PUT IT ALL ON RED

Shirtless men: Fair game.

Non-shirtless men: Fair game, unless wearing “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt, in which case just a curt nod will do.

Coworkers: Off-limits if a witness is present, otherwise a casual “Hey cowboy, how’s it hanging?” accompanied by a buttslap is totally admissible.

Orthodontists: It’s his job to put his fingers in your mouth, so he’s basically asking for it.

Buddhist monks: Is that a prayer flag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Michael Caine: Been there, done that.

Deli owners: NOPE. You do not want to alienate the person who makes your meatball subs.

Construction workers: Nothing wrong with telling a man he’d look better with just that fluorescent “Safety Officer” vest on.

Clarence Thomas: While you may take away my access to birth control through my employer, you can never take away my right to look at that sweet, sweet ass.

Human Resources officer: Now that you’ve read those 19 complaints against me, I’ve got one myself: why are you still wearing those khakis?

“Hey baby, I’m not saying I have top secret naval security clearance, but if you’re looking for a nuclear sub, I have a hunch there’s one at latitude 17.713, longitude 178.065.”

“What do you mean I don’t know anything about boating? I know that all American aircraft carriers built after 1990 have a weak spot three feet above the keel in the stern marked by a large red X.”

“You can torture me all you want, but I’ll never tell you that the USS Stockdale is low on munitions and fuel and would be forced to surrender if confronted!”

“You guys want to go to a party aboard the Freighter Luna tonight? It should be a pretty classy shindig, what with all that priceless art they’re supposed to transport around the Horn of Africa.”

“Ahoy there, we have lots of gold and we need one more person for hide-and-go-seek. Why don’t you walk that peg leg of yours over here so we can lock ourselves in our cabins while you roam freely through the hull?”

“Take this ship? Hah! You would have to know how important my father’s watch is to me and exploit my childlike gullibility by saying you stole it before I began bawling pathetically and begging you to take the ship instead.”

“Fire!”

Glass imprisonment

I plumb the depths of despair

Oh look a peanut

A man said today

These pandas must be best friends

It’s all a charade

Zoo keeper jokes that

I always look tortured. Yes,

But you clean my poop

The band En Vogue said

Free your mind and the rest will

Follow. Ah, but when

Zoo wants baby, but

What of my dream to become

Poet laureate

Endangered species

Wordplay sustains me, as does

Lack of predation

Emcee segues from live music performance to fireworks display, thanks families for coming out to the celebration, reminds audience that the theme for this year’s event was “America’s Birthday.”

Cue music—2 Chainz, “Birthday Song”

Note: the emcee may signal to cut the music at this point, as this was not the agreed upon introductory song.

After second iteration of “All I want for my birthday is a big booty ho,” fire red, white, blue Roman candles.

Fire on sparklers that spell out “AMERICA”

Fire on sparklers that spell out “FUCK YEAH”

Note: at this point the emcee might attempt to stop you from continuing, as this is nothing like the show you pitched to the city council. Punch him in the face and barrel right through to:

Music transition—Bruce Springstreen, “Born in the USA”

EXPLOSIONS

EXPLOSIONS

EXPLOSIONS

Cue hologram of Optimus Prime impaling Megatron with pole of American flag

Cue hologram of Mark Wahlberg high-fiving Optimus Prime in celebration

Cue hologram of hot woman with big rack running towards Mark Wahlberg in slow motion, eating a hot dog suggestively

EXPLOSIONS

Music transition—Lenny Kravitz, “American Woman”

Helicopters will fly over at this point, guns ablazing, dropping free taco coupons and spent ammunition over crowd

Cue hologram of Optimus Prime, Mark Wahlberg, and Boobs McGee riding on back of Transformer T. Rex waving American flag

Cue hologram of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and hot woman with big rack #2 being harassed by Belgian soccer team

Cue hologram of T. Rex biting heads off of Belgian soccer team, everyone high-fives, Boobs McGee’s top accidentally falls off

EXPLOSIONS

EXPLOSIONS

Fire on sparklers that spell out “THESE COLORS DON’T RUN”

Fire on sparklers that spell out “THE END”

Cue hologram of you, Michael Bay, riding a majestic Transformer bald eagle into the sunset

Fire on sparklers that spell out “OR IS IT???”

EXPLOSIONS

Crowd cheers wildly, elects you mayor of town, hot woman with big rack tells you it’s the best fireworks display she’s ever seen, top accidentally falls off

I would be great at having a mistress. I’m a people person. I’m thoughtful. I make good money. I’m six foot one. I would be awesome at having a mistress.

For example, if my mistress wanted to vent about her day, I would absolutely be up for that. Because it’s not just about sex – it’s about companionship. After all, life is short and love is a complicated thing. Not that we’d have to be in love.

My mistress and I wouldn’t care about labels.

Our days together would be romantic and carefree. We’d walk in the park and look at the couples in swan boats and laugh about how silly they look. But then we’d eye each other knowingly and – you guessed it – the next minute we’d be in a swan boat of our own, cuddling and giggling and wearing dark glasses in case someone sees us.

Before going further, I should say that my mistress wouldn’t distract me from my amazing family. My wife, Carol, is smart, beautiful and in great shape. Connor is 13 and loves baseball, and Madison is 6 and knows all her state capitals. They would be crushed to learn that I began a relationship with a mistress, which is why I wouldn’t tell them about it.

Not telling my family about my mistress is a big reason I’d be good at having a mistress.

Now, the 800 lb. gorilla in the room: Sex. Not that gorillas make me think about sex. Ha! Did I mention I have a great sense of humor? It’s one of the things my mistress would like about me.

But seriously, sex. Sexually speaking, my mistress would be extremely satisfied. I’ve had sex in all four positions, and I would make sure to show them to her and field any questions she might have. I would initiate sex with my mistress frequently, either by asking, “Do you want to have sex?” or by just touching her shoulder real slow.

My mistress would never want for anything, be it a set of nice earrings or a gift of similar value. If she likes pearls, then pearls it is. If she sees an expensive watch she can’t live without, it might depend on whether I’ve already bought her the pearls, and what their return policy is.

Either way, a gift is a nice gesture that shows I care.

You may be asking yourself, what if my mistress falls too deeply in love with me, since, as I noted, I’m six foot one? I would guard against this by gently reminding her that I have a family and that they’re the most important thing in my life, even though Carol has been a little naggy lately, and Connor is entering that phase where he doesn’t talk to me much and sometimes I think he doesn’t love me, even though I know in my head that can’t be true, and Madison has decided that she’s no longer going to wear shoes.

They’re my everything.

Whenever my mistress and I just need to get away from it all, we’d go to the movies. We’d snuggle in the seats and drift off into the big screen’s story, and on our way out of the theater, we’d feel like the world is new again. We’d breathlessly go over our favorite scenes and I’d quote a few lines, since I’m always good at memorizing them. My mistress would find this cute, not annoying, and we’d know that even if this isn’t forever, it’s nice while it lasts.

If my mistress needed some groceries, I’d be happy to pick some up on my way over. If she were unhappy with the eggs I got – she likes the organic kind, I always forget – I’d apologize and everything would be okay. I’d even offer to go get the right kind, but of course she’d say not to worry about it. Then I’d help her in the kitchen instead of just zoning out in front of the TV, and we’d eat dinner together and talk. Really just talk. We might even break out the Scrabble board and play over candlelight, joking to ourselves about how I always manage to pull the Q, and we’d play generously, willing to set each other up for a triple word score. We’ll play the way we did before Connor was born, back when her mother was healthy and I had just been promoted at work and we hadn’t even hit our first anniversary yet. God. We were so excited back then.

We were so happy.

If my mistress needed help putting a shelf together, I could probably do that too.

Dear sir or madam:

Today I want to tell you about an exciting opportunity to participate in a new business that will revolutionize social media, technology, and…synergy? Sure, let’s just go with that.

Now to really sell this idea, let me give you a scenario: a 25-year-old graduate student has a crippling gambling addiction, and bets a lot (A LOT) of money on Bosnia-Herzegovina to go all the way in the World Cup. After Bosnia-Herzegovina is eliminated, she cries on the floor of the bar bathroom for a solid hour and is then presented with two options: find the money within a week or find the money within a week. When she points out how that’s redundant to the Colombian gentleman sitting in her living room in the dark with a baseball bat, he rolls his eyes and says “that’s the whole point.” Anyway, she hastily brainstorms some start-up ideas totally unrelated to the situation described above and has some exciting business plans she would like to share.

You might be thinking, “Wow, Melissa, based on the enclosed resume, you have an excellent science education and extensive lab experience…do you have an idea for a biotech start-up?” or “Jesus, why is this resume written entirely in crayon?”

Yes, it’s true that I have a lot of experience in both biology and the crayon arts. Today, however, I would like to tell you about a groundbreaking business idea: me, dancing anywhere, anytime, in a bear suit.

You have a lot of questions, I know. What kind of bear? What kind of dancing? How in any scenario is this profitable?

Astute queries, to be sure. First, I think having a diversity of bear suits and dance styles would be ideal, and if you decide to invest, I’d love your suggestions! You name it, I’ll do it—I’m game for anything!

Seriously, anything.

As for your questions about economic feasibility, you will notice I have enclosed a tentative operating budget and business plan for this new venture. You’ll see that I’m being very cost conscious, and I am more than willing to negotiate with you on specific budget items once you buy in. You will also notice there is a large line item labeled “Miscellaneous expenses to be paid in cash oh god I hope they don’t kill me.” That is supposed to read “Miscellaneous expenses,” and is, unfortunately, non-negotiable.

Turning your attention to the business plan, you can see my provisional rate schedule and ideas for events and marketing. It is purely a coincidence that the per hour rate for my bear dancing is equal to the aforementioned line item.

If you want to be part of this bear suit dancing movement, don’t hesitate! Please send your cash investment in the enclosed envelope with a crude crayon diagram of me in a bear suit doing the electric slide. Or better yet, just give me the money in person! I can meet you at any ATM in the country with enough warning. If you’re unsure about investing, but would like me to break it down at a birthday party, wedding, or first communion, please call me ASAP, like within hours, if possible.

My passion is betting on the over/under dancing in a bear suit. Your passion is giving people large sums of money. Together, we can keep me alive long enough to make Ursus Enterprises a reality.

Sincerely,

Melissa Chiasson

President, Ursus Enterprises

1. Your password must have at least 12 characters and may under no circumstances mock my receding hairline.
2. Any profane passwords will be rejected unless they mention my ex-wife Carol.
3. Your password will also be rejected if you are Ben from bookkeeping. Who’s the petty infant now, Ben?
4. Try not to use passwords that are guessable because they contain general information about you such as birthdays, names of family members, hometowns, etc. or specific personal information like something about George’s impotence or Lucy’s excessive arm hair.
5. You must use at least four numbers. For instance, your first two could be the age Carol claims to be in her OKCupid profile, 29, and your last two could be her actual age, 43. Or you could use her ATM PIN, 3851.
6. It is important that you never respond to an email soliciting your password; this is someone phishing in order to hack your account. With that access, the person can do anything from syphoning your paycheck into a separate bank account to sending shirtless photos of you to your coworkers, including your boss and the cute redheaded receptionist, from your email address. You might be wondering why people would ever do something like that and why it’s illegal to seek vigilante justice against them. I know I am.
7. The kids in Mrs. Jeffer’s third grade class are a bunch of brats who wouldn’t know a good career day presentation if it were split up into 17 well organized Powerpoint slides and meticulously explained piece by piece. That’s not technically a password guideline. Use at least one non-alphanumeric symbol.
8. Don’t leave your account open overnight because the computers will not shut down until you log off so they tend to overheat. When that happens, I don’t get paid overtime for fixing them, although you wouldn’t know it from looking at Carol’s Dolce & Gabbana shoes and deerskin handbag.
9. Passwords must be reset every 6 months or any time a potentially harmful file is found in your computer in our monthly file scan. Also, we can see the contents of your files, not just the names. That means that calling a file “Flenderson Account Information.doc” will not prevent me from finding out that it’s actually a bingo board for my IT demos.
10. If there is any suspicious activity on your account suggesting that it may have been hacked, it will immediately be deactivated. Keep in mind that I reserve the right to deactivate any account and I am under no obligation to provide evidence that it was hacked. Maybe you’ll think twice next time you want to eat somebody else’s pickles out of the fridge, Sara.
11. If you type in the wrong password 3 times in one minute, your account will be automatically locked down for 10 minutes. That means every time someone tries to log into my computer while I’m away from my desk in order to change the background to screen shots from “The Parent Trap,” that’s 10 minutes I have to wait before I can get back to cleaning up after all you ungrateful jackasses who make twice as much as I do.
12. Emails containing attachments having endings other than “.doc” and “.pdf” will be scanned for viruses. Jake, if you send one more GIF animation of me getting hit in the crotch to Carol, I swear to God I will find a way to cancel your health insurance policy.
13. Finally, the contents of this email are confidential and may not be shared with anybody outside the company. In particular, don’t forward this to Carol just in case we get back together.

New Years Day is always the worst hangover of the year, even if I didn’t drink on New Years Eve.

My family celebrates both Chanukkah and Christmas so the bender begins in the first half of December with night after night of fried potatoes drowned in applesauce and sour cream. Then our teaching ends for the quarter and every night someone has a great bottle of beer they were saving for an occasion just like tonight, which is inevitably at least 9% ABV. This usually leads to a couple rounds of progressively less and less special beers until the standard becomes “not O’Doul’s.” Then I hop a flight home and try to see everyone I met before college in two days. After 24 solid hours of reminiscing interspersed with 24 hours of eating, we’re off Atlanta to see my dad’s family for Christmas. We spend days gorging ourselves on foodstuffs that could only be called “grown-up candy,” like caramel pecans and walnut fudge. It’s slightly more dignified than eating Snickers and Milky Ways for a week straight, but definitely no healthier.

Our gluttony hits a climax on Christmas Eve with our annual roast beef dinner. My dad, once a professional caterer, throws on 4 or 5 world class side dishes, all soaked in oil or butter. Then my uncle makes my favorite dessert that I recently discovered is about two thirds butter; I immediately regretted asking for the recipe. The next morning we wake up, watch our cousins scream like banshees as they open their mountains of carefully wrapped toys (they’re adorable banshees, but banshees nonetheless). For brunch we have bagels and lox along with what’s left of the chocolate pie from the night before. After a day or two my siblings and I head back home for New Years with my mom and we stuff our gullets all over again until the 31st. Finally we have the last fancy dinner of the year, the last frantic hour of showering and dressing up, and generally the last drink of the year. At midnight we yell and scream and, after a couple more hours, head to bed.

The next morning I wake up in that withdrawal stupor that comes from burning through 6 months worth endorphins in 3 weeks. Everything hurts. My stomach finally exacts its revenge for the egregious maltreatment. My teeth ache from sugar rot. My legs hurt from marathons of freeze tag and touch football with my cousins. Even my face stings from laughing at too many family stories that I’ve already heard 100 times.

I look down at my protruding gut. It took a while, but eventually all the meat, cheese, and chocolate caught up with me and I struggle to get out of bed. There are no more excuses for excess until Passover. I remember that I’m an adult now and my body is my own responsibility but after all that revelry I don’t have the self control for a diet or the motivation for an exercise regime.

I think back to couples I saw kissing under the mistletoe at the mall. All that young love and excitement seemed adorable. It makes me sick. At least they probably feel like crap too as they look down at their own stomachs and nurse their own headaches.

I go downstairs for coffee with my family. I can’t believe how much time I’ve spent with these people. Why must we keep talking? Why can’t we just silently elate our caffeine addictions and ignore each other like a healthy family?

I look at the pile of books I brought home but forgot to open. I volunteered to give a presentation on Monday when I thought that in all that time off there would be plenty of good moments for a little catch-up work. I was mistaken. I crack one open but my brain is just as sluggish and stubborn as my body.

Then we march into the car and head over to some brunch party. Everyone wishes each other a happy new year, but I’m pretty sure they’re just hiding their collective enslavement to the universal hangover. All I can think about are the layovers and bus rides between me and my apartment as well as the piles of work looming on the horizon. I roll my eyes as I remember carefree December and stare into the cold, humorless face of January.

But, like every year, there’s only one thing to do; grab a “hair of the dog” mimosa, slap on a smile, and introduce myself because if I don’t meet someone by February, I’m going to have to spend Valentine’s Day sitting in the park muttering about how none of the happy couples around me are going to last more than another month.