© Sean Milnamow 2009
May
29
I only have one hockey jersey in my wardrobe. I received it as a Christmas gift over ten years ago, and at the time I liked the way it looked. Over the years I’ve given away a lot of clothes, but somehow this hockey jersey has avoided the wrath of Goodwill. Now that the Blackhawks are in the finals, I deeply regret its survival…
GO HAWKS!!!
May
28
This morning I was getting into my car that was parked right outside of the apartment. Parked next to me was a truck, and in the bed of the truck was a man who was putting away his tools. He was parked pretty close to me and had his front door open which was going to make it difficult for me to back out.
“I’ll be done is a second, man,” he said.
“No problem,” I replied.
I got into my car, and after he finished putting everything into his truck and shut his door, he motioned to me that I should pull down my window.
When I did, he said, “Hey, just wanted you to know that I do a lot of utility work around here. Plumping, carpeting, whatever.”
At this point he took a business card out of his pocket.
“Here you go. This isn’t my business card, but if you need any assistance in your apartment give me a call.”
“Will do.”
I took the card, said goodbye, and drove away. As I was driving, I looked at the card. When he said, “this isn’t my business card,” he wasn’t kidding. He gave me the business card of a woman named Rebecca who distributes natural supplements that strengthen your immune system.
?
What the hell? How… wh…. I… I don’t get it. Why did he give me this? He knew that it wasn’t his. How am I supposed to contact him when neither his name nor his number is on the card? I’ve tried to come up with possible scenarios all day that would explain why he did this. I’ve come up with three…
1) He pulled out the wrong business card, and instead of going back into his pocket and picking out the right one, he felt that he was too close to handing me a business card and decided to just let me have it and inform me that it wasn’t his. But that just seems too stupid.
2) He actually isn’t a handyman, but a full time business card distributor. And I must say, if that’s true, it kind of works. I’m a little interested in this supplement that improves my immune system… or at least contacting the person who sells it to see why this creepy dude had her business card. Either way, he delivered that card this morning, and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since. He might be a marketing genius disguised as a handyman.
3) He kidnapped the woman on the card, and in her attempt to be found, since she knew he had a knack for handing out his business cards, she switched his cards with hers. The man, not wanting to appear suspicious, gave me the business card instead of withdrawing it rapidly and saying, “WHAT HAS SHE DONE?!?! ANOTHER DAY IN THE DUNGEON FOR HER!!!!!”
May
17
From the age of 7 to 10, I had long hair. At least that’s what I like to say. But in reality, if I’m being perfectly honest, I had a mullet. Total business in the front and party in the back.
(Not Third Grade Me, But Close)
My hair was down to my shoulders, and for reasons unknown, the ladies loved it. I’ve never been more popular with the opposite sex than when I had my hermaphrodite haircut. However, although there were benefits to looking like a young Debbie Gibson, there was also a downfall: gender identity.
I knew I was a boy. My classmates knew I was a boy. My teachers knew I was a boy. But there was a group of people that not only weren’t aware that I was a boy, but also didn’t believe me when I informed them of this fact: the elderly.
Although there may have been many times in my childhood where I was accused of being a girl by an old person, there are only two times in particular that I can remember clearly.
The First Incident Occurred During An American Legion Christmas Party.
Since my grandparents belong to the American Legion, my family was allowed to go to their Christmas party. I was nine at the time, and any kid 12 and under was eligible to receive a Christmas gift. All I had to do was go up to the old man that was handing out the presents and tell him my age. Sounds easy, right? Not when you’re a little boy that looks like a little girl.
I walked up to the gentlemen, said “9,” and stood there. He stared at me for a moment and then handed me a present labeled ‘9/F.’
The “F” stood for female.
I got a girls present.
I looked at it for a moment and said, “No, I’m a boy.” He responded with, “No you’re not.”
It’s tough when an elderly man accuses a young boy of lying about his gender. This person is older and wiser than me, and since I was always told to respect and trust my elders, it made me question myself for a moment. Am I a girl? My older brother had always called me a girl, but I had always figured that he was joking.
After reassuring myself that I was a boy, I stood my ground.
“No, I’m a boy.”
His response: “Really?”
I guess after a certain age, politeness gets thrown out the window.
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising.”
Holding back tears, I received the present that I wished I had never asked for.
The Other Time This Happened Was On My Paper Route.
When I was in second grade, I shared a paper route with my older brother. On a night when I was collecting the money that my customers owed, I went up to the door of a large white house and knocked. A man in his nineties answered.
“Hello little girl. How can I help you?”
I didn’t feel like correcting him. I told him that I was the paper boy and I was collecting for the Daily Courier News. He went in and got some money, and when he returned he began some small talk.
“Didn’t your sister deliver our paper the other day?”
I figured he meant my mom, who occasionally frequently delivered papers for me when I would complain too much about delivering them myself.
“That was my mom.”
“No, I know your mom. That was your sister.”
I was confused. At the time my sister was probably 6 months old. I wasn’t around her all the time, but I was pretty sure that she wasn’t sneaking out of the house and delivering papers for me, especially since she couldn’t walk yet. Then it hit me. He was talking about my older brother, who shared the same feminine haircut as me. I was happy to know that I wasn’t the only child that struggled with gender identity.
I smiled and said, ”Yes, that was my sister.”
Old people are adorable.
May
14
In these tough economic times, I’m am trying to decrease the unemployment rate by hiring someone to be my assistant.
Job:
Assistant to a self employed writer that can only pay in giggles and checks post dated to the year 2014.
Duties:
laughing at everything I do (fake laughs must sound real)
bootlegging movies in the theatre that I’m interested in seeing but am too embarrassed to go to by myself (ex. Hairspray and You Got Served)
throwing me surprise parties, paid for by you, bimonthly (streamers and B-list celebrity guests a must (think Carrot Top))
writing hate mail to anyone I consider better than me (don’t worry, it’s a short list that only consists of Jared from Subway and ex So You Think You Can Dance contestants)
explaining to me what O.P.P. stands for
Requirements:
Must be shorter, fatter, and uglier than me to increase my self-esteem. Here’s my picture.
Must be a lottery winner that’s willing to spend your entire winnings on mega-trampolines and parachute pants.
Must be bi-lingual (English and Canadian)
Must distrust Hans-Rudolf Merz
May
13
May
7
I’ve found that an easy way to become an internet sensation is to have an original first dance at your wedding. We’ve all seen it on YouTube. Typically the newlywed couple begins dancing to an ordinary romantic slow song, and the wedding guests watch as the bride and groom sway back and forth. Then the romantic slow song is surprisingly interrupted by some sort of loud screech, and before anyone can process what’s going on, a fast song is playing and the couple is doing a humorous choreographed dance. My favorite example is this video below.
This seems to be happening at more and more weddings these days, and since I’m as trendy as a Justin Bieber haircut, I want to do the same. But instead of just having me and my bride as the dancers, I want to include my entire wedding party.
Here’s the plan:
First off, everyone in the wedding party, including the guys, will have a poofy 80s haircut. It’ll be a requirement. If you’re one of my friends that wants to be in my wedding party, you’ve been forewarned. If you’re unwilling to do so, I’ll just go to a Nascar race and find some new friends.
The bride and I will start dancing to a romantic Boyz II Men song, but one that’s not about doing it since my relatives will be there. As we are dancing, people that work at the reception hall will wheel out two rows of gym lockers, two wooden benches, four shower doors, and three functioning hand driers to the dance floor. We will pretend to be surprised that they’re doing this, and then the music will screech. When it does, me, my bride, and everyone in the wedding party will remove their tuxedos and dresses to reveal that we are all wearing purple spandex body suits. As the wedding guests stand there in shock, we will perform this to perfection…
When it’s over, I’m hoping for three things: (1) a large round of applause, (2) someone has actually videotaped it so I didn’t spend tens of thousands of dollars in dance lessons and portable locker room set pieces for nothing, and (3) I don’t have to look at any of my uncles in the eye for the rest of my life.
SEANSSABBATICAL MEGAWEEK!
May
7
I made this up today. It’s terrible hilarious.
What do I call the intimidating ex-con record producer that lives in my nose?
Boog Knight.
If you’re unsure why that’s funny, please visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suge_Knight
Then come back to my website and have a good laugh. If you still don’t think it’s funny, then grow a sense of humor.
SEANSSABBATICAL MEGAWEEK!
May
6
I don’t believe this. Looks like Rudolf the Swiss Nosed Reindeer is up to his old tricks again.
When ole H-RM was asked what his hobbies were, he listed opera, jazz, cultural history, literature and ice hockey.
Hmm……. um……. what was that last one again?
I think cookie monster put it best when it comes to your “so-called” hobbies…
Hockey? Are you kidding me? Look Merzinator, I have been surrounded by thousands of hockey enthusiasts packed into one building. The thing they all have in common is that none of them enjoy opera, jazz, cultural history, or literature. They don’t even know what those things are. If I ask any one of them to explain what opera is, they’ll stare at me for a few seconds and then ask, “is that the other teams back up goalie?”
It’s like saying my favorite movies are Kung-Fu Panda, Chipmunks 2: The Squeakquel, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and Rob Zombies’ House of 1000 Corpses.
BUSTED!
I don’t trust you Hans-Rudolf Merz.
I never will.
SEANSSABBATICAL MEGAWEEK!
May
6
Many people have seen this, but I wanted to post it in case someone out there hasn’t. It makes me laugh every time.
I love hearing people crack up when they aren’t supposed to.
SEANSSABBATICAL MEGAWEEK!
May
5
I recently finished reading “How To Be Famous: Our Guide to Looking the Part, Playing the Press, and Becoming a Tabloid Fixture” by Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt.
This gem was given to me as a Christmas gift, and after reading all 120 pages of it, I feel that I am ready to begin my road trip to stardom.
The first thing this masterpiece made me realize is that my biggest roadblock to fame has been my friends. “The easiest way to begin your journey to fame is to find an existing group of moderately famous people and join them” (6). You hear that friends? My lack of fame is all you’re fault. None of you are moderately famous. Not even close.
So my first step towards becoming famous will be to separate myself from my current group of friends and create a new one. (To any of my current former friends that valued our friendship, I apologize. But I can’t continue to allow you to hold me down)
Back to my new crew. Because I lack the desire to relocate myself to L.A., I’ve decided that I would choose moderately famous people from the Chicagoland area to be my new group of friends. Since there are no popular reality shows that take place around here, I’ve determined that my new posse would consist of local television personalities Bob Rohrman, Peter Francis Geraci, and Eagleman.
Bobby Petey Eags 
After I make these icons my buddies, I need to “take a look at [this] existing group, figure out what is missing, and fill that void” (7). Well lets see… we already have a sassy car salesman with a mustache, a dull lawyer with a communist name, and a giant bird who somehow owns his own insurance company. I guess the only thing this group lacks is a spunky attractive female.
Although I’ve never considered myself a “sex change” kind of guy, this is the price that I’ll have to pay for fame. Like Heidi says, “Nobody’s born perfect, but you CAN get there if you want by working hard at it and letting the beauty of modern science handle the rest” (108). So getting a sex change, although impulsive, ill advised and life altering, is vital for my successful career in show business.
The good thing about a major operation is that I can use it to gain popularity… and nobody knows this better than Heid Montag.
“The key to getting the biggest publicity push [for my sex change operation] is to tease the story by being seen, let the story build up through speculation, then give the interview” (108).
After transforming myself into a woman, I will go to family functions, class reunions, and bars where I was once a regular before I became a female that hangs out with basic cable super studs. Since my former friends and family will remember me as a guy (I hope), they will begin to speculate that I may have gotten some work done. I’ll let the story build up. Then I’ll give the interview.
… I don’t know what interview exactly, but I’ll give it. Soon after that I’ll have to start dealing with the paparazzi.
When it comes to getting my photo taken constantly when I’m in public, Speidi has assured me that, “it takes away from some of [my] private space, but once [I] see [myself] in the magazines a few times, [I'll] gladly make that trade” (55). I agree. After getting a completely regrettable sex change operation, I am going to want nothing more than my picture to be in as many magazines as possible.
Obviously I can’t expect the paparazzi to simply follow me around because of my sex change. If that were true, Brett Farve would be on the cover of every US Weekly. (Burn) I’ll need to earn their interest. The paparazzi “wont be coming to [me], at least not at first. [I'll have to] go to them” (55). Although I’m not sure where the Roselle paparazzi hang out, I’m guessing that it’s probably at our Brunswick Zone. That or the BP on the corner of Roselle Rd. and Irving Park. I’ll make both of these places my new hot spots.
So soon I’ll be a twenty-eight year old with a remorseful sex change hanging out with Bob Rohrman, Peter Francis Gerasi, and Eagleman at Brunswick Zones and gas stations. Like my mentors have said, “Shameless = Famous.” Lets hope so.
SEANSSABBATICAL MEGAWEEK!
