'Every Day Is Mother's Day For Me, Honey'

Each year, we spend one day or, if you're like most people, a few hours, paying tribute to all of the moms out there with homemade ashtrays, last-minute flowers and pretty cards with overly sentimental messages. And even if your mom had an epidural, she still deserves to be celebrated. So, before we wrap up another Mother's Day, I'd like to share a story about an unusual Mother's Day I spent with my own birth mother a few years back.

Every year when I ask my mom what she wants for Mother's Day, I get the same answer: "Oh, honey, I don't want anything. Because of you and Jessica, every day is Mother's Day for me." Every time she says this, I consider asking if it felt like it Mother's Day when the cops called and told her they picked me up for "turfing" or when I got drunk and spray painted naked stick figures all over her basement or when  I got suspended in Seventh Grade for constantly talking to Dildo McRay, the pretend imagery friend I concocted to make Ms. Wert'z life a living hell. But I never do. Because maybe, deep down, my mom has always found these things just as hilarious as I do, but societal norms forced her to pretend she was angry, disappointed and hurt by my actions. If my mom found my youthful antics even a quarter as funny as I did, then there's no doubt every day really would seem like Mother's Day to her. In all honestly though, I think my mom is a little uncomfortable with people making a fuss a over her. As long as I can remember, she's been consumed with doing things for others. So she's not used to having the tables turned.

If you have a high-maintenance mom, then the idea of one who doesn't seem to want or need anything for Mother's Day may sound appealing. But it actually makes the whole process more challenging. Only once did my mom specifically say what she wanted for Mother's Day. And that was only after I begged her to pick something she really wanted to do that day. Her request: breakfast and a movie. Breakfast wasn't at some fancy restaurant, either (although that option was on the table). My mom chose a seedy Greek Diner that claimed to be open to "25 hours a day." It was the kind of place with harsh lighting, obnoxiously long menus and an even longer list of health-code violations. Who spends Mother's Day at a place like this? People without mothers -- or people whose mothers' did such a number on them growing up that they wind up spending their days in depressing Greek diners nursing the hangovers they got from the previous night at even more depressing bars. Breakfast was uneventful. My mom got her usual: A coffee, an ice water with lemon, and eggs over-easy with home fries and a side of bacon. After our meals, my mom took to devouring all of the jelly packets on our table with her fork, while I stared at the diner patrons and wondered where their lives had gone wrong.

After a meal like that, you'd think my mom would want to see something uplifting or at least funny. But she picked United 93, a film that IMDB describes as "A real time account of the events on United Flight 93, one of the planes hijacked on 9/11 that crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania when passengers foiled the terrorist plot." That's a heavy movie for anyone who's in possession of normal human feelings and emotions. But my mom has an overabundance of those things. It's not unusual for that woman to cry during movie previews. So I spent a decent amount of United 93 running back and forth to the bathroom to get toilet paper to help combat my mom's weeping fits. It took the duration of the credits for my mom to compose herself enough to speak, and when she finally did, she said: "this has been the most wonderful Mother's Day ever." Then she immediately started bawling again.

It's A Camry Thing ... And I'm A Serial Killer

I've never been part of a cult, but I did drive a Jeep Wrangler for several years. If you've ever owned a Jeep, you know there's a similarity. Jeep owners seem to think they all belong to some elite club, and other people just wouldn't able to understand what it's like to drive a vehicle that can safely get you to your "job" Monday through Friday while also allowing you to do some "balls out off-roading with the motherfucking doors off" on the weekends. In fact, Jeep owners are such annoying assholes that they actually wave to one another to acknowledge their kinship -- or they used to when I had one. (Sidenote: When I had a Jeep, my response to the Jeep-wave was normally a hand gesture most drivers reserved for expressions for extreme anger and aggression.)

Now I drive a Toyota Camry, a gold 2005 model that my girlfriend refers to as "The Grocery-Getter." When I pass other Camrys on the road, the drivers don't wave. No, these people are too busy screaming at their kids or nervously gripping the wheel with their liver-spotted hands and pondering their approaching death to do that type of thing.

But not too long ago, my car did get some unexpected attention. I was making my way back to the Grocery-Getter with the 30-pack I'd just purchased at the beer distributor when I noticed an awkward-looking, middle-aged guy walking toward me and smiling broadly. When I offered an uncomfortable smile of my own, the awkward guy spoke: "How many miles?" he asked while continuing to smile.
"Excuse me?"
"Your car. How many miles she got on her?"
"Oh, a little more than 110,000," I said.
"Great! That's really great," he said still beaming.

I expected that to be the end of it, but awkward guy was far from finished. After holding his stupid grin just long enough to move the needle from kinda weird to outwardly uncomfortable, he spoke again.
"Three-ten," he said, and waited for my response.
"What? What are you talking about?" I asked.
"I've got three-hundred thousand on this baby right here," he said pointing to the blue Toyota Camry directly in front of mine that I hadn't noticed until that moment.
"Wow, you really got the most out of that car," I said, gripping the door handle of my own car in an effort to let the guy know I was ready to leave.
"Oh yeah, these cars will run forever if you take care of them. But you gotta take care of them. Get the oil changed every -- and I mean every -- four to five thousand miles, tires rotated every six, then you're golden. But I don't want you to think I haven't had to do anything. Cause that's just not the case. At one-seventy, she needed struts, and that wasn't cheap. Brakes have changed a bunch of times, and a few minor things here and there but, all things considered, I think I made out pretty good."

Did I mention that this was in the middle of the day on a random Wednesday in the middle of March in a deserted New Jersey beach town? This guy had approached me and my Grocery-Getter from the direction of the beach where he'd probably been staring off at the ocean and meditating on significance of owning a car that passed the 300K threshold. The goofy smile was all I needed to decide this guy wasn't playing with a full deck, but he seemed harmless enough. So after the unsolicited Car Fax report he gave me on his vehicle, I couldn't imagine he'd possibly have anything else to say about his car. But I was wrong.


"Do you wanna see it?" he asked, substituting the stupid grin for a pair of raised eyebrows.
"See what?"
"The odometer. Do you wanna see the odometer on my car?" he asked.
"That's alright, I believe you," I said. And with that, I finally got in my car and left.

I've thought about this interaction a lot. Chances are, this weird little man's odometer overture was completely innocent. Maybe he did just want me to see that his trusty, dependable Toyota really had as many miles as he said it did. Or maybe, Toyotaman would've waited until I was straining my eyes to read the tiny numbers on his odometer and whipped his dick out. "Whataya think?" he'd ask, and I'd have to find some tactful way to compliment his penis, while also explaining that I wasn't in the market for that sort of thing.

But a small part of me feared that something more sinister at work. Had I took Toyotaman up on his offer, I feel like there was at least a 40% chance he would've taken a crowbar to my head right at the moment I let my guard down and peaked my head into his car. When I came to, I'd be in a cage in some dank basement in some remote location with all the other poor bastards who fell for Toyotaman's look-at-all-the-miles-on-my-odometer trick. I'd spend the rest of my days listening to details of his beloved Camry's magnificence, and begging for mercy and water. Eventually, I'd die in that cage.

That never happened, though. I was able to resist the temptation to peak at Toyotaman's odometer and, if you ever run into him, you should do the same.

Dear Cardinals Of The Conclave: Here's Why I Should Be Pope

Dear Cardinals of the Conclave,

First off, my condolences on the whole Benedict situation. It can't be easy for you guys right now. To have to sit back and play along as your guy becomes the first pontiff in more than 700 years to resign because he says his health made it impossible to "adequately fulfill the ministry" can't be fun. I mean, don't get me wrong, Catholics can be pretty naive, but to expect people to believe the health thing is really asking a lot -- even by your standards. I mean, the last guy you had was a traveling cadaver for like seven years before you guys walked away on the whole "Weekend at Bernie's" ruse and let him die in peace. Look, I know you guys will eventually get through this little setback, and it'll be business as usual in the Vatican. But in the mean time, do you mind if I offer some constructive criticism, as well as a new idea? You don't have to take me up on it. Just mull it over, and see if it makes sense.

Now I know you're really busy gearing up for big election, and I'm guessing it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to say you guys are probably gonna elect another really old white guy again. Am I right? For argument's sake, let's just say that "health" really is old Bene's reason for stepping down. Well, then why in God's name would you leave yourself wide open to the same thing by going with another blue-hair. Do you guys have any idea how terrible old people's bodies actually are? These elderly men are like American-made cars with over 85,000 miles on them: If they start up in the morning without any problems, you feel like you caught a break. Is that really the type of vehicle you want to lead the Church and shepherd an easily misled flock. And that's only the physical health we're talking about guys. Imagine what can happen if the new pope develops some form of dementia, and it just happens to show up for the first time when he's giving one of his giant speeches. You'd look pretty foolish, if your Numero Uno was out there on that beautiful balcony telling scores of his adoring followers to "get off his g#d@mn property before he calls the cops" because he got a little mixed up.

So what am I saying here? Well, I'm here to make you an offer: Let me try the whole pope thing for 30 days. If it doesn't work out, I just walk away; no harm, no foul. After all, I can't do any worse than the last guy did, right? If you like what you see after that initial trial run, then you give me a one-year contract, and we talk again after that year's up. The Philadelphia 76ers (a professional basketball team) did a similar thing with Andrew Bynum this year, and I PROMISE you guys my papacy is guaranteed to work out better than that.

Why me? What makes this Polish blogger from Norristown, PA, qualified to take over the most important role in the Catholic Church. Well, a lot things, frankly. But I'll just bullet out the major ones, and let you guys come to your own conclusion.

• Health. Look, I know I've been harping on you guys about the whole really, really old pope tradition you've got, but it can't be stressed enough: If you want to limit the potential problems with the next pope, you've got to start by not electing a guy who's on the back nine of his time in this world. At 31, I'm no kid, but I'm young enough that you don't have to constantly live in fear that some routine ailment could be the end of me. And don't tell me that's not a concern. A urinary tract infection almost took out JP2. Plus, I'm relatively healthy. Aside from some moderate drinking and the occasional Adderall use, I try to keep in shape and eat right. Last year, I even ran the Broad Street Run -- a 10 mile road race through the heart of Philadelphia -- at around an eight-and-a-half-minute-per-mile pace. So, from a health perspective, all you've got to worry with me is: A.) some terrible disease (like cancer or Fibromyalgia); B.) A freak accident (leaning to far over the balcony while waving to my flock and plummeting headlong to my death); or C.) Assassination, the chances of which, I'll grant you, will probably increase significantly if you elect me as pope.
• Experience. Where to start? Well, I was an altar server from grade four through grade eight, as well as a lectern in grades nine and ten. Need more? I beat out 13 of my eighth grade classmates to land the role of Jesus Christ, Son of God, in the 1997 edition of St. Paul Roman Catholic Church's "Passion Play" -- sometimes referred to as "The Living Stations." Not only did I rise to occasion, but I actually delivered a performance that was so moving several members of the congregation wept visibly. Mrs. Kelly, an eccentric and the director of our choir, told me my performance "moved her from the bowels of her spirit to the fires of her loins." I never actually figured out what she meant by that, but it sounds quite good. I'm not going to sit here and tell you the Lord was speaking directly through me during that magical performance, but I'm not going to deny it, either.
• Relatability. In addition to the credentials I've laid out above, I attended Catholic School for 13 years. Because of this, I rarely attend Mass today. Aside from weddings, funerals and the big two (Christmas and Easter), you'd be hard-pressed to find me inside a house of God celebrating a Catholic Mass. In fact, I can guarantee you that I've spent more Sunday mornings wandering around WaWa searching for greasy hangover cures than I ever have inside a church. Why would I admit something like that to you? Because I'm the poster child for today's Catholics. After spending a good chunk of my formative years being indoctrinated in all of the fear and the shame and the guilt that goes along with being Catholic, I walked away from the Church determined to never look back. However, no matter how far I strayed, the guilt and the shame and the fear have always stayed right there with me. Look, even though I'm not what you'd call a "good" or a "practicing" Catholic, there will always be a small part of me that's terrified of the tiny possibility that you guys just might be right about the whole eternal fire that awaits sinners, non-believers and the misguided people of all those other silly religions. So even when my anger toward the Church is at it's worst, my training still manages to rein me back in and say, "Whoa, there! Easy with the Catholic-bashing. After all, you just never know ..." And I wholeheartedly believe the majority of Catholics -- at least the ones that's don't already have one foot in the grave -- are more like me than you. Therefore, with the right marketing strategy -- and a few heartfelt, I-used-to-be-just-like-you-guys speeches from me -- we can change the waning popularity that's been plaguing the Catholic Church and bring in a whole new audience to boot!
• Culpability -- a lack therof. Speaking of Catholic-bashing, I'm not trying to beat a dead horse or anything, but I don't think the whole scandal thing is going away any time soon. Now, I'm just being real with you here: You have a better shot at convincing Stephen Hawking that the world really was created in seven days than you do at finding a qualified, high-ranking cardinal who hasn't been at least a little bit complicit in covering up something that kinda-sorta-maybe should've been handled in a completely different way. That's a non-issue with this guy. You want to know why? Because the bulk of my knowledge on the scandal comes from jokes made by stand-up comedians -- e.g., "sweating like a priest at a little league game," etc., etc. If I'm Pope, the media can dig all they want, they'll tie me to anything that would reflect poorly on you guys*. Can you honestly say that about any of your other papal candidates?

Well, that's all I got. Like I said, think about it. If you like what you read, Google me -- or just respond to this email**.

Sincerely,
Jared Bilski

* I'm obviously only referring to my involvement in the scandal and not things like this.
** This email was sent to the only contact email I could find on Vatican's website; however, I'm considering sending it to U.S. Cardinal Roger Mahony's Facebook page, as well.

Words with Friends: What 'Needs More Games' Really Means

Words With Friends, a game created by the folks at Zynga, is Scrabble for people who don't have the patience for Scrabble. The people who aren't content to sit around in a cozy living room with a group of friends or family members focusing on a singularly challenging and fulfilling game. No, the people who play Words With Friends need to do that shit in their own way and on their own time. And by that I mean on their phones, when they're driving.

While you're actually playing Words With Friends, the program is constantly trying to get you to add more games by introducing people you know, people who also enjoy a good game of ADD Scrabble. These prospective opponents are introduced with short phrases that describe their playing styles, such as "Plays at your pace!" and "Likes to Chat!"

So do the Zynga folks come up with these descriptions by doing an analysis of people's playing styles and then placing them into one of a select few predetermined categories? I'm afraid it's much more complicated than that. See, thanks to state-of-the-art spyware technology, the Words With Friends program does an extensive review of each of its players' complete web-browsing histories. Then, that data is run through another program, which is used to create a complex psychological profile of each and every Words player. Then, finally, those detailed profiles are sorted into the categories -- such as "Play for big points!" -- which have less to do with the person's playing style than they do with his or her behavioral tendancies.

So here's what the playing styles in Words With Friends really mean:

Needs More Games! (NMGs): These poor bastards are some of the most tortured souls on the planet, and they immerse themselves in a constant stream of online activity and mindless gaming to avoid looking further into their own desperation and self-loathing. While NMGs crave some degree of human contact, unlike LCs (Likes to Chat), they seldom act out sexually -- and in many cases even have sexual dysfunctions. If an NMG isn't playing at least seven games of Words at a time, he or she will often resort to cutting and self-mutilation or, due to personal cowardice, watching videos of others partaking in the act of self-mutilation.

Likes to Chat! (LCs): Hyper-sexual and emotionally damaged by nature, LCs are desperate for human contact of any sort and are usually simultaneously conversing with an array of acquaintances and complete strangers via communication mediums such as Words, Facebook, Twitter, Google Talk, Direct Message (i.e., text), Skpe and Lonely Slovaks in the Night. However, LCs are seldom satisfied by the constant interaction and often make rash decisions in an effort to achieve immediate gratification and fulfillment. For example: It's not uncommon for an LC to stop a game of Words a few moves in and ask his/her opponent to meet at the nearest Bennigan's, whereby the LC will commence to perform fellatio/cunnilingus on him/her in a public bathroom stall. While almost half (47%) of LCs are promiscuous women in their early-to-mid 20s, it's not uncommon for LCs to be: Middle-aged women and men in unhappy marriages; gay male truck drivers posing as straight, homophobic Tea-Party members; undertakers; Mary Kay sales reps; and professional male soccer players.
Note: If you're playing an LC at Words, then you can definitely have sex with that person.

Plays Good Defense! (PGDs): Highly manipulative and of superior intelligence, PGDs are by far the most dangerous individuals on the list. PGDs can best be described as sadists, though, some PGDs have sociopathic tendencies, as well. To PGDs, Words, much is like life itself, is a game that's object is simply to bait others into making a series moves that will eventually lead to their downfall. Whether they're playing consonants when they're near premium squares -- like Triple Word and Triple Letter -- or convincing a Craigslist patron it's best to meet in a secluded area, PGDs derive intense pleasure from letting their victims know they essentially set themselves up for their unfortunate ending. Investment bankers, record label executives, hedge fund managers, overly supportive parents and serial killers generally fall into the PGD category. The most famous PGD is Charles Manson; the most commercially successful is Bernie Madoff; and the most underrated is Ryan Stiltzen, an up-and-coming serial killer from the Northwest.

Plays at Your Pace! (PYPs): In mild cases, PYPs are simply shy and indecisive. However, most of these individuals are hopelessly insecure and have little to no self-worth. PYPs are easily controlled and suffer almost paralyzing anxiety when asked to make even the most insignificant decisions. While on one hand PYPs dread the thought of making a move that would be considered unpopular by either peers or complete strangers, they're also aroused sexually when they are the victim of pain (physical or emotional), belittling or humiliation.

Most PYPs are Class IV Sexual Masochists, who find it impossible to maintain normal healthy relationships or achieve orgasm without the infliction (upon them) of pain or humiliation. Virtually all PYPs have at least a peripheral involvement in the BDSM (Bondage/Discipline, Dominance/Submission, Sadism/Masochism) community, but the bulk are only into light bondage of the ball-gag on a Thursday afternoon variety. However, a small percentage of PYPs are deeply involved in the resurfacing German scat movement. In rare cases, following a game of Words, extremely disturbed PYPs will message an opponent and politely ask, "if he/she would ever have any interest in taking a dump on her/his chest while she/he pleasures herself/himself."

Plays for Big Points! (PBPs): What PBPs crave most is the acceptance and attention they've been lacking from key parental and authority figures their entire lives. PBPs come from an array of neglected backgrounds. Whether they were a glossed-over middle child, the progeny of a workaholic father and over-medicated mother, or the product of a single mother who decided there was no way having a baby at 15 was going to ruin her social life, PBPs do everything big and make everything about them. Got a funny story? A PBP can easily top it. Narrowly escaped death in dramatic fashion? A PBP actually died on the table, got a glimpse of the afterlife and was somehow brought back to the land of the living. Extremely narcissistic by nature, PBPs Google themselves an average of 72.4 times per day. It's also worth noting that PBPs make more of their moves in Words With Friends on the toilet than any other group.

Top 5 Valiums of 2012

We're far enough into 2013 that many people have already given up on their half-assed resolutions to get into the best shape of their lives, change the world and "walk right out that door if he [or she] hits me just one more time." Even though last year is little more than the ghost of an old fart that you convince yourself is still lingering in your car at this point, I've decided to take one last look back.

To give you an idea of how full of shit I am at sticking to resolutions, here's one I made last year regarding this very blog: "Finally, I'm going to try to post at least once per week; no more of this once-a-month bullshit." Not only did I fail miserably at this attempt, I also posted fewer blogs in 2012 than than the previous year.

Despite my failings in the follow-through department, despite the fact that this blog hasn't been stumbled upon by some powerful literary agent with a great sense of humor who decides on the spot to give me a book deal, and despite the fact no post I ever write will get anywhere near the amount of hits this video of an Asian baby dancing to "Gangnam Style" got, I still love writing this thing. Thanks to everybody who read, commented and shared anything I wrote in 2012 -- and please continue to do so this year!

Here are the Top 5 Valiums of 2012:

5. Atlantic City Used To Be Even More Disturbing? A painting of the historical Atlantic City boardwalk that included the phrases "LIVING INFANTS" and "25 cents" got my imagination working overtime. Eventually -- through some online research -- I found out who Dr. Martin A. Couney was -- and what those baby incubators from "Boardwalk Empire" were all about.

4. Transcript Of My Talk With A Comcast Rep: In the first installation of the Comcast chat series, I ask a very able customer-service representative for help with my billing questions, as well as my failing marriage. It was during this chat that I learned customer-service interactions can actually be enjoyable -- if you steer the conversation in the direction you want them to go.

3. Listen, My False Patriotism Has Nothing To Do With You Ladies: This is probably my personal favorite post, because it's something that actually happened to my friends and me. Here's a 14-word summary if you have unruly children and barely have enough time to check the mail, let alone read a 905-word blog post: Ski trip, rough women, U.S.A. chant, Puerto-Rican pride, "God Bless America," shitty friend.

2. Transcript Of My Talk With A Comcast Rep: Volume 2: After testing the waters to see just how much you could say to a Comcast rep earlier in 2012, I decided to go deeper with representative Bronald Fouie, a man who told me: "I do belive that horrible experiences like this make us a better person.For the Showtime concern ..." You, the readers, rewarded me for my gamble by making this the second-most-viewed post.

1. The 4 Most Surprising Nickelback Fans: I had a lot of fun writing one but, to be honest, I really didn't expect it to top this list. I think it had to be the pictures. A bunch of people probably typed "Nancy Pelosi Blow Job Gesture" into Google and came across my post in results, which I'm sure was buried beneath all of the more-relevant articles on the subject.

It's worth noting that neither this year's top post nor last year's (Dear God Hates Fags) came close to surpassing the most-viewed Valium of all time: My Life According To Stone Temple Pilots' Albums. If that isn't a testament to the GREATEST rock 'n' roll band of the past 25 years*, I don't know what is.

*This statement is in no way limited to the very subjective views of a Polish blogger who has an unhealthy obsession with 90's rock music in general and the Stone Temple Pilots in particular.

'You just don't understand women'

"You just don't understand women." If you're a man, that's a phrase you've probably heard at least a few times in reference to your knowledge of the opposite sex. 

It's generally understood that men -- the whole lot of us -- will never be able to figure out the fairer sex. And when our lack of understanding in this area is acknowledged, it's quite a powerful sentiment.

In fact, I saw this comedian recently, and the best reaction he got in his entire set wasn't even during a punchline. All he said was: “Fellas, if I can give a little piece of advice, it’s this: Don’t even try to understand women because you never will.” That's all it took, and the women in the crowd just went ape shit. They were clapping and banging on their chairs and yelling things like, “I'm so fucking wet!” OK, fine. You're right. They weren't clapping.
 
Despite what this guy said, I think the real misunderstanding was between the women in the audience and the pandering, Hawaiian-shirt-wearing comedian. I think some women … some women may take the statement -- you just don't understand women -- the wrong way. I think maybe these women are so used to hearing men say it’s impossible to understand them that they really believe they’re as complicated as Quantum Physics. 

But that’s not what this comic (or most men for that matter) meant. He didn’t mean, “Don’t try to understand women because their hearts are as deep as the ocean, and you’ll never be able to fathom the complexity of their souls.” He meant, “Don’t try to understand women because they’re fucking crazy.” He was just smart enough – and hacky enough – to put it another way. You can’t just go around calling half the population out on their insanity – especially not when you’re trying to sleep with them, and live with them, and get them to have your children.
 
Saying “someone is impossible to understand” doesn’t necessarily mean that someone is reasonable or logical or even complex. If you know someone who stands on a corner all day trying to sell glasses of his own urine to people to help save them from the zombie apocalypse, you don’t say, “Let me tell you something Philadelphia, don’t even try to understand Homeless Carl, because you never will.”
 
But if you don’t get why your girlfriend spends 12 hours cleaning the house because there’s a 7-percent chance Brianna and Shea may “swing by real quick on their way to dinner” to drop off a dish, and she needs the place to be immaculate so when Brianna comments on how nice everything looks, she can sigh and say, "Oh God! This place is a such a mess right now" well, my friend, then you just don’t understand women my friend.

Best of @JaredBilski: 26 Tweets I Want To Remember (Sept. 2011-Dec. 2012)

I joined Twitter sometime in 2010 (follow me here). Since then, I've managed to dash off 922 tweets. When it comes to writing, 922 of anything sounds impressive. For instance, if I'd written 922
thought-provoking essays or 922 colorful, descriptive poems or even 922 mouth-watering recipes, you'd probably think, "My God, this Polish fellow is certainly prolific, isn't he dear?" But this is Twitter, and my tweets don't mean shit.

When I signed up for this thing, however, my intentions were pure. I thought it would be a huge challenge to condense my joke ideas and funny thoughts to a mere 140 characters. And it has been. It's been so challenging that I don't do it nearly as often as I should. Most of my time on Twitter is spent trying to engage Beetlejuice (@Beetlepimp) in conversation, or letting the eight people who follow me know that I'll be performing for seven people on Saturday at the ChuckleGiggleLaughRiotHut.

Every so often, though, this Twitter thing works exactly how I envisioned it. And when that happens, it's a goddamn beautiful thing. Here's what happens: I'll tweet out some zygote of a joke -- or a random funny thought -- that's retweeted by someone I respect, which gives me the motivation to flesh the idea out until it's ready to be tested at a number of soul-crushing open mics until, finally, roughly four to six months after the initial tweet, I'm proudly unveiling my beautiful, newborn baby at the ChuckleGiggleLaughRiotHut to the seven people I mentioned in the previous paragraph.

Problem is, I forgot most of the things I tweet as soon as I tweet them. So in the interest of preservation, I'm going to be listing the little zygotes that I feel -- with a little nurturing -- have a shot at becoming a healthy, happy "dick joke" babies some day, starting with the 26 most recent ones. Let me know which ones you think have potential or, even better, just follow me on Twitter and tell me there.

1. When the basket is passed around @ church instead of cash I put news stories on molester priests who were passed from parish to parish in it
2. Every time my dog won't eat her dinner, I tell her to think about all the poor, starving dogs in China that will become somebody's dinner.
3. In Ann Coulter's defense people are genetically predisposed to act in accordance w/ the appearance of their face & she has a very cunty face
4. Best age to have kids? 48. Then when they ask to move back in after college, you can say: Of course you can room with me at the nursing home
5. Old-People Speak 101: "You should've seen this town back in the day" translates to "This town was better before the minorities got here." 
6. Does anyone else have trouble determining if a person is really, really drunk or just European?
7. Augusta National added its 1st women members on the condition they're OK w/ being called Sugartits & receiving playful taps on their bottoms 
8. Scott Stapp's autobiography reveals the Creed singer tried to commit suicide, confirming that not even Scott Stapp can stand Scott Stapp.
9. If you're upset about the way Chic-fil-A treats gay people, then you'll be absolutely appalled by how it treats gay chickens.
10. Next time your in a swanky bar, order a 'Pittsburgh Racist' and watch as the pretentious 'mixologist' pretends that he's heard of it.
11. 'I don't know if it's b/c I'm ur mother or if it's the wording, but I just don't find that fisting skit funny.' - my mom's critique of a bit 
12. I can't wait until the first crop of kids from 'Toddlers & Tiaras' start resurfacing in episodes of 'Intervention.' #anaturalprogression
13. The problem is, after you take it enough & build up a tolerance, 5 Hour Energy becomes 22~minute energy.
14. Next time u call Customer Service, have filthy porn blaring in the background & say, 'can u speak up? Im in the middle of something.'
15. New greeting card category: 'Loss of a God': ~ For people who just found out the religion they subscribed to their entire lives is bullshit.
16. Been watching a band for 20 minutes now & I can't tell if they're Christian rock or just really corny, either way God would be disappointed
17. Plato's Closet sounds way too pretentious for a place that sells USED clothes. That's why I'm opening up my own store: Aristotle's Asshole.
18. Waiter: What kind of toast? Me (not understanding the question): umm, American I guess. Waiter: That's gotta be white, right?
19. Can't a guy just blast Elliott Smith from a Boombox while standing on the edge of the Walt Whitman Bridge w/out people assuming the worst?
20. There are probably a lot of people in prison who take offense to the phrase, "the truth will set you free."
21. Transgender Tabbies: A daring reality show about cats who are trapped in the wrong bodies & owners who pay for their sex-change surgeries.
22. #StripClubFun Go to a club, jump on stage & scream, "honey have you lost ur goddamn mind?" as you attempt to cover a stripper with a blanket
23. Aren't they all 'Drug-Free School Zones' or are there places where it's like 'These kids will never be shit, so peddle ur crank right here'?
24. 'It's all smiles and handjobs until someone loses an eye' ~ Stacey, victim of an unfortunate digital manipulation accident.
25. Guy in the funeral procession: The fact that you're dancing in ur car leads me to believe u don't care about the guy you're going to bury
26. Rite aid worker: 'don't you want to save twenty percent with a wellness card?'Me: 'that's ok, i don't much like Jews.'