I am now the owner of 42 ounces of queen olives, 4 lbs. (FOUR MOTHERFUCKING POUNDS) of pistachios, 96 individual portions of chips, 30 candy bars, 6 tubes of toothpaste, 3 sticks of deodorant, and 6.5 pounds of chicken breast. And that’s just a slim cross-section of the smorgasbord of conspicuous consumption that went on Saturday, when my mom took me to Sam’s Club and threw money at the evil empire on my behalf.
On Sunday, I got rejected by Northwestern’s English Lit. Graduate program, the first school I’ve heard from thus far. Oh well. Only six or seven more to go. I’m not taking it as badly as I would have expected, but neither am I taking it nearly as well as I would like. The last six years have been pretty silly for me, especially the last six months or so, since I’ve intentionally streamlined my life to be largely free of the impedimenta of modern
I’ve been telling people, I hope I only get into USC, so I can drop out after a couple years, try to become a TV writer, fail at that, get addicted to crack, go into remission, and become a motivational speaker…. just like my dad. Irony?
I was watching Seventh Heaven yesterday, because all I ever do is watch TV, and it was an episode about how all the kids have tattoos, and then at the end the nerdy kid who’s dating the hot daughter gives her a promise ring. He’s like, “it’s not an engagement ring… it’s a promise to be engaged ring.” And then they kiss. It was stupid, because that show sucks (faulty logic?). But I think I’m going to get a tattoo. Maybe a tattoo of a teddy bear. I really like teddy bears, and also real bears. You know who else likes bears? My dad. Go fucking figure. I once gave a girl a promise ring. From Zale’s (the ring, not the girl). A pretty little diamond embedded inside the white gold, not extended in one of those jutty cages that show off the diamond from all angles. Now she works security at an airport and I couldn’t know her less.
I’ve never seen so many fat people in one place at one time: Sam’s Club. Their little pharmacy has an entire rack – a largish rack, to boot – of blood-sugar testers and various other diabetes supplies. Now, far be it from me to mock diabetics, but let it be known that Sam’s Club’s diabetes supplies are right next to their candy aisle, where they sell, among other things, 5 pounds of Jolly Ranchers for $4, and have “value pack” bundles of king sized candy bars. (The “king sized” candy bar is one of my favorite of all pathetic euphemisms – “Take care, those among you who are not royalty! This candy bar might be too much for you to handle!”).
I was thinking, the other day, about how much fun it would be to partner with Wal-Mart to create a contest, open only to women over 200 lbs and men over 260. It would be a breakdancing competition. They would have to do their best approximation of six-steps, Arabian flips, uprocks, and, for the fearless, headspins to Rob Base’s “It Takes Two,” you know, the song that goes “YEAH! WOO! YEAH! WOO!” Anybody who just danced without at least trying to approximate breaking would be disqualified, because we don’t want just a bunch of fat people dancing. Who cares about that? That’s on some