The Diary of Unfrank

It was easy to fool my father’s ex-wife. It shouldn’t be so easy to fool historians.

I read a lot of history books, and one thing that bothers me is when a historian’s biographical subject is a president, and the historian writes, “We know from his diaries that…” To me, this seems like the mark of an amateur. If a historian’s subject pens their memoirs, the historian almost always knows better than to automatically trust that book’s content because they know that the author will lack objectivity and write about themselves in the best possible light. Why then, are presidential diaries so often not held to the same level of scrutiny? Surely, the presidents know that their diaries will not be kept private. Often, it’s those very same presidents who donate their diaries to their own presidential libraries! And yet, historians treat those diaries as if they’re polygraph tests. A presidential diary is not a hidden window into that individual’s soul. If the person who is writing the diary is well aware that historians are going to be poking around in it, then to the historian, the entire exercise should be seen as pointless. As long as historians keep engaging in this exercise, presidents will continue to keep apocryphal diaries with the purpose of having them be discovered. I say, good for them. I’ve done the exact same thing in my own life.

   My parents got divorced when I was about three or four, and about five years later, my father married a seven-year-old who happened to be trapped in a fat thirty-seven-year-old’s body. Her and my so-called “father” were emotionally abusive, and one component of the endless abuse was a lack of privacy. I’m not suggesting that after some really careful sleuthing, I had some mild suspicions that my papers were slightly askew. I’m talking about the seven-year-old outright saying, “But you said on the phone that…” or “You wrote on the computer that…” Understand that when she said, “But you said on the phone,” she was not implying that I said this to her on the phone. When she said, “You wrote on the computer,” it wasn’t something that I printed out and shared with her. These were “private” conversations and writings that she was intruding on. Or so she thought. Before I continue, I should quickly note that I can understand the appeal of wanting to spy on me. After all, I had an older brother, and I did the same thing to him when I was seven. The difference between me and my father’s child bride is that, unlike her, I eventually turned eight and subsequently lost interest in spying. Apparently, this unemployed piece of shit must have discovered the fountain of youth, because espionage never got old for her.

   The violation of my privacy began as soon as I moved in with them in nineteen-ninety-three. Until that point, I had lived with my mother, thirty minutes away in the town of West Milford, New Jersey. Then I moved to the stupid, irrelevant, evil, inbred, backward, redneck shithole known as Florida, New York. One day, I was sitting in my room, writing something on the computer that I pretended was meant for my eyes only, when the seven-year-old’s son walked in. On the computer screen, I immediately shrunk down what I had been writing. He noticed that I did that. So far, so good. A short time later, the seven-year-old entered my room, and I once again shrunk down the computer screen. Now here’s the thing—I fully expected them to eventually read what I wrote, which they did. It’s particularly interesting that her son read it, because, for years, his mother had been claiming that he had various learning disabilities which prohibited him from being able to read. I could point to countless occurrences which proved that his “learning disability” was imaginary, and in this one particular instance, Jesus must have cast out the demons of dyslexia, because he was able to perfectly read every word that I had written. When his mother read it a short time later, this was a really big moment in her otherwise meaningless life. I know this because, for the remaining six years that her and my father were married, whenever I said anything that contradicted what I had originally written on that day back in 1993, she made it a point to say, with unbridled joy, “But you wrote on the computer…” What she failed to realize was that what I had written on the computer that day was actually nothing more than a test run, and it was the first of many, many times in which I would fool her. My brother had already lived with them a couple of years prior to this, so I already knew everything that she was going to try to do to me. I remembered how he used to complain about how she would listen in and later comment on his phone calls. Somehow, he was even dumber than her, because he would get angry and demand that she respect his privacy. I understood that there was no chance of this happening, and that getting angry would accomplish nothing. I also understood that it’s not hard to outsmart a seven-year-old, so I developed a strategy.

   First, while I’m on the topic of my brother, I mentioned earlier that I had stopped spying on him when I turned eight, which, maturity-wise, was one year older than my stepmother. That’s true, but there was another, more practical reason why I stopped: people’s telephone conversations are painfully boring. To my stepmother, that was beside the point. She didn’t do this to obtain really juicy information, but to let me know that she could fuck with me any way she wanted to. In fact, during my first “test run” telephone call after moving in with them, I said to a friend on the phone, “I’ll talk to you later. I have to go do laundry.” Three hours later, I still hadn’t started the laundry. The cunt asked, “Aren’t you going to do laundry? You said on the phone that you were going to do it.” This perfectly illustrates how the excitement for her wasn’t in what was being said, but in the “gotcha” moment, as in, “You didn’t even know that I was listening in on the other line, did you? Wow! That must have hit you like a ton of bricks, huh? Now you’re going to rack your brain, trying to remember what else you might have said on the call!” Um…to the contrary, not only was I aware of the fact that she was listening in on the other line, but because of my brother’s prior complaints, I was aware of the fact that she would be listening in on the other line before the phone call even started. And once I understood that my writings would be read and that my telephone conversations would be listened to and commented on (and probably recorded too; she really is that pathetic that I wouldn’t put it past her), I intentionally planted so much bullshit into both my phone conversations and my writings that I actually looked forward to having my privacy violated. When I say that I “looked forward to it,” I don’t mean that I looked forward to it in the way that some people look forward to Christmas. I mean that it became an all-consuming passion of mine in the same way that some teenagers would dedicate themselves toward trying to get into Harvard. Actually, that’s not even a proper comparison, because getting into Harvard might be rewarding, but the process itself isn’t fun. I, on the other hand, was having the time of my life (in a painfully boring town like Florida, New York, you have to make your own fun).

   Even though this essay is about the self-serving nature of diaries, let’s first explore my telephone conversations in more detail, because that’s where I really used to shine. Here’s a made-up example of how it worked. Let’s just say that I asked a friend on the phone which places they wanted to travel to. I didn’t actually care about the answer. All I cared about was saying the following sentence: “One place I would never want to visit is Hawaii.” I waited about a week, and then, in front of the child, I asked my father, “Where did you go on your honeymoon with my mother?”

   “Hawaii.”

“Nice,” I said. “I would love to go there.”

That’s when the child chimed in with, “But you said on the phone that you would never go to Hawaii.” Do you see how easy that is? Internally, both of us were laughing our asses off, her because she falsely thought that she violated my imaginary “privacy,” and me because the wallet that I handed over to my mugger was filled with Monopoly money. Actually, that analogy doesn’t even work because, unlike my former stepmother, the mugger would eventually learn that he had been tricked, whereas, to this day, my former stepmother thinks that she “won.” That’s fine by me. In fact, that was my entire strategy going into every interaction with her and her piece of shit kids. A few years ago, I read Martha Stout’s terrific book Outsmarting The Sociopath Next Door, and one passage particularly stood out to me. She wrote:

Any contest can be won, or at least brought to a draw, even in the throes of defeat, if one contestant unilaterally and quietly changes the objective of the game.

Stout uses checkers as an example, writing that the objective of a game of checkers is to clear all of your opponent’s pieces. But when dealing with a sociopath, Stout writes, one’s objective might be to only obtain, say, an even number of pieces, or to clear a certain section of the board. The important thing is to quietly meet your objectives while making your opponent think that they’ve won. The reason why I enjoyed that passage so much was because that was how I always instinctively dealt with the seven-year-old. ‘I could have written that passage,’ I thought. ‘Hell, I practically invented the idea.’ Which was the better way of handling her? My brother’s way, which was to get angry and demand the privacy that he wasn’t going to get? Or my way, which was to outsmart her and turn this into a really fun game, one that I always won? Granted, I started playing this game at the age of fourteen, which made me twice her age, and I would have liked to have sparred with an intellectual equal, but this was Florida, New York, where beggars can’t be choosers.

   How much did I enjoy this activity? One time, a friend called me on the phone when the seven-year-old wasn’t home. I told him, “Do me a favor. My stepmother isn’t home yet. Call me back in about an hour.” He laughed his ass off and said, “You are one strange individual.” Then there was the time that I visited one of my friends in West Milford and told him that I would eventually ask him on the phone if he received my letter in the mail, and for him to say yes. He did as I instructed, and since there was no actual letter, this must have driven the seven-year-old absolutely insane. “HE WROTE A LETTER THAT I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT? I SPEND HOURS SNOOPING THROUGH HIS ROOM! WHAT THE FUCK?!!!”

   There were people who were angry on my behalf, which I found interesting and somewhat baffling since I was enjoying myself so much. They tried to explain to me that even if I gave my mugger a wallet full of Monopoly money, I should still object to being mugged. What they failed to understand was something that I found to be remarkably simple, which was this—I was playing the long game. I didn’t expect her and my father to get divorced a mere six years later. They’re both garbage, so I thought they were perfect for each other, and assumed that they would be together forever. But even if they had remained together forever, I knew that I would be an adult in the not-too-distant future, and I understood that these cunts would be nothing more than a temporary “problem.” I was able to see further than what was five minutes in front of me. I’m Keith Malek, not Rick Malek.

   One method that wasn’t nearly as effective but much more fun was the bullshit that I started to write in journals. After they had read what I wrote on the computer, I immediately stopped writing on there and started writing in a journal instead, knowing full well that the seven-year-old’s snooping wouldn’t be limited to just the computer, and that the discovery of a “hidden” journal would be irresistible to her. The funny part is that I didn’t even want to keep a journal, but I know that she would have really wanted me to keep a journal, and, well, I aim to please. Everything I wrote was complete and utter bullshit. Well, maybe not everything. I had to include enough true information to make the bullshit parts seem plausible (which was something that I had already done during the “test run” essay that I had originally written on the computer). I kept the journals “well-hidden,” but not so well-hidden that they wouldn’t be found by her (which, of course, is the very definition of well-hidden, but you see where I’m going with this). This illaqueation didn’t work nearly as well as the telephone ploy. For one thing, in 1999, that loser was still quoting what I had written back in 1993, but I don’t recall her ever saying, “But you wrote in your journal…” It is indeed possible that I might have hidden it too well. The problem with writing, for me, is that I couldn’t quite seem to scale back on the creativity. According to my journals, for a while, I struggled with heroin addiction. Then, when I became old enough to drive, I accidentally ran someone over and dumped their body in Greenwood Lake. My listened-to telephone conversations were both fun and effective in terms of tricking the seven-year-old. My journal entries weren’t nearly as effective, but I had a blast writing them.

   It’s not hard to fool someone who is dumb as a rock, but historians should know better. Instead of saying it on the telephone, I could just as easily have written in my journal that I would never visit Hawaii. And if I had become president, I could very easily see a historian write:

His father claimed that Malek had dreamed of traveling to Hawaii. However, we know from his diary entries that Malek had once expressed disdain for the Aloha state. It is that type of indecisiveness that was a recurring theme in Malek’s life, a trait that his Republican rivals pointed to when Malek proved to be indecisive over whether or not he should allow Texas back into the union after the Civil War of 2024.

The difference here is that I wasn’t trying to hoodwink an entire nation. I just wanted to trick one idiot, and it worked splendidly.

   I’m living proof that diaries can be self-serving, no matter who is writing in them and despite what the purpose of them might be. To treat them as if they are infallible litmus tests into the inner workings of a subject’s mind is foolish. We should expect more from our historians.

Craigslist Missed Connections: My Italian Boss

Craigslist! You should definitely use Craigslist to tell me that. And I can see from your ad that you did exactly that, so good job! In fact, any time that anyone wants to tell someone anything, they should use Craigslist. I do.

I don’t tell my wife, “Hon, we’re out of coffee.” I take out an ad on Craigslist and hope that she comes across it. If I’m pressed for time, my add will just say something like:

We’re Out of Coffee (m4w)(Brooklyn)_
Aileen, it’s your husband, Keith. We’re out of coffee.

But most of the time, I try to make it sound like a Missed Connections ad.

Something Is Percolating in My Pants (m4w) (Brooklyn)
We were standing in our kitchen, drinking coffee. Me: Forties, blonde hair, blue eyes. You: Also in your forties. Black hair, brown eyes. That was the last of the coffee, but I was too shy to tell you. You went to work before I got the chance, and now I regret it.

Likewise, when I saw a woman fall onto the subway tracks, I wasted no time. I immediately sprung into action, pulled out my phone, and placed a Missed Connections ad on Craigslist:

Will My Prayers Be Answered at Church Avenue?(m4w)(Brooklyn)
You were lying on the subway tracks with a broken leg, screaming as the F train was bearing down on you at Church Avenue. I was wearing a t-shirt of Henry Kissinger feeding a taco to a unicorn. Maybe after I pull you off these tracks I can run my train through your tunnel?

That woman died, which made me think that instead of posting a Craigslist ad, I probably should have waved my arms and screamed for the conductor to stop the train. Look, Missed Connections ads are a very effective communications tool, but they’re not ideal for every situation. Like that old saying goes, “To the man who only has a hammer in his tool kit, every problem looks like a nail.” My sister’s not a nail, but when our father died, the very first thing I did was I took out an ad on Craigslist in order to let her know.

We Made Eye Contact Next to Our Dying Father’s Bed (m4w)
We were both crying because we knew that Dad had no more than a day or two left to live. I just received a phone call from the hospital that he passed away shortly after midnight. The funeral is on Tuesday. Aunt Janice has the directions to the funeral home.

I was really mad at her for skipping Dad’s funeral until I realized that, like an idiot, I posted my ad to Craigslist New York rather than Craigslist San Francisco, which is where she lives.

A lot of people find my abundant use of Missed Connections ads to be rather odd, but is it any more odd than the corporate world’s insistence on emails?

“The meeting is in thirty minutes.”
“Okay. Send it to me in an email first.”
“But I just told you.”
“I know. Send it to me in an email anyway.”

“Good morning.”
“Send it to me in an email first.”
“You can’t just tell me good morning?”
“Not until I see it in an email.”

Emails are just like meetings, in that they rarely ever serve any kind of purpose other than to make people feel important. As your boss, you’re aware that I don’t do that, and maybe that’s why you find me so attractive. But I think I’m going to start. After all, the company is doing poorly, and I’m a firm believer that if all you ever do is all you’ve ever done, then all you’ll ever get is all you’ve ever gotten. So let’s just say that right before you give me this “bj,” you say to me, “I’ve been wanting to do this for twenty years” (that’s kind of hot, by the way. You should probably tell me that). If you tell me that, I’m going to tell you, “Okay, send it to me in an email first.” Or let’s just say that halfway through the blowjob, you stop and tell me, “God, I love your cock” (that’s really hot and you should definitely say that), I’m going to say, “Okay, send it to me in an email first.” And if the blowjob proceeds to full on fucking (and why would it not?), and you start screaming, “Fuck me,” then I’m going to stop fucking you and say, “Okay, send me an email telling me you want me to fuck you.” I’ll proceed to check my email, and then I’ll send you an email back in which I confirm that I got your original email, and then I’ll continue fucking you. In the grips of passion, one of us is almost guaranteed to accidentally forward the entire conversation to the rest of the company, which will lead to both of us getting fired by corporate.

And that is why you should never fantasize about your boss.

Keith

cc: B.J.Novak
Craig Kilborn
Craig Ferguson
Larry Craig
Boss Tweed
The Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Bruce Springsteen

Craigslist Missed Connections: We Passed Each Other Twice on W.86th

You’re absolutely correct that you should have saluted me. In reality, I’m a lowly maintenance worker, but in my mind I’m a four star Navy general, and we must respect the chain of command. That is why, when I saw you that second time, I asked you if you had cleaned the latrine. Your answer was muffled due to the Barack Obama mask that you were wearing. Normally, I would care enough to repeat my question about the latrine, but I knew that it was time to get down to business, so I pulled down the partially worn Donald Trump mask so that it completely covered my face. And that’s when we stormed into the bank.

Now I’ll be the first person to admit that mistakes were made. The biggest mistake was wearing a t-shirt with the name of the maintenance company that I work for to a bank robbery. God I’m so stupid! It’s amazing how I know such trivial minutiae (like the fact that the average bank heist only results in $2,500), and yet I don’t stop to think about things like that. I mean, do you remember that conversation that we had about our masks? I told you that I wanted to wear a Trump mask so that people would be happy if things went wrong and I ended up getting shot to death by the police. This gave you the idea to dress like Obama in what you called “a pursuit of bipartisan unity.” I told you that that angle to the robbery would invite too much media attention, and then we went back and forth and back and forth as if we were planning our night out at the West Village Halloween Parade and not a bank robbery. Finally, you exhausted me with your persistence and I said, “Fine! Wear the stupid Obama mask!” Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming you for my fashion faux pas. I should have known better than to have worn that shirt. And I was the one who recruited you into “the game.” (That’s the really cool slang term that criminals use to describe a life of crime. Or at least I think it is. It could just be that I watch too many movies).

I also didn’t mean to kill that old lady. You have to admit though that she looked pretty pathetic the way that she was clutching those rosary beads and muttering to herself. I swear on my life though that when I put that gun to her head and screamed, “Shut the fuck up” that I really didn’t think that my finger was anywhere near the trigger. I would like to think that the reason I feel concerned about that is because she’s dead, but I’m not going to kid myself. I only regret it because if we get caught, I’m going away for life. That might sound cold, but honestly, who gives a shit about the elderly? “I’m here in the bank, cashing my social security check. After that, I’m gonna go buy Pat Sajak a birthday card. They said on the television that it’s his birthday this week. Such a nice young man, he is. Do you watch Wheel of Fortune? I’ve been watching it from the very beginning.” Fuck you, Doris!

Aside from that, you’ll be happy to know that I just finished counting the money, and it came to a whopping total of $188,000. Not too shabby, especially since, like I mentioned earlier, the average bank heist only nets about $2,500. I accredit this largely to a very strange conversation that I had back in early 2004, when I was bartending in the West Village. Based on something that I had read somewhere, I told one of the bouncers that the amount of money that you see placed in briefcases in movies and television shows is often unrealistic. I don’t remember the amount that I cited, or even why it came up in conversation, (this was years before I started robbing banks, when I was still young and naive enough to believe that I would be able to make a living without having to resort to a life of crime) but the bouncer looked at me and said, “You can fit fifty-thousand dollars inside of a Jansport duffel bag.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “That seems like a lot.”
“You can fit fifty-thousand dollars inside of a Jansport duffel bag,” he repeated.
“Okay. But how do you know? ”
“You can fit fifty-thousand dollars inside of a Jansport duffel bag.”
His repetition of this particular fact told me everything I needed to know, which was this: don’t ask. He knew, from experience, that you can fit fifty-thousand dollars inside of a Jansport duffel bag. That, along with the fact that he was about nine-foot-six, led me to stop asking questions. By the way, I hated working at that bar with a passion, for reasons that I won’t bother getting into. All you need to know is that that random conversation obviously made it all worthwhile sixteen years later, when you and I walked out of that bank with four Jansport duffel bags full of cash. You’re welcome.

Overall, I think the robbery went quite well despite the shirt that I wore and the little snafu with the dead octogenarian. A lot of people work for my maintenance company, and I made it a point to have my girlfriend log into my Facebook account from my apartment during the robbery, computer forensics will provide me with at least some sort of alibi. But just for good measure, if I were you, I would get out of town for a bit.

Now go shave your legs, Sasquatch.

Keith

cc: Banksy

Craigslist Missed Connections: Nice Weather

“You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather.”
                                                                     –Outkast “Sorry Ms. Jackson”

What I’m curious about is the title. What does getting head have to do with the weather? Are you trying to get head outside? Or is that what you kids refer to as “clickbaiting”? Is “weather” the new slang term for getting head? If so, I’m going to laugh every time I hear the weatherman, especially if they get really excited. “We are going to have GREAT weather on Tuesday!” Oh we are, are we? Who? Everyone in the tri-state area is going to get great head? Awesome! Looking forward to it! 

If “nice weather” is the new term for getting head, then that reminds me of the term “trying.” Have you ever noticed that the only time that it’s socially acceptable for a couple to talk about how they’ve been doing a lot of fucking is if they say that they’re trying to have a baby? And everyone else has to sit there and pretend that they’re not now envisioning those two fucking? And sometimes they even go a bit further than that by saying that the woman can’t get pregnant no matter how much they “try”? Again, under what other circumstance would it be socially acceptable to say, “Man oh man! We have been fucking like BEASTS lately! This one right here just can’t seem to get enough dick! It’s incredible!” So whenever I hear anyone say the word “trying,” since “trying” is the socially acceptable term for “fucking,” I sometimes accidentally switch those two words and assume that that’s what they mean. So if they say, “I’m trying to make a phone call,” I assume that they’re trying to shove the phone up a certain bodily orifice. And since I’m a really helpful person, I tell them, “In that case, make sure you put the phone on vibrate, and I’ll call you.” That’s when they make it a point to pretend to be confused, as if they didn’t just commit the biggest Freudian slip of all time by saying that they were going to fuck their phone.

If someone says, “I’m earning my degree” or “I’m working toward my degree,” then that’s fine. If they say “I’m trying to get my degree,” then that means that they’re fucking their professors to get passing grades instead of studying, and that’s wrong.

I once had a job in which my boss was smacking the side of his computer and tapping the keys really hard. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’m trying to fix this stupid computer!” he said.
He didn’t have his pants down, but I smiled and said, “There’s nothing better than a good hate fuck!”
“What?”
“Is that why it’s called a hard drive?” I asked, laughing.
“What are you talking about?”
“Hey, for what you’re about to do to that computer, it’s better to have a hard drive than a floppy disc.”
I was fired shortly after. I get fired a lot.

One time, I was walking down the street when a guy in a car pulled over and rolled down his window. He had an accent, so I knew that English wasn’t his first language. He told me, “I’m trying to get to Bay Parkway.” I interpreted that as, “I’m fucking to get to Bay Parkway.” Because of his limited English, I thought that he was on his way to fuck someone who lived on Bay Parkway. I figured that she must have been super hot in order for him to just pull over and want to tell this to a complete stranger. “Good for you!” I told him. “Give her a couple of thrusts for me while you’re at it!” And then I walked away. It was only when I was about halfway down the block that I started to think that I might have misread that interaction.

Anyway, I wish you luck with your ad. Remember that there is no such thing as bad weather. Sure, some women give incredible weather; I’m talking seventy-eight degrees, not a cloud in the sky type of weather. But even when weather is “bad,” the temperature never really drops below seventy. So keep at it, and put your faith in Jesus, for your pursuit is a noble one. And remember: if at first you don’t succeed, fuck, fuck again.

Keith

cc: Max Headroom
    Hedda Gabler
    The Weather Underground

Catch and Release

I’m not exactly sure that you understand how catch works. If I throw you the ball and you catch it, you then have to throw it back. Otherwise, this game of catch will only last about two seconds. Is that why you said, “This is for when we both have time to play?” Because when I read that, I was thinking, “Yeah, obviously. No one can be in two different places at once. If he’s in Manhattan, does he expect me to throw him the ball all the way from my job in Queens?” Hey, wait a minute. I once had a dog that would chase a thrown ball but not bring it back. You’re not a dog, are you?

By the way, a better title for this post would have been “We Want a Pitcher, Not a Belly Itcher.” Perhaps you could provide a little clarity on this for me, because I’ve been wondering about this for my entire life—what the hell is a belly itcher? In fact, never mind the belly part—I’ll explore this in more detail later—let’s just start with “itcher.” What is an itcher? Someone who is itchy? That doesn’t seem like it’s a word. And if it is, it shouldn’t be. If someone is hungry, no one refers to them as a “hunger.” So where the hell does itcher come from? It comes from nowhere because it’s not a word. Scratcher is a word. Itcher? Not a word.

Someone once told me that they think it’s “itcher” just because it rhymes with “pitcher.” I told this individual, “Oh really? Okay, then give this a listen and tell me what you think. ‘We want a left fielder, not a Brooke Shieldser.’” My interlocutor became annoyed rather quickly. “What’s the matter?” I asked him. “Are you annoyed because Brooke Shields has nothing to do with baseball? Or is it because Shieldser isn’t a word? So it makes no sense, and it’s not a word. Now you understand my pain. How about this one? ‘We want a third baseman, not a turd chaseman.’ Yeah, exactly. Go fuck yourself.” And then, just to show him that I really meant business, I threw a chair across the room. My debate opponent walked away rather quickly at that point, and if I’m not mistaken, I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter something about anger management as he left.

And what if someone does have an itchy belly? Are they not supposed to scratch it? What’s wrong with scratching an itch? With all of the scandals involving professional athletes, is scratching one’s belly really the worst transgression a player can commit? I went to Shea Stadium many times as a kid, and not once when Dwight Gooden was pitching did I hear, “We want a pitcher, not someone who tests positive for cocaine.” Hell, the entire roster of the 1986 Mets was a cautionary tale. Was there anyone worse than center fielder Lenny Dykstra? He was pretty well behaved in 1986, but he went on to accrue a rap sheet longer than Shea Stadium’s foul pole. And yet, you never heard anyone shout, “We want a center fielder, not someone who will engage in steroid use, crash a car while driving drunk, and get arrested for drug possession, bankruptcy fraud, grand theft auto, indecent exposure, and sexual assault.” Okay, I’ll admit that “belly itcher” is a little bit easier on the tongue, but that raises another important question. Why is it only the pitcher who’s not allowed to scratch his belly? Why is he held to such high standards? I can assume that it’s because fans want the pitcher to be able to concentrate on his pitching, but let’s just say that the pitcher is carrying on as normal, not scratching his belly, and throwing the ball over the plate. But then the batter hits a line-drive to the shortstop, who isn’t paying attention because he’s scratching his belly incessantly like a heroin addict, and the ball goes right past him. Now I ask you: with that particular play, why was the pitcher’s concentration more important than the shortstop’s? And why are people in the stands not yelling, “We want a shortstop, not a belly itcher?”

Regardless of which position they play, why would baseball players be so itchy in the first place? They spend a lot of time outdoors, so I’m guessing that it’s because of mosquitoes. But if the pitcher is more prone to an itchy belly caused by mosquito bites, then I have a theory as to why that might be the case. I think it’s because it’s an unwritten rule that the pitcher has to be the best looking guy on the team. I say that for the following reason. Last Tuesday, I got bit by six mosquitoes while my two Dominican coworkers didn’t get bit at all. That led me to state the controversial yet intellectually flawless opinion that white privilege isn’t a real thing. A few days later, I read that it’s only female mosquitoes that bite. When I read this, I went from feeling angry and victimized to feeling—if I’m being quite honest—kind of flattered. And to give further credibility to how much of a ladies man I truly am, all six mosquitoes bit me on my penis (why I walk around naked at work is a topic for a different email). But just like with my controversial opinion that white privilege isn’t real, I have more than my fair share of detractors. People have pointed out to me that baseball players who were well known for their good looks, players like Derek Jeter and David Wright, weren’t pitchers. Since I take my responsibilities as a scientist quite seriously, I tried to disprove my own theory by doing a quick search on the Google machine for “ugliest pitchers in baseball history,” which resulted in my discovery of this Calvin Klein model:

Okay, fine. I guess my theory about handsome pitchers was wrong.

Look, I’m not a dermatologist, so I have no idea why pitchers are prone to having itchy bellies. It would seem easier for mosquitoes to bite the pitcher on his arms or his neck, unless they bit him on his belly in the locker room before the game. But to reiterate, what’s wrong with having an itchy belly? Even if we chose the more grammatically correct term “belly scratcher,” aren’t there worse parts of his anatomy that we can see him scratching? (As someone who got bit in the dick by six mosquitoes, I can assure you, there is).

The only time that I wouldn’t want a belly scratcher on the team is if the scratching is so excessive that it causes a delay in the game. It’s annoying when a pitcher stands on the mound for what feels like an eternity, trying to figure out which pitch to throw next, as if he has a thousand different options. One pitcher who was particularly notorious for taking a long time between pitches was Chris Archer. I once saw him throw a pitch, and then he proceeded to assemble an IKEA desk and chair. He ordered a pizza, which was delivered to him directly at the pitchers mound about fifteen minutes later. While he waited for the pizza to arrive, he pulled out a laptop computer and started to do his taxes. He then paid the pizza deliveryman, ate a couple slices, wrapped up the rest of it in aluminum foil, finished his taxes, penned the first chapter of his memoirs, called up his credit card company to see if they can lower his APR, watched a couple episodes of The Wire, and then finally threw the next pitch.

Okay, enough of that. Let’s get back to your Craigslist ad. I think that we should meet up on a ballfield that’s right in front of a cornfield. And then I’ll ask you, “Is this Heaven?” And then you say, “No. It’s Iowa.” And then I’ll say, “I could’ve sworn it was Heaven.” Now unless you’re a communist, you know that that bit of dialogue is from Field of Dreams, and you also know that your next line will be, “Hey, Dad? Do you want to have a catch?” I don’t want you to call me Dad though.

That would be gay.

Keith

cc: Hank Ketchum
Itchy & Scratchy

Craigslist Missed Connections: Pinocchio

PINOCCHIO (GREENWHICH)THE MORE YOU TALKED IT GOT BIGGER, I LOVED IT

Just so we’re clear, are you talking about this individual’s nose,or his massive erection? If you were making reference to this gentlemen’s erection, a more fitting choice would have been to compare him to Priapus, who in Greek mythology was punished by the Gods by being given a permanent erection. Several months ago, I saw Pinocchio in a Geico ad. I don’t remember anything specific about the ad, but I turned to my wife and said, “I always wondered if Pinocchio ever fucked women with his nose. Did you ever think about that?” She turned her head very slowly towards me, and I could tell that not only had she never thought about that, but that she was worried. To be fair, she gives me that look almost every day. But after that interaction with my wife, I assumed that Pinocchio’s sex life wasn’t something that women gave much thought to. That is, until I saw your Craigslist ad. The way I see it, there are three possibilities. Either:

1) You’re confusing Greek mythological figures with animated Disney characters,
2) Pinocchio is real, and living in Greenwhich, Connecticut, or
3) You were just being metaphorical, and talking to a man with a large penis

Regardless of which one of these things is true, it gives me comfort to know that you have at least considered the sexual possibilities that exist for Pinocchio, and now I feel a little bit less alone. So thank you. And since we see eye to eye on this matter, I’m wondering if you’ve thought about the following things:

–When Pinocchio fucks women with his nose, it must hurt his neck after a while. It would basically be the same head movement that the woman uses while giving him a blowjob, but with a blowjob, a variety of movement can be employed without sacrificing any enjoyment for either the blower or the blowee. (Not “blown.” “Blowee” is a better, if not less grammatically correct, word).

–Speaking of blowjobs, foreplay with Pinocchio must be really interesting, and gives whole new meaning to the term “blow your nose.” Women probably put his nose in their mouth instinctively, while he stands there thinking, “Um…why are you doing this? Not only do I barely feel anything, but you are aware that I have a dick as well, right?”

–While fucking a woman with his nose, does Pinocchio use a condom? Can STDs be transmitted through the nasal cavities? I think he should use a condom just to be extra safe, especially if he has a cut on his nose.

–If Pinocchio tells a lie with the intention of using his nose for sex, does he refer to it as a nose erection? If he tells a lie but his nose fails to grow, does he refer to it as nasal dysfunction?

–Any woman who wants to get fucked by Pinocchio’s nose has to be okay with basing their relationship (or at least their sexual relationship) on a lie. And if she were really into it, I would be lying all the time. “An oxymoron is an idiot with an acne problem.” Nose erection! “If you want to become a dentist, you have to graduate from Colgate University.” Nose erection! “A neo-Nazi is a Nazi that glows in the dark.” Nose erection! “The legal term Double Jeopardy means that you’ve committed such a serious crime that not only do you go to jail, but once you get there, they have Alex Trebek beat the living shit out of you.” Nose erection!

–If Pinocchio sneezes while nose fucking a woman, will she get pregnant? Okay, now I’m just being silly.

–Anal? Let’s just hope for everyone involved that Pinocchio only uses his penis for this activity.

–So let’s just say that the word got around town that Pinocchio gives earth shattering orgasms with his monster nose cock, and the ladies started lining up around the block like cats in heat. I could see this becoming a problem for him at work, with his boss telling him, “Okay, Pinocchio, listen. You’ve been telling a lot of lies lately. Some examples include the time that you told Mindy in accounting that you had the latest quarterly sales figures when you didn’t. Or, just the other day, when you told Debra that you would stay late in order to finish that project, when you had no intention of doing so. We knew that you were lying because of that strange nose condition you have, your “Tell Tale Heart” if you will. Now here’s the thing. We all know what you use your nose for when you’re not here, and I’m not judging you. That’s your business. But we couldn’t fail to notice that Mindy and Debra are both in their mid-twenties and rather attractive. Meanwhile, whenever Barbara in Sales, or Cynthia in Human Resources, both of whom are near retirement age, ask you a question, you’re perfectly honest with them. We think–and we’re not too sure about this–that your interactions with Mindy and Debra might constitute sexual harassment. To be honest, our Legal Department is scratching their heads on this one.”

–That leaves us with what might be the most important question of all. When does Pinocchio get to achieve orgasm? Now I’m not stupid. If my nose were significantly larger than my penis, I would definitely use my nose. That’s because my sexual partner’s orgasms are more important to me than my own, which is why the ladies refer to me as Dr. Love. So yes, there might be about a billion more nerve endings in my penis than in my nose, but whatever. A real man would nose fuck the shit out of her and then run to the bathroom and quietly masturbate. (Not Louis C.K. He would masturbate into a potted plant). You’re probably saying, “Well, Keith, you could always masturbate while nose fucking her,” but could I really? I was just pantomiming those two motions simultaneously, and it’s actually quite difficult, sort of like when you try to pat your head while rubbing your stomach in a circular motion. It’s not easy.

But I’m not worried. I’m sure that Pinocchio will find some way to ejaculate, because just like in horse racing, our boy Pinocchio always wins by a nose.

Trying to Survive COVID-19 With My Cousin, Rami Malek

March 15, 2020 I would like to update everyone on my health. Forty-eight hours ago, I made one of the smartest decisions of my life, which was to fly to Malibu and stay with my cousin Rami. With Trump in the White House, I instinctively knew that the only thing that would save me in this situation is money, and it turns out that I was correct; earlier this afternoon, Trump made an announcement in the Rose Garden that the vaccine will only be given to those with an annual income of one million dollars or more, as well as their families. My family back east doesn’t have that kind of money. I feel terrible because my wife insisted that she stay behind to watch our cats. I’m just hoping that she doesn’t get this virus. As for me, thanks to Rami, if I test positive, I will be fine. Rami and I have “self-quarantined,” but we are hardly alone. There is nothing that man won’t do for his friends and family, which is why we are currently joined by Brian May of Queen, Rami’s Mr. Robot co-star Christian Slater, and his co-stars Robert Downey Jr. and Selena Gomez from Dolittle, a movie that (deservedly) came and went this past January with practically no one noticing, and which I have teased Rami mercilessly about (and yes,I feel kind of bad for all of that teasing now that I might quite literally owe my survival to him). I’m not exactly sure why Brian May, Christian Slater, Robert Downey Jr., and Selena Gomez can’t stay in their own mansions, with their own families, but I’m not going to bother asking questions–I don’t want to bite the hand that’s feeding me (that’s how germs get spread). From what I understand, there’s been a media blackout in the rest of the country, and no one on the east coast seems to know what has been happening out here. Ever since Trump announced that only the rich will survive, wealthier areas, like the one I’m currently in, as well as Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, and Santa Barbara, have exploded in violence. Downey told me that he was here in ’92 during the Rodney King riots, and even though he was “as high as a kite,” he describes the current violence as “child’s play” in comparison. Governor Gavin Newsom has declared Martial Law, as well as a strict 8PM curfew. When the violence started, there were only about a half a dozen rioters here on Rami’s block. Christian Slater thought he could calm people down a bit by signing autographs and posing for pictures. I was about to tell him that that wasn’t a good idea, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large object fall out of the sky and hit him in the head. I thought it was a large rock, but Selena Gomez later told me that it had been a brick. I was too concerned with his physical condition to worry about what had hit him. Rami and I dragged him back inside, narrowly missing a Molatov cocktail. In an attempt at levity, I said, “Speaking of cocktails, now might be a good time to start drinking.” Brian May didn’t like this. “Drinking? Christian’s got a gaping head wound, and that’s what you’re thinking of, you fucking muppet?” Apparently, it was too soon for jokes.

In addition to us being heavily armed and having private security forces, Trump has deployed a hundred-thousand troops from the National Guard to Malibu and the surrounding areas. Despite these precautions, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I have a feeling that these rioters are going to ignore the curfew, and that Governor Newsom’s declaration of Martial Law will be seen as nothing more than a polite suggestion to be ignored, even laughed at, by these savages. Christian Slater is in and out of consciousness, and if I’m being honest, I don’t think he’s going to make it. I’m even more concerned about seventy-two-year-old Brian May, because the elderly are the ones who are most prone to Covid-19. Not only that, but we heard him sneeze before, which gripped us all with paranoia. Rami is flying in our cousin Kara from Florida. She’s a nurse and we need her, not just for Christian, but in case one of us gets sick or injured.

One thing I’m sick of hearing about is how “surreal” things have been. Why is it surreal? Because sporting events are cancelled and people are wearing face masks? You don’t know what surreal is until you’ve been locked in a room for forty-eight hours with Robert Downey Jr.

Stay safe, people.

3/16/20: Not only is Christian Slater doing much better, but his head injury seems to have activated the part of his brain that’s responsible for speech. Is it the prefrontal cortex? The medulla oblongata? I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. What I do know is that Christian won’t shut the fuck up, and I’m starting to wish that that brick to the head had been fatal. That might seem a bit harsh, but you try being quarantined for days on end with a man who seems to think that this is all somehow your fault. He keeps asking the other members of our group if it was wise to let me fly in from New York City which we assume is a hotbed for Covid 19, although we’re really not sure because of the media blackout that has been enforced out here. To his credit, Rami’s sticking up for me, telling Christian, “Not only is Keith family, but he helped save your life yesterday when rioters were throwing Molatov cocktails!” Thanks, Rami. Christian’s case is reminiscent to that of Phineas Gage, a railroad construction foreman who back in 1848, had a three-foot-long metal rod explode and go through his eye socket, up through part of his brain, and out the back of his head. His co-workers offered to take him to the hospital, but he declined their help. Instead, he went there himself, and for several years, appeared to be just fine. Or was he? Gage eventually succumbed to his injuries, dying twelve years later in 1860. Until then–and this is the part that applies to Christian Slater–Gage’s entire personality began to change. Before the steel rod went through his head, he was known to be quite a pleasant individual. Afterword, those who knew him said that he became quite nasty, often using profanity when he had never done so before. I never knew Christian Slater before we became quarantined together, but everyone else that’s here has, and they swear that just like Phineas Gage, Christian has changed for the worse. Kara has arrived with test kits and other much needed medical supplies. Sadly, our greatest fear has been confirmed: Brian May has tested positive. After Kara broke the news to him, he excused himself to go to the bathroom, where I could hear him quietly weeping behind the closed door. Christian took advantage of his absence to have an impromptu meeting. “Look,” he whispered. “One of us is going to have to kill him before he gets the rest of us sick.” Kara was appalled at the suggestion. “Are you kidding me? I flew here from Florida because I’m a nurse who can treat one of us if we get sick. I didn’t come here to kill anyone!” Rami tried to argue that his house was big enough to keep Brian in a section of it that was far enough away from the rest of us that we wouldn’t need to kill him. But Christian was insistent. “It might already be too late for that,” he said. We were all quiet for about thirty seconds as we mulled it over, and then Selena Gomez said, “Look, why don’t we put it to a vote. All of those who think we should kill Brian, raise your hand.” Me, Christian, Robert–and then, slowly, reluctantly, Rami–raised our hands. “All those opposed?” Selena and Kara raised their hands, because women are weird like that. “Fine. It’s settled,” said Christian. “Now,who’s going to kill him?” For some reason, everyone in the room automatically looked at me. Rami looked me dead in the eye and said, “Keith, right now, we need somebody who is strong and isn’t afraid to make tough decisions. And that’s why I think I speak on behalf of everyone when I say that that person is you.” In hindsight, I now realize that they were manipulating me, but I’m a sucker for any type of praise, so I grabbed the shotgun from Rami’s hands and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.” Brian emerged from the bathroom and said, “Hey guys! What’s everybody being so secretive about?” “Well, Brian,” I said, “Now’s the time for the hammer to fall,” which I thought was kind of a clever Queen reference, and then I fired a bullet directly into his forehead. Please understand that despite the jokey reference to a Queen song, I took absolutely no pleasure in murdering Brian May. I had to get snarky in order to be able to force myself to do it. I admire Brian not just for his music, but for his animal rights work as well. I would even go so far as to say that he reminds me of my father, except for the fact that Brian is six-foot-two. And has long hair. And he’s a legendary guitarist. And he’s British. Okay, so maybe he’s nothing at all like my father, but it doesn’t matter. The point is that I I admired the man deeply, and even though he had to die in order for me to live, I will forever regret being forced to kill him. I’m also not happy with what we chose to do with his body. Robert Downey Jr. suggested that we erect a huge catapult and use it to fling Brian’s body at the rioters in an attempt to infect them with Covid-19. This was once done during the time of the Plague, but when Downey suggested that, I wasn’t sure if it was because he had an interest in Medieval history, or if that was the twenty-five years of heavy drug use talking. Or possibly both? Either way, all of us were on board with the plan (even Selena and Kara)so we started construction on our catapult. However, forty-five minutes into the project, we discovered that we didn’t have enough wood. So instead of flinging Brian May’s lifeless body onto the rioters assembled on Rami’s block, we were forced to drop him out of a second story window. A man who gave so much joy to so many people deserves so much more than that. But at the risk of sounding obvious, everything has recently changed. Just last night, Governor Newsom attempted to initiate a curfew, and like I predicted it would, the curfew did nothing to quell the violence of the rioters. We still remain relatively safe though–for now anyway. There are at least a half a dozen dead bodies on Rami’s front lawn (not counting Brian May’s) due to rioters clashes with the National Guard. Rami’s house isn’t even the worst on his block in terms of violence. Margot Robbie lives next door, and as is so often the tragic reality of war and other forms of societal breakdown, she was dragged out of her house and gang-raped on the front lawn. Yes, we were armed, but we were also outnumbered, and at that moment, I think I understood how the American soldiers felt at the end of the Persian Gulf War, when George H.W. Bush declared victory, but Saddam Hussein was still in power, and U.S. soldiers had to stand there helplessly, watching in horror as Saddam’s men beheaded people right across the Tigris-Euphrates. Speaking of beheadings, I also looked on (this time with significantly less horror) as Seth Rogan, who lives across the street from Rami, was beheaded shortly before midnight. If there is anyone in Hollywood more annoying than Seth Rogan, I’m not aware of them, and unlike Brian May, Seth Rogan will not be missed.

So that’s pretty much it from California. I don’t even know what’s been happening in New York due to the media blackout that has occurred in this part of the country, but I’m assuming it must be even crazier there then what’s going on out here, correct?

3/17/20: Despite many casualties on their side, the rioters, who have tripled in number, managed to storm past the National Guard troops. Rami’s house has been burned to the ground, as was Brian May’s corpse. Fortunately, we were able to escape the melee alive, but not without injuries. In a continuing string of bad luck, Christian Slater took a bullet to the leg. And in a series of events that I will never be able to understand, the one-hundred-pound Selena Gomez hoisted Christian onto her shoulders and ran more than eighty yards to safety, all while returning gunfire and killing five rioters.Kara, a trained nurse, began to apply a torniquet to Christian’s leg, but Selena shoved her out of the way, telling her, “We’ve gotta remove the bullet first.” She then pulled out a Swiss Army knife, looked Christian in the eye and said, “Whatever you do, don’t scream. You’ll give away our location to the enemy.”

“Huh?”

“I fucking mean it. Don’t be a little bitch. Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”

She then plunged the knife into the bullet wound,which of course, made Christian scream.

“What did I just fucking say?” Selena asked while removing the bullet.

Just then, two rioters came running around the corner. One of them was about my size. Selene kicked him in the testicles, and as he was leaning forward,she grabbed him by the head and snapped his neck.

“See what you made me do?” she asked Christian.

The other guy was a monster;six-foot-six, two-hundred-eighty pounds. He got off easy, with Selena merely kicking him in the kneecap, which brought him level to her. She then grabbed his head, which made me assume that he would meet the same fate as his companion. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Night night, motherfucker,” she whispered into his ear. “Night night.” She let go of him about ten seconds later. I assumed that she had choked him to death, but then she told us, “He’ll be asleep for about twenty, twenty-five minutes. That will give us plenty of time to get our asses to the 405 where the Marines have set up an armored tank division leading into San Bernardino. Let me double check that though.” She pulled out a two-way hand radio.

“Charlie Echo Bravo. Do you copy?”

No response. The rest of us looked at each other in wonder. I turned to Rami and asked, “What the hell is going on here? Is she a Green Beret or something?” Rami shrugged.

“Charlie Echo Bravo. Do you copy?”

Still no response. She spit on the ground. “Fuck it. I was hoping for some possible air cover, but we don’t need it. Christian, stay tough, motherfucker. The only easy day was yesterday.”

3/18/20: We set up what Selena called “base camp” in an abandoned shop that once sold gluten-free, organic, vegan, non-GMO, free trade, LGBT kale smoothies before the pandemic (remember: this is California). Selena was looking down into the Valley with a pair of high-powered binoculars. “There’s no sign of the Marines, and a large chunk of the 405 appears to be missing,” she said. “That must have been that explosion we heard last night. My guess is that it was either the rioters, or quite possibly the Kamala-backed rebels.” Yesterday, California Senator Kamala Harris decided that this was an opportune time to rebound from her failed presidential bid by leading a violent coup against Gavin Newsom and declaring herself governor for life. Witnesses described seeing Newsom’s corpse being dragged through the streets of Sacramento. Ever since this pandemic began, politicians of every political stripe have taken advantage of the chaos to unveil various economic shock doctrines, violent coups, and other disruptions to consolidate their power, and Kamala is no exception. Whether the missing chunk of the 405 was due to that particular skirmish was open to debate. What was not up for debate was the fact that with a significant chunk of the 405 missing, we had no escape route. “The best laid plans of mice and men, huh Selena?” I asked.

“I prefer Mike Tyson’s, ‘Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.'” This girl was scaring me more by the minute. “This is definitely a setback. But I’ve never once been in a battle that went entirely according to plan.”

I saw an opening. “Yeah. Um…about that…”

“No questions, motherfucker!”

She shut that down REAL quick. “Got it.”

Rami suggested that we head up to San Francisco. He had befriended Robin Williams when they filmed “Night at the Museum” together, and Rami said that Robin’s widow would welcome us into her home.
Robert looked hesitant. “If we had to take it by foot, how long do you think it would take us? Nine days? Possibly ten?”

“Bullshit!” Selena snarled. “If we run the entire way, with no more than two or three water breaks, we can make it there in under seventy-two hours. That’s if we double-time it and not act like a bunch of fucking faggots.”

“Um, hello,” piped in Christian. “Are we forgetting that I got shot in the leg yesterday?”

He had a point. Running was out of the question. We would take a casual, three-hundred-eighty-two mile stroll up to San Francisco.

3/19/20: We stopped in an abandoned house one-hundred miles into our trek up to San Francisco. The men in the group pulled me aside. For some strange reason, Robert was the only one of us who was able to get cell phone service. “Listen,” he said. “You know how we haven’t seen anyone in several days? Well that’s because, according to CNN, they’re estimating that ninety-five percent of the human population has died.”

My heart sank. I still hadn’t been able to get into contact with my wife.

“So we were all talking,” he continued, “and Selena’s on board with this as well, and…we need you to impregnate her.”

“What?”

“Listen. I know it’s a bit sudden. But you two are our only hope if the human population is to continue on this planet.”

“Who gives a fuck? Listen. First of all, I’m married, okay? To a woman who may or may not still be alive three-thousand miles away. Second, doesn’t Selena have lupus?”

“Yes.”

“So if she has a baby, she’s going to have a lupus baby.” I wasn’t entirely sure if this was true or not. Like I said in a previous post, I’m not a doctor. “Third,” I continued, “Why is it necessary to continue the human race? People suck, and this virus took care of that problem. The few people that are left have been trying to kill us, we’re scrounging for food, there’s no electricity, no internet–with the exception of your phone for some reason–and to top it all off, you want to have some stupid, pointless, annoying baby to drag around with us?”

Christian tried to speak. “Keith, try to un-”

“And why does it have to be me? There are four of us!”

Taking advantage of my subpar medical knowledge, Rami said, “Because Christian and Robert are old. Sure, they can impregnate Selena, but then the baby would probably come out retarded. Do you really want that? Do you really want to repopulate the planet with a bunch of retarded lupus babies?”

“Well what about you? You’re even younger than me.”

He answered me in the same voice that he used to play Freddy Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody. “I would love to, Darling, but I’m gay.”

“You are not! Don’t even try that method actor bullshit on me! You do that every time you want to get out of something unpleasant! And besides, playing a gay character in a movie–a movie that wrapped almost two years ago, by the way–doesn’t make someone gay.”

“What’s the problem?” Christian interjected. “Do you not find her attractive?”

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to say since I’m old enough to be her God damn father! Besides, she stopped being attractive the minute she turned into Rambo.”

“Don’t use the age excuse,” said Rami. “You find Zoey Deutsch attractive, don’t you?”

Fuck. I nodded.

“How about Camila Cabello?”

Bastard! I nodded.

“Emma Watson?”

I nodded again.

He pretended to be disgusted. “Really, Darling? The little girl from Harry Potter? You fucking pervert!”

I shoved Rami and shouted, “She’s not a girl! She’s twen-”
I intentionally cut myself off.

Rami finished for me. “Twenty-nine years old? Exactly. And so is Selena, give or take a year or two.”

“She fucked Justin Bieber for crying out loud,” I shouted, wondering how I knew that and why I remembered it, and instantly feeling ashamed of the fact that I did.

“Exactly,” a voice from the doorway said.

We turned, and Selena was standing there, naked from the waist down. “I did fuck Justin Bieber. And now I want to fuck a real man. So are you going to put a baby in me, or not?”

“No! I’m not!”

Rami put a shotgun to my head and said, “Yes you will. You don’t have much of a choice, now do you, Darling?

We went into the bedroom. I entered Selena and trusted twelve times–one thrust for every year she’s been on the planet–before ejaculating. A satisfied Rami (he was the only one who felt satisfied) lowered his shotgun and exited the room. When I walked back into the living room a couple minutes later, everyone was laughing so hard that they were all in tears. Robert actually fell to the floor in laughter.

“I told you he would do it,”said Rami, “now pay up!”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You might just be the most gullible human being on the planet,” said Christian as he pulled out his wallet and handed Rami some money.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Still on the floor, Robert said, “Did you actually think that ninety-five percent of the population died in less than a week? The only reason we haven’t seen any people is because everyone is under self-quarantine in their homes.” Like Christian, he pulled out his wallet and handed Rami money.

“Hey, assholes! I didn’t just fuck her because I cared about population numbers! I fucked her because Rami put a fucking gun to my head!”

“Right,” said Kara, sarcastically. “Sure you did.” She handed Rami money. To be completely honest, this was only partially correct. I really did believe Robert when he told me that ninety-five percent of the world was dead, but I honestly didn’t care, as long as my wife was okay. And I really did only fuck Selena because Rami put a gun to my head.

“Selena,” Rami called out, “Get out here. You owe me ten bucks.” A fully clothed Selena emerged from the bedroom and handed Rami a ten dollar bill.

“Wait,” I said. “You were in on this too?”

“I sure was,” she said, laughing. “Of course, I didn’t think you would actually do it. God, you’re stupid.”

“But…but…”

“But but but but. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue, Two Pump Johnny?”

This made everyone laugh even harder. I had about a dozen competing thoughts in my head, each of which I couldn’t fully focus on because all I wanted to do was take a fucking axe to the head of everyone in the room.

“Forty…forty…FORTY FUCKING DOLLARS? YOU FORCED ME TO COMMIT ADULTERY FOR FORTY MOTHERFUCKING DOLLARS?” I turned to Selena. “You fucking BITCH!” I was so angry that I wasn’t even afraid of her anymore. “YOU BETTER NOT BE FUCKING PREGNANT!”

“Oh relax, you fucking dummy. I’m on the pill. Besides, you think this was fun for me? Having your tiny little Irish curse inside of me for like, what? Ten seconds? Oh, that reminds me. Happy belated St. Patrick’s Day, bitch.”

I balled up my fists and charged at her. Before I even knew what had happened, I was out on the front lawn. She had thrown me through the living room’s plate glass window.

3/20/20: I didn’t even bother to pick the broken glass out of my skin before I started plotting my revenge. Christian was going to die. Robert was going to die. Rami and Kara? Sure, they’re family, but they’re going to die too. Especially Rami. Selena? I wanted to kill her more than anyone, but how do you kill something that’s immortal? I didn’t know, but I would figure it out. Until then, I saw that the statewide power outage had ended, which meant that, hopefully, I could get into contact with my wife back in New York. I contacted her via Skype. I was so happy to see her face that I started to cry.

“Hey, honey! How are you feeling?”

A mischievous smile formed on Aileen’s face. “Oh, I feel FANTASTIC! Are you having fun out there in California?” There was something slightly angry in her tone.

Before I could answer her, I heard a male voice in the background say, “Hey, Babe! Are you coming back to bed?”

I looked carefully, and in the background stood a shirtless Justin Bieber.

“Payback is a bitch!” Aileen said. And then the screen went dark.

Memories of my Cousin, Rami Malek

July, 1985 I remember it like it was yesterday. The summer of 1985. I went with my parents to my Uncle Yusef and Aunt Najood’s house for Uncle Yusef’s birthday. Cousin Rami was flipping through the channels on the TV when we came across the Live Aid concert. Queen was performing, and a four-year-old Rami was enthralled. I was amazed at his ability to do a spot-on impression of Freddy Mercury. Just then, Uncle Yusef walked into the room. “What is this trash,” he asked. “Turn it off!” Rami demanded to know why, and Uncle Yusef told him that Freddy Mercury was a bad role model. Then he grabbed the remote from Rami’s hand and turned on The Cosby Show.

A family photo taken at Disney World back in 1985. Pictured here are me, my cousin Rami, and a bunch of other family members whose names don’t matter since they’re not famous movie stars

Halloween, 1988 Our plan was simple. I would dress like Axl Rose. My cousin Rami would be Slash. But I show up to his house, and he’s dressed as Freddy Mercury. I start yelling at him, which leads to insults, which leads to me shoving him. Aunt Najood and Uncle Yusef punish me by not letting me go trick-or-treating for two hours. Not surprisingly, when it’s that time at the end of the night to pour out our pillowcases of candy onto the floor, Rami has much more candy than I do since he got a two hour head start. He decided to rub my nose in this humiliation by singing We Are The Champions. I was so pissed off at him that we didn’t speak again until Christmas.

June, 1990 Olivia had just celebrated her first birthday, and had just started walking. Rami thought it would be funny to trip her while singing Another One Bites The Dust. I slammed Rami through a glass coffee table, resulting in a trip to the ER and seventeen stitches. No one puts Baby Olivia in the corner.

Trick or treating with cousin Rami, 1986.

July, 1996 It’s the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. Rami will be a high school freshman. We’re at a party in upstate New York. Neither one of us had ever drank alcohol before, and I had no intention of doing so due to our strict Muslim upbringing. I spontaneously changed my mind though, and had my first beer. I tried to get Rami to have one, but he refused. “Oh, come on,” I said. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Fast forward to February 24, 2019. Rami wins the Academy Award. That very same morning, I get fired from my job as a Wal-Mart greeter for being drunk on the job.

Playtime with cousin Rami, 1987.

April, 1997 High school. I’m standing at my cousin Rami’s locker when a girl that he barely even knows walks up to him and asks him to the prom. He responds by singing the chorus to Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” “Love? I just wanted a date to the prom, you freak,” she said, and then walked away. “Don’t worry, Rami,” I said, “I’m sure you’ll find someone to go to the prom with…just as long as you don’t behave the way you just behaved.” Rami slammed his locker shut, shouted, “YOU FUCKERS WILL BE SORRY WHEN I’M FAMOUS,” and stormed away.

Thanksgiving with the family, 2018

February 25, 2019 Despite how loud it was at the Oscar after-party, one could hear a pin drop after I said to my cousin, “Hey, Rami, now that you’ve reached the apogee of your career, let’s head over to The Viper Room and overdose on speedballs.” For a split second, I had thought that everyone was silent because they were impressed by my scholarly use of the word “apogee.” It turns out instead that despite it being twenty-five years later, the death of River Phoenix is still a sore spot in Hollywood. The silence was broken by Lady Gaga, who turned to Bradley Cooper and “whispered” loud enough for me to hear, “What an asshole. Who is this guy, anyway?”

February 25, 2019 Celebrating Rami’s Oscar win. So proud.

February 25, 2019 Unfortunately, my inappropriate River Phoenix comment wasn’t the only thing I did to embarrass my cousin Rami at the Oscar after-party. I told Julia Roberts the true story about how, back in 2007, I had a co-worker named Greg who was approached by an Asian man illegally selling DVDs. Greg’s daughter loves the movie Pretty Woman, so Greg asked him if he had it. The Asian man spoke very limited English, so he interpreted “pretty woman” as an X-rated film, and pulled several of them out of his bag. I told this story to Julia because I think it’s funny, not knowing that she had an unfortunate encounter with Harvey Weinstein several years earlier that has left her quite sensitive to “perverts” like me. Not only did she fail to laugh, but she threw her drink in my face and walked away. “I’ll never watch Erin Brokovitch again,” I shouted. I looked over at Rami, who was shaking his head and staring daggers at me.

Craigslist Missed Connections: Traveling Businessman For Dinner

Traveling business man for dinner (Midtown)
Traveling business man looking for a dinner partner to break up the boredom of solo dinners

Your ad reminds me of the time that I traveled alone to Dublin back in 2006. I had arrived less than an hour earlier, and I was sitting alone in a restaurant when a woman flirtatiously said to me, “I see that we’re both eating alone. Would you like to join me?” I politely declined, the reason being that she looked like Mark Bavaro of the 1990 New York Giants. That’s quite unfortunate, but it’s nice to know that the ladies of Ireland were already eager to see me Lucky Charms before I could even take a sip of my first pint of Guinness. The fact that you have to take an ad out on Craigslist to find a dinner companion leads me to believe that you’re not nearly as beautiful as I am since I don’t need to do that, but that’s okay. Most people aren’t. And in case you think I sound a bit too conceited, I will admit with a great amount of shame that, like most people who are extremely gorgeous, I am as dumb as I am beautiful.

Or so I’m told. The Dunning Kruger effect is when stupid people don’t realize that they’re stupid. For example, I just assume that no one knows how to open up a bottle of Tylenol because the cap is childproof. Fortunately, whenever I get a headache (which is every day and is caused by too much fucking) I have whichever woman I just fucked open up the bottle for me. I always express my amazement whenever they’re able to do this, usually by asking something along the lines of, “Wow! Did you go to Harvard or something?” Not knowing how to respond to this, they usually just jump back into bed and start fondling my member.

I wouldn’t mind having dinner with you (since I feel bad for you), but you should understand that dining with me will present you with some unique challenges. For example, wherever it is that you’re from, I can almost guarantee that I’ve never heard of that place. That’s how beautiful I am. And I hope that you’re patient, because I usually have a lot of trouble figuring out how salt shakers work. That’s how mesmerizing my eyes are. If I ask you where the bathroom is, prepare yourself for the fact that I will get lost for at least thirty minutes as I try to locate it. That’s how chiseled my jaw line is. In fact, just to keep things moving along smoothly, it would be best if you walked me to and from the bathroom. I also feel obligated to tell you that when it comes to having dinner with me, there’s no such thing as a quiet, uneventful meal. If our server is a male, I have to inspect my food carefully because, eight times out of ten, the waiter is so jealous of my good looks that he spits in my food. And if the server is a female, look out! That’s when things get really interesting. Most waitresses can’t even hold my gaze. But if they do happen to look me in the eye, they usually just strip naked right there, jump onto my lap, and fuck me right there at the table. Instead of being disgusted by this, everyone in the restaurant stands up and cheers. It’s important to understand that I don’t even initiate it. Waitresses just attack me. And even though I think it would be far more appropriate to have sex with them in the bathroom, like I said before, I always get lost on my way back to the table, so I don’t. I’m particularly uncomfortable fucking the waitress when children are present, but I’m so hot that the parents don’t seem to mind. Just last month, I was fucking this waitress in the middle of Applebee’s in Sheepshead Bay when I heard a little boy ask his mother, “Mommy, do you think I’ll ever be as handsome as him?” To her credit, the mother was perfectly honest with him, saying, “No, sweetie. You won’t be. But you’re already so much smarter than him.” The boy looked at his mother and asked, “How do you know that?” “Because, sweetie, the waitress fell off of the table ten minutes ago, and look at what he’s doing.” I looked down, and much to my embarrassment, discovered that the waitress had been knocked unconscious when she fell off the table, and that I had spent the last several minutes fucking a napkin dispenser!

Whenever a waitress and I get done fucking in a restaurant, she inevitably asks me for my phone number. I can never remember what it is, (I’ve only had this phone number for three years, and I assume that it takes most people at least a decade to remember theirs, maybe a little less than that if they’re really ugly, and therefore, smart). So it’s at that time that I have to look up my phone number on my cell phone, but I can never remember how to unlock my phone. “Just swipe it with your finger,” the ravaged waitress says.

So let’s explore some of the pros and cons of having dinner with me. One of the cons is that, if our server is a male, I never know how much to tip him. That’s because when you have perfect dimples, you don’t need to know how math works. Another bad thing about having a male server is that they’re so jealous of me that they charge me extra. I think. Like I said, I don’t know how math works, so I can’t prove this. On the other hand, if our server is a female, not only do we not have to tip her, but our meal will most likely be free. The only drawback is that instead of having a quiet meal, you have to listen to the waitress scream and moan the entire time. Hey, look, dining out with me isn’t for everybody, okay?

If it is for you, you should know that every now and then, my “magic” rubs off on my dining companions. One time, after taking just two steps into a T.G.I. Friday’s, the hostess threw me into a nearby closet and gave me a blowjob. When I emerged and sat down at a table, our waitress (I was with my friend, Matt, at the time) walked up to our table and said to me, “I know that you’re not ready to fuck yet because of what just happened in the closet, but I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” She looked at Matt and said, “I’m going to fuck you right here, just for being with him.” Then she looked at me again, and said, “But I’m going to do reverse cowgirl on him so that I can look at you the entire time.” And that’s exactly what she did. She fucked Matt, (putting the “F” in T.G.I. Friday’s) while I sat there, eating potato skins. There we were. Her staring at me. Me staring at her. Me thinking, “This is awkward. But enjoyable. These potato skins are amazing.”

As you can imagine, I never take a woman that I am dating out to eat. That’s a recipe for disaster. Whenever I eat with other men, they always look at me in awe, asking, “How the hell do you do it?” But believe it or not, there are times when I would like to eat my food without the waitress blowing me under the table. Or, at the very least, I would like to be able to read the menu without being confused by it (“Appetizers”? Are ten-letter words really necessary?).

I was once stuck in a room where some smart person was listening to WNYC or NPR or some other radio station that I have no interest in, and a guy on the radio said, “You know, I look at someone with a really expensive car, but they might have gotten the money for that car through a personal injury lawsuit. Or I look at a Democratic president, and he might be the president, but maybe in order to get elected, he had to make a compromise with an oil company even though he’s pro-environment. Or I see some successful Hollywood actress, but maybe she only became a star because of some casting couch situation. The lesson is that you should never envy someone for what they have until you find out what they had to do in order to get it.” Truer words have never been spoken. When I was born, I apparently struck a deal with God that I would be stunningly beautiful, but I would be borderline retarded as a result. The point is that you probably want what I have, which is—how should I put this—constant dinner “companions,” and I want what you have, which is the ability to use a restaurant bathroom and then relocate my table without having to clear the rest of the day’s schedule.

So what do you say? Rather than envy each other for what the person has, why don’t we learn from each other? I suggest we go to the T.G.I. Fridays in Midtown this Thursday. Cindy, the reverse cowgirl waitress, will be working that night (hint hint) and if that’s not enough incentive, like I said, their potato skins are amazing.

Keith

cc: Han Solo
Gorgeous George
Ben Jealous

Craigslist Missed Connections: Uber Pool- moved from Dallas (East Village)

Uber pool- moved from Dallas (East Village)
We hit it off in an Uber pool from east village to Tom & Jerry’s. Happy to be your tour guide. Hit me up with your name and something else we talked about.

My name is Keith, and we talked about Tom and Jerry’s contentious and often violent relationship. We talked about how we were in awe that a mouse could lift up a mallet that is several times his size in order to be able to swing it at Tom’s head, and you punned that he must be a real “gym rat,” even though mice and rats are different. You asked me how I know Tom and Jerry, and I told you that Jerry and I used to work together in a law firm. You mentioned that you couldn’t believe that Jerry is a lawyer considering his violent domestic situation, and you wondered why he doesn’t arrange for Tom to be taken away by Animal Care & Control of Manhattan. I replied that Jerry enjoys “the game,” that he’s an adrenaline junky who likes to keep his wits sharp. You said that you can’t understand how anyone could constantly be “on edge” like that and I speculated that Jerry’s constant battles with Tom will help him to evolve into a New York City super rat. It was at that point that you told me that my grasp on the mechanics of how evolution actually works is quite poor. Despite my explanation of how Jerry is an adrenaline junky, you said that you still don’t understand why Tom can’t just leave him alone, but you were eventually forced to admit that Jerry can be a bit of a cunt at times and probably has it coming to him. You mentioned the time that Jerry discreetly tucked Tom’s tail into his sandwich, forcing him to bite down on it. We agreed that that was simply uncalled for. You said that Jerry should quit while he’s ahead, that it’s all a numbers game, that despite Jerry’s hubris, he’s grown a bit too confident throughout the years, and that he’ll get captured and killed by Tom eventually. That’s when I mentioned the parallels between Jerry and Donald Trump, which you thought was funny, but I was being serious. I asked why Tom doesn’t just set out glue traps, and you told me that glue traps are cruel because not only will the mouse starve to death, but many other animals will get stuck to the trap as well. I agreed that glue traps are cruel, but I pointed out the fact that they are no less cruel than the time that Tom tied Jerry up in front of a dartboard, put an apple on his head, and threw darts at the apple.

When we finally got to Tom and Jerry’s, I received a text message from Elmer Fudd saying that he scored some cocaine, so I stayed in the Uber and headed back uptown.