Speak Loser, Speak

Due to my unpopularity, it only seemed right to answer a few questions that have never been asked to me.

1. Why are you so smooth?

Believe it or not, I’m not that smooth.  Recently I was in a public mall bathroom dealing with some chinese food I had consumed thirty minutes prior when a man walked in and roughly parked himself in the stall next to me. By the noises he was making it seemed like quite the effort, and I don’t think his pants were off yet.  I did my best to ignore him and continued to check my Facebook on my phone when suddenly he spoke:
“Did you just call somebody?”
I stared at the stall door in front of me bewildered about his question, and why he was asking me during this delicate situation.  But not only am I not smooth, I’m not rude either.
“…Um, no, I did not.” I said, sheepishly. There was a long pause before a third man, one that I did not hear come in, answered from two stalls down.
“I didn’t either, Jon, I was checking my voice mail.” the mystery man said, to his friend in which he walked in with.  The three us sat in silence while I hurried to finish my business.  I left the bathroom, without washing my hands, and headed towards my car.  I decided my shopping could wait until another day.

2. Where did you learn all of those stellar dance moves?!

A friend recently pointed out to me that when I dance it looks as though I’m doing an interpreted dance of the movie Deliverance, and that I shouldn’t smile so much.  Whatever that means.  He’s not really a good friend.

3. OMG! Can you tell me more about the band you used to be in?!

Even though this was a huge part of my life, I find that women I meet could care less.  Especially when they’re in the middle of a conversion with another man who apparently isn’t drunkenly screaming “I used to be somebody!”  Yeah, it looks like I’m becoming that guy.

4. How do you keep that figure when all you eat is Taco Bell and tuna casseroles?

Well, I dress in layers to hide the special bouncy house that now occupies my chest.  Also, to make up for the unnecessarily large quantity of frozen pizzas in my freezer, I’ll eat a yogurt once ever four weeks.  It helps me mentally. I have a hard time not mumbling “Jesus” when I look upon my reflection in the mirror right before I get into the shower.  Thank you for not asking though.

5. Why are you still single?

See all of the answers to all of the questions above.

6. How do you stay so happy?

It comes down to daily victories, regardless of importance. Here are some examples of little triumphs that have kept me going:
    •    Squeezing out enough toothpaste for one more dental cleanse (and they said it    couldn’t be done).
    •    Removing the bottle of ranch dressing off of your night stand before you bring a girl home.
    •    Hell, bringing a girl home.
    •    Remembering to plug in your laptop so you have enough juice to stream por…I mean movies later that night.
    •    Spending some of your tax return money on toilet paper that doesn’t feel like sandpaper who’s trying to be polite.
    •    Accidentally rhyming.
    •    When Richard Castle and Kate Becket finally got it on during the season finale of Castle.
    •    Arriving to work ten minutes late and pulling up to a coworker who is also in haste (I rhymed!).
    •    And most importantly, being able to laugh at yourself.  The world is tough, but those who giggle the most, are tougher.

After a few months of adjusting to my new life in Arkansas, and after an intense employment search, I was finally able to land one of my dream jobs. I was hired by the local library to fulfill a position at the circulation desk (I know ladies, just when you thought I couldn’t get any sexier).  To most people this sounds like an extremely boring job, but to me-being surround by books I love, and others I hoped to read someday-the idea was perfect.  I soon found out however that this job is the same as every other customer service based job.  Except these customers aren’t paying for any of the material that they are taking, and yet they still act as though they are.  Needless to say, some of the more horrendous actions of human beings are exhibited the same at the library as they are anywhere else.  And so my struggle continues.
    A few weeks back I was working the late shift on a Thursday night.  Also known as Teen Night.  These particular nights are always hard to get through because, you know, teenagers are assholes.  Unfortunately for many of today’s youth, there isn’t a lot of places for them to get together.  It’s not like they have “The Max” like the hip characters of Saved By the Bell had.  Instead they gather at the local library to revolt against…everything (?)…by wearing baggy clothing and grinding their genitalia against each other’s legs.  And I, surrounded by great books that have been collecting dust, get to watch it all.
    As the night progressed, an elderly gentleman approached the front desk holding two back packs.  He informed me that he had found the bags by the front doors without any sign of the owners.  I routinely took the bags from the man, gave him my thanks, and placed them in the lost and found.  Because, they were in fact lost and then found. What I witnessed over the next forty five minutes shaped my future (sort of).
    It soon became apparent who the owners of the bags were: a younger gentleman, dressed in his younger sisters pants (it must have been laundry day), and a younger gal who didn’t know about the quit rule that existed at most (all) libraries.  With angry persecution and a “take no prisoners” attitude, the two teenage duo stormed the halls of the library to find the culprit who stole their bags. Nobody was safe.  In fact, their immediate friends, the ones in which they arrived with, were the first to feel the wrath.  It became a real life version of the game Clue, full of verbal slandering and finger pointing. Except in this case, there was absolute zero thought put into the accusations.  I fought the urge to vomit by attempting to staple my eyelids shut.
During all of the fights that broke out, and all of the friendships that were lost, not once did any of the mouth breathers think to seek out the lost and found.  Even though their items were in fact lost, they had never fathomed that maybe, just maybe, they had been found.  
    My coworkers, consisting mainly of elderly women (dream job), watched my social experiment without any opposition to it.  They weren’t even deterred when one of the kids threatened to break another ones bong.  Nor did they cringe when another threatened to “smack the shit filled grin” off of an innocent bystander like it was “Pearl Harbor” (I honestly don’t think this girl actually knows what events took place at Pearl Harbor, I’m pretty sure she assumes it was a WWE pay-per-view event). For these older women, they had seen this kind of behavior many times over, with many different generations.  This stupidity was a right of passage.
    All of the cliche epiphanies exploded in my mind like firecrackers in a mail box.  When I was young I used to be this stupid, it was a natural thing.  Most people grow out of this stage, and find a more mature way of reasoning.  All of these things I realized, but I was still upset.  If all generations go through this kind of thick headiness, then future generations will go through it as well.  Which means: I’m going to hate my children.  
    I lost faith in the select handful of kids that I watched that day, and I lost it pretty quick.  By keeping their bags in the lost and found, and not telling them they had been found, I was really just trying to teach them a lesson.  As I called over Benny and Joon to the counter and handed them their bags, it became very apparent to me that the lesson had not been received.  Without even given me a thanks, they grabbed their bags and quickly resumed the dry humping they had placed the bags down in the first place to do.  How my father kept his composure as I went through this phase I’ll never know until I’m faced with the same challenges.  For the first time in my life I finally understand why he looked like he was about smash a chair into my face all of those years.  I hope I’m able to execute the same gift of patience that my father did.
    To all of my friends who are about to be parents, please do the following: teach your child how to be a man or woman, practice the ancient art of common sense in front of them in hopes that they will acquire it someday as well, and finally, no matter how much you want to, please don’t kill them.  Now I know there is a good chance the young man who lost his bag might become a senator some day, and the young women might make advances in the medical field.  Hopefully they will grow and wise up.  On the other hand, he might die by trying to light a cigarette using a plugged in toaster, and she’ll meet her demise because “turn signals and seat-belts are for squares!”  Either way, I’m terrified of my future children.  I just hope I can give them enough direction to find their way if they are ever lost.

A fake conversation I had with a real girl in a real classroom environment:

“Hello”

“Hi…”

“My name is Nic.”

“My name is-“

“Look, it doesn’t matter what your name is, I have some concerns.”

“What?”

“Concerns, things we need to change.”

“Ok…?”

“First of all, you’re too pretty, and it’s too obvious. We all see it.  I’m finding it very hard to learn anything about Geography when I’m constantly concerned that my balls are about to explode.  It would help out tremendously if you could “ugly” up a bit before leaving your house. Secondly, is it really necessary to arch all the way back when you stretch and yawn? Upon seeing your midriff five minutes into class, my internal organs shut down, my eyes rolled towards the back of my head, my feet started to sweat, and I didn’t hear a single word the instructor said for fifty five minutes. The natural beauty you possess is killing my grade, which will affect my overall GPA, which will determine rather or not I can finally leave community college. So, please, please stop.”

“Ok, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s alright, I’m not mad, I’m just really pent up.”

                Women should have a social responsibility to limit their appearance (!!!). I know, it seems like backwards thinking, but hear me out (read me out?).  When a gorgeous women walks by a man close enough for that man to get a whiff of her smell, or if that girl smiles or brushes up against him, that man dies a little on the inside.  Having a women so obviously out of your league get so close to you, and you can’t do a damn thing about it, is homicide.  This is the reason why men wear headphones, put up their hoods, and look at their feet when they walk.  We have to.  All of us just want to live a happy and normal life, but we can’t do that when creatures of god are prancing about.  And the stretchy pants, ladies?! For semen blockage sake, this acts as a smoking gun. For the sake of the human race, all women from now on need to start wearing ugly sweaters, track suit pants, ski masks, and crocs at all times. This will restore confidence to those of us in the “average” looking field, thus instilling a more productive and happier society (you know, for the men). And trust me girls, we have tried to combat you with our own sexiness, hence the creation of alcohol and The Gap, but it seems to have no effect on you in the long run. It’s bullshit.  So, in conclusion, we need to level out the playing field. Men keep doing what you’re doing, and women, you need to change everything you’ve ever done. It’s only fair.

If any of the women in question (especially the blond from Geography class) would be willing to have sexual relations with me, then you can forget everything I just said (wrote?).

Thank You.

*This message has been brought to you by the 2012 presidential campaign of Nicholas Kanaar. Remember: “His shit don’t stink! His shit makes sense!”

I have a hard time writing in public places.  Especially, in this case, a coffee shop.  My attention keeps drifting to the conversation of four young women in the booth next to me. The drama in which they speak of seems juvenile, but very important non the less.  There is no superior or judgmental agenda in the purpose of my eavesdropping, it just happens.  My interest is honest.  I’ve realized that I love stories, no matter who the story teller is.  As one of the girl carries on with her tale, my hands hover over the keyboard of my laptop to give an illusion of concentration.  I don’t snicker to myself as she approaches the climax of the story, or smirk sullenly as she repeats the phrase “and I was like” over and over again.  Instead, I listen intently to hear about the horrible bitchy things Matt’s girlfriend had said to Sara’s friend, Emily, during the wedding reception in which they all attended this past summer.  A younger middle class version of “Sex in the City.”  And even though this story doesn’t deserve to be published on a grocery list, I can’t stop listening.  This is the reason why I can’t write.  Four gossiping girls were able to take me away to a world full of passionate interactions, life changing exchanges, and a careless style of living (sort of).  However, this is also the reason why I try to write.  The power of words, either written or spoken, can keep the interest of anybody, despite topic or importance.  I never found out the reason why Matt’s girlfriend had such terrible things to say about Sara’s friend, Emily, but I was on-board with the coffee shop girl’s crusade.  Matt’s girlfriend had crossed the line, and these girls (now including me, even though they don’t know that) are going to give her the appropriate punishment; by never speaking to her again.  Justice comes in all forms, and I haven’t written a word in forty five minutes.  The experiences of one can ignite the imagination of another.

“Hey, Nic” Greg said, to the back of my head, as the crowded elevator continued to rise.
“Yeah, what’s up Greg?” I said.
“Does your mom still chew tobacco?”  The occupants of the elevator struggled to keep their heads from swiveling on their necks.  The blood underneath my face boiled until a nice, soft red glow illuminated my skin.  What a bag of dicks.
“No, Greg, my mom doesn’t chew tobacco” I said as I could feel Greg’s poor attempt at restrain from behind me. He couldn’t stifle his laugher, the idiot fought poorly against discretion.
“Oh, well good for her, it must of been hard, that women was hooked” Greg said.  I was pretty sure my face was going to blister, so I stared at my shoes.  
    The incident in the elevator that day is a fine example of my friends and their humor.  Ruthless, often crude, sometimes explosive, and always brilliant.  I’ve been surrounded by clever people my entire life, from my parents to my friends, I’ve been spoiled.  Every joke, prank. or witty comment had some kind of intellect behind it. I’ve come to expect that now in every person I meet, which isn’t fair to those I meet, because nobody does it better than the people I’ve already met in Michigan.  I hate them all for their smart humor, and the ease in which they deliver it, and I love them all for the same reasons.  
    Rather it’s asking about my mother’s fake tobacco addiction, or telling me I have  a “good looking dick” while I’m speaking to a women, or the times we would snap our fingers and “West Side Story” our way across the street, or talk about what random movie quotes we could yell out during sex (my favorite being a line from Admiral Ackbar in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi: “It’s a trap!”), or starting one of the only Cyndy Lauper fan clubs on facebook (Lauper Lovers), my friends have been finding news ways to make me laugh for nearly a decade.  Moving away from them has been tragic.  Even though I have met some pretty humorous people along the way, nothing can compare to those I’ve been use to.  It hasn’t been all bad, thanks to social networks, smart phones, online video game play, and photoshop, we all stay connected still, and we are all still assholes to each other.
    Overall, it’s just another side effect of getting older.  Even the people you hold in the highest regard will be separated from you sooner or later.  The smartest thing you can do is just accept this simple fact of life and move on like the rest.  Those bastards in Michigan however, are too stupid to be that smart, and refuse to accept such a bullshit rule.  We may be separated now, and communicate less often then we used to, but none of them have forgotten the times we’ve had.  The jokes still come, drunk phone calls still happen, pictures are still being sent, and laughter is still being supplied. I may have made some careless decisions in my life (most of them in the past five years), but I sleep better at night knowing that the best decision I ever made was keeping these fools as my friends for all of these years.  If nothing else grand is granted to me throughout my life, I’m confident I’ll still die with a smile on my face.  Probably because right before I close my eyes for the final time, one of my friends will remind the nurse how stoically and handsome my penis is looking that day.

I love you guys.

Very few things upset me beyond normal irritation.  Like a person who obsesses over the college they attended…five years ago.  We get it, you have a degree, and some of us don’t, but you’re still working at the same Starbucks I’m working at, your professors don’t remember you, and the puke stain you left on the living room floor in the townhouse you shared with four other optimistic college pricks no longer exists (thanks to advances in steam cleaning technology).  Let your past school years be just that, in the past, not a justification for asshole behavior now.  Other examples of mind melting frustrations include, but not limited to:  stubbing my toe on an arrogant, piece of shit end table, running out of deodorant, realizing that eating two bear claws and an energy drink for breakfast five days a week causes my pants to shrink (science is weird), Netflix, that one person who ALWAYS tries to incorporate religion into every conversation, cats who don’t like to cuddle, having to insert and eject a tape adapter for my car stereo forty-five times before it decides to work,  having to use a tape adapter to listen to music, the fact that no new episodes of ‘Friends’ are being made, everything that Parez Hilton does or says, and most importantly;  people who whine about being irritated (oh, wait…shit).