"I'm here to save you from The Wicked Money of Your Bank Account."

“I’m here to save you from The Wicked Money of Your Bank Account.”

I need a hero. And no, I’m not asking for a submarine sandwich (Although, now that you mention it, if it’s not too much trouble, I would absolutely love a footlong buffalo chicken hoagie with all the trimmings, again, if it’s not too much trouble). Nay, I need a person of distinguished courage or ability to rescue me from a dire situation involving an auto mechanic’s shop, a very small waiting room, and a very chatty receptionist. Judging by the position of the sun, which I cannot see, and the position of the little hand of the enormous clock on the wall in front of me, which I can see quite easily, the receptionist has been talking non-stop for the past 45 minutes. And since I’m waiting for my car, and there’s a blizzard outside (we have one every day), I’m effectively this receptionist’s hostage. Oh, I’ve tried participating in the conversation. I’ve managed a few “Oh, really’s?” and some “That’s funny’s,” but that was only while she was inhaling, which seemed to occur a total of four times. I’ve even tried staring intently at the book I brought along, which I (foolishly) placed on a side table when I sat down. Of course, reaching for it now would be the equivalent of reaching for a gun while the evil villain monologues about the time he got drunk with his girlfriends at the beach. Like I said, I need a hero. Someone who will swoop in and save me from- Wait. Can it be??? My hero! My hero has arrived at long last! What’s that? You have an estimate for the repairs? Oh. Well, now I hate you.

The Fridget

"Sometimes the craziest ideas are also the dumbest."

“Sometimes the craziest ideas are also the dumbest.”

I’ve got a crazy idea. But it has nothing to do with pulling yourself into the air by your own head. I exhausted all the permutations of that little beauty during one fateful recess back in the third grade. No, I’m talking about an idea so crazy that it just might solve one of the oldest puzzles known to mankind, The Grocery Unload. Which, as we all know, poses a confounding paradox: attempt to unload the car in one trip and your arms will fall off; attempt to unload the car in multiple trips and your arms will also fall off, but this time because they are bored. Legend has it that Socrates himself wrestled with this conundrum for days, gazing at his groceries, which were lashed to the rump of his donkey, Barnaby, from the front steps of his mondominium (mud condominium). Eventually, he decided to attempt the unload in one trip, but knew he would need energy, so he reached for his favorite energy drink, Blue Minotaur, only to mistakenly grab Caffeine-Free Poison Hemlock, which came in a similarly designed clay bottle, drank it, and died. His neglected groceries were eaten by cicadas, but, happily, Barnaby was saved, and lived his remaining days in a quiet little- Sorry. I’m off topic. Back to my idea: The Fridget. The world’s first refrigerator car. It’s half SmartCar, half SubZero, and fully loaded with power windows, moonroof, vegetable crisper, and in-door ice and water dispenser. With The Fridget, you’ll never have to unload groceries ever again. Just make sure you bundle up when you drive it. Because it’s an actual refrigerator.

The Over-Sized Spatula Monologues

"There's got to be a better way to do this."

“There’s got to be a better way to do this.”

I feel silly. And it’s not because I just spent 45 minutes looking for my glasses, only to realize that I don’t wear glasses. No, I feel silly because, for the third time in one week, I’ve spent several hours of my time relocating frozen dihydrogen monoxide with an over-sized spatula from one area of my property to another, knowing full well that it is only a matter of time before even more frozen dihydrogen monoxide replaces it, seemingly out of thin air. How does the saying go? Relocate frozen dihydrogen monoxide once, shame on The Atmosphere of the Earth; relocate frozen dihydrogen monoxide twice, shame on Any Non-Resident of Turks and Caicos. At least that’s what my high school guidance counselor wrote in my yearbook. Look, it’s not so much that I mind the act of relofrodimo-ing – it gets me outdoors, gives me a heck of a workout, and affords the rare opportunity to use a spatula in a pancake-less scenario. It’s the principle of spending so much time and energy doing something that will inevitably be undone that messes with the big wad of Bubble Yum in my skull. Wait a second…did I just…I think I did. Uh oh… BWOOP! BWOOP! BWOOP! WARNING! DANGEROUS LEVELS OF EXISTENTIALISM IN A HUMOR BLOG DETECTED! RECOMMENDED COUNTERMEASURES INCLUDE INGESTING JELLY BEANS OR WATCHING ANY COMEDY STARRING THE WAYANS BROTHERS! BWOOP! BWOOP! Sorry. That was a close one. Now, who wants to watch Little Man?

Arts and Crafts and Lawnmowers

"Don't look at it until it's finished!"

“Don’t look at it until it’s finished!”

I want to create something. No, let me rephrase: I HAVE to create something. And by create, I mean use my hands, and my brain, and the smaller brain that lives in my stomach and orders me to eat an entire bag of salted caramel pretzel bites, to make something no one has ever seen before materialize out of thin air. See, there’s nothing quite like the feeling one gets when one brings a completely original work of art into the world, whether it be a symphony, a painting, or an MTD 20 inch 125 cc Gas Walk-Behind Lawn Mower. That’s right: lawnmowers are art. Sure, plenty of folks have seen a lawnmower before, but they haven’t seen this one – the one I just assembled in my basement with a very confusing owner’s manual, a little elbow grease, and a quick visit to the emergency room to get the grease seeping out of my elbow checked out. Do I think I’m going to sell this lawnmower at a fancy mid-town auction house for millions of dollars? No. Maybe. I don’t know, why? Are lawnmowers hot right now? Cause my antiques lady told me NO ONE is buying lawnmowers right now. Do I think it is a stirring tribute to the enduring spirit of man? Yes. Do I want to eat another bag of salted caramel pretzel bites? [looks down at stomach, listens to stomach] Yes. Yes I do.

A Curtain Kind of Genius

"The perfect complement to a beautiful piece of antique furniture."

“The perfect complement to a beautiful piece of antique furniture.”

I’m a genius. But not because I can solve a Rubik’s Cube while you are blindfolded. Although that truly is a sight to not behold. No, the reason I am self-diagnosing myself as a card-carrying member of the genius genus is that last night I executed an unprecedented maneuver of resourcefulness so brilliant even Cat was impressed: I nailed my bathrobe to the bedroom window. Why I would do such a thing? Well, while you’re at it, why not ask Michelangelo why he painted the Statue of Liberty? Why not ask Einstein why he made all those bagels? I’ll tell you why, because us geniuses don’t need reasons to do the things we do. We just do them, and before you know it we’re household names and people are naming their pet iguanas after us. That’s how it works. But if you absolutely must know the reason I nailed my bathrobe to the bedroom window – which, of course you do, because so far nothing I’ve written has been grounded in reality – it was because Wife and I have been too lazy to install a proper curtain. To be fair to myself, this wasn’t a problem until recently, when the moon decided to hit our bedroom with the high-beams. But now sleeping is nigh-impossible. So I did what any abnormal husband would do: I blotted out the moon’s fury with my bathrobe like it was a plush purple polar bear’s pelt. I wonder how long it will take for the neighbors to notice?