Monday, December 11, 2017

Better Than A Subway Pole

I used to hate riding the subway. It wasn't the delays, or the trash, or the rats. All may have bothered me to some degree, but I grew accustomed to them.

It was the pole. The pole on the train. I did not want to hold on to it. I wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. It was grimy and disgusting and not at all appealing. I tried to stay as far away from it as possible. It's why I was never able to pursue my dream of becoming a professional subway pole dancer.

I didn't care how crowded the train was, I wasn't going to hold on to the pole. I relied on my incredible balance to keep me steady during my ride. I'd spread my feet. I'd spread my arms. I'd bend my knees ever so slightly. I assumed a surfing position, basically. I was surfing on a subway train.

And I was stumbling a lot, too. I must have bumped into hundreds of commuters. Maybe thousands. Accidentally, of course. I'd apologize every time. They understood, every now and then. It was unfortunate and regrettable. I wish it could have been avoidable.

Fortunately, all of that changed two years ago. I haven't had an issue with maintaining my equilibrium on the train in a long while. What happened? I got married.

I love holding my wife, but I especially love holding on to my wife when I'm riding the subway with her. She's the perfect traveling partner.

All of the concerns I have with the subway pole I do not have with my wife. I feel safe when I'm around her, I feel more sanitary when I'm around her. I have absolutely no reservations with holding on to her to keep steady. And she has no reservations about this arrangement, either. At least I don't think she does. I don't know. I've never asked.

I try to remind myself to compliment my wife as often as I can, to tell her things like how talented, smart and beautiful she is. But I don't tell her nearly enough how much I value the time we spend together on the subway. My darling wife, you are so much better than a subway pole.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Friday, September 29, 2017

Meet My New Companion, Trash Can. He's A Good Trash Can.

I'd like to introduce you to the latest addition to my home: the iTouchless 13 Gallon Stainless Steel Automatic Trash Can with Odor Control System, Big Lid Opening Sensor Touchless Kitchen Trash Bin. I call him Trash Can, for short.


Trash Can is the friendliest trash bin I've owned. And I've owned many. Dozens. They were all very shy, they preferred to keep to themselves. They sat very quietly in the corner of the room. They were wallflowers, minus the scent of a wallflower.


Trash Can is a different sort of trash can. It is incredibly sociable. It loves to engage me whenever I enter the kitchen. It lifts its lid and makes this noise, kind of like a purr. I can't accurately describe it with words, but it's the sweetest sound you'll ever hear from a 13-gallon, stainless steel trash bin.

I like to give it a little attention, show it a little love. I'll toss it a treat (a banana peel, a wadded napkin, a bread crumb off the countertop) and rub its belly. It likes that.

And the way it gets so excited when I return home from work ... oh, it just melts my heart. Trash Can can sense when I've walked through the door. The entrance is just a few feet away from the kitchen, and I can hear it purr and wag its lid. It has a big lid opening sensor, but it has an even bigger heart.

I didn't know it when I ordered it from Amazon, but Trash Can is so much more than a trash can. It's a loyal companion. Can it get a little messy at times? Yes. Can it get a little smelly at times? Definitely. Is it a little painful when it wants to cuddle on my lap while I'm watching TV on the couch? Of course. But it has so much love to give, and really, who could ask for more from a trash bin?

Who's a good 13 Gallon Stainless Steel Automatic Trash Can with Odor Control System, Big Lid Opening Sensor Touchless Kitchen Trash Bin? This is a good 13 Gallon Stainless Steel Automatic Trash Can with Odor Control System, Big Lid Opening Sensor Touchless Kitchen Trash Bin.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Friday, September 22, 2017

Tiny Bits of Nonsense: Spring/Summer 2017

I haven't posted a new "Tiny Bits of Nonsense" in nearly six months. Six months! After an extended hiatus, I've finally made the effort to again compile my favorite tweets/jokes. Here are some of the tiny bits of nonsense you may have missed:









Other bits of nonsense: February/March 2017 |  January 2017 | November/December 2016 | October 2016 | September 2016 | August 2016 | Olympics Edition | June/July 2016 | May 2016 | April 2016 | March 2016 | February 2016 | January 2016 | December 2015 | New Year's Edition | November 2015 | October 2015 | Halloween Edition | September 2015 | August 2015 | July 2015 | June 2015 | May 2015 | "Back to the Future" Edition | April 2015 | March 2015 | February 2015 | Valentine's Day Edition | January 2015 | December 2014 | Holiday Season Edition | November 2014 | Thanksgiving Edition | October 2014 | September 2014 | August 2014 | July 2014 | June 2014 | May 2014 | April 2014 | March 2014
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Wednesday, August 23, 2017

I'm Sorry, Canada

As much as I hate to admit it, I owe Canada an apology. I've struggled with this for the past 24 hours, because I don't want to apologize. Canada and I don't see eye to eye. It hasn't treated me well in recent visits.

This is the same country:

In short, I don't care much for Canada at the moment, even with its dreamboat of a prime minister. A prime minister who I may or may not have called a bozo in a voicemail message yesterday.

I made the call through the app for Global Citizen, the advocacy organization that stages the annual music festival of the same name in Central Park. It awards free tickets to the festival, via a lottery draw, to "global citizens" who earn points by signing petitions, tweeting messages and calling lawmakers to urge them to take action on social issues such as poverty and education. Sixteen points are required to enter the lottery.

As a global citizen who was still several points shy of being eligible for this year's lottery, I placed the call to ask Prime Minister Trudeau to pledge millions of dollars for global education efforts. And, since I'd have his attention, to pledge one Tim Hortons donut to me.

I was a little nervous, as I'd never called a prime minister before, but thankfully Global Citizen provided a script that I could read verbatim. It was very helpful. In the future, I will be sure to consult Global Citizen before leaving voicemails for prime ministers.

Here's where I made a critical mistake: I made the call while walking home from the subway, and so I didn't give it my undivided attention. To be honest, it didn't have any of my attention when I reached the end of a block on Columbus Ave., saw the pedestrian light on the other side of the crosswalk, and realized I had three seconds to cross the street. Puh-lenty of time for a New Yorker.

I was all set to run to the other side of the street when a bicyclist came barreling toward me in the bike lane. He had no intention of slowing down or swerving out of the way because, well, he was on a bike and knew there was nothing I could do about it. I jumped out of his path and, as he sped past me, yelled out to him, "Bozo!" Actually, it was more like, "BOZO!"

Unfortunately, I was still on the phone and was supposed to leave a message at the tone. I didn't hear a tone, but I'm pretty sure there was a tone, right before the bicyclist nearly flattened me. Meaning the voicemail may have recorded the whole incident, including my very loud and aggressive use of the word "BOZO," a word that wasn't part of the Global Citizen script.

So now I feel compelled to set the record straight.  Prime Minister Trudeau, let me be absolutely clear: You are not a bozo, nor would I ever call you a bozo. On the contrary, I think you are a dreamboat, as I mentioned earlier. Please accept my sincerest apologies, both as a global citizen and as someone who made a regrettable mistake. All I wanted was a moment of your time to ask you to pledge aid to global education efforts on behalf of your country.

I'm sorry, Prime Minister Trudeau. I'm sorry, Canada.

It's all that bozo's fault. He's a terrible global citizen.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Everything I Know About Asking Out A Girl I Learned From Orange Julius

This will be the first and only time I write about Orange Julius, in all likelihood. It just doesn't come to mind very often.

I believe I've seen an Orange Julius once in my adult life. It was during a visit to the Mall of America in 2012. I remember my jaw literally dropping as I said, loud enough for others to hear, "Wow, an Orange Julius!" I'm easily excitable.

I've yet to see a stand-alone Orange Julius operation here in New York City. It's been years since I've seen one in the tri-state area. There was a location at the mall near where I grew up on Long Island. That's actually why I'm writing this post. I had an unexpected flashback to that Orange Julius this weekend that I shared with my wife and I figured I'd share with you here.

It happened while my wife and I were at a carnival. I was looking around, admiring the deep-fried Oreos and the three-foot-tall poop emoji dolls, when I saw a boy, 15 or 16, hat backwards, braces shining brightly in the night sky, approach a brunette his age and, without hesitation, start a conversation with her. After a minute or two of introductory chit-chat, he asked her for a date.

It reminded me of the first time I ever saw a boy ask out a girl. The setting was the aforementioned Orange Julius at my local mall. I was 8 years old. I was standing on line, patiently waiting to purchase a frothy OJ with my handful of change, behind a female who must have been a sophomore or junior in high school.

Suddenly, a boy walked up to her and said, and I'm paraphrasing here because this was nearly 30 years ago, "Hi, I was leaving Sam Goody over there and I noticed you and I just had to tell you that you are really beautiful. Would you like to go out sometime?"

I was stunned. I'd never seen this before. A boy asking out a girl. No one had ever instructed me how it works. This was my first exposure to the process. All you have to do is walk up to a girl standing on line at an Orange Julius, give her a compliment and then request a date before she gets her drink and walks away forever? Just like that?

So that's how it's done, I thought to myself. OK.

The girl politely turned him down, but the memory stuck with me. I was too young to date at the time but I filed away the information for future use. When I was older and mature enough to ask out a girl, I would do exactly what I saw the boy, so confident and so bold, do.

Regrettably, the Orange Julius closed a few years later, and I never had the chance to ask out a girl there. I was single all throughout high school. All alone, because there wasn't enough demand for orange juice at the mall.

Obviously, this story has a happy ending because, as you know, I'm married now. I'm married to the perfect wife, and we have the perfect backstory. We met on line at a Jamba Juice.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Monday, June 19, 2017

Sprinkles Have Haunted Me For A Year

I was rifling through my wife's purse, as I so often do, last night. I was searching for a tissue, because my nose was runny. I never have a tissue handy when my nose is runny. I need a bag in which I can carry tissues. I need a purse.

I didn't find any tissues in my wife's purse. However, at the bottom of the purse, beyond the tube of lipstick, the sticks of gum, the loose change, I pulled out something very small, very bright, very plastic.

It was a sprinkle. Another sprinkle.

It came from the Museum of Ice Cream, which recently opened in Los Angeles after a successful run here in New York. Tickets sold out quickly after its launch last summer in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. My wife and I lucked out and secured two tickets for a Tuesday morning in July.

For those of you who may not be familiar with the Museum of Ice Cream, it's a museum dedicated to ... ice cream. When we entered the museum, we received a sample of ice cream. We were then escorted into a room, where there was a huge sculpture made of ice cream.

There was a lot of ice cream in the museum. Candy, too. It was absolutely delightful. This was Willy Wonka's chocolate factory come to life. I was Charlie Bucket. (I wasn't invited to move in and run the museum, though I did offer.)

The centerpiece of the museum was the sprinkle pool, filled with close to 100 million sprinkles. They weren't the type of sprinkles you'd put on your ice cream cone. They were actually antimicrobial plastics, which you'd never want to put on your ice cream cone.
A post shared by MUSEUM OF ICE CREAM (@museumoficecream) on
I removed my sneakers and jumped right in, because how often am I presented an opportunity to take a dip in a pool of antimicrobial plastics? I waded through the plastics and took selfies for about 10 minutes before heading to the next exhibit.

Later that morning, after I'd left the museum, I was walking the streets when I felt a small object inside my right sneaker. I figured it would be a pebble, but it turned out to be a small, yellow antimicrobial plastic, i.e. a sprinkle. It must have stuck to my sock while I was in the sprinkle pool. I tossed it aside, put my sneaker back on and continued on my way.

The next day I was fishing through my jeans pocket for my keys when I grabbed hold of another sprinkle, a red one. Ha ha. These sprinkles are attached to me, I chuckled to myself.

But they really were attached to me. I found more and more sprinkles in the ensuing months. In my wallet. In my backpack. In my other sneaker. In my kitchen. I don't know how they ended up in any of these places. They just somehow proliferated, like colorful Gremlins. I was experiencing an outbreak of sprinkles.

Just make yourself right at home, sprinkle.

Toward the end of 2016 and into early 2017, I saw fewer and fewer sprinkles. And then, I saw none. I was relieved that they were finally out of my life.

And then I went through my wife's purse last night.

If you live in the Los Angeles area, see you if can score a ticket to the Museum of Ice Cream. It's an incredible amount of fun.

Just know this: The visit will stay with you for a long, long time.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Friday, May 12, 2017

I Got A Manicure And Now My Hands Are Beautiful

My hands have never been more beautiful than they are at this very moment. Here, let me show you.

Have you ever seen anything so furry and adorable?

For the record, I don't often take pictures of my hands. This might have been the third or fourth time in my 36-plus years. Only on special occasions.

Here's a Shane tidbit for you: I'd never had a manicure before today. Not once. I'd always trimmed my fingernails myself. I'm kind of good at it, too. I'm steady, I'm precise. My hands are in capable hands when I have a nail clipper in my hands.

But there's a nail salon in my neighborhood that was advertising a special on men's manicures this afternoon. I saw the sign outside the entrance, and my nails were in need of a cut, and, well, something came over me. I thought, Do I really want to live life never knowing what it's like to get a manicure?

I went into it with no expectations. I didn't know what the nail salon would do to my hands, or what they would look like afterward. I actually Googled the phrase "What happens during a manicure" to find out what would happen during my manicure. (I tend to use Google a lot.)

I felt much more relaxed once I sat in the chair and the manicurist welcomed me with a warm smile. "Put your hand in mine," she said. A woman eager to hold my hand during our first meeting? That had never, ever happened to me before. We were off to a promising start.

I watched as she expertly clipped and filed my fingernails for 10 minutes or so. I assumed the manicure would end there. I would have been content if it had ended there; my nails were shorter and smoother. I was satisfied. What else could I want?

The answer: More! So much more. She asked if I'd like for her to apply gel to my nails, and a polish, too. And would I be interested in a warm cream massage?

I reacted in the same way Michael Scott reacted when he realized he could have sweet glaze, cinnamon sugar, chocolate, white chocolate, fudge, M&Ms, caramel dip, mint chip, chocolate chip, marshmallows, nuts, toffee nuts, coconut, peanut butter drizzle, Oreos, sprinkles, cotton candy bits, AND powdered sugar on his pretzel on Pretzel Day.

"Is there any way you can do all ... all of them?" I asked.

"The works, you got it!" the manicurist replied. (Or something to that effect.)

Sadly, I cannot supplement this reference to a classic "Office" scene with a video or GIF, because I cannot find one. So instead, please enjoy these GIFs of two more of my favorite pretzel-related sitcom moments.


via GIPHY

via GIPHY

Anyway, the end result was what you see in the photo at the top of this post. What happens during a manicure? Something very beautiful.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Monday, May 1, 2017

Why You Shouldn't Use Your Cellphone In The Waiting Room Of A Hospital

I'm not proud to admit this, but I used my cellphone in the hospital waiting room this week.

A minor infraction? Perhaps. A sign by the reception desk made it very clear that cellphone use was not permitted in the facility. It had a picture of a phone with a red line through it. It left very little room for interpretation.

Yet there were several patients fiddling with their phones in their seats as they waited for their names to be called. I even saw one man tapping away on a laptop, loudly and with intensity. It was not at all discreet. 

As tempting as it was to follow their lead, I was determined to resist the urge to pull out my iPhone. A rule is a rule, and I wanted to respect the wishes of the hospital staff.

After I took my seat, I sat quietly, with my hands folded in my lap. I was such a well-behaved patient.

Five minutes later, my phone was in my hand. Again, I'm not proud of it, but let me assure you (and the hospital) I had a very good reason for breaking the rule and using my phone. It wasn't to check email, text friends or scroll through Facebook posts.

It was to find out how to wear a hospital gown.

This was right after a nurse had called my name, handed me a gown and asked me to put it on. Simple enough, right? I wish. I didn't know what to do. I'd never worn a hospital gown before.

I could wear it with the opening in the front, I thought to myself. It's how I'd worn my dress shirts, my jackets, my bathrobes...basically, every piece of clothing I'd ever worn in my life.

However, I was reasonably sure that that was not the proper way to wear a hospital gown, that it should actually be worn with the opening in the back. That's how I remembered it from a photo in an article I once read, or a scene in a movie I once rented, or something like that. Maybe this was covered in an episode of "ER"? Why didn't I watch that show more often? It was on for 15 seasons. I had no excuse. 

So that's why I used my phone, to Google instructions on how to wear a hospital gown. I needed answers, and fast.

The first results page told me everything I needed to know about the popularity of the hospital gown. One of the top links: a news article on the "hated hospital gown." Further down the page: another story on the "dreaded hospital gown."

Oh, good. I wasn't the only one who hated and dreaded it.

I clicked on a message board for a pregnancy website that answered my question. As I suspected, a hospital gown is worn with the opening in the back (according to those who responded to a post on the subject, anyway). So that's how I put it on. I was grateful for the site's input, as well as for its great tips on how to decorate my next baby shower.

Feeling much better about the whole situation, I left the waiting room, changed into the gown and began to walk down the hallway to meet with the doctor. I had on my gown, the opening was in the back, I hadn't messed things up, and I was pulling off the look, to boot.

And then I saw another patient in the hallway wearing his hospital gown with the opening in the front.

Hmm. Maybe I did mess things up? I started to second-guess myself. What do I do, I wondered. Do I ignore what I just saw? Do I reverse the gown? Who do I trust? The strangers on an online message board, or a stranger in the hallway?

I chose to trust the stranger in the hallway, and adjusted my gown in private so that the opening was in the front.

I have no idea if I made the right decision. I didn't get any feedback one way or the other from the nurse or doctor. I guess it wasn't such a big deal. It was just a hospital gown. Who cares how you wear it? Seems insignificant. As long as you're comfortable, that's what ought to matter. In retrospect, I shouldn't have let a handful of people on the internet influence how I wore my hospital gown.

Lesson learned. This is why you shouldn't use your cellphone in the waiting room of a hospital.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Saturday, April 1, 2017

Tiny Bits of Nonsense: February/March 2017

Here is the February/March 2017 edition of "Tiny Bits of Nonsense," featuring 10 of my tweets for those months:
Other bits of nonsense:  January 2017 | November/December 2016 | October 2016 | September 2016 | August 2016 | Olympics Edition | June/July 2016 | May 2016 | April 2016 | March 2016 | February 2016 | January 2016 | December 2015 | New Year's Edition | November 2015 | October 2015 | Halloween Edition | September 2015 | August 2015 | July 2015 | June 2015 | May 2015 | "Back to the Future" Edition | April 2015 | March 2015 | February 2015 | Valentine's Day Edition | January 2015 | December 2014 | Holiday Season Edition | November 2014 | Thanksgiving Edition | October 2014 | September 2014 | August 2014 | July 2014 | June 2014 | May 2014 | April 2014 | March 2014
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Thursday, March 2, 2017

The Most Awkward Award Show Moment I've Seen

Much like the other viewers of the Oscars telecast on Sunday night, I was in complete shock when the wrong winner was announced for best picture and the producers of La La Land accepted an award that, as it turned out, didn't belong to them. It was incredibly uncomfortable to watch. I cringed. I'm cringing as I replay the scene in my head while writing this post, four days later.

It was not, however, the most awkward award show moment I've seen. There was a more embarrassing mix-up back in 1993, during a ceremony at a middle school in New York. I remember it like it was yesterday, because I was the one who made the mistake.

It was a Thursday night in May, and my schoolmates and I assembled in the auditorium to honor the top academic performances. I couldn't name you one nominee from that year. I couldn't even tell you if I was a nominee. There were no ballots, to the best of my knowledge. 

We were all told to show up, so we did. It was as simple as that. If Woody Allen had been my classmate, he would have been forced to participate or else face suspension.

Here are some other ways in which this award ceremony in no way resembled the Oscars:

* The attendees were dressed in their finest flannel tees.
* Every single attendee brought at least one parent as his or her date.
* It opened with a monologue by a principal, not a comedian.
* Winners were presented not with statues, but rather with certificates. Or maybe with #2 pencils. Or vouchers for one complimentary serving of tater tots in the cafeteria. Something along those lines. 
* There were no after-parties. Though, to be fair, my family did take me to a nearby Carvel for a Flying Saucer.

Here's one way in which this award ceremony did resemble the Oscars:

* It went on for way too long.

By 9:30, I was nodding off. I couldn't help it. I was tired. I was bored. I'd lost interest. It just didn't seem very likely that I'd win anything. 

And then...."Shane!" Followed by a round of applause. Did I hear right? Had my name been announced? It sure sounded like it, but I was half-asleep. I sought confirmation.

"Did they just call my name?" I asked my friends sitting next to me. "Yes!" they answered with enthusiasm. A little too much enthusiasm. A suspicious amount of enthusiasm. My gut told me that they weren't telling the truth, that they were hoping I'd make a fool of myself by walking onto the stage.

Unfortunately, my brain told me, "You idiot, there's a chance you may have won something for once in your life! Get up there and find out!"

I listened to my brain, like the idiot that I am. I stood up, marched down the aisle, got on that stage, approached the presenter and asked him, "Did you call my name?"

"No."

"Oh."

I turned around, got off that stage, marched up the aisle, and sat down in my seat. My friends laughed. Other audience members laughed. A lot more laughter than there was for the monologue, that's for sure.

I can sympathize with what the La La Land producers went through last Sunday. But at least they heard their name called before they took the stage. I never had my name called, and I still took the stage.

 That was the most awkward award show moment I've seen.

You know what was really weird about it? The category I thought I'd won? The actual winner was Moonlight.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Saturday, February 25, 2017

A Strange New World Of Apples

"Can you stop by the farmers' market and pick up some apples, please?" my wife asked me this morning.

"Of course. Not a problem," I replied. Not a problem at all. I've bought hundreds and hundreds of apples over the years. I know how to pick a good apple. This was a very simple request.

Or so I thought. Turns out, it was not simple. It was quite challenging, in fact.

The problem: I typically don't buy my apples at the farmers' market. I buy them at the supermarket. And I never select loose apples from a bin. Rather, I select pre-packaged apples. I still inspect them for brown spots and whatnot, but otherwise I feel comfortable with bagged fruit. It's more convenient, and I trust that what the supermarket is selling me is fresh.

The supermarkets I frequent only carry a small variety of apples: Gala, Honeycrisp, McIntosh...the kinds of apples we're all familiar with and consume regularly.

Well, a whole other world of apples exists at the farmers' market. A world I didn't know existed. This was a personal discovery akin to astronomers recently uncovering seven planets orbiting the TRAPPIST-1 star. For me, it was the same stunned reaction: Wait, more apples are out there?

Much like the planets, little is known about these new apples. Or, to be more accurate, I knew little about these new apples. Yes, there were signs explaining each variety, but I couldn't get past the names.

Jonagold? Idared? Idaknow what those are.

Confused.

I see there's a Winesap apple...AND a Stayman's Winesap apple?


More confused.

Newtown Pippin? Really? Is it an apple or a Broadway musical?

Officially confused.

(Apologies for the off-center photos. As I've written before, photographing food sold by local vendors makes me nervous.)

Having never heard of, let alone sampled, most of these apples before, I had two options: 1) Frantically Google each variety of apple and see what others had to say about it, or 2) stick with the varieties I know, which is what I ended up doing.

Even that was a struggle. There were no pre-packaged apples at this farmers' market. It was a brave new world, indeed. Life is different over there. I inspected some Galas and bagged them myself, then forked over the cash and left without learning the difference between a Winesap and a Stayman's Winesap.

I took the experience as a strong signal that I should continue to buy pre-packaged apples — less-mysterious apples — at the supermarket. There's no chance of finding a bag of Newtown Pippins at the supermarket. That's the kind of world I want to live in.

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Tiny Bits of Nonsense: January 2017

Here is the January 2017 edition of "Tiny Bits of Nonsense," featuring 10 of my tweets for the month:
Other bits of nonsense:  November/December 2016 | October 2016 | September 2016 | August 2016 | Olympics Edition | June/July 2016 | May 2016 | April 2016 | March 2016 | February 2016 | January 2016 | December 2015 | New Year's Edition | November 2015 | October 2015 | Halloween Edition | September 2015 | August 2015 | July 2015 | June 2015 | May 2015 | "Back to the Future" Edition | April 2015 | March 2015 | February 2015 | Valentine's Day Edition | January 2015 | December 2014 | Holiday Season Edition | November 2014 | Thanksgiving Edition | October 2014 | September 2014 | August 2014 | July 2014 | June 2014 | May 2014 | April 2014 | March 2014
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Friday, January 6, 2017

The 2017 Golden Globes Opening Monologue You Won't See

With the Golden Globe Awards just a couple of days away, I've brushed off my joke-writing skills and my knowledge of pop culture to write an opening monologue for the ceremony.

A pretend opening monologue, of course. I'm certain the host for the evening, Jimmy Fallon, has much better material to work with than what you'll read below.

Regardless, creating an award-show monologue -- just me and my keyboard, both lying on the couch -- and sharing it with all of you has become one of my favorite things about this blog. I'm excited to be able to do it for the fourth consecutive year. (You can read my monologues for 2014, 2015 and 2016 here, here and here.)

So, without further adieu, I proudly present to you, live from the Beverly Hilton hotel in Beverly Hills, me:

"Hello, and welcome to the 74th Annual Golden Globe Awards. Tonight we honor the best in movies and television, as voted on by the Russian government.

"It's no secret that 2016 was a challenging year for all of us. We were divided as a nation. So much tension in this country. We were presented with two polarizing figures and forced to choose. Who could we most trust to lead us going forward? Were you Team Captain America or Team Iron Man? Difficult decision.

"Captain America: Civil War was a great superhero movie. Without question. But I still can't shake the feeling that it was just an elaborate setup for the sequel, 'Captain America: Reconstruction.'

"Lot of conflict in the entertainment world lately. Captain America v. Iron Man. Batman v. Superman. The People v. O.J. Simpson. The People v. The New Ben-Hur. Not a good idea to remake a classic movie that won 11 Oscars, as it turns out.

"But this was the year for superhero comebacks. Ben Affleck, who was Daredevil in a critically panned movie nearly 15 years ago, is now Batman. Ryan Reynolds, former Green Lantern, a nominee tonight for Deadpool. So there's hope yet for all 10 members of the Suicide Squad.

"Will Smith was in Suicide Squad. He played Deadshot, the assassin with a deadly and accurate aim.


"You may not have realized this, but this was his inspiration for the character.


"Meryl Streep is here. She's a nominee for Florence Foster Jenkins. This is her 30th Golden Globe nomination. This is a real comeback story. Prior to this year she hadn't been nominated for a Golden Globe since 2015. She took off 2016 to find herself. And now here she is. Welcome back, Meryl.

"Earlier today I was looking at a list of the highest-grossing movies of the year. Did you know that three of the top five films featured a cast of CGI-animated animals? It really goes to show how dispensable all of you are. And yet you're the ones getting awards, not the animals! It's not right.

"I don't want to shortchange the TV shows represented here tonight. Stranger Things is up for some awards. Very scary show. Didn't turn out the way I thought it would. Every time a wall broke I'd get nervous that the Kool-Aid Man would kidnap one of the kids. Don't let his wide smile fool you. Oh yeah!

"Let's start the show. We have such an exciting night ahead. A select few of you will have the honor of taking home a Golden Globe, having your IMDb page updated, and seeing your name placed in bold on winners' lists published on hundreds of websites around the world. The rest of you will leave here with full knowledge that the next three hours will have been a complete and utter waste of your time. I'm ready."

Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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Tuesday, January 3, 2017

The Story Of The Worst Toilet Paper I've Ever Used

Never buy generic-brand toilet paper. That is the one lesson I'm carrying with me into the new year.

In mid-November, I was shopping at a nearby drugstore that was advertising a sale on toilet paper. It was the store's brand, and it was significantly cheaper than the mainstream names we're all familiar with: Charmin, Angel Soft, Quilted Northern, Cottonelle, Scott. You've used those brands. I've used those brands. We're all comfortable with those brands. 

This time, I chose differently. I chose the store brand. It was generic in so many ways. The name on the packaging wasn't in a large, friendly font. The plastic wrapping wasn't especially colorful. It didn't have illustrations of an infant or a brown bear cuddling with toilet paper.

If you ever come face to face with a bear, toss it a roll of Charmin and it will leave you alone.

But it was cost-effective, which, in that moment, was good enough for me. I picked up a package of 12 rolls and carried it to my apartment. (Carrying toilet paper in New York City is nearly as challenging as carrying boxes of cereal.) I ripped open the wrapping, removed one of the rolls, inserted it into the dispenser in my bathroom, and stored the remaining rolls in my closet.

As it happened, my first opportunity to test out my new toilet paper came rather quickly. Let me tell you, it was the most harrowing toilet paper experience of my life. I say that without the slightest hint of exaggeration. I've used public bathrooms at bus stations. I've used public bathrooms at rest stops. I've used a portable toilet in the middle of a field at an outdoor music festival. This toilet paper was the worst.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't absorbent. It wasn't durable. It was torture. There's no way a bear would cuddle with this brand of toilet paper. 

It was a struggle, but somehow, someway I was able to make it off the toilet. To be stranded in a bathroom, with a worthless roll of toilet paper and little else, really tested my resolve. I felt a little like Bear Grylls. Who, I am certain, would also never cuddle with this brand of toilet paper.


A bear and a Bear. No sign of drugstore-brand toilet paper. 

The toilet paper could not stay in my home. I had to get rid of it, all of it: the roll on the dispenser and the 11 rolls in the closet. One thousand sheets per unused roll. That's an awful lot of awful toilet paper.

What exactly was I supposed to do with the rolls, though? Return them? I couldn't; the packaging was torn. Throw them out? That wasn't my preference. I didn't want to waste them. I first wanted to see if there was anyone who could make use of the toilet paper, even toilet paper as shoddy as this one was.

I had an idea. I brought the package to the office of a non-profit located around the corner from me. I knew it accepted monetary donations, but I wasn't sure if it accepted goods, like, say, thousands and thousands of sheets of low-grade TP. It was worth checking out.

Turns out, the organization does accept thousands and thousands of sheets of low-grade TP. I handed over all of the rolls to a volunteer, who seemed grateful for the donation. I have to say, it was very rewarding to help out a non-profit by giving it toilet paper, just as I'm sure it was very rewarding for the non-profit to help me out by taking my toilet paper.

The donation, by the way, took place on my birthday. I turned 36 and I celebrated the occasion by delivering 11 rolls of generic-brand toilet paper. It was the most memorable birthday I've had in a while. 

It won't happen again this year, though. For my 37th birthday, I'm sticking with bear-approved toilet paper.

 Like what you read? Follow me on Twitter at @myemptythoughts for more of my comedy.
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