The Scourge of Man: Part 2

I did it.

Despite the warnings, the prophecies, and the dire words of the pizza delivery man, I unsealed that which should not be opened. I’m speaking, of course, of my spare room.

It was kind of a let-down. There was no tidal wave of blood or the manic chanting of one hundred and ninety-nine inhuman mouths. Admittedly, the inside-out goat was pretty cool, but otherwise, nada.

Mostly, it was just a lot of boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes. Think of the scene from the end of Raiders of the Lost Arc where the Arc gets put away in the massive warehouse. My spare room looks like that only much smaller, the boxes are cardboard, and there are old computer parts strewn haphazardly around.

So, I started going through the boxes and discovered that most of the ones on top were empty, which is nice because now I can put other things in them. The rest of the boxes contained either books, comic books, video games, or some of my old toys that I refuse to throw away because I insist that they may be valuable, when in fact, I just want to keep them.

NOTE: While many of my old toys may very well be junk, I do have some cool things like the Enterprise bridge set for the Star Trek Meigo (sp?) doll set from the ‘70s, a really old GI Joe (with uniforms and footlocker box), and the pride of my youth, my Great Mazinga, still in the original box with all of his swords, darts, and spaceship head intact. I also have a blue plastic bat which I once used to ambush my older brothers. In all fairness, they tried to ambush me first.

I spent the better part of a day going through my spare room, checking boxes, emptying ones I could use and restacking the remainder for better structural support. Actually, that’s pretty much a lie. I did spend a day going through my spare room, but that’s because I got distracted reading and/or playing with the various things I found in there.

This, unfortunately, has been a continuous theme in my current moving attempt. I keep finding neat stuff that I haven’t seen in years. This necessitates that I then immediately amuse myself with what I’ve just found, occasionally to the tune of an hour or so per item. At this rate, I calculate that it will take me at least three months to go through my spare room, which is problematic as I have to move in two weeks.

I have also found a few things that I didn’t know I had. I also don’t know why I have them. For example, I found a mannequin arm and what I think is a baboon skull. I don’t recall acquiring either of those at any point in my life. Also, the baboon skull screams when I pick it up.

I’m pretty sure I would recall that particular purchase.

Cheers,
-Jason

The Scourge of Man: Part 1

So, not to be a downer or anything, but something has happened in my life that has affected me on a personal, political, and above all, palatable (I really wanted three ‘p’ words) scale. I am not unique. This has happened to millions of people and will certainly happen to me again at some point. I speak, of course, of the scourge of moving.

Yes, I will be moving in a couple weeks time and I’ve begun the arduous process of looking at my apartment and saying ‘damn, I gotta lotta stuff’ and thinking about putting it into boxes. No, I haven’t actually packed anything yet, this is still the preliminary stage where I just stare at the piles of crap in my apartment and wonder how many moving vans I’ll need to get it all where it needs to go.

And frankly, my apartment isn’t pretty. In fact, it looks like a warzone. There’re piles of books, broken exercise equipment, bloodstains on the walls, an operating table (now covered in comics) from when I tried to reanimate dead bugs, a sort of shapeless mound in the corner that might be clothes, but may in fact be a ninja just disguised as a pile of clothes (I’ll stab it to make sure), and the thing in the fireplace that screams when I get too near. And that’s just in the living room.

I won’t bother describing the rest of the apartment, as I do try to keep this a PG-13 blog. Let’s just say that the Marine from Doom, an individual who fought his way into Hell so he could shoot a gigantic demon in the kneecaps with a rocket launcher, would probably faint three steps into my bathroom.

And honestly, right now it’s fairly clean (for me).

Now, the actual packing and moving isn’t bad. It’s the other, seven hundred things you have to do that irritate me.

You have to:
Find another apartment
Inform your current apartment you’re leaving
Find a safe place to dump the bodies
Turn off your utilities
Have a combination farewell/bludgeoning party for the ninjas
Turn on your utilities
Get cable
Have your mail forwarded
Figure out why you have a pie plate filled with human teeth on top of your bookshelf

The hardest part is getting your friends to help. Strangely enough, all of mine leapt at the chance to come over and carry stuff. This may because I asked them individually at 4:30 am when they were asleep. I should note that I was wearing a hockey mask and carrying a weed whacker and a plastic dinosaur. Needless to say, they were very enthusiastic.

My next big task will be getting boxes and opening the door to the spare room, a realm no man has seen since 1937. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Cheers,
-Jason

Please Help

It started out innocently enough. I was at a friend’s birthday party, blithely drinking sodas and debating the merits of the new Thundercats cartoon (meh), when I noticed something. It was as if a light were suddenly switched on. It had been there all along, glaringly obvious, yet subtle and unobtrusive. I speak of a terrible condition, one that has been striking down my male brethren for years, but sadly, has been pushed aside in favor of more marketable, sexier conditions.

I speak of course, of Male Pattern Calf Baldness.

Oh, it starts innocently enough. You might realize one day that you’ve lost some hair around your ankle or mid-way up your calf. You don’t worry about it. “It’s just the socks,” you say. Maybe one or two of your friends has noticed the same thing. You’ll probably just laugh it off. After all, your dad had it and it never bothered him.

But then you realize that the bald patch is growing. It’s slowly taking over your entire calf, like some creeping, ‘taking over’ thing. And by that point, it’s too late. You’ve succumbed to MPCB and there’s no going back. You’re calves are now as smooth and shiny as a fender on a ’55 Buick.

NOTE: I’m assuming ’55 Buicks had big, shiny fenders. I realize that I could probably look it up on the internet or something, but that would take effort.

By my count, three out of seven men will someday have MPCB. I base this number on sound, scientific methodology, ie, I looked at everyone’s legs at the party. Some men were wearing pants and I couldn’t think of a clever way to check. Offering them a dollar to show me was obviously out of the question, as I didn’t have enough money.

At any rate, MPCB is a terrible, terrible scourge, but I’m sure we can conquer it. Normally, I’d suggest that the government devote massive resources so I can lead a team of scientists/super-models to figure out a cure, but we all know the government’s broke. Therefore, I propose that any available scientists/super-models simply show up at my place this Friday at about 8-ish. Bring lab equipment, bikinis, and snacks.

Anyway, I’m sure that with a few years of continuous study, MPCB can be defeated and men all over the world can proudly show their calves once again.

Oh, and just to be clear, female scientists/super-models (I do appreciate the enthusiasm, Brian).

Cheers,
-Jason