accidental perversion

sometimes when i'm deep in thought during an office meeting, i will zone out and i won't have any cognizance of what it is i'm looking at. unfortunately one day i zoned out during a meeting and ended up staring at this guy. this guy was just sitting there on our meeting couch...shirt riding up...boxers exposed. i swear that i wasn't staring at his boxers. but abruptly he looked at me and pulled his shirt down, as if accusing me of perversion. this sudden movement and eye contact pulled me out of my zoned-out-ness. my face went red with shame. and now? every time this guy comes into the office, he now ignores me. my perversion was accidental. my perversion is usually accidental. this guy shouldn't flatter himself so much. his boxers were BORING.

Pet This

I'm going to get into a lot of trouble for this post, so before we even get started, let me make this as clear as possible: I Love Animals. I do. I love dogs, I love cats, I love bunnies. I'm about as pet friendly as you can get.

However, after years of careful study, I have come to one conclusion:

Most pet owners can go to hell.


Now don't get me wrong: I'm not talking about the normal, responsible people who are caring, loving moms & dads to their four legged critters, all while somehow being rational human beings... like Fightin' Mad Mary, who's lovely dog Day-Z is featured above (via Banana Surprise!) To you guys, who have a normal grip on society, I send my heartfelt kudos and all the pet-friendly flea-dip you could ask for! Keep up the good work... You're dismissed.

To the rest of you: Sit. Stay. Heel. If you pay attention, maybe I'll give you a treat. Huh? Would you like that? HUH??? Now sit your tail down and listen up.

You know who you are. You're the ones who say things like "The more time I spend with people, the more I like my pets!" Guess what? It's your fault. And furthermore: Fuck you.

A perfect example of this type of wasted human: The DogLady. We all have them in our neighborhoods. Mine lives directly below me. She's an aging pile of misery whose acting career never took off. Depressed and single because she's too horrible to keep a mate and so she's turned to her puppies for unconditional love. This woman owns anywhere from two-to-twenty yippy little shitdogs that Never Ever Stop Barking Under Any Circumstances Ever. And, since my "luxurious" Hollywood Hills Apartment faces a courtyard, every single noise that anyone or anything makes any time of the day or night is instantly magnified and projected directly into my brain.

And while most of the people who live facing the courtyard are quiet, because they know how to behave, this woman allows her horrible little dogs to roam around in the courtyard where their piercing yelps shatter my brain on a near-constant basis.

It's the perfect antidote to enjoying a quiet weekend at home, or, say, an uninterrupted nights' sleep. My personal favorite is when she joins in the noise chorus and begins to argue with the dogs for hours on end in a misguided attempt to quiet them down, using a high-pitched voice that only encourages her hellions to bark louder and at a higher frequency than before .

I'd complain to the apartment manager except, of course, she happens to be the one who the owns these furry little shit-storms. Twist!

If a non-pet owner dares to ask her to keep the noise down, even after hours upon hours of patiently putting up with it, the DogLady hisses and snaps: "They're dogs, they're just having fun!" Apparently the residents who pay far too much in rent to "live in luxury" aren't allowed to have a moment of peace if God's Creatures want to have a poopenanny. I can guarantee that if I started running around the courtyard screaming and defecating all over everything under the guise of having fun, she'd have something to say about it right quick.

But her precious dogs can do anything they want, and therefore, by extension, she's somehow entitled to the same privileges as well. If her animals get to have poor hygiene and smell bad, then so does she! If they get to have bad attitudes and snap at you for daring to go near them, then so does she! If they get to sniff asses.... well, you get my point.

You see, she's one of Those People who thinks only dogs, and, to a smaller extent other pet owners, are worth her time, which is a problem since she is supposed to be managing a HUGE FUCKING apartment building.

Unfortunately for me, I don't have a pet (other than my roommate, of course.) And, since I ask her to shut the hell up on occasion, that's two strikes against me.

And, as I've said before, I love dogs. And generally they love me. But not her dogs. They can tell I'm not a pet-owner, and therefore, I am the devil. The final straw came last night, when there was a package that had been delivered for me. Here in the Luxurious Hollywood Hills, if there's no one home to take the delivery, the mailman will leave it with Cruella DeVille downstairs so that you can retrieve it later. Despite the presence of shelves designed specifically for holding such things, she had, for some reason, left mine on the floor. Just as my roommate was looking for the package, one of her little angels went right up to it and peed all over the box.

Very professional business you're running here, thank you. Is this why my rent just went up? So that I might enjoy a bonus serving of dog urine with each home delivery I get?

Again, I don't blame the dog. I'm wise enough to know it's the owner who is pure evil. She didn't even apologize for the incident. So for those of you who are like her, take heed and learn from her mistakes. It's not too late to change. Train your dogs and at least treat your neighbors like human beings. Because if you don't change your ways... and you end up old and alone because you chose creatures over people, remember this: When you fall and break your hip, it's people that will help you. And if you can't get a hold of anyone because they all hate you... Your dog's gonna eat your face off.

And then I'm gonna pee on it.

Unlock This

A few weeks ago, Lucia Pamela and I went to dinner (drinks) then took in a sketch comedy show (drunk), all within a half a block of my Luxurious Hollywood Hills Apartment.

Upon exiting the theater (still drunk), I noticed my keys were no longer in my pocket. Panic immediately surged through my wine-soaked veins. Clearly, this was a problem. They were the keys to my apartment building, my apartment, my mailbox, my car, my roommate's car as well as several small "mystery keys"* that somehow sneaked onto my fucking awesome, irreplaceable key chain.

Lucia and I went back in and searched the theater for the wayward keys, crawling on our hands and knees as the impatient usher told us that seating for the next show was about to begin. While she didn't specifically address us as "You Drunk Idiots" at the end of the statement, it was certainly implied.

As Lucia and I visited the other restaurants & stores on the block, asking the shopkeeps (shopskeep?) if anyone had found them, she assured me that the keys would turn up, that someone would turn them in. After all, who wouldn't turn in a gigantic set of keys that doesn't belong to them? I mean, we live in a polite, evolved society. What would someone do with anonymous keys? They don't know where I live, or what those keys unlock. Will they just try every door and car and locker in the city until they find a match? Why not just turn them in? That's certainly what I would do. Because THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO DO.

Sadly, no one had done this. The store owners were kind enough to offer me sympathy, which I accepted, and most took down my phone number in case they turned up. A few hours later, the theater called to tell me that they had located my keys. "HOORAY," I shouted! I was half way out the door, thanking the caller profusely when she said, "Yeah, it's a Mazda key and a few others." I stopped. My heart sank: "Mazda?" "Yeah, Mazda."

"Are you sure it's a Mazda key?"

She assured me it was, in fact, a Mazda key. She knew this because it said "Mazda" right on it.

I let her know that they weren't my keys and thanked her anyway.

The next 24 hours were pretty hellish. Not only could I not go anywhere, but the sheer amount of false hope was enough to crush anyone's soul... even a charred, black one like mine. When it opened, I went back to the theater, where I waited in the lobby with a man who had lost his phone the night before. Apparently, the theater is a black hole of lost objects. As the searcher came back, she announced: "I have good news, and I have bad news."

With that, she handed the gentleman his phone.

I figured if the keys didn't turn up within 48 hours, I was totally screwed. The next day, I expanded my search. On my way out to do another lap around the neighborhood, I wondered if perhaps I had dropped them in the halls of my apartment building. I asked the manager if anyone had turned in a set of keys. This didn't seem to phase her at all, even though I've technically put every one of the residents in danger. She said "Oh yes, we found them. They have a little police man key chain on it, right?" I said, "Uhh, no. Those aren't mine." She said, "Are you sure? They have a Petco club card on them!" I stared at her blankly as she realized, "Oh. You don't have pets." "No," I replied, "I don't have pets. Or a police man on my key chain."

I was desperate. I looked everywhere, tried everything. I even went to the Post Office, on the slim hopes that someone may have dropped them into a mailbox for some reason. The clerk told me the Post Office sends any miscellany downtown to get destroyed. I asked, "So... you don't have a lost and found here? At all?" "No," I was told. Who the fuck doesn't have a lost and found?

I knew there was only one thing left to do:

I posted signs in the neighborhood. Big ones that announced that I had lost my keys. I also included my phone number. This, as it turns out, was a bigger mistake than losing my keys in the first place. Not only was I getting lots calls about everyone else's fucking keys except for mine (including a call about the policeman/pets key from my apartment building, thanks) I also began to get random text messages from people harassing me about losing my keys. One girl texted me to let me know that, although she thought I was stupid, that she thought my sign was funny. Thanks. Glad I could entertain you. Now go find my fucking keys.

I took the signs down after a week, once I received this message:





...because that's helpful. Let's put on a fake accent and harass the suicidal guy who can't get into his house or car! What. The. Fuck. Just because you're waiting in line for a comedy show does not make you hilarious. And whatever fucking character you're doing on that call isn't fucking funny. Shouldn't you be at a Lame Convention with Dane Cook screening Paul Blart: Mall Cop instead of fucking calling me up? Imbecile.

I accepted my fate and began the long, fucking expensive task of replacing the keys. The standard keys were easy--even the ones that say DO NOT DUPLICATE caused no problem whatsoever. The car keys, however, will cost more than Five HUNDRED dollars to replace. $500.00. Because they are "Smart Keys." They are called this because the car companies are smart enough to charge you whatever they want because they know you're fucked if you need a new one. Fucking key extortionists.

I sincerely hope that whoever stole my fucking keys enjoys them. I hope they go fuck themselves with them and then I hope that they trip, fall, and have both of their eyes gouged out by them. Also on the Fuck Yourselves list: The Text Message Harassers, The Car Companies, and most of all, The Post Office.

For the rest of you, fucking turn in keys if you find them somewhere. Don't be an ass.

Good Day.

---

*Whenever I mention the half-sized keys to people, they impatiently tell me that they are for items such as padlocks and gym lockers, of which I own none. Then I'm forced to roll my eyes and tell them I think that the regular-sized keys are having sloppy and inappropriate relations while in my pocket, resulting in the creation of these baby keys, because they are drunk metal whores.... Then I have to politely remind them that I LOST MY FUCKING KEYS, so unless you know where they are, keep your "thoughts" to yourself and let me complain. Ass.

Merry Christmas From All Bitched Up.

This is what it has come to, Life?

Downloading Billy Squier's 1982 hit, "Everybody Wants You"?

PS.  Lucia Pamela is a spelling nazi (not related to tori).

Marry This.

Hey, You Polyfucking Hypocrites!

I got your Latter Day Saint, RIGHT HERE: