and despite the fact that she’s been emailing me there for four years.  I’m like, Mom, just email me@aaronkaro.com.  Which part can’t you remember?

-While home, I discovered that running on your old high school track is like twenty times tougher than running on a treadmill.  Especially when the girls JV lacrosse team is staring at your sorry ass.

-Also, snow isn’t so cool anymore when you have to shovel it yourself.

-Ever wonder what your parents keep in that second, extra refrigerator that’s half-buried in your garage or basement?  Turns out it’s just eight cases of Snapple.

-I told my mom that I would probably need a Foreman for my new apartment.  She was like, “What, like a construction worker?”

-Back in January, I asked my mom how she felt about my moving back home.  She said, “Remember when you and Dad got me a DustBuster for Mother’s Day that year?”  I was like, “Yeah…”  She was like, “Well, that’s how I feel.”  I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but last week when I asked her how she felt about my moving out again, she said, “Take the DustBuster.”

-In the end, I actually enjoyed my three months at home.  Not just because I got to spend some quality time with my parents as a quasi-adult, or because the rent was free (though that really, really helped), but because of the trophies.  I slept and worked in my old bedroom, which still holds all my old trophies from soccer and camp and whatnot.  And it’s really hard to be bummed about life when you’re surrounded by trophies.  They may be over a decade old and venerate achievements long since forgotten in sports played on a field surrounded by a track that I can’t no longer run around even once, but there’s nothing like a two-foot tall, gold-plated figurine to make you forget how much snow you have to shovel.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Is it gross that the other day I watched “Super Size Me” and then ate an Egg McMuffin a few hours later?  And it was the tastiest goddamn Egg McMuffin I’ve ever had.

-I love how on “Lost” the castaways all go to Jack, the only doctor on the island, for every little problem, even if it’s not medical.  I do the same thing with my friends who are med students.  I’m like, “Hey man, I’ve got this kinda weird rash.  Oh, and my printer is broken.  You think you could fix that, too?”

-Last week, my buddy Gadi was making me watch “Iron Chef America” on the Food Network when all of a sudden he exclaimed, “I can’t stand that chef.  He sucks!”  I don’t get it.  What sucks?  We were just watching TV – he obviously hadn’t tasted the food.  I guess he could have been referring to the chef’s choice of apron, but I actually thought it was quite stylish.

-I just saw some guy in a cast and felt really bad for him.  Not because of his injury, but because he probably has to explain what happened to his wrist and tell the same dumb story over and over again every day.  So let’s add “What happened to your [insert body part in cast]?” to my list of the most annoying questions of all time, joining “How was your trip?”, “How was your test?”, “How was your flight?”, and “How was the funeral?”

-As you know, my former roommate Brian moved in with his girlfriend.  And I’ve been noticing very strange things ever since.  For instance, all of a sudden he has RCFs (Random Couple Friends).  Brian and his girlfriend will have a party at their apartment, and it will be filled with couples I’ve never even seen before.  Where the fuck did these people come from?  Also, Brian has a really high bed in his bedroom.  It’s one of those set-ups where you almost have to do a small hop just to get on top of the mattress.  No one else I know under the age of forty has a high bed like that.  I think it’s a cry for help.

-Kegerator.  I just love that word.  Isn’t it great that we live in a society where kegerators even exist?  World War II was so worth it.

-So my new book comes out in three weeks.  I have the first copies sitting here on my desk.  It’s amazing to think about what went into putting this book together, even when the writing was finished.  A copyeditor scoured it for grammatical errors.  Of course, the way I write, our most heated discussion was whether “mother-fucking” is hyphenated.  Then, a lawyer reviewed the text.  I swear she actually asked me, “So does your friend Claudio actually piss while sitting down?  Because if not, that could be libel.”  Unfortunately for Claudio, I don’t think he has much of a case.

-And, finally, one of the best parts about living alone in my new studio apartment is that, if I shut my cell phone off, no one can talk to me.  No one can bother me, no one can wake me up – it’s utter, silent bliss.  I must have been daydreaming about that possibility as I rode the Long Island Rail Road last week from my hometown to Manhattan for what was to be my triumphant return to the city.  Because I fell dead asleep.  When I woke up, I was in an empty train car in the bowels of Penn Station.  And that’s New York City for you – after we arrived, scores of people must have filed passed me, but not one person talked to me, bothered me, or even woke me up.  And the DustBuster was still at my side.  Fuck me.

HOME

-The other day I talked to my old friend Kenny for the first time in a while and he sounded unusually upbeat.  He’s had some tough times and a little bit of financial trouble lately, but now he was optimistic, happy, and, well, giddy, on the phone.  I asked him what was up.  He said that he had been reading this book that talked all about achieving your goals and having faith in God and believing in yourself and that it really had affected him.  A little skeptical, I said, “Wow, uh, that’s great man.”  Then Kenny said, “Yeah, and I also met this chick.”  Ah ha!  So that’s really what it was!  I knew it couldn’t have been some stupid book.  Because for twentysomething guys, money may be the root of all evil, but sex is still the root of all happiness.

-Sometimes guys’ obsession with sex puts us in unenviable positions.  Once, back in my Wall Street days, I was sitting through an interminable meeting and my mind kept drifting to a dirty, dirty place.  When the meeting ended, I snapped back to consciousness and started to get up.  And that’s when I noticed I had a massive erection.  I couldn’t stand in the condition I was in.  First, I tried the age-old guy trick of tucking my junk into the elastic waistband of my boxers.  When that didn’t work, I improvised.  I jammed my hands into my pockets, manually restrained my babymaker, and skulked out of the room backwards while nodding to everyone like a Japanese businessman.

-Ever notice that sex is the only loud noise that you won’t tell someone in another room to quiet down?

-My late-night decision-making is questionable at best.  For instance, once I met a chick at a bar who I thought was pretty cute.  She was kind of a wideclops (her eyes were a little too far apart), but besides that she was fine.  We went back to my place and we did our thing (though in my drunken state I couldn’t quite recapture that Wall Street rigidity).  When I woke up in the morning, Wideclops was still there.  Staring at me.  (Though I could really only look her in the eye one at a time.)  We exchanged pleasantries and got dressed.  But she didn’t leave.  I went out to grab food and came back.  She was still there.  Then I started to concoct arduous tasks that I needed to do that day in order to try to get rid of her (“Um, I really need to wash the windows.”).  She offered to help.  I got in the shower.  She joined me.  It was absurd – a classic case of sexual loitering.  Finally, she left at like 8pm.  I’m not even kidding.  It was a 24-hour one-night stand!

-Many girls fashion themselves as “kissing whores.”  These are the chicks that go to the bar, get drunk off Chardonnay, run around the dance floor kissing random guys, then leave giggling with their girl friends.  But what I enjoy most is observing the guys they’ve kissed pathetically wander about the bar for the rest of the night, desperately trying to find the perpetrator in the hopes of getting more than just a smooch.  But it will never happen.  So don’t follow the girl home and wait outside her building in case she comes back out and then call everyone in your phonebook to try to figure out who she was and end up falling asleep outside.  Because I’ve definitely never done that.

-But as a guy who has had a girlfriend for over a year, many of these escapades are long gone.  And I’ve realized that no matter how great your girlfriend or fiance or wife is, there will always be six days a year when your mettle is tested.  For me, it will happen when I meet a female fan while on tour, or if I go to a bar in New York and Girlfriend is not there.  A hot chick will just want to get down, but I can’t because I have a girlfriend.  Every guy has his temptations.  But if you really sit and think and add up how many times a year you could have gotten laid if you weren’t in a relationship, it really only comes out to about six days.  So when it comes to sex, 359 days a year, it pays to have a girlfriend.  The other six days you just need some willpower.  That’s the 359 Rule.  You hear that Wideclops?  I’m taken.  Now stop winking at me.  Or are you blinking?

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-When I was traveling through Florida a few weeks ago on tour, I kept noticing something disturbing: people dressing up for plane rides.  And these weren’t executives hopping off the plane to go to meetings, these were regular people wearing nice linen shirts and sports coats and dresses for a three-hour flight.  Why?  These are probably the same people that dress up on Saturday afternoons just to lay around the house, and wear hair gel and make-up to the gym.  Sick, evil, ungodly people.

-About three years ago, I totally lost track of my minutes and received an $800 cell phone bill.  Paying an $800 phone bill really changes your whole perspective on things.  Namely, I now find it nearly impossible to moderate my spending.  How can I justify complaining that nine bucks for a beer is outrageous when once I paid an $800 phone bill?  Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black?  Or, you know, some other analogy that actually makes sense?

-I think that 36 beers is pretty much the cut-off for caring about floaters.  If you have less than 36 beers available to drink, you’re making sure you’re drinking each one right down to the ass.  But once there’s a fridge stocked with 36 or more beers, psychologically I’m definitely more inclined to drink 5/6ths of the can, forget about it, and then move on.   I wonder if that’s why I’m not invited to parties much anymore.

-Even though some people confuse my alma mater, Penn, with another school, Penn State, I still graduated from a pretty well-known college.  And I’m happy about that.  Because there are dozens of small schools across the country that most guys have only heard of for one reason:  “Where did you go?  Hmm… never heard of it – wait, wait a minute…weren’t you guys the 16th seed in the NCAA tournament two years ago?  Wow.  You guys got killed.”

-There’s nothing like getting an unsolicited compliment on a shirt the first time you wear it.  That happened to me the other day.  Someone was like, “Nice shirt!”  And I was all excited like, “Wow, thanks.  Just got it!”   Hey, maybe I should wear that shirt on the plane next time…

-And, finally, as a guy with a girlfriend, I am sometimes privy to information other guys can’t access.  For instance, recently I was talking to one of Girlfriend’s friends at a party.  I asked her what she did for a living and she told me she designed bras and panties.  Immediately I said, “Did you only tell me that because you know I’m dating Girlfriend?  Because I’m sure when you tell that to guys in bars, they ask you all sorts of stupid questions.”  And she was like, “You’re absolutely right, I usually just tell guys I’m in fashion.”  I was like, “Yeah, I mean I can totally see how idiot guys would ask you dumb shit like, are you wearing the product right now…and is it a thong…and, you know, can I see it?”  With that, she recoiled a bit.  And I realized that while sex is the root of all happiness, it’s also the source of a whole lot of stupid-ass comments.  Fuck me.

HOME

-This week I crossed a landmark threshold in my tale of twentysomething life: I have now officially been out of college longer than I was in college.  Most likely I will celebrate this milestone and its implication of newfound maturity by getting so blindingly drunk that some chick at the bar will look at me in disgust and proclaim, “Karo, you’re so immature.”  But she’ll be wrong, because maturity and drunkenness are not mutually exclusive in my opinion.  In fact, the older one gets, the more important it becomes to get rip-roaring shitblasted on occasion.  It’s like chicken soup for the twentysomething soul.  Except, you know, the soup gets you really fucked up.

-I love Wasted Happy Hour Chick.  This is the girl who came straight from work to the bar and is still there at midnight even though her colleagues are all gone, she’s lost a shoe, and she’s been carrying around her laptop bag for seven hours.  Wasted Happy Hour Chick can usually be found dancing wildly by herself in the corner and is easy prey for Slimy Investment Banker Dude – who’s not nearly as drunk but has far fewer morals.

-I’m pretty sure the entire cell phone industry would collapse if it weren’t for people standing on line outside of bars desperately calling everyone they know to try to get in.  The guys are standing in the street, brows furrowed, phone on one shoulder and a finger in the opposite ear so they can hear better.  The girls are standing just behind the velvet rope, dressed completely inappropriately to be waiting out in the cold, and text messaging every guy they almost hooked up with once to help get them in.  And I’m standing halfway down the block calling all my friends to abort because there’s no fucking way I’m waiting on line.  Seriously, the bouncers should be sponsored by T-Mobile.

-Why can’t they make a beer can that tells you the temperature of the beer, kind of like those batteries that tell you how much power is left?  That would prevent me from thinking a beer is cold, when in reality, only the can was cold.  And how obvious is it that I thought of this idea while completely wasted and drinking surprisingly warm beer?

-I hate when a beer costs $4.50 in a bar.  I feel bad tipping fifty cents.  I feel weird pocketing the two quarters.  And I sure as hell ain’t tipping $1.50 for a Coors Light.  So I end up just ordering two beers.  People think I’m badass because I’m double-fisting, but really I just have a strange proclivity toward round numbers.

-Have you ever, for some random reason, gotten laid really early on a weekend night, like at 8pm?  This happened to me once, and when it was over, I went back out to the bar.  I can’t tell you what an exhilarating sensation it was to go out boozing knowing I had already hooked up.  I felt invincible – like when you get the Starman in Mario Brothers, except I didn’t start blinking.

-Being out of college longer than I was in college doesn’t bother me too much, though, because I still get to party like it’s 2001 on a regular basis.  After my college stand-up shows, I usually head to the line-free campus bar, throw my Amex down, and start ordering away.  The beauty of it is that $150 worth of drinks in New York ends up costing me about $17 on campus.  I was surprised to find this out myself – college bars actually have the same exchange rate as your average bankrupt Latin American nation.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I called Delta the other day and the automated voice asked me to enter my frequent flier number “one digit at a time.”  How the fuck else am I gonna enter it?

-I love getting emails from fans my age that clearly have had the same email address for like a decade.  It’s always like soccerplaya11@yahoo or something.  And I just know they haven’t participated in anything remotely soccer-related in years.  In fact, just writing me an email probably got them winded.

-I’m just fascinated by med students.  For instance, next Thursday is residency program “Match Day,” which is when all fourth-year med students find out where in the country they will be spending the next five years of their lives.  (Sounds a little like sorority rush but with neurosurgeons, doesn’t it?)  After finding out if and where they matched, our nation’s soon-to-be-doctors proceed to go out and get rip-roaring shitblasted.  But here’s the twist.  This year, Match Day falls on the first day of the NCAA Tournament…and St. Patrick’s Day.  In other words, it’s an alcoholic perfect storm.

-I’ve got a great new aerobic exercise.  It’s called: “try to get in and out of the gym as fast as humanly possible.”  I can’t believe that I used to work out for 90 minutes.  Now instead of timing myself on the treadmill, I actually start my watch when I get to the gym parking lot and see if I can make it back out in under twenty.  My all-time record is zero minutes.  I’ve accomplished it six days in a row and counting…

-My buddy Claudio lives in a six-floor walk-up apartment.  He says it’s “not that bad.”  I think that all walk-ups aren’t “that bad” until you get to the fourth floor, stop to rest, begin hyperventilating, then realize you have at least another flight to go before reaching your friend, while at the same time reconsidering how much you could really value friendship with someone who lives at such a high altitude, then finally just laying down on the stairs and hoping that someone either finds your lifeless body or builds an elevator, whichever comes first.

-And, finally, I think the war you wage each morning after going out boozing, over whether to get out of bed and piss, or just hold it in and hope to fall back asleep, is analogous to the general daily conflict in the lives of twentysomethings.  By not pissing, we’re ignoring the consequences of our actions and hoping that somehow everything will take care of itself.  But by getting up, we are conceding some control and acknowledging unwanted responsibility.  Of course, in college I used to just piss in an empty Gatorade bottle then throw it down the hallway in the general direction of the communal bathroom.  God, I miss those days.  Fuck me.

HOME

-It has been said that a true friend is someone who knows all your flaws – and is still your friend.  In my experience, a true friend is someone who knows all your flaws – and seizes every single opportunity to make fun of you for them.  In fact, my buddies often say that my penchant for making jokes at their expense is simply a ploy to disguise my own insecurities.  God, how fucking dumb are my stupid friends?

-No matter what the context, if I ever mention a female in conversation, my buddy Chi will always stop me and ask, “Wait, was she hot?”  I’m like, “So the girl sitting next to me on the bus today was – ” and Chi’s like, “Whoah, hold on.  She cute?”  And if I tell him she wasn’t, he gets a sad little look on his face and stops paying attention.  I believe he has a mild form of ADD only triggered by the thought of unattractive women.

-My friend Shermdog continues to have the most impressive game I’ve ever seen.  The only way I can describe it is that when I see him hit on girls, I’m so awed that I’m almost subconsciously afraid I might hook up with him.  (Please note: I said almost.)  One time I was out with Shermdog when these cute chicks sat down at the table next to us and ordered sushi.  I made some lame-ass joke which they totally ignored.  Then I went to the bathroom.  By the time I came back, Shermdog was actually sitting at their table and feeding one of the girls a spicy tuna roll.  He had them eating out of the palm of his hand.  Literally.

-My buddy Jason lives with his girlfriend.  I always feel so awkward and immature when I call their home number and have to leave a message.  It usually goes something like this: “Hey Jason, it’s Karo… uh, and, um, hi to you too, Jocelyn.  Hello to the both of you, um, together.  Uh oh, am I calling too late?  Oh man, I’m definitely calling too late.  You guys are probably sleeping.  Or having sex.  Oh God I shouldn’t have said that.  OK, uh, Jason, just give me a call back.  Or Jocelyn you can call me back too, I guess.  I mean, I was calling for Jason but, you know, I don’t want you to be insulted or anything.  You know what?  Maybe it’s best if we never speak again.”

-I have another friend that recently moved in with her boyfriend.  She told me that in order to save time, she and her boyfriend shower together every morning.  I told her I had an even better solution.  It’s called “move out.”

-My friend Jen is an “I love you” friend.  Everyone has an “I love you” friend.  These are your friends of the opposite sex that insist on saying “I love you” at the end of every single phone conversation thereby forcing you to say it back, usually when you’re standing in front of your girlfriend, mom, or boss, and thus resulting in an uncomfortable moment followed by an equally uncomfortable explanation and finally concluding with the silent thought of how much you hate your “I love you” friend.

-Whenever Triplet #1 goes home with a chick, I ask him the next day if he got laid.  And it seems like every time he says, “Well, we were gonna have sex, but she said she had her period.”  I’m like, dude, I don’t think she wants to sleep with you – she said the same thing two weeks ago.  So either she’s a really, really good liar, or you didn’t pay very good attention in high school biology.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-I used PAM cooking spray for the first time the other day.  The container says it’s “all-natural.”  All-natural what?  It’s processed butter in an aerosol can.

-I have just been accepted into the Writers Guild, which is a very prestigious labor union for writers.  I just don’t know about belonging to a guild, though.  I feel like an 18th century blacksmith.

-I can kind of understand why someone would want to be a NASCAR driver, but I don’t really understand why you’d want to work for the pit crew.  It’s like, “Who here can change a tire?  OK, who here can change a tire in four seconds while the car is moving and 100,000 people yell at you?  Well then, have we got a job for you!”

-Absolut vodka ads totally lost me about three years ago.

-I hate shopping at department stores in malls.  Is it me or are all the clothes Nautica and six sizes too big?

-The only places worse than malls are “express” stores, which are basically just smaller versions of the regular store.  I went to a Staples Express the other day.  They should just call it Staples We Don’t Have Shit.  The only thing “express” about it is that you find out much quicker that they’re out of even the most basic of products.

-“Lost” is hands-down the best show on television.  Here’s a question though – how do they even know they’re on an island?  It could just be a really big peninsula.  Or even an isthmus.  Chew on that for a second.

-Memo to the folks at ABC: every week, my DVR cuts off the teaser scenes from the next episode of “Lost” because you end the show at 9:02pm, thus causing me to scream in such anguish you’d think I was the one stranded on the island.  Or isthmus.  Please stop doing that.  Also, it’d be nice if every once in a while you gave us a mother-fucking clue as to what in all hell is happening in this goddamn show.  Thank you.

-And, finally, while on the ski trip I took to Vermont a few weeks ago, my friends and I were walking to the local bar, drinking some beers en route.  Suddenly, a cop car passed by and we all instinctively tossed our beers.  The cop stopped, got out of her car, and asked us if we just threw beer cans in the woods.  Staring into the gleam of her massive flashlight, we admitted we had.  To which she responded, “You know, it’s not illegal in Vermont to have an open container.  But now you’re littering.”  We sheepishly retrieved the beers and she let us off with a warning.  Back at the lodge, I tried to recount what I thought was a pretty funny story to the rest of the crew.  But before I could get to the punch line, my buddy Chi was like, “Wait, wait.  Was the cop cute?”  Fuck me.

HOME

-To me, Valentine’s Day is like that scene from “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” where the villain rips out a guy’s still-beating heart and shows it to the frenzied throng.  For Valentine’s Day is a day when men are forced to publicly demonstrate their feelings for the gratuitous pleasure of overzealous women.  And given the opportunity to celebrate Valentine’s Day or be eviscerated and thrown into a flaming trench, most men would surely choose the latter.  I mean, hey, at least evisceration doesn’t require a reservation two months in advance.

-My girlfriend says this Valentine’s Day is special because our one-year anniversary is only three weeks away.  Of course, as she’s talking, I’m more preoccupied with my plan to merge both occasions into one gift.  Hell, her birthday is only six months from now.  Maybe I can combine all three presents into some sort of relationship extra-value meal.

-But, after almost a year of dating, I still don’t quite get Girlfriend.  For instance, for the past six weeks I’ve been living in my parent’s house and spending the weekends with her in the city.  Last Wednesday, I had a meeting in the city, so I told Girlfriend I’d take her out afterward.  She got upset.  Why?  Because I was coming in to the city partly because I had a meeting and not solely because I wanted to see her.  In other words, just hanging out is not sufficient.  There has to be pure male sacrifice involved.  Why doesn’t she just have a flaming trench installed in her apartment and get it over with already?

-I have a new strategy, though, when it comes to navigating Girlfriend’s treacherous queries.  I call it “WWJBD?”  or “What Would Joe Bloggs Do?”  Those of you who took Princeton Review SAT prep remember that Joe Bloggs is the average American student who always picks the obvious answer, thus getting all the hard questions wrong.  Therefore, when you get a hard question, you’re supposed to first eliminate the most obvious answer – the Joe Bloggs answer.  The same theory works in relationships.  When Girlfriend tells me she hates her new hairstyle and asks if I agree, I think to myself, WWJBD?, and I’m halfway there.  It works much better than my previous strategy: “SSRFDTBF” – Say Something Really Fucking Dumb Then Buy Flowers.

-Besides guys with girlfriends, Valentine’s Day is also especially hard on single girls.  Because on this day, single girls have to actually admit they’re single, something they loathe doing.  If I ever ask a girl if she’s single, she always kind of smirks and looks at her friends and then mentions some guy in Chicago, then giggles and avoids the question.  But if you’re a chick in a bar on Valentine’s Day, there’s no getting around it.  You might as well wear a scarlet letter ‘S’ on your lame-ass Uggs.

-I don’t blame girls for not wanting to be single, though.  Guys can be dicks.  A few weeks ago I was at a bar when I saw a chick I knew back in the day but hadn’t seen in a while.  I said to a mutual friend, “Hey, is that Laura?  She looks amazing.”  And my buddy was like, “Yeah, she was actually sick for a while, she had like really bad mono, like she almost died.”  I was like, “Damn, that’s the best thing that ever happened to her!”

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-The general consensus was that Super Bowl ads sucked this year.  And I thought that really took away from the whole experience.  A Super Bowl without cool commercials is sort of like the Black Eyed Peas without that hot blonde chick – still kinda interesting but you’re really not paying much attention anymore.

-So I spent most of the Super Bowl obsessing over the scoring combinations that would allow me to win my friend’s box pool.   This involved me looking at my boxes and then shouting, “OK, all the Eagles need to do is kick two field goals and give up a safety in the next 13 seconds and I win this quarter!  Come on Donovan, twenty bucks are at stake here!”

-Girlfriend likes to read US Weekly.  Of course, I make fun of her for it.  Last weekend, I was taking a lengthy crap in her bathroom when I absentmindedly grabbed an US to read.  Little did I know what I was in for.  That magazine is like crack – it just sucks you in and you’re instantly addicted.  I know more inane minutia about Jennifer Garner and Orlando Bloom than I ever thought I would.  I have to rank US right up there with chapstick and white cheddar popcorn as the most addictive products of all time.

-I want to send out a quick apology for using the term “MILF” in my last issue.   I was deluged with emails from older fans and those overseas who had no idea what the hell I was talking about.  Also, to all those who complained that your parents read my column and asked you to explain what a MILF is, I’m sorry, too.  It was never my intention to cause you severe psychological harm that will surely take years of therapy to remedy.

-Living at home with my parents is traumatic enough without being constantly reminded of the possible longevity of the situation.  The other day I got the mail and saw one of those charity solicitations where they give you custom return-address labels.  I looked closer and saw the labels had my name printed on them…with my parents’ address!  Damn you March of Dimes.  Damn you!

-A few weeks ago I went skiing in Vermont with a bunch of friends.  It was a great time, especially since I bore witness to one of the most memorable athletic achievements I’ve ever seen.  I was skiing with my erstwhile roommate Brian, both of us beginners who’d only skied once before.  I got the hang of it pretty quickly.  Brian did not.  He’d ski two feet, then fall, then ski another two feet, then fall again.  He made it all of about fifty yards before he gave up and – get this – had to ask to be taken DOWN on the ski lift.  That’s right, even the severely injured go down the actual slope on a stretcher.  But not Brian.  He took the lift down while those passing him on the way up taunted him and laughed.  And you thought I’d run out of Brian material when he moved out!

-And, finally, you know what I saw in the gym the other day that really bothered me?  A guy working out with gel in his hair.  And it wasn’t like this guy came straight from the office, I saw him walk in the door in the morning wearing gym clothes.  So this guy actually consciously put gel in his hair and then went to go work out.  I mean, come on dude, that’s so lame.  Then again, maybe I shouldn’t talk, since at the time I was running on the treadmill while reading the latest issue of US Weekly.  Fuck me.

HOME

-There’s nothing worse than realizing that a monkey could do your job.  It happens to everyone.  You’re sitting at your desk doing mindless busywork, and you think to yourself: You know what?  Throw some Banana Republic khakis and a blue button-down on a chimp and he could probably do what I do.  Once I swear I saw the cubicle next to mine being fitted for a cage.

-How fun is searching the online company directory for pictures of hot chicks?  It’s like Friendster except you know the girl is somewhere in the building.  I always thought the Holy Grail was finding a hot chick in tech support.  It’s just so rare that you meet a girl with brains, beauty, and the ability to remotely expand your email inbox quota.

-The one driving force motivating every twentysomething in corporate America is “face time,” or the perception that the more your boss sees you at your desk, the more productive he or she thinks you are.  This is a complete joke of course because half the time you’re at your desk you’re reading dirty forwards like this one.  Instead of rewarding face time, I think you should be rewarded for having the forethought to have a really complicated-looking document open in another window to alt-tab to when your boss walks by.

-I had a friend who had to work her way up to a new level of responsibility and take on all the additional work for six months before she was actually promoted.  In essence, she had to become what she was being promoted to…in order to be promoted to it.  If that wasn’t bad enough, a few weeks later she saw her current position listed on Monster.  That’s a real confidence-booster.  On a whim, she applied for her own job.  She didn’t get it.

-Everyone’s got that friend who loves to whip out office buzzwords in completely unnecessary situations.   I was in a bar recently and ran into my buddy Harlan.  He spotted the beer in my hand and asked, “What’s the economics on that Heineken?”  I was like, “I don’t know man.  But why are you wearing a suit in a bar…on a Saturday?”

-One great thing about the office is that you can hang up on just about anyone who calls for non-work purposes.  Mom calling to nag?  “Sorry gotta run” and you slam the phone down.  In fact, this is probably the only time in life you can hang up on your mom and she’s actually happy about it.  Because you know she’s telling all her friends over coffee how proud she is that you’re so busy.  Little does she know you only hung up because that hot chick from tech support came by and you were trying to get her to inspect your hard drive.

-I think what bothered me most about working was when I noticed that the space between toothbrushing was diminishing.  I’d get home really late from work, brush my teeth and go to bed, and the next thing I knew, I was up really early and brushing again.  And as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning, half-ass brushing for the second time in five hours, I realized something very disconcerting.  I was putting in face time…with myself!

-Once I went to the doctor for my annual physical exam.  She told me my blood pressure was a little high.  I suggested it was because I had to wait for an hour in the waiting room while a monkey was about to take my job.  She ignored that and gave me a monitor to track my blood pressure during the day.  Suddenly I became the most popular guy in the office.  Co-workers would come from different floors to try it out.  We all had high blood pressure.  Except the chimp.  He was in great shape.  No wonder he got promoted.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-The other day, my mom was reading an advance copy of my new book when she came across a slang term that she didn’t understand.  She called me over and asked me what a “MILF” was.  You know how awkward it is to explain to your mom what MILF stands for?  I said it really quickly then ran away.

-I swear my friends the Triplets don’t even make up a full human if you combine them.  The other day I called Triplet #2 and made plans to go out that night.  He said he didn’t know what his brothers were doing.  Later, Triplet #1 called me to see what I was up to.  He also said he didn’t know what his brothers were doing.  Then I realized something – the three of them were in their apartment sitting right next to each other the whole time!  Yet they hadn’t communicated to each other what their plans were or even the fact that two of them had spoken to me.  I bet the moment Triplet #1 was born, if you asked him whether his brothers were still in the womb, he’d be like, “Uh, I’m not sure.”

-In my last issue, when I talked about moving home with my parents, a lot of people wrote to ask me why I didn’t just get a subletter to replace my roommate.  My answer is simple.  Have you ever met a subletter that isn’t psychotic, a kleptomaniac, or have appalling personal hygiene habits?  Everyone’s got a horror story.  Craigslist is basically a breeding ground for society’s rejects to find shelter among the more well-adjusted.  And I’d rather discuss MILFs with my mom than live with some sketchy dude who collects my dirty underwear for pleasure.

-My five med school friends are now in their fourth year, meaning they’ve been running around the country for the past two months interviewing for residency programs.  I’ve found that their preparation levels vary quite widely, from Triplet #3, who actually rehearsed jokes to tell to each interviewer, to my friend Adam, who did not do one bit of research beforehand.  I asked him how he could get away with that and he said, “Well, I figure during the interview when I ask about the program, I’ll sound more genuine.  You know, because I really don’t know the answer to any of my questions.”

-Of course, this is the same kid that, after they called his name and he received his degree as a biology major at graduation, stood up, left the stadium, got food while still wearing his cap and gown, and made it back by the time they were calling the zoology majors.  Here’s hoping he doesn’t pull the same thing during lengthy surgical procedures.

-And, finally, remember when you used to be able to shut the light off and it’d be dark in your bedroom?  Not anymore.  From laptops to cell phones, I’ve got so many electronic devices plugged in that now when I turn off the light, my room is transformed into a sparkling city of red and green pulses.  But since I only sleep well in complete darkness, I decided to cover all the blinking status lights.  And as I crawled around my parent’s house in the middle of the night, muttering to myself and carrying black electrical tape and a large scissor, I realized what I’d become.  A crazy subletter.  Fuck me!

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