It’s a shitty thing when you run out of material to write about. Sure, you can’t ever really run out of material when your topics are as vacuous and varied as the ones I frequent. But sometimes it’s just not there. By “it” I of course mean the superhaha juice.
Very recently, my friend Max, a man of unerring genius came up with a term to describe the things that I do when I’ve run out of material. He called them, “Dave’s Small Life Experiences.”
Small life experiences can be anything. They’re designed to expose myself to parts of life that I’d normally never get to see. They range from the super small, i.e. going to a movie drunk just to watch it, to the somewhat medium, i.e. going on on a road trip all by myself.
More often than not these things work out just the way they’re supposed to. I get to do something stupid and write about it and then everyone laughs, usually at me. Which is cool, I guess.
Then, every now and again, something goes horribly, dreadfully wrong. What follows is an account of just two such experiences.
Small Life Experience Misfire #1: Drunk Movie Review #2
So I’m sure some of you remember this installment:
I like to think that it was among my best. It was a hilarious evening filled with hilarity and hee haw-ness. The notes were awesome drunktastic gems of funny and I promised myself that I’d do it again.
Well last night I did. I got tickets for the 9:40 showing of “Dirty Love,” a film written by and starring Jenny McCarthy. It seemed suitably horrible enough that only alcohol could make it worth watching. I drank an entire bottle of Skyy vodka and headed out. Here are the notes:
As you can see, there aren’t many of them. There are two reasons for this. By the time I got to the theater the alcohol had my balls in a vice grip so tight that I couldn’t see straight. I was throwing popcorn around to try to keep my mind off of the contents of my stomach that were staging an active protest and trying to force their way out by way of my nasal cavity.
In addition, the movie was so bad that I actually left thirty minutes into it. Here’s a rundown: Her boyfriend cheats on her, she catches him, she gets over it and fucks Shitbreak from American Pie. Carmen Electra acts like she’s black in a really stereotypical way. The kind of way where your friends laugh at it just to make you feel better and then talk about how you’re a racist behind your back.
Here are some of the notes translated from drunkwriting:
“Ryan Reynolds is not Mike (Noiseboy), but he looks like him.”
Five stars, asshat, that joke’s NEVER been told before!
“Cinema Village is a good village to raise a kid!”
This doesn’t even make sense. I make myself ill.
“Holy Shizzle, I know the girl in the dance commercial.”
No I don’t. No one involved in cinema would ever associate with me.
The lesson here? Some movies can actually be too bad to watch. Even drunk. Also, it doesn’t help if you’ve seen your “too drunk to talk line” and sprinted over it like a fat kid rushing to get to the hot cinnamon buns when a bakery opens.
Small Life Experience Misfire #2: Shaving
About two weeks ago I got kind of tired of my hair. It might be a little insensitive to those who lack it, but I’ve got a fucking surplus over here. Apparently I inherited the gene that makes hair grow like kudzu. I’ve got to get my head clipped every three weeks or I start looking like a goddamned koosh ball and that look isn’t even popular in Williamsburg.
So there I was, sitting at home with the girlfriend on a Friday night and I said, “Hey, want to shave my head?” Sounds almost sexy right? Well as sexy as huddling over the edge of a man’s shower while running an industrial strength clipper through your head can get I guess.
It ended up working out great, that’s not the misfire. The misfire happened after we ended up going out for the night. It was fun, a few people commented on my newly shorn cranium, the reaction was for the majority, favorable. Then we went to the afterparty.
Where a bunch of girls, my girlfriend included, decided it might be funny to shave my armpits. This, I thought would be hilarious, what a great story to tell!
Well fifteen minutes later I had a gaggle of women surrounding me with Venus leg razors in hand going to town. In my weakened state I failed to notice them start to shave my chest. The once light hearted mood of the evening turned feral as their depilatory urges consumed them in feverish hair-lust. I pulled my shirt back on and broke out.
A little too early it would seem, as they were only half way through.
I ended up having to shave everything else just to match. I looked like a twelve year old for the next couple days. My pubescent chest is pale and unshaped. I realized that the hair actually makes me look a little bad ass, in a Tom Selleck, riding in a helicopter, possibly gay, sort of way.
Lessons? Are there any lessons here? Not really. Bad luck and bad decisions happen to anyone. For the most part, these little experiences have been good for me. Sure, every now and then one of them goes horribly wrong and I’m left as hairless as a pinky rat swimming in Nair. But life isn’t going to come around and experience you. Sometimes you’ve got to take the initiative and get out there and try to shave its chest.