The Fourth Judge Is Impatient

I completely freak out when I have to wait more than three seconds for an elevator, and if I’m at work, all bets are off. Panic attack city.

First you have the terrifying prospect of Coworker Nuclear Winter. Every second you stand there is another second Creepy Chris can walk out the door and completely fuck your shit up. Ever get stuck walking a block and half to the subway with a coworker? Total agony. I’d rather stick my cat’s dick in a Cuisinart and drink the results.[[MORE]]

But just as bad as Small Talk Armageddon is the incredulity you’re filled with as this previously wondrous technology fails you, especially when you’re in a big building. There’ll be roughly 5,000 elevators humming along, yet not one of them will have the common courtesy to stop at your floor. What have you done to deserve this? WHY HAVE THE ELEVATORS FORSAKEN YOU?

It’s completely irrational, of course. An elevator is a hulking metal box containing obese American businessmen being lugged up and down an enormous building by steel cables. Why in the hell shouldn’t it take a few minutes to get to your floor? That shit is ancient technology.

Now that I actually stop and think about it, it’s a miracle the elevator gets to your floor as quickly as it does as often as it does. I’m a little freaked out, quite frankly. What’s the rush, buddy? You trying to kill us or what?

I know this is a boxing blog, but my favorite sport is basketball. Deal with it, you close-minded neanderthals.

Anyway, it’s amazing how depressed I’m getting over the prospect of a canceled NBA season. I don’t shower on the weekends. I’ve stopped doing laundry. I’ve even started scheduling an hour each day in my Lotus Notes calendar to get nice and worked up about it. There are hissy fits and tears and everything.

It’s pathetic and I hate myself, but I also hate you for judging me. Every time I bitch about this people come back with the same quasi-racist shit like, “only the last few minutes of each game count anyway (subtext: lazy blacks don’t play hard until the end)” or, “the college game is more team oriented (subtext: all the uppity young darkies don’t have money yet and still have to listen to an old white dude dispense infinite old white dude wisdom).” It’s infuriating.

But even if these criticisms weren’t largely fueled by racism (they are), THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING POINT, YOU TWATS! We all need idle pursuits, things we can enjoy without much thought. Basketball is a beautiful sport with strategy and technique to appreciate, but you can take it in without expending too much effort. I spend a lot of time playing music and writing shit like this. It’s fun, but it also consists of legitimate work, so I need something more mindless to spend my down time with. Basketball is that mindless pursuit for me and it fucking sucks that I’m probably not going to have it this year.

So yeah, I’m in a lot of pain right now. It’s like Jerry Sandusky has given my heart and soul a naked, soapy bear hug, so back the fuck off.

Thanksgiving is next week, which is awesome. I like to stuff my face and drink and get off from work. That shit’s all gravy [ed. note: DID YOU GUYS CATCH THAT AWESOME PUN!?].

But Thanksgiving has been made incredibly awkward for me the past two years by my parents’ recent divorce. Here I am, 29-years-old, trying to figure out the Divorced Parents Holiday thing for the first time. 29-year-olds aren’t supposed to struggle with their parents’ divorces. They’re supposed to look back fondly on the horrible emotional damage their parents’ divorces inflicted on them in their formative years.

“Ah, if only I could be permanently scarred now the way I could back then. Oh well, time to cut myself to see if I can still feel feelings!”

It’s made extra awkward by the fact that the divorce was all my Dad’s fault and my Mom has no real extended family to speak of. That means I go to her place for every holiday, no exceptions. She didn’t fuck this up, so there’s no reason she should have to be alone.

I hate conflict, though, so I never actually explain myself to my Dad. I’m not about to say, “well, you’re a scumbag, so sorry, I will never spend a holiday with you again.”

Instead I stop responding to his emails about a week or two before every major holiday, then sheepishly text him a few months later about something sports related. “Eli Manning! Can you believe it?”

I’m not sure this is the wisest strategy. Even though I hate my Dad I’ll probably need him to help with the down payment on a house at some point. Do you guys have any suggestions for how I can approach this delicate situation more tactfully? If you do, please leave them in the bustling comments section below.

Should I not be talking about my parents’ messy divorce in a humor column?

They say we’re going to run out of oil eventually, which seems like a pretty big deal, but nobody ever talks about the world’s soap supply. Why aren’t we in danger of running out of soap? Where does it all come from? Isn’t soap just a really soft rock? We run out of rocks eventually, right? Isn’t that why gold is so expensive?

There’s not a substance on Earth I waste more cavalierly than soap (outside of semen, of course). I use about a gallon of it to clean a single frying pan. Look at all those bubbles! Weee! It only costs three cents for a metric ton of Ajax so why the fuck not, right? But maybe all this time I’ve been misguided. Maybe I should’ve been conserving instead of wasting. I’m all torn up inside and I don’t know what to do about it.

When the Soapocalypse hits the whole planet is going to smell like my fat, old Russian barber, which is completely unacceptable (seriously, dude, your armpits are in peoples’ faces all day). Deodorant can only get you so far. AND WHAT IF WE RUN OUT OF DEODORANT?

I demand someone start keeping track of these undervalued resources. Obama needs to form a committee or something. We can’t afford another Katrina. Our country has come too far.

This whole post has been one enormous downer, and for that I apologize, but to make up for it I’d like to close by discussing something a little more fun. Hooray! Life! So much to be thankful for!

The other day a girl said my name during sex for the third time in my life. I know it was the third time in my life because there is not an experience available to human beings that trumps getting your name yelled during sex. Nothing can make you feel better. Nothing.

Things that make you feel like a million bucks:

1. Having your named yelled during sex

3. A drawer full of clean underwear

4. Tasting this hot sauce for the first time:

There’s more, but those are the big ones. If you haven’t had your named called during sex yet, I suggest hiring a prostitute and giving her your family’s entire nest egg. It’s what my dad would do.