Thursday, August 24, 2006

The CEOs of Funk

Let me paint the picture. It's 1 a.m. I'm at Wal-Mart buying Gatorade and toothpaste, when the foulest odor just kamikazed out of nowhere.

Now foul odors can be one of many things..Rotten food, Backed-up sewage. But body odor is ten times more foul. Why? Because tuna fish doesn't choose to spoil. Bathroom pipes aren't purposely clogging themselves up. But when someone stinks, it is a deliberate attempt to not wash.

My insecurity took centerstage and I began to think.."Did my Gillette Power Stripe forget to turn itself on?"

I look behind me. Four guys buying bikes. Four INDIAN guys.

Now anyone who knows me, knows that hacky, played-out stereotypes are not high on my Jokes-To-Do list. Especially ones that bring down my people. But to those reeking Indian guys in line (who, for the duration of this blog, we will call The Funk-Tastic 4) you just set us back 5 years! Everything I've been striving for in my act, to knock down the stereotypes that we have, you just pasted back on because of your lack of self-awareness. That night you were the smelly immigrants! Why not just float up to the line on a magic carpet?

I then realized that because I'm in the proximity of stink, I am now one of them. Forget the fact that I didn't smell before them. I didn't smell at all. But because their stench was thicker than a peanut-butter filled Now N Later, I had no choice but to be considered stinky too. We were now The Funk-Tastic 5. And I know the cashier was just eating up the blatant stereotype that was now in front of her. Before they showed up, I was just a normal guy .. to her, I was racially ambiguous. Is he mixed? Is he Dominican? The Pungent Parade shows up and now she has an epiphany.. He's Indian!

So after all the racial setbacks my people endured in the span of 10 seconds, my mind then went into concern. Stank people don't realize they're stank. Because the stank is so overwhelming. They just assume everyone else smells like them. Because "clean" doesn't smell. No odor doesn't have an odor. How would you know what funk is if all you smell is funk? It's like a deaf person yelling everywhere they went. They wouldn't know they were being loud because they'd have no barometer. How does a deaf person know they're yelling if they don't even know what yelling or whispering is? The funky can not smell the funkless. So I began to pity them

--
Let's update you on my senses at that particular moment
Mind: Flustered
Nose: On Lock
Eyes: Tearing
Skin: Itchy
--

Now back to our regularly scheduled blog..

And the guys were buying bikes! What dyslexic Priority Wheel of Fortune were they spinning? Perhaps if they swapped in their Huffys for Right Guard they would have friends willing to drive them around. But now they were forced to bike themselves around town .. oblivious as to why.

I don't fully understand women. But I do know that they're not drawn to B.O. But I also know that a woman would rather be with a stinky guy who drives a Porsche than a clean guy who pedals to work. Because nothing screams "Don't Fuck Me" better than a 25 year old man with a bike basket.

Now if you'll excuse me I've got to get back to disproving my people's horrible stereotypes by inventing new ones.

Did you hear the one about Indian guys being able to carry 45 times their body weight? Or how about the one about how us Indian guys can spit flame? Bet you didn't know that the average Indian man can name all 50 United States in alphabetical order, backwards.

That's right ladies. Hop on board. Tickets are going fast...

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Ignorance is Bliss

I had a physical a few weeks ago. Doc told me that I potentially had high blood sugar. That right there is the reason I didn't want to go to the doctor. I don't have health insurance so telling me that I should watch my diet so that I don't get super sick but then I have to go back to you in 6 months to make sure that I'm not getting sicker when just not knowing that I had high blood sugar and to continue having Thomas Kemper's Grape Soda (that's a brand, not a friend of mine whose soda I enjoy stealing) and be happy, ignorant to my demise, is really the way to live. Like let's say I end up in a diabetic coma. I have no health insurance. My folks don't have money so I could remain on life support for ...

Let's put it this way. The life support machine might as well be coin-operated. Like a parking meter. That way my cheap friends wouldn't have to buy roses or balloons. If I passed away, I'd never appreciate them, and let's be honest.. If I was awake to see them I wouldn't appreciate them either. Watching roses and balloons wither, the longer my hospital stay is, has to be the most symbolic display of impending doom. I'd be more flattered by my cousin stopping in to say hi and deposit 25 cents so he can tell me about the hot redhead he met at Sherlock's the night before. So search your couch cushions. The "Keep Paul Alive: One Quarter At a Time Campaign" begins ...

now.