You Literally Don't Want To Push My Buttons.

Elevators don’t operate faster when the button is pressed more than once. I may go out and buy a building just so that I can install electric shock sensors so that if a button is hit more than once, the impatience person will receive a jolt.

[Incidentally, buying this building will also fulfill another dream I have of becoming a property owner. Not for the sake of making a sound financial investment, but rather so that I can walk around with the deed to the building and bet people ridiculous things with it. For instance I bet you the deed to my building that my grandfather invented the cob salad. Though he hasn’t, who in their right mind would question a man that would be willing to wager such a large kitty.]

As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by myself, I’d like to punish those who push elevator buttons more than once. There are two different instances where this may happen, however it is usually the same people doing both.

Instance number one, I roll up to my office lobby and press the elevator up button. The button is then illuminated, indicating that the elevator has been notified that my dumbass is waiting to be brought up to my sorry cube. At which point I step back and wait for the doors to the sixth circle of hell to open. Then walks in Johnny Come Lately. This fool sees that the button is clearly lit and proceeds to push it anyway, right in front of me no less. I take personal offense to this, as if Johnny over here doesn’t think I’m a good elevator door pusher. Or conversely, that I like to just stand in front of elevators with out pushing the button, simply to wait and see how long it might take for the elevator to realize I’m standing there waiting. Above all, it’s just redundant, he gained nothing from the additional push other than the nastiest stare I can muster at 8:30am.

Instance number two, I’m in the elevator and watch as someone presses their desired floor over and over again until they arrive at said floor. Clearly I can’t haul off and hit them, right? But I would like to bring to their attention how ridiculous and stupid they come across. I don’t expect someone to comprehend the inner workings of a nuclear power plant, but fucking think for a second and realize that an elevator cannot sense your urgency. You’re already late for a meeting, no sense in making yourself look like an incompetent fuck at the same time.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

The Reality Of Movies Reminds Me Why My Reality Sucks.

Movies are supposed to portray real life, right? Well if that’s the case, then I have a bone to pick with the self-absorbed, egocentric, assclowns in Hollywood. Keep in mind; I let the big things slide. Such as an alien invasion that is thwarted not by nuclear missiles and all the armed forces in the entire world, but rather the common cold and in one case the alien’s allergic reaction to water. That’s right, the fucking sniffles and a substance that makes up three-quarters of this planet. Or perhaps when the repercussions for a quirky detective duo’s highway antics involving a twenty-car pile-up result in a mere heated discussion with the “Captain.” Those cheese-dicks always walk into this quintessentially grimy station and get greeted by some dude behind a desk saying, “The ‘Cap’ wants to see you. He looks really pissed this time.”

With that said, there are some things that I just can’t turn a blind eye to. For instance, when was the last time you got a dope parking spot right in front of the building that you were going to? (Of course exemptions go to those who are handicap, they always get the best spots in the joint.) Real reality would be to show some schlep (me) parking five blocks away and having to call the person they were going to see three times during the walk because he (me again) forgot what number the building was and what number he should buzz.

Or how about the spontaneous break-into synchronized dance routine? Not that I frequently watch movies with such ridiculous scenarios, but I’ve seen it enough to beg the question, who the fuck does that? Whether at a dance, or in the middle of the street, none portray life as it is.

Just to mention a few more, carving the Thanksgiving turkey at the table, good cop bad cop, or a young boy catching a foul ball at a Major League baseball game without being groped like an alter boy.

I guess when it comes down to it reality is boring. Unless of course we’re talking about “Reality TV,” where a staff of a hundred drones pour over tens of thousands of casting tapes searching for the most volatile mix of human beings. If that were reality, I’d probably find myself in a cellblock somewhere upstate.

Insect Slaughter Can Be Fun With Friends!

I spotted my first firefly of the summer, which reminds me, I need to smoosh my first firefly of the summer.

My Solution To Social Security Is A Series Of Conveyor Belts And One Gigantic Tar Pit (don't worry they won't feel a thing).

Why is it that old people are so anal about the grocery store conveyor belt? What is the worst that can happen? The worst-case scenario is the cashier will have to remove their can of cat food (which I fear they're eating) from my bill and I will go about my day. But instead they grab for the plastic divider white knuckled and slam it down between their fancy feast and my bag of bananas. I can only surmise that the reason for this behavior stems from a horrible checkout line past. Perhaps when they were my age, there were no conveyor belts and all cashiers had no tolerance for grocery misunderstandings and the penalty for such an infraction was the removal of a digit.

The meticulous fervor of the checkout line antics carries over into the choosing of the perfect cantaloupe. I have witnessed squeezing that could be considered sensual, smacking that could be considered abusive and general indecisiveness that could frustrate even the most patient of people. With all that said, if I thought that would be the last cantaloupe I would ever buy, I would put some time into the selection as well.

What's a rant about geriatrics in the super market without mentioning their habits at the deli counter? Without these people the production of liverwurst would come to a grinding halt. Of course, I've had liverwurst once, but that was because my Grandma gave it to me, and I thought it was bologna (yes I used to eat bologna). But with my one experience, I hadn't realized that there were so many varying thicknesses one could desire. As I wait on line I watch as the woman behind the counter shakes a thin piece, of what appears to be fuzzy meat, over her head. "Just a little thinner," the geriatric replies, as he reaches over the counter to sample what would have been a discarded piece of processed meat.

I know these same people are someone's grandparents and are sweet and thoughtful. But when's the last time you've had to wait for your grandma to count out 97 cents in pennies or remain patient as she argues about a can of discounted yams?

Mensa Called, They'd Like You To Join Their Janitorial Staff.

The sole purpose of an I.Q. test is to measure intelligence. It does not however help to accurately gauge stupidity. Luckily, there are some simple indicators to help identify our brainless constituents. You don't have to be overly observant, a quick spin around can give you a glimpse at a number of examples. For instance, watching somebody struggle as they push a door that is clearly marked "Pull". Or maybe observing a guy spitting out his gum on the sidewalk, only to step in it thirty seconds later. Or perhaps witnessing a guy walking around with a toilet paper tail. Without question, these are some examples of quintessential stupidity. Sad as it may be, I accomplished all of these marvelously stupid feats before I even sat down at my desk this morning. I'd like to think that you could be intelligent and stupid at the same time, but I'm quickly thinking that that is impossible. I sometimes wonder how I find my way back home after every workday; I'm certainly not smart enough to leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

What I Learned In High School.

1. There is no such thing as a permanent record.
2. There IS SUCH thing as a criminal record.
3. The Mitochondria is the powerhouse cell.
4. The "i" before "e" except after "c" rule is bullshit.
5. Ham and cheese sandwiches don't age well in a metal locker.
6. Before you accuse other people of stepping in dog shit, check your own shoes.
7. Be weary of people who offer to do your homework. They may not write so good.
8. Drinking in the woods is better than not drinking at the prom.
9. Teachers have lives outside of school. Some even news worthy, like being featured in the police blotter.
10. The letter "y" is the black sheep of the vowel family.
11. Graduates of the D.A.R.E. program are 100% more likely to try drugs.
12. The "cool kids" either end up in jail, a maternity ward, or a GED program.
13. Shortcuts and cheating trumps hard work.
14. A teenager's fashion sense leaves much to be desired. Z Cavaricci's, need I say more?
15. Mailmen can easily be bribed to withhold any communications from school.

Will You Pick My Nose When I'm In My Straight Jacket?

Recently, while on my way to lunch, I caught myself chanting my order over and over in my head. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. Turkey, Munster, Mustard, Whole Wheat. It freaked me out. I quickly pictured how well I'd fit-in in a Mental Ward circa 1950. As far as I can tell (as if this isn't my brain we're talking about), the rationale for doing this is so that I can choose the most efficient and audibly comprehensible sandwich phrasing. That way I ensure a successful order while avoiding confusion and ridicule from others on line.

Jesus, I really need to loosen up.

I Would Have Shit My Pants If I Weren't Already On The Toilet.

Quirky trick birthday candles, though obnoxious, never present any real danger. Trick toilets however, come with serious consequences. Yesterday I had the displeasure of dropping trough on a bowl that when flushed, first rose before retreating. The sheer horror that ran through my mind is difficult to put into words. It's like when you tip back in your chair and get that quick queasy feeling in your gut a split second before you think you're going over. Unfortunately for me, that feeling was not fleeting; it remained until the ordeal worked itself out.

Instantly, my brain was catapulted into damage control mode. Turn off the water source to the toilet, search for a plunger, think of someone else to blame, turn on the sink so people outside can't hear me struggling. With all the commotion, I forgot two key steps in the "Oh shit the toilet is about to over-flow process." First and foremost, wipe your ass, dumbass. Second, before flipping out and loosing your cool, confirm that the toilet is in fact over-flowing. In this instance, it wasn't. When all was said and done, there was a brief sensation of exhilaration, followed by unwarranted chaos, and an awkward post wipe. For my next mid-day adrenalin rush I hope to keep my pants securely fastened to my waist.

I Feel Like A Lab Monkey When I Use A Vending Machine. Koko Like Kit Kats.

When I punch in the coordinates to a highly anticipated treat, I hold my breath for fear that the coils will not spin my snack free. I have very little to base this anxiety on since as far back as I can remember, I think I've had maybe two or three things get stuck in the mechanical snack czar's grips. Usually if it happens I just shake the shit like a newborn until my goodies are released. I refuse to be one of those suckers who's proactive solution is to continue to feed the machine with money in hopes that eventually the back up of candy will relinquish at least one of their purchased products. I may have flunked most of my business classes in college, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what a sunk cost is.

Even though I stand breathless until my snack is dropped, the sense of accomplishment achieved when my violent shaking yields a well deserved snack is a great feeling. Just the other day I was walking by the kitchen in my office and came across a woman who had a bag of Smart Choice popcorn stuck in the machine. She was passively tapping on the plexiglass in hopes that the bag would succumb to her lackluster attempt. I knew full well that it wouldn't, so I offered my services. First order of business was to patronize her for putting money in not once, not twice, but three times for a bag of cheddar flavored styrofoam puffs. Second, grab hold of the machine and shake the holy hell out of it. Just as people began sticking their heads out from their offices, two of the bags she purchased fell. My reward? One of her bags of popcorn and a look of absolute astonishment at my willingness to violently shake something for a perfect stranger. My social graces may vary slightly from that of a chimpanzee, however our problem solving methods are one in the same.

A Marginal Joke Lives To See Another Marginal Day.

There was a recent attempt by the FBI and local law enforcement in Milford Township, Michigan to uncover the remains of former Labor Union President Jimmy Hoffa. The excavation of a local farm was brought on by the feeble last words of a known mob associate on his deathbed. If that doesn't scream credible, I don’t know what does.

I for one was relieved when officials announced that the dig had concluded with no viable evidence or possible leads. If it were up to me this secret would die with the remaining retired mobsters. That way my marginal one-liners like, "you have a better chance of finding Jimmy Hoffa's body in that desk, then a pen that works," can continue to live on. Let's face it, one man is already dead, there's no sense in killing a playful joke as well.

Though I dodged a bullet this time, I've come to realize that I can't ignore the possibility that one day Jimmy may be found. Who knows, some good jokes might come out of it.

[I can occasionally be an optimist.]

Let me think for a moment of some jokes that could come from the discovery of this decaying corpse…

Ok, so here's a new spin on an old thing… After observing a guy with half his torso in the refrigerator, you promptly say, "Hey buddy, didn't you hear, the search is over, they found Hoffa's body."

Yeah that works, and I like the condescending tone. Yet there is a short life span to a joke like this. Not to mention the one-liner relies heavily on the average schlep being up to date with current events. You don't want this joke to turn into some discussion about the details of the investigation and subsequent exhumation. The purpose is to make the person feel like a jackass and move on. So no, new jokes regarding the unearthing of Jimmy Hoffa's remains will not work. Be sides, why fix what's already broken, shot, mangled and rotting in a shallow grave?

To be fair, I will spend a second to discuss what good might come from finding this crook's body. For one, family, friends, and "associates" might find comfort in knowing that good ole James has settled into his final resting place in some gaudy over the top mausoleum in a mid-west cemetery. In addition, those with a bit of a morbid curiosity might receive more information regarding the cause of death. This point however proves invalid. It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist's trip to the local coroner's office to come to the conclusion that poor Jimmy was either shot in the head execution style or strangled with one of his Egyptian silk ties. Or both.

Now conversely, let's think of what harm will be done if such a finding ever happens. To think unselfishly, as I so often do, finding Jimmy's body would bring an end to the mystique and mystery of his life's story. For all intensive purposes, his disappearance has kept him alive much longer than any proper burial would have. Now to think selfishly, which I do more often, finding his body would rob me of my perceived wittiness and quick thinking. I stress perceived. I have so very little in my comedic repertoire as it is, removing this joke would force me to pull some tasteless JFK assassination lines out of retirement.

For instance, "Hey buddy is that ketchup on your shirt or were you standing a little too close to the motorcade when Lee Harvey splattered JFK's medulla oblongata all over downtown Dallas?"

See, that's not funny or clever, just dumb, tasteless and untimely. Believe me when I say, I don’t want to use my old JFK jokes. For every one laugh I got, I received one hundred nasty looks and the occasional phlegm wad slung my way.

I find that the most perplexing part of this mystery is why the FBI has the money or man-hours to waste looking for the body of a criminal who disappeared over thirty years ago? Or what they look to gain when and if the body is ever found? All I know is that the thin thread of shtick humor that I'm holding onto will be abruptly clipped if his body is ever found. Sad, but true.