After an extended day of toting the papoose around a wedding I noticed that my neck and back were particularly stiff. I actually welcomed the discomfort because it was the first time I have done anything vaguely physical in the last decade that didn’t result in being in traction for 2 months. I felt like a conquering warrior, or at least 5/8ths of a an actual man (an all time high for me) and decided to reward myself with a massage.

I didn’t really have a masseuse on my rolodex so I just found the closest place that didn’t look too foofy. I don’t need sandalwood scented candles or new-age soundscapes of orcas belching in the background. For me, a massage is about relative silence, deep tissue kneading by sinewy forearms and that awkwardly-joking-but-quietly-hopeful-”happy-ending” suggestion. That’s how random chance brought me an encounter with the world’s most obnoxious masseuse:

“Hi, my name is Tinnitus. And you are?” (Ed. Note: Okay, I don’t actually remember her name, but I assure you that is a valid substitution)
“Hi, I’m Ian. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mmmmm, Ian. A good biblical name, eh?”

She had me over a barrel here. Despite the better efforts of the afterschool Catholic studies courses I endured K - 12, I couldn’t recall a single mention of an “Ian”, especially not one of particular importance. I’m sure Jesus loved all the Ian’s he met, but he was pretty pally with the leper crowd as well. However, people don’t usually bullshit biblical knowledge for casual conversation, so I decided to go along with. Unfortunately I did this in the socially awkward manner of someone responding with a canned reply, not unlike reciprocally wishing that the waitress enjoyed HER dinner as you leave the restaurant.

“Well, that’s how we do.”

How we “do”. Splendid. Not only a non sequitur, it gave the impression that I am studied in such matters. Still, it didn’t worry me. What are the odds that would come back to haunt me while I was isolated in captivity under the sturdy hands of a religious zealot? Pretty good it turns out.

Just as I feared, the small talk starts right up as soon as I nestle my head into the donut pillow. For the scratch I’m coughing up I’m more than entitled to tell her to clam it, but my sweet nature gets the best of me. Plus there’s no way I’m getting a handy if I blow her off. It’s not even really a conversation. She monologues about her first husband (deceased), her second husband (currently praying for death) and how it all relates to The Almighty, but provides awkward pauses so I can provide the obligatory “mmhmm” so she knows I’m still with her. Here are a couple of her greatest hits:

“…and Henry, my first husband, ooooh did he ever have the smelliest feet. So I prayed on it and, though I resisted, God kept telling me ‘pedicure…pedicure’. So I gave him one, y’know?”

“…but what I really want to be is a writer. I’ve even written a children’s book! It’s all about a little girl named Eve who always gets into trouble, but her Uncle Godly is always there to offer advice. I’ve already sent a copy to Dreamworks and Disney because I think it would make a great movie.”

At the end of the session, she asked for my personal contact information so we could keep in touch. Normally I would have obliged, but frankly the handjob was sub-par at best.

Normally I don’t put much stock in dreams unlocking the desires of our psyche, but the one I had last night was far too memorable to be meaningless. I figure since most of the psychology and sociology majors I knew in school are still out of work, you’ll have plenty of time to examine and decipher this for me.

I was Superman. Not in some Freudian construct, but the actual Luthor-bashin’, kryptonite-hatin demigod. And like any good installment of a Superman adventure, I was faced with a decision where the fate of many was hanging at the crux of it. On one hand, I was desperately using my super powers to extract people from a rickety old building that was in the direct path of an incoming twister. On the other, I was hanging out with my IRL boss in the lobby, waiting for the arrival of “that French chick we met at summer camp last year” who was “way European” and would “totally put out”.

> / <

Lex Luthor was also briefly there, but luckily he was the Luthor of Smallville origin, which meant he was too busy vacillating about whether he was evil or not to really do anything of consequence. But, man, did he look tortured.

Whatever could it mean?

If you’re like me, Global Warming doesn’t scare you at all. It’s not that I necessarily take a contrary position to Al Gore (that would hardly be polite - this is HIS internet after all) on the underlying science. I don’t actually care about the facts that much because I’ll believe whatever shocking, agenda-ridden documentary I’ve seen most recently. What kills me is how ineffectual the term “Global Warming” is.

It’s the “warming” bit that really ruins the whole thing. I can appreciate the idea of impacting things on a global scale, but if we’re gradually making the planet cozier. Someone really missed the mark when they didn’t coin it as Global Scorching from the get go. It might be a bit hyperbolic, but think about how much more effective an ad campaign like this would be:

“Every time you don’t carpool, a child bursts into flames. Try taking a bus, asshole.”

Unfortunately that would never fly. The temperature changes are too gradual to leverage scare tactics. To be effective, the whole campaign needs another angle as relatable as it is terrifying. And I have it.

Global SHARKING.

The world is already 3/4 water and we have all but surrendered that domain to these bloodthirsty denizens of the murky deep. We only rest comfortably knowing that we’re on land and they have gills so there’s nothing to worry about. Right? Hardly.

It’s simple enough. Rising earth temp > melting ice caps > rising ocean levels > expanded reach of oceans on to land > profit GLOBAL SHARKING

Hey you kids! Get off my lawn!

Sharks are savage. Sharks love human flesh almost as much as they love irony. With every inch that the ocean encroaches on our doors we come one step closer to rethinking our place on the foodchain. If the notion of GLOBAL sharking doesn’t scare the shit out of you, I’m sorry to report that you have already been killed by a shark and thus feel nothing. The rest of us are sweating.

“This ain’t no candygram, bitch.”

What’s that? You thought I was going to dive into my content without some form of plug? Adorable. You must be new here.

Cracked.com has done something I never expected and put up two of my articles back to back. Usually they force me to check the site for weeks on end, refreshing and desperately hoping. Needy contributors like myself probably account for about 50% of their traffic. Regardless, The Six Best Shenanigans Passed Off As Art went up yesterday and Your Body Hates You: 6 Gruesome Disorders Anyone Can Get just got published today. I’d appreciate your clicking and digging as you see fit.

Now back to business. I recently threw out the gauntlet to friends to photoshop with this theme in mind - “Signs Spelling Out Unspoken Rules”. Only one took the bait, but I think he captured the notion brilliantly. Here’s what we came up with:

There is nothing I like better than a hot, funny chick. It’s part of the reason I’m such a big fan of Robert’s latest atomfilms triumph (Read it, digg it, pimp it suckas). It’s the reason that I crushed on Elaine from Seinfeld, even during the early years when the front of her hairdo emulated the aerodynamics of a mack truck:

“So what is the deal with women that double as battering rams?”

Tina Fey runs pretty high on that list too. I don’t usually go for the mousy, self-deprecating chicks, but she has an edge. She works in close proximity with Alec Baldwin. The man is so sexy he doesn’t even have to comb his own hair - it retains its sheen and form from the hundreds of willing nymphets taking turns tongue-bathing his dome. It’s only when she strikes out on her own and speaks publicly about her own non-Baldwin related ideas that she starts to lose her luster:

I think male comedy is more boisterous. Usually it involves robots and sharks and bears. Female comedy is more likely to be about the minutiae of human behavior and relationships.

I take exception to that. I’ll gladly concede that my humor tends toward the profane and ridiculous, but that is not the only spectrum I occupy. I am skilled in the arts of parody, skewering topical events, and rabid lotus kung fu. I can be subtle as motherfucking hell! And I’ll prove it by effortlessly constructing a joke in Tina’s evidently preferred domain.

Q: Why do guys always wait 3 days before using the phone number you gave them?
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A: Fuck your punchline, here comes the robobearshark! HAHA!