MY SHORT-COMINGS ARE MANY – AND HILARIOUS

• I’m prone to hyperbole

See above.

• I’m overly polite, maybe

If someone starts telling me a story that requires me to be familiar with something, I can’t help but profess a familiarity with that something even if I’m not remotely familiar. For instance, if someone says to me, “I almost got run off the road this morning on that sharp bend by the creek on Hill Road” and then pauses to ask if I know the spot they’re talking about, I will say yes even if I have no idea. I just can’t say no. I’d like to think it’s because I’m overly polite, but I suspect that it’s because I’m an asshole and I want you to finish telling me your dumbass story so I can go back to daydreaming about Livin’ on a Prayer – the all-clergy Bon Jovi-themed Broadway show I’m producing in my head.

• I’m too dumb to eat

When I was 10 years old, my fifth-grade class went on a field trip to a local nature preserve. One of my classmates brought along fruit roll-ups to share with the class. I’m sure you’ve eaten them (or their R-rated cousin, edible undies) – brightly colored sheets of consumable rubber masquerading as “fruit.” And so you know, as did every other kid in 1985, that they are double wrapped in a thick, paper outer-pouch and a transparent, plastic inner-lining. Well I didn’t. I tore off the outer packaging and bite right in, remarking to my friends that they were “so chewy.” Over the mocking laughter of my classmates I heard our teacher make a crack about natural selection.

• I don’t know my right from my left

I failed my driver’s license test the first time out because when the trooper told me to make a right-hand turn out of the parking lot I hung a left into a maintenance shed where I was immediately greeted by the confused stares of the assembled mechanics – stares that quickly turned to grins and, ultimately, outright laughter and finger pointing. In my defense, the trooper looked and sounded just like Clint Eastwood – I mean, you try keeping your wits about you with Dirty Harry in the passenger seat.

• I’m a drooler

I like sofas and I like naps. And I can sleep anywhere. But people don’t like having their sofa cushions slobbered upon. I can’t say I blame them. Accordingly, many of my friends have banned me from their sofas. Oh, they’ll allow me a seat when the conversation’s lively or the game is in the first half, but when the evening grows long or the game is a blow-out, I’m ordered to the floor. Fair enough.

• I have poor fine motor control

My handwriting is like a child’s – a child with a head injury and a belly full of liquor. I can’t peel back yogurt lids. I can’t shuffle a deck of cards. I can’t undo a bra, probably. I can’t unstick a zipper. I can’t turn on a goddamned lamp if it’s the twisty kind.

• I can be a real asshole if it means winning a costume contest

When I was a freshman in college I sort of let three homosexual guys in my dorm believe that I was gay so that I could be the gay Murdock in their gay A-Team Halloween costume. There was a $100 prize and I knew they were a shoe-in (they even had a black guy to be B.A.). We won the contest, so everybody was happy. Although, Peter (Face) was understandably hurt when he discovered that I had backed-out on being his date to the gay and lesbian student organization’s fall mixer because I had spent that same evening showering my share of the prize money on an exceedingly drunk sorority pledge over at the Parkside Lounge.

• I’m not a strong speller

My dad likes to say that if you spot him the “k” and the “t” he can spell “cat.” I don’t have any poor speller jokes of my own, so I’ll give you a knock-knock joke instead. Knock-knock [who’s there?]. Owl. [Owl who?]. You speak owl? That reminds me….

• I don’t believe in owls

Have you ever seen an owl? An actual owl? In the wild? Not a cleverly costumed hawk on some shyster zoo keepers arm, but an actual mouse-eating, barn-dwelling, 360-degree-head-turning-freak hoot owl? Of course you haven’t. Nobody has. Because they don’t exist.

• I hate ballerinas

And I hated ballerinas long before it was trendy to hate ballerinas. Heck, I’ve been restraining the urge to kick some ballerina ass for over a decade. I hate their whole operation – the leg warmers, the insanely tight hair buns, the eating disorders, the enchanting artistic expression – I hate everything about them. And why do they always travel in packs? I mean, when a bunch of street kids form an alliance to protect themselves and honor their neighborhood it’s called a gang and we put them in jail, but when a group of ballerinas congregate to artfully starve themselves and prance around on crumbling sesamoids, we give them grant money.

• I just lost feeling in my right foot for the fourth time this week and, frankly, I’m just too lazy to do anything about it

Meh.

• I make gift buying a chore

My interests are very specific and mostly illegal. So Christmas can be difficult for those who wish to buy me a gift. Well, not this year. This Christmas, why don’t we just cut the crap and you can buy me a “Who Farted?” t-shirt?