Would You Like a Side of Sucralose With That?

Dammit. I’m in the breakfast aisle in Publix, and I have no idea what the hell is good for me. I’m trying to eat more healthfully, but once I’m in a grocery store, I’m a complete tool. And reading the ingredients is no help, because for some reason it is always in Russian or French or some damn language that I can’t decipher. Well, I did once manage to memorize that high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) means Instant Death (ID). If you ingest it, you actually collapse right there at the table. At least, that’s what my sister Lori thinks.

Since I can’t afford a personal nutritionist, Lori serves that function, albeit by phone. She lives in northeast Ohio, where her husband Doug hunts and fishes for all of their meat and she tends to a garden for all of their vegetables. They also scour the Internet daily for the latest conspiracy theories, like how HFCS is an example of big corporations trying to kill us.

There’s not a whole lot to do in northeast Ohio.

Nutty theories aside, Lori is a good resource for all things diet, so she’s gotten used to phones calls like this from me:

Ring! Ring!

Doug: “Lori, answer it!”

Lori: “I’m doing the dishes! Why don’t YOU answer it?”

Doug: “I can’t hear you over that phone ringing! Answer it!”

Lori: (drying off her hands to answer it) “Damn lazy ass.” (Into phone) “Hello?”

Me, yelling over the sound of a loud bar at Happy Hour: “IS RANCH DRESSING LOW CARB?!?”

Lori: “As long as you don’t go overb—”

Me, to someone else: “Dude, shut the hell up. I’m talking to my sister. Just because I don’t want to be a lard ass like you doesn’t make me a homo. Now get me a beer, Fat Boy.” (Into phone) “What was that, Lori?”

Lori: “If you’ll eat it you’ll die”.

Me: “Thanks!” (click)

She actually usually gives me accurate information, but I guess over the years she’s grown a little tired of administering this free service. Which is why I’m standing here right now trying to figure out which hot cereal will lower my cholesterol and which ones will assassinate me.

I give up. I’ve been staring at this stupid shelf for ten minutes now. It’s time to call my nutritionist.

Ring! Ring!

Lori: “Areyoubleeding?”

Me: “Uh, what? No!”

Lori: “Ihaveguestsseeyoulater!”

Me: “Wait! Didn’t you say sucralose is the same thing as HFCS?”

Lori: “Noyouidiotbutit’sbaddon’tbuyitloveyoubyebye!” (Click)

Well, I guess I learned two things: One, don’t buy anything with sucralose. And two, when it comes to nutritionists, you get what you pay for.

Revenge of the Facebook Survey

(Because I seemingly get tagged in every single facebook survey ever written, I finally did one myself. Unfortunately, this one got a little out of control. The ones who are tagged can do this one if they like, but I'm warning you: You may die. Also, MySpace friends may recognize a few questions on here. Hey, it's okay for me to plagiarize myself, okay?)

1. Where did you take your profile pic?

I was performing standup at Reserve. Also, I was on fire. I mistakenly thought it would make me funnier.

2. What exactly are you wearing right now?

The same clothes I wore out last night. Though I did change into a thong for comfort.

3. What is your current problem?

I am currently looking for new employment but have absolutely no motivation to be employed. Unless, of course, you are a potential employer scanning my profile, in which case I'm extremely motivated to work hard in order to achieve the goals that will make your company great.

4. What makes you happy most?

Writing humor, whether it is standup, a humor essay, or a shitty survey like this.

5. What's the name of the song that you're listening to?

Listen, you dumbass survey: I’m male. That means I can’t multitask. So I can’t have music on when I’m writing any more than a typical girl can talk on a cell phone while driving. Unless this is a potential employer, in which case multitasking makes me stronger.

6. Any celeb you would marry?

Who created this survey? A middle schooler? This is a stupid, silly, immature question. And, Keira Knightley.

7. Name someone with the same birthday as you?

Nobody. This is true. I’m the first and only person every born on January 23rd.

8. Ever sang by yourself in front of a large audience?

No, but I have simulated sex with other species on stage. I bet that so-called “entertainer” Justin Timberlake has never tried that.

9. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity?

Yes. I get Keanu Reeves and the lead singer from Hoobastank, which I’m cool with. Then I also get Jerry Seinfeld and Gilbert Gottfried, which makes me want to dunk my face in a McDonald’s deep fryer.

10. Do you still watch kiddy movies or kiddie TV shows?

Why did you spell “kiddie” two different ways? And why do say “kiddie” in the first place? Use “children’s”. “Kiddie” makes me think that answering this question will earn me a sit-down with Chris Hansen.

11. Do you know any languages?

Ooog. Ungff. No me know no language. Me hungry!

12. I’m getting the feeling you are starting to mock me.

Um, what? That’s not a question.

13. You think you’re better than I am, don’t you?

Yes, but only because I am an actual human being and you are a stupid shitty survey. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

14. You are really starting to annoy me. Us facebook surveys are a little tired of all you dumbasses responding to our questions with half-ass or smartass answers, thinking you're funny when in general, most of you really suck at humor.

Okay, hang on a second here: how are you responding to me?

15. Sorry, dickhead. I'm the survey, I ask the questions. Speaking of, let's turn it up a notch. Honestly, why aren't you married yet?

That's none of your business. Besides, I just haven't met the right—

16. You're gay, aren't you? You're a flaming homo!

NO I ABSOLUTELY AM NOT. Not that there's anything wrong with that! But I assure you I'm 100% heterosexual. Listen, I don't have to finish this stupid survey—

17. Whatever, queerbait. Honestly, when was the last time you got laid?

I generally don't talk about my sex life on—

18. Chicken.

I am NOT a chi—

19. BWAWK BOCK BOCK BOCK!!!

What the hell kind of crazy survey is this? You're making fun of me?

20. Stop dodging the question.

I'm not answering it! Up yours! I only started this stupid survey because I was bored!

21. Ohhhh…"Mr. Hot-Shot Comedian" is too good for us lowly facebook surveys unless he's reeeally bored.

Listen, I've got nothing against surveys. It's just that I usually focus my creative energy on my material.

22. Yeah, I've heard your stuff. You really should stick to surveys.

Screw you. I like my work. Now I insist you answer my question: How in the hell is a facebook survey responding to my answers?

23. Oh, that's easy.

So? What's the answer? How are you doing it?

24. The answer is: you're not right in the head.

What?

25. You know I'm right, don't you?

Shut up.

Target vs. Wal-Mart, the Cage Match

When it comes to spending your hard-earned dollar at the best price possible, let's face it: there are really only two choices anymore. Either you are one-stop shopping at the brainchild of Sam Walton or you're doing the same at the newer*, cleaner, friendlier, less deadly and certainly more red-colored Target.

* I don't know for an absolute fact that Target is a newer chain than Wal-Mart. Luckily, I am humorist and not a journalist so I can just make up shit and suffer no consequences. Nyaah nyaah nyaah.


Today, I left the house knowing I needed a few groceries, plus some wheel cleaner for my car. After about ten minutes I pulled into the Wal-Mart parking lot, found a safe spot, then asked myself what in the Sam Hell I was doing there. For whatever reason, I just drove, zombie-like, right to Wally World. I have no idea why, as I have a miserable experience every single time I go, usually punctuated by a wait in line that could easily eclipse a college semester. So right then and there I pulled out of the parking lot and headed over to the brand-new Super Target.


Holy cow, what a difference!


In order to illustrate the disparity in the shopping experience between Wal-Mart and Target, I'll reveal to you, verbatim, actual quotes I've uttered in each store:


About the hottie factor:

At Target: "That chick is so damn hot I'll risk pretending I'm actually shopping for nail polish to check her out."

At Wal-Mart: "How on Earth can a woman block an entire aisle by herself?"*

*This is a true story. A few weeks ago I witnessed an, uh, "fitness-challenged" girl and her shopping cart manage to block an entire wide aisle by herself. If we ever want to get serious about illegal immigration, we should just station Wal-Mart shoppers on the Texas-Mexico border. It'll only take about five of them.


About the parking lot:

At Target: "Wow, there are a lot of shopping cart returns here."

At Wal-Mart: "Exactly how many damn handicapped spaces does a parking lot need?"


About the stocking of product:

At Target: "There is so much selection, I'm not sure which one to buy!"

At Wal-Mart: "Great, they have every item here except the one on sale."*

*The display model was available, but since it looked like it had been dropped into the Grand Canyon, hitting every boulder on the way down, I passed.


About the availability of cashiers:

At Target: "I think they have too many cashiers available. I guess I'll pick the hottest one."

At Wal-Mart: "What the hell is at the end of this line?!? Space Mountain?!?"


I think you can now see why, after suffering for so many years with Wal-Misery, I will from now on drive an extra ten minutes and shop at Target.


Hey, I wonder if I can get Target to pay me for this blog.



© 2008, Joseph Simmons

This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Electronic or print reproduction, adaptation, or distribution without permission is prohibited. Ordinary links to this blog at may be posted or distributed without written permission.

I'll Take the Bland Chicken with a Side of Embarrassment, Please

My mother gets every Thursday off from work. She’s employed by the State of Florida, and some time ago they went to four 10-hour-a-day work weeks. In order to avoid a lot of office infighting, everyone was given the choice of having a free Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. Nobody was allowed to choose Monday or Friday, because everybody was going to want a Monday or Friday.


“But Joe,” you’re surely saying. “Certainly government employees are grown adults and can fairly agree on a way to assign who gets Mondays and Fridays off, right?”


Sure, and I just came home from a date with Keira Knightley. Government employees argue over everything. I worked for the government for two years, and if you “borrowed” someone’s stapler, you were risking getting shot. I can only imagine the riots that would ensue over trying to get the day you actually want off of work.


“But Joe, couldn’t they use seniority or—AAAUGGHHHH! MY EYES! MY EYES!!”


I apologize for using mace on you, but if you keep interrupting, I’ll never get this damn blog finished. Besides, the point of this essay isn’t shitty government employment; it’s the fact that my mother was off of work last Thursday, so she, my father (who’s retired) and I met for lunch at Olive Garden.


I hate to admit this, but I am a functional idiot when it comes to food. I don’t know what half the items are on any decent restaurant’s menu. The problem is exacerbated when the restaurant is a chain that supposedly makes food from a different country, because the shitheads in marketing are always going to make the dishes sound as “international” as possible. This is to convince you, the ordinary ignorant fat-ass American, that you are indeed spending your hard-earned money well. You see, you might not want to pay more than six dollars for “Baked Chicken Next to Vegetables”. But hey, ten bucks for “Venetian Apricot Chicken”? Sounds like a bargain!


To make things further complicated, I’m on a low-carb diet. That means I can’t have pasta.


Or tomato sauce.


In an Italian restaurant.


So, I have no idea what anything is, but I was secure in the knowledge that 95% of their food could possibly kill me. That’s why, when the server came, I just blindly pointed to a random item on the menu:


Server: “And what will you be having today, sir?”

Me: (Pointing randomly) “I would like this.”

Server: “You would like ‘Copyright Olive Garden 2008’?”

Me: “And please hold the tomato sauce.”


Actually, at her suggestion, I ended up ordering the Venetian Apricot chicken, which tasted like (surprise!) chicken. I tasted neither anything Venetian nor anything apricot about it. I did detect a hint of Swanson’s Microwave Dinner, though. At least my parents seemed to enjoy their meals.


One last anecdote before I end this pointless essay. Before eating my non-Venetian non-Apricot chicken, I excused myself to use the restroom and wash my hands. The first thing I said to myself upon entering it was, “wow, do Italians not have urinals in their restrooms?”


I’ll let you figure out what mistake I made and why I was apologizing profusely to several people about two minutes later.

When Grand Theft Auto is not a Game

Being the last one at the gym tonight, I offered to help the girl that works there close out by taking the garbage to the dumpster in the back. As I walked around the building to the front entrance, I took a quick glance at my car.

That wasn’t there.

Holy shit, I thought. Did I park in the back this time? Or further out?

I never park in the back, and my car was nowhere in the front to be found. Son of a bitch! My mind raced. What the hell did I leave in it? My cell phone? My wallet? Thank God I didn’t have my laptop in there! Damn damn DAMN! I just bought the damn thing a month ago! Now all I could think about is what my mom said the day I brought my car home: “You know, Honda Accords are one of the most-stolen cars in America.”

“Mom,” I said at the time. “I live in Cape Coral, not friggin’ Miami.”

I couldn’t believe that my mother’s concern had come to fruition. Pissed, I barged back in the gym, knowing I’d have to call the police and my insurance company. I was so distracted, in fact, that I tripped and nearly fell over…

…the bicycle I rode to the gym tonight.