It was Halloween weekend my junior year of college and I was living in Chicago. My roommate invited me to a Halloween party his friend was having, but I was reluctant to go because I didn’t have a costume to wear. Luckily one of his other friends had a pumpkin costume that she said I could use. You read that right. She. The costume was designed for a female. It looked awkward and small when I put it on over my clothes, but we were going to a hipster party where the less effort you put into your costume the cooler you were for not caring about something as fascist and oppressive as dressing up for Halloween. So this costume was perfect.
The party was at a huge apartment packed with hipster Halloweeners. They had a bartender there who was giving out dollar shots of rum and $2 beers. At this time in my life I was beyond broke. I worked for minimum wage at the college sandwich shop, and all of the money I earned went towards paying rent and utilities. Luckily I was allowed to take sandwiches home so I was able to eat, but if I didn’t have that luxury I wouldn’t have been able to afford to feed myself. I literally walked by Taco Bell once and was jealous of the people inside for being able to afford such fine dining. Anyways, the point is that I was broke and only had $8 that I could spend at this party, which was almost all the money I had left until my next paycheck. So I decided that I would just buy $1 shots periodically throughout the evening and by the end I would have a few dollars to spare.
Of course this didn’t happen.
I bought my first shot and talked with the bartender a little bit. I then mingled at the party for a little while, and when I felt enough time had passed I went up and bought another shot. I made this my routine so that I wouldn’t get too drunk to quickly. As long as I spaced it out correctly, I would be fine. Unfortunately my concept of time was askew. What I thought was waiting a half hour per shot was more like 6 minutes, so a half hour into the party I had downed 5 shots. I was drunk. Not only was I drunk, but I had stopped my routine of mingling and was now just staying at the bar talking to a bartender that wanted nothing to do with me. While I was up there yapping his ear off about whatever 20-year-olds talked about in 2002 (Fred Durst?), a woman in a pirate costume came up and requested a shot. We all started talking, and it was then when I first realized I was drunk… because when I stared at this woman’s right hand I could only count four fingers. I stared at her hand for over two minutes trying to get it to add up to five, but I could only count four. She eventually noticed me staring at her hand and gave me a very offended look. It was then that I realized that it wasn’t the booze. She only had four fingers. And I, like the gentlemen I am, had spent two minutes blatantly staring at her deformed hand.
She walked away insulted. At this point I decided that, since alcohol had already caused me to accidentally offend a woman with Simpson hands, I should probably eat something. There was a Quizno’s across the street, so I had one more shot and went to buy a sandwich with cash I still had remaining. I walked in and opened my wallet to see what I could afford. It was empty. I had drank 8 shots in the matter of two hours and now couldn’t afford anything on the Quizno’s menu. It was weird. I didn’t feel that drunk…
…the next thing I know, I’m being woken up by a Quizno’s employee who is mopping up the floors. I had been sleeping at one of the tables and had a half eaten sandwich in my hand. I had ordered a sandwich and had fallen asleep while eating it. But I didn’t have any cash. How could I afford a sandwich? In my other hand was the receipt for the sandwich which showed that I used my debit card. My bank account had about $1.47 remaining on it, so I had just overdrafted my balance and would soon receive a $20 overdraft charge that I would have to perform sexual favors to pay off. I wrapped up the sandwich that would now need to last me for the next three days and headed back to the party.
When I got outside I couldn’t remember what apartment complex I was supposed to enter. I remembered having to go down some stairs into an apartment building before heading up three floors to the party. After a few minutes of searching I found the stairs that led into the building, and I headed down and opened the door to the apartment complex. When I walked in I found myself in the kitchen of an Indian restaurant. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look up at the twenty-year-old in the female pumpkin costume who had just entered their kitchen from outside. I apologized (which I’m guessing came out as ‘SORRY PARTY NOT HERE!!’) and walked out. I roamed the neighborhood for a few more minutes, and after some searching I found the correct entrance. I headed down the stairs and opened the entryway door, entering into the same kitchen that I had been in a few minutes earlier. I was so confused. I apologized again (OOPS AGAIN PARTY SOMEWHERE NOT HERE!!’) and walked out back into the street. This time I was extremely focused on finding my way. It had been right in front of the Quizno’s, so I retraced my steps and finally found the entryway to the apartment building I was looking for. I walked down the stairs and entered the building, and for the third time I found myself in the kitchen of an Indian restaurant. My strategy for finding the apartment consisted of going to the street, walking in a mini circle, and then going back to the exact same building I was at previously. Before I could mumble out another incoherent apology one of the cooks yelled ‘THE FUCKING PARTY ISN’T HERE!!!’ I nodded and left. When I got up the stairwell my roommate was miraculously outside smoking with a few friends.
‘Sean, where the hell have you been?’
‘Quizno’s and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant. Where the hell is this party??’
He pointed to the building that was across the street that didn’t even have an entrance where you needed to go downstairs. I had imagined the whole entryway. I was broke and no longer making sense, so I decided that instead of going back in I’d had enough and would head home.
I decided to take the subway home. To get there I had take the Red Line line all the way to the downtown area, transfer, and then head back in a similar direction on the Blue Line. By bus I could’ve gotten home in 15 minutes, but I wasn’t familiar with the bus system and figured that this wasn’t the best time to try and figure it out. So I took the Red Line downtown and got off at the Blue Line transfer. At this certain stop, to get from the Red Line to the Blue Line you had to walk down an extremely long underground tunnel. I was by myself walking through this tunnel, and at the end of it was a homeless man singing Phil Collins’ ‘In the Air Tonight.’ The echo in the hallway made this the most beautiful rendition of this song I’d ever heard, and when I got to the end of the tunnel I began singing with him. At 2 a.m. I was in downtown Chicago, dressed in a woman’s pumpkin outfit, singing Phil Collins with a homeless man. He enjoyed having a singing partner, and once the song was over I apologized for not being able to give him money and hopped on the Blue Line home. It had been an odd night, but being in a doo-wop group with a homeless man that specialized in Phil Collins hits made it all worth it. I was eight stops away from home and was excited to get there and go to bed…
… the next thing I know I’m at O’Hare Airport and a subway attendant is telling me that I need to get off the train. I had fallen asleep and missed my stop by 16 stops, and now I was at the airport at 3 in the morning. Confused about what was going on, I got off the train and stood at the platform. I was surrounded by two categories of people: homeless men and drunks that had fallen asleep on the train. As I stood there the twenty-something next to me began puking onto the tracks while his friend rubbed his back. ‘How embarrassing!,’ thought the guy standing there in the female pumpkin costume.
At that time of day the train leaves once every 30 minutes, so I stood there for a while. By the time it arrived it was around 3:30 a.m. and I was exhausted. After I boarded the train and sat down I slowly began to take notice of my surroundings. A few seats away from me was party guy and his friend, and party guy wasn’t doing so hot. He was moaning pretty loudly, and any second he was about to purge all over the train. Across from me was an elderly homeless man who was staring at me while drooling all over himself. It was uncomfortable and at first I thought he was strange. However, I kept forgetting that I was dressed up in a female pumpkin outfit, so he probably couldn’t help but stare. And his drooling possibly meant that when it came to this pumpkin costume, I was totally pulling it off. I was flattered. To the left of him was a man in his 40s who looked like he just got back from a business trip. While he appeared to be the most normal person on the train, as soon as I looked over he began to rapidly spray perfume on himself. And he wouldn’t stop. He had a beautiful perfume bottle and he just kept spraying it on himself until the whole train smelled like his favorite scent. He did this for the entire duration of my trip home which was sort of a blessing because me choking on the smell of ladies perfume kept me awake. Eventually we got to my stop and I was able to get home safely, both dressed and smelling like a woman.
Up until now, all of the posts on this website have been my own work. Each article, whether it was creating beloved ‘Yo Momma’ jokes or making fun of whatever celebrity was having an unfortunate year, was written by myself. Unfortunately, since going back into the workforce my participation to this website has been sporadic… and by sporadic I mean that I post once every five months: the first four months after a post I revel in the proud feeling I get for actually getting back into the swing of things in regards to my writing, and then the last month I spend trying to remember the password to log onto the website so I can write my first article in the last 5 months.
This absence was noticed by one of the remaining readers of this website: my little brother Kyle. A recent college graduate, Kyle came to me one day and asked if he could contribute to the website. While it was a simple request, I knew exactly what it meant. This wasn’t a simple request. It was an intervention. I had become an addict, and my addiction was not contributing to my website.
I reacted to this news as an addict would at an intervention. I ran out of the house and wasn’t heard from for weeks. After 23 days I was found in a sleazy motel room, getting my fix of putting no articles on seanssabbatical. I hadn’t eaten in days. I hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. My teeth were rotting. I had hit rock bottom.
But here I am, all sobered up and ready to contribute to this website again by posting a blog written by my little brother. His first blog is about me and how hilarious and sad my lifestyle is. I have added a few notes from the editor when I felt that I needed more attention.
Sean Gets Made
It’s an honor to be writing for the blog Sean Sabbatical! I feel like a 13 year old Dominican baseball player who just signed an MLB contract- so much hope for something that may not pan out.
Since this site revolves around Sean’s thoughts, stories, and hatred towards political figures from other countries, I thought I would write out my favorite story about Sean.
Both Sean and I love the MTV show Made. Often, MTV will air this show, which has nothing to do with music, in clumps of 5-6 hours at a time. In college I would wouldn’t let myself watch one episode if I had something to do 4 hours later because once you watch one, you have to watch five more. It’s like Pringles. Or crack.
One morning, Sean arrived home in less than perfect form. Most people would call what Sean was going through a ‘hangover.’ [Note from Editor: That doesn’t sound like me.] I’m not too sure, but there is a 90 percent chance Sean arrived home with a Gatorade and Flaming hot Cheetos as he wandered into our den [Note from Editor: That sounds exactly like me.] I was sitting there just watching an episode of Made when Sean joined me. Because it was the beginning of a Made-a-thon, it was shaping up to be a very fun Sunday.
The first episode was one where a girl who was not too popular wanted to become Prom Queen of her high school. This is the most common theme of a Made episode, and it has been repeated with about five different girls. I’d make fun of it, but I’ve watched each of those five episodes at least ten times each, so obviously the formula works.
Here is a breakdown of each of these episodes:
Meet the girl. She is an outcast dressed in vampire clothes. She wants to become a prom queen because she wants to leave school with a good memory. This is particularly important to her because up to this point the only recollection she has of high school is doing heroin behind the bleachers at the football game while her devastated parents sat in the stands realizing that she was lying about being a part of the Flag Squad.
Now we meet the coach. She’s won beauty pageants, and knows exactly what it takes to be popular (being gorgeous, rich, and blonde… and possibly slutty).
It starts off ok, but quickly things go awry as the gothic high school student is asked to actually do shit. Crying begins to happen at every event/practice.
Then the coach has a great idea. The girl has to go eat at a different cafeteria table to meet new people and make new friends (swear to god, every episode has this). It quickly ruins the girl’s life, as she loses her current friends because they feel they’ve abandoned her, and the new people she is sitting with want nothing to do with her because they’re afraid she has a gun.
However, miraculously things start going well, the girl becomes enthusiastic about the process, there’s a montage of great shit, and more times than not the girl wins prom queen. This is all packed into a one hour episode of special greatness. One of these Made episodes was on this afternoon, and the girl in this particular one I’ll call Alyssa.
Sean and I quickly got into this story of Alyssa and her prom queen journey. Things were going a little slowly for her though. Her fighting with her coach took about thirty five minutes of the hour long show, more than the usual ten. Sean quickly began to question whether this girl would actually achieve her goal.
“There is no way,” Sean repeated over and over again. “No way she pulls off this victory.”
He had a point. The girl was continuously negative and didn’t seem into the idea of doing things that would make people vote for her. Hell, she didn’t even do the cafeteria changing seats exercise until ten minutes before the episode ended. And she was a dick about it. I’m not a Las Vegas odds maker, but I imagine at this point her chance of beating someone who was actually popular and adored was about 10,000/1.
Sean continued to believe this girl had no chance… and this is when things became interesting. Sean, so confident that she would not be voted prom queen, said he would take a shot of alcohol if she won. Now this is the most hungover I had ever seen Sean, so I was surprised he would risk his health for this girl. [Note from Editor: She had no fucking chance.]
On one hand, Alyssa cared more about treating her classmates like assholes than accomplishing the goal that she convinced MTV producers she so desperately wanted to achieve, so the odds were still in his favor. On the other hand, we are both Cubs fans who have seen moments that seem to be in our favor shift quickly. So once he wagered, his luck alone made the odds of her winning improve to 100/1, even though with ten minutes to go in the episode she still hadn’t made a single friend.
Then very late they aired her montage of her actually trying to become more popular, and surprisingly it seemed to have gone well. I would say that her having made a few friends and the unluckiest man in the world saying he would take a shot if she actually won put her odds at 10/1.
With a minute to go, Alyssa was on stage. MTV cut it perfectly by delaying the announcement of the queen much longer than it needed to be. “And the prom queen… of this year’s class… year 2005… the Chinese year of the rooster… iiiiiiiis…”
Sean slowly rose from his seat in anticipation, so much hope on his face, and he crept closer to the TV screen…
Sean fell to his knees as the crowd on TV erupted. The girl was crying because she realized her dreams can come true no matter what obstacles you face… as long as you have an MTV video crew follow you around. His whole body slumped down to the ground as a fake weeping sound came out of him, barely being heard with the carpet muffling his voice and the celebration going on at the prom. He was defeated. I have never seen a man lose so little, yet look like he lost it all. I guess I now know what people saw when I would throw my glove after my bullshit little league baseball loss [Note from Editor: That was always the best part of going to your little league games.]
After a minute of lying on the floor, he willed his body and crawled into the dining room, eventually gaining the strength to stumble into the kitchen.
A shot of whisky was taken in honor of Alyssa, who made one more person in this world feel like shit. Sean was at that moment ‘Made’ into a believer that anyone can win a high school popularity contest as long as MTV stuffs the ballot box… which is the only logical reason as to how she won.
In the end, even with Sean being miserable, MTV proved that it could make people come together over the story of one girl’s lifelong goal to become the prom queen in high school.
Years later, people from Made came to my college campus looking for kids to use on their show. I did not see the information in time to go, but I did wonder long and hard how they could do Made for a college student since there is no set lunch, hence no lunch table exercise. [Note from Editor: That’s an extremely good question.]
Today’s Forecast: Cloudy with a chance of terror
Have you ever visited weatherchannel.com to satisfy your forecast needs? If so, you’ve probably been scared shitless.
WeatherChannel.com is the exact opposite of what I expected it to be. I was under the impression that, like The Weather Channel, it would devote its resources to telling its audience what the current and future weather forecasts are. And to their credit, they do give you that option. But by the time you start to type in your zip code to check the forecast in your area, you’ve already realized that the weather doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters. Because we’re all going to be dead soon.
When you visit the weatherchannel.com you are offered the option to either check the weather in your area or read articles about a variety of topics. Here in lies the terrifying part of the website. These articles are not fun facts about weather systems. They aren’t the Farmer’s Almanac predictions about how frigid the upcoming winter is going to be. Instead, these articles describe the current and future apocalyptic haunted wasteland that planet Earth will soon be and already is.
Here are just a few of the real articles that weather.com has offered for their climate-curious readers over the past few months:
Beach Resort Town Left to Rot (PHOTOS) / Abandoned Schools in Decay (PHOTOS) – Weatherchannel.com has a bigger rotting/decay fetish than Jeffrey Dahmer. The website loves nothing more than showing pictures of destruction and deterioration. It’s like Vern in Stand By Me asking his teenage friends if they want to go see a dead body. It’s worse during the summer, when the website basically becomes a porn site for tornado damage. You may be thinking, ‘these are weather related occurrences, so it makes sense.’ Maybe. But how do you explain…
Rarely Seen Spiders of Singapore are Creepy and Beautiful – Weatherchannel.com loves to update you on what new repulsive looking create has recently been discovered. It’s disturbing and unnecessary for a website that should be devoted to letting you know if it’s jacket weather. Oh, and surprise surprise, the spiders were just creepy. If I ever see even one of those spiders live without being behind two bullet-proof glass windows, I’ll no longer be able to function as a human being. Adios Spring Break Singapore trip.
You’re 10 Times More Likely to Get THIS Disease – I didn’t click on this for peace of mind. I’ve lived in Brooklyn, where my immune system took a Chris Brown beating. I probably now have the white blood cell count of Powder, so there’s no reason for me to know what disease I am 10 times more likely to contract. Unless it’s large crotch disease, which I contracted at birth.
Dead Carcass Washed Ashore – I didn’t click on this one either in case it was a spoiler for Lost, of which I’m extremely close to finishing the first episode.
Hellish Version of the Earth Discovered – I think it’s called Detroit.
515-Pound Halibut Caught! – I have no idea what a halibut is, but I know I don’t want one to be 515 pounds.
Tons of Radioactive Water Leaked – That explains why fucking halibuts are up to 515 pounds.
Bizarre Places to Pitch a Tent – LOL
The Deadly Potential of Food – Food? Weatherchannel.com wants us to be afraid of food? I’m no doctor, but I think the deadliest potential that food has is not eating it.
The World Has Failed Us – I didn’t think so before, but after visiting your website I can come to no other conclusion.
When I was enrolled in community college, I was a proud member of the speech team. And when I say proud member, I mean that I joined the team to receive a tuition scholarship; a scholarship that in no way was earned.
My road to getting onto the speech team was a modern day fairy tale. During my freshman year I took a mandatory speech class, and the professor happened to be the coach of our college’s speech team. I dazzled her with my lectures about how I spent a majority of my time at my job not actually working. It was this type of work ethic that she felt was crucial for the group. So my sophomore year I joined worst speech team in the Illinois Skyway Collegiate Conference. Like I said, it was a modern day fairy tale.
The competitions were always the same. On Friday is when the first round of speeches took place. If you excelled, you made it to the second and final round, which took place on Saturday. I never made it to the second round. Not even close. Unfortunately they didn’t post who made it to the second round until Saturday, so I was forced to go both days in case my speech, which was a compilation of previously published works concerning the topic of dating, made it into the second round. Jerry Sandusky has a better chance of being in charge of the Make a Wish Foundation than I did of making it to the second round.
During the second semester, my best friend convinced the coach to let him on the team. I’m not sure how he did this, and the fact that he was able to pull this off this makes me feel that he’d have been a great asset to the debate team. But he was on the speech team, where he was as inadequate as I was. But we didn’t mind. It was our lack of verbal success that made speech competition Saturday a day to explore and dick around at whatever college the competition was being held at. There was one Saturday when we got yelled at and kicked out of an empty classroom by a professor who was video conferencing in on a television screen. We later crept back into the class room with huge signs that said ‘I’m Sorry.’ There was another Saturday when a security guard caught us in a science lab sticking our faces under an ultra-powerful and ultra-expensive microscope that projected the images onto a wall. He threatened legal action, so we gave him fake names. We were having Alice in Wonderland-like adventures, all the while representing our college with class and dignity.
We found ourselves at another competition on a Saturday, and shockingly neither of us was chosen to participate in the second round. On this particular day, I made the suggestion to go and watch the second round of the improvisational speech category. These are speeches where the participants receive a topic at the beginning of the round, and after seven minutes of brainstorming they have to make a five minute speech about said topic.
Having watched the same people make speeches repeatedly throughout our career, we got to know a bunch of speakers. Not personally of course. They wanted nothing to do with us. But since we were encouraged to watch other speeches we got to know who the good speakers were, and more importantly, we got to know who the hottest female participants were. In the improvisational round there was a girl from a neighboring college who I thought was very attractive, so my friend and I sat in the front row to watch her speak up close. This was the worst choice we could’ve made.
After a couple speeches were made it was her turn. She walked up to the front of the room and began her speaking a couple feet in front of us. About a minute into her speech I observed something that I had never noticed about this girl. When she talked for an extended period of time, her mouth would generate repulsive white side-of-the-mouth goobers. This is an oral problem typically reserved for homeless men and shop teachers. At the time I didn’t know this could even happen to girls, so I leaned my head in closer to get a better look. It was confirmed. She was rocking mouth goobers. I looked over at my friend to see if he had noticed, and when I did I saw a nineteen-year-old in a quiet but hysterical fit of laughter. That’s when I lost it and began laughing too.
I didn’t know this at the time, but my friend had noticed the goobers before I did. As soon as he did he started looking over at me for a reaction. The moment that I initially noticed the goobers I made a slight grossed-out face, and that is when I leaned my face in to get a closer look. Having witnessed my disgusted reaction, he began laughing. That’s when I looked over and saw him laughing, which in turn made me laugh. Circle of life.
Here we were, in the front row of a quiet classroom at a speech competition, watching a participant in the most difficult category of the competition, and we couldn’t stop laughing. It was a problem. It’s a strict rule at these competitions that you must be silent and attentive while someone is speaking. We were no longer being silent, and in no way were we being attentive. While our laughter wasn’t boisterous, we kept making the sound you make when you are trying to hold in laughter at church. It basically sounds like an old man clearing his throat. We were making this sound every eight seconds while shifting in our seats to avoid urination. And remember, we’re in the first row directly in front of her. She didn’t acknowledge our outburst… for competition reasons, she couldn’t acknowledge our outburst… but she definitely noticed it.
What wasn’t helping ease our laughing fits was the fact that the more she talked, the larger the mouth goobers were getting. At one point I looked up at her (I was doing my best to avoid looking at her, another faux pas at a speech competition) and saw one of the side goobers expand and pop. I heard my friend react to this repulsive display with an ‘ugh,’ and I was back to square one in regards to laughter control. It got to a point where both thought that we would have to get up, walk out of the room, leave the building, take a cab ride home, quit the speech team, and forfeit our tuition scholarships. The only relief we had was that she eventually made a joke during her speech, of which we used as an opportunity to release all of our suppressed laughter. Yes, we laughed too much at her average joke, probably to an obnoxious level, but it was the most polite thing we did for this girl throughout her entire speech.
After what felt like 46 hours she finished her speech, and we applauded for her and got more of our laughter out. While her and her goobers not being front and center helped us control our laughing spurts, we continued to have outbursts throughout the remaining speakers. Once it was over we walked out of the room still laughing, and decided that we would never go to another speech together again.
Much to the disappointment of Leo Tarcozzi, part-time Subway sandwich artist and full-time Dean of Students at DeVry University, the Princeton Review neglected to list his technical institute in any of the categories of their latest College Ranking List.
“It’s all politics. It’s who you know. Unfortunately I don’t know anyone who ever went to Princeton… hell, I don’t know anyone from California… so I never had a chance.”
The Princeton Review, an American-based standardized test preparation and admissions consulting company that has no affiliation with the New Jersey based Princeton University, has been releasing its popular list for years. When it came out this year, Leo had his hopes high.
“I thought we at least had a chance at one of the bad categories. I mean, you gotta give us ‘Least Beautiful Campus.’ This whole university is run in my uncle’s shed. He stores bottles of urine in here!”
While DeVry may seem like a lock for ‘Least Beautiful Campus,’ once again the honor went to Stowen College, a western Wyoming institution whose campus is located inside of a rotting buffalo carcass. Bidling Community, a South Carolina based junior college located in occupied coffins at an abandoned crematorium, came in a close second.
Bidling also blamed politics for their runner-up status.
Walking home the other day I saw a pizza delivery man get out of his car, look around aimlessly, make a phone call, and then return to his car with the pizza and leave. It made me remember the pre-caller ID prank we would play as kids where we would order pizza over the phone and have it sent to a neighbor’s house. After a while the pizza would show up, the surprised neighbor would say that they didn’t order anything, and the pizza man would have to drive his crappy car back to the job he hates without the compensation he was counting on to pay for his daughter’s asthma medication. Meanwhile we laughed at the way we somehow made a middle-aged divorce’s life even worse than it already was. Kids are sick.
I remember on special occasions we would play Pizza Race. It was the pizza prank on steroids… or rather the pizza prank if it had been involved with the South Florida anti-aging clinic Biogenesis. We would order a pizza from two separate pizzerias, have them go to the same house, and see who would arrive first. It turned destroying the profits and sanity of pizza delivery men into the Amazing Race.
Looking back it seems pretty easy to figure out who actually placed the order. Just look across the street. It’s the house that had every single light on 10 minutes ago but is now completely dark. The house that you heard blasting Kris Kross as soon as you saw Glen and Phyllis pull out of the driveway. The house where there are currently three distinct gaps in the shades where the kids are peeking out. The house where those three gaps closed up when you looked over there. The house where, when you went and knocked on the door, a thirteen-year-old boy answered the door and tried to convince you that you woke him up from a deep 7 p.m. slumber. I guarantee a thirteen-year-old hasn’t rested before 7 p.m. since Thomas Jay got stung by bees in the late afternoon.
13 people visited my website today. There are 13 people in the world who have been holding onto the hope that after over a year, I’ll write a new post. These 13 people are loyal, inspiring, and potentially under the impression that there is pornography on this site.
I’d love to give a shout out to all of the people who visited my site. Unfortunately I don’t know who they are, so I figured I would just guess.
Warren V. – 47 year-old attorney who represents Walmart. He saw the article I wrote about my horrific experience at that Hellscape and is now in the beginning stages of a lawsuit against me for public slander. Warren, thanks for visiting. Honestly if you sue me, all you have to win is a 2005 IPOD mini and the complete series of Gilmore Girls on DVD (ironically all purchased at Walmart). Both of these things you will have to rip from my cold dead tiny hands.
Bill H. – 12 year-old from Wyoming who was looking for nudie pics of Lindsay Lohan and stumbled onto my site because of my article that promised just that. In the end it was a Rick Roll. I apologize Bill. Life really doesn’t get any more disappointing than that… unless of course you’re Linsday Lohan. Luckily for you, finding porn on the internet is as easy as making a Lindsay Lohan joke.
Hans-Rudolf Merz – Former head of the Swiss Federal Department of Finance. Over the years we’ve had a real love/hate thing going on: I needed a website villain, pretended to hate him, saw a viral video of him laughing in front of Parliament while answering a question about meat imports, and have loved him ever since. While this relationship has been one sided, Hansey got word that this website now proudly proclaims that it celebrates the life and work of Hans Rudolf Merz and he has since been checking it daily. Hanster, thanks for visiting.
Lindsay Lohan – She googled herself and found seanssabbatical. She then saw that I not only promised nudie pics of her to be on the site, but also read countless amounts of jokes about her life and career. Lindsay, I’m sorry. I ghostwrite for Hans-Rudolf Merz. The dude is a total dick. But thanks for visiting. And at least your not Amanda Bynes.
Phyllis S. – 34 year-old housewife who was looking for streaming Dance Mom episodes and stumbled upon my depressing confession that when I get a little alone time, I spend it watching pre-teens getting verbally and emotionally abused at the Abbie Lee Miller dance studio. Phyllis, I stopped watching the show last year. A man can only watch so many episodes revolving around costume choices for children’s dance routines before his penis literally falls off. But thanks for visiting.
I’m now realizing how difficult it would be to write 13 of these, especially for a guy who claims to be a motived writer yet hasn’t written a blog in over a year. So I’m going to pretend that 6 people visited my website today. And by today, I mean two days ago when I started this blog.
Since screenplays, unwritten blogs and lottery tickets have failed to give me the money I need to quit my profession and focus on the things I cherished during my sabbatical (writing, bowling and weekday binge drinking), I’ve been trying to think of great sitcom ideas lately.
Here are a few that I’ve come up with.
A judge orders a convict, who was responsible for the brutal murder of a husband and wife, be freed from jail. The catch? The convict has to raise the kids of the man and woman that he killed. It seems like a dark idea, but they’re a lot of wacky episodes. For instance, one episode a social worker (who may be a reoccurring character, depending on whether Jennifer Aniston is interested in getting back into television) has to make sure that he’s doing a good job, and it causes his life to be turned upside down!!
If it bombs in the first season, I’ll have the convict kill the kids in the series finale. That way I can say that it the show wasn’t meant to be more than one season, making me look like someone who writes for the BBC. Also, the last line of the show can be the judge saying something like, “Well, golly, that was a bad idea!”
I Have to Fort
Three hundred kids attempt to built the largest fort in the world. Each of the first 300 episodes explores the background of just one of the kids. I figure that way I would be guaranteed to sign on for 300 episodes, giving me a writing gig for at least 15 years. Actually, due to artistic integrity, I would leave before season 12… and by artistic integrity I mean I wouldn’t be invited to the set anymore because my sketchy motorcycle entourage keeps freaking out the kids.
The last episode will finally show the kids trying to build the fort. Three minutes into the episode they will get bored of it and decide to play Xbox instead, and the remaining 19 the audience gets to watch kids play whatever the coolest game out at the time is.
A super conservative husband has to hide from his equally liberal wife the fact that he fathered the housekeeper’s teenage son.
Over two years after Canada hosted it’s 3rd Olympic games, the host countries most celebrated rapper is still salty over what he describes as the greatest injustice since Section 13(1) of the Canadian Human Rights Act (it states that it is discriminatory to communicate by phone or Internet any material “that is likely to expose a person or persons to hatred or contempt” (Canadian problems are adorable)).
“I should have been asked to take part in the opening ceremonies in Vancouver. They invited Wayne Gretzky, Steve Nash, and K.D. Lang, but no Snow? It’s whack! I’m still depressed about it. I’ve been a-licky-boom-boom down for the past two years.”
Snow sprung to stardom in 1993 with his hit single Informer, a song that made Caucasian-Canadian-Jamaican (was that Jamaican?) rap the newest craze. Informer not only taught privileged white kids in the early 90s to act like characters from Cool Runnings, but the song also helped an entire generation of Americans recognize that Canada is a real country. For those reasons, Snow felt that an Olympic Ceremony invite was guaranteed. He was sadly mistaken.
“They didn’t even have the decency to informer me that I wasn’t going to be a part of the festivities. How can they play Snow like that, mon? You know what I’m sayin, eh?”
Gregor Robinson, the mayor of the city of Vancouver, was unaware that the artist felt so slighted.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
On Valentines Day, I got a text at 7:54 pm from an unknown number that read as follows:
‘Uhm do u mind going to the lab with me tomorrow?’
It’s the most romantic Valentine’s Day text I’ve ever gotten. Unfortunately I knew the truth. Some lucky person was sent an invitation to have a good time in in either a chemistry, film, or meth lab, and this lucky person wasn’t me. Whoever sent this text had the wrong number. Being a mature adult, I decided to ignore it, figuring that the sender would soon realize the error.
The next night, around the same time, I got another text from the same number. This time, the text had a riveting question:
‘You know what?’
I was curious. I replied:
Two minutes later, I got my answer.
‘You’re a little hoe bag.’
It seemed so odd. This person, whom I’d never met, seemed to know everything about me. I am a little hoe bag. I replied.
‘Oh, I know, right!?!’
Five minutes later she wrote back.
‘Lol jk you little SPUD (;’
And there it started. My first friendship entirely communicated through text message. I had a textmate. And I was her little spud (I was now figuring, after referring to me as a hoe bag and a SPUD, that my textmate was female).
I wasn’t sure when I would hear from my textmate again. It didn’t take long.
‘Tmdrtmdrtmdr! I have a lot of venting to do!‘ – 2/16/12, 6:49 am.
6:49….. A.M. And since this was from an 847 area code I assumed that this person was texting from a suburb of Chicago, meaning that she sent this at 5:49 A.M. Who the hell has the energy to vent at 5:49 A.M.? I was way too tired to gain the strength to text from my 1974 Motorola Razor Phone, so I ignored it and went back to sleep, thinking that I should probably end this relationship as I dozed off.
‘So you know how I told you about Jill’s little crush Jon who messaged me?’ – 2/16/12 6:36 pm.
I got this about a half-hour after getting home from work, nearly 12 hours after she woke me up looking to do some pre-dawn venting. I told the gf what she texted me, and she said, ‘ok, I think it’s time to tell her she has the wrong number.’ She was right. This was enough. So I texted her back.
‘What about it?’
I’m sorry, but before I ended this relationship, I really wanted to know what happened with Jill’s crush Jon. It sounded like it was going to be juicy!
‘She messaged him trying to have a convo and he asked why she messaged him. lol.’
SCANDALOUS! Gossip to the max!
But seriously, that was the most disappointing response ever. I was hoping for, ‘he brought a gun to school,’ ‘he cut off his weenie in shop class,’ or ‘he got Mrs. Levins pregnant!’ Instead, I got word that Jon doesn’t know who Jill is. This gossip sucked, and I let her know it.
‘No way!! Really? ROTFLMAO!!’ (In teen talk, that translates to, ‘No way! Really? That is so funny that I am literally rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off!’)
I couldn’t stop. I’m not sure why. I don’t have unlimited texting, and at the rate that this teenage girl (I was now assuming that this girl was a teenager) was sending me messages, I would soon need to get a second job to cover my phone bill. She immediately got back to me.
‘Silly bo billy.’
Yeah, definitely a teenage girl.
The next day was Friday, and I was in great spirits because we were heading into a three day weekend, meaning an extra night of my weekend where I could drink heavily and regret that the fact that I didn’t go outside the entire day. While still at work, about 15 minutes before leaving for the weekend, I got a frantic message from my textmate.
‘Oh dear god help me, I might of left your note in Bridget Maloney’s locker!’
Previous texts were casual, but now she was having a crisis. It was time to be an adult and help her through this.
‘Baloney Maloney??? It guess it’s ok.’
I was a little nervous about this one. Not because I was now officially being creepy, but because whomever I was pretending to be had now officially referred to Bridget Maloney as Baloney Maloney. I might have just unintentionally gotten a middle school girls’ ass kicked, especially if Bridget Maloney was large and in deserving of the nickname Baloney. While thinking this, I got a response.
‘It’s not okay!’
It was time for this to end…
… after I figured out why it wasn’t okay.
‘Oh idk, mentioned jspat, jimmy, johnny, phil, cole, nbd.’ (In teen talk, I think that means ‘Oh I don’t know, I only mentioned J-Spat, Jimmy and Johnny, Phil, Cole! Everyone! No big deal’ (I’m not sure if that no big deal was sarcasm or not. Unfortunately it’s tough to portray sarcasm in text)).
At this point I was done entertaining this girl. If I was getting some juicy gossip I’d be willing to go on, but she had nothing. Her teenage life was more depressing than my adult life. I needed to get out of this. But how? I didn’t want to let her know that she had been texting a 30-year-old man for the last few days. It might embarass her, and also might lead to my arrest. After giving it some thought I texted her back.
‘I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I thought I’ve been texting my niece this whole time.’
Believable? I don’t know, I don’t have a niece. But if I did, I would refer to all of her friends with the last name of Maloney as Baloney Maloney, so maybe it wasn’t bad. She got back to me about an hour later.
‘Oh, haha! It’s ok, sorry about the mix up!’
And that’s how the greatest friendship I ever had ended.