Failing 9th grade G&T English was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. Well, right up until the dozens of more-embarrassing things I’ve done since then. Nineteen years later I’m finally comfortable telling this tale. I’m finally over it.

For those who aren’t familiar with Maryland Public Schools class hierarchy, G&T is an acronym for “Gifted & Talented”, only for the smartest, socially awkward kids. Below that, “Honors”, for wealthy kids who play lacrosse. Next was “Standard” for your regular dipshits. And below that various levels for what we kids called “retarded”.

Ninth grade G&T English was taught by Mrs. Ikeler, an unhappy, angry woman notorious for busting female students smoking in the lavatories. She narc’d on girls en masse to appease the school principal, because she too, was a smoker.

Between classes and lunch, she and another English teacher would escape the school premises in her Honda to inhale a few cigs at Bunker Hill. We know this because Bunker Hill was where students played hooky and often got busted by Mrs. Ikeler. Or vice versa.

Few alumni have fond memories of Mrs. Ikeler. Rumors circulated that an older kid entered her classroom during a school play and shit in her drawer. I was impressed! Impressed that someone can shit like that on command. I need 20 minutes of privacy in my own bathroom. Regardless, Mrs. Ikeler deserved it. Though our all-white school’s black janitor, who cleaned it up, definitely didn’t deserve it.

Before I continue, I must admit I’m worried Ms. Ikeler will read this. I’m not worried she’ll be offended by comments, I’m worried about my grammar. “THIS IS WHY I FLUNKED YOU!! AUTHOR MY ASS!”

I’ve been in California for 18 months now, and I’ve yet to see a SINGLE Windows Phone in a consumer’s hands.

Seriously.

The few times I have, I’ve confronted and even congratulated the individual, only to find out they work for Microsoft, or they’re a developer paid to code for it. I do, however, see schizophrenic homeless people defecating on San Francisco sidewalks. But no Windows Phones. I’m not sure which makes me sadder.

3.2%. That’s Windows Phone’s marketshare. Third place in a two horse race. Windows Phone is currently on its eighth version and has arguably been in development since 2000 with the launch of Windows Mobile. They have the finest phone manufacturer in the world producing their phones, yet, thirteen years and billions of dollars later, all they can muster up is a measly 3.2%.

Why would God let this happen!?!

Thirty seconds after writing my name on last night’s open mic list, I scratched it off. I can’t go 25th. I can’t wait until 1am to perform six minutes in front of the last three comics waiting to go on. I need to find a better Wednesday night mic. At 33 I’m feeling way too old for this. I don’t have time for that shit.

If I ever had a catchphrase, it’s that. “I don’t have time for that shit.” I say that a lot. So much that my old comedy buddies in Northern Europe say the phrase and attribute it to me. I first coined it when I did some shows in Sweden. The other comics took the boat from Helsinki to Stockholm while I flew. Boats? I don’t have time for that shit. Why don’t I pack my monocle, top hat, and telegraph machine for that meandering trip back in time.

Maybe I should register that phrase as a trademark. My California sweatshirt did. Don’t you dare write “California” in a yellow font or else you owe someone a lot of money.

 
San Francisco is a magnet for America’s most insane people, and open mics are magnets for these people. The city has a long history of attracting artists and counterculture. Artists and counterculture have a long history of attracting mental illness. The mentally ill have a long history of attracting drug abuse. Mental illness + Drug Abuse + No Healthcare x 20 years = San Francisco.

Crazy people on stage is funny for about fifteen seconds until you realize they’ve prepared nothing and will not abide by “the light”. The host always has to rip the mic from their hands as they waddle back to their seat, often screaming the rest of their “material”. But to give them props – they have the stage confidence of a young Eddie Murphy. They have a unique voice. They work “clean”. And they’re still funnier than this blog.

Im writing this at 5:30am because my body no longer allows me to eat a heavy meal past 10pm. My body says, “You’re enjoying a good night sleep while I have to digest this slop?? Fuck that! We’re in this TOGETHER!” At age 27 I started losing my hair, at age 31 I could no longer eat late, at 32 I began to just “smell”, and at 33 I saw my first gray hairs. Can’t wait see what life brings me next!

I had a cyst on my penis.

Well, it depends on who you ask. I consider that part of my body to be my penis. If I was asked to measure my penis, like by the folks at Guinness, I’d jam a ruler into my crotch and the cyst would be between the black one-inch line and the painful red line created by the ruler. But if the Guinness folks measured it themselves, they may conclude the cyst is NOT on my penis, but instead on its base, thus confirming my record as the “Most Delusional Man in the World”.

By the way, if you need a tape measure to measure your penis, your penis is weird. Stop pretending like you have a bedroom advantage. But if you do use a ruler, watch for splinters. And for those who think girth is more important than length: I don’t think Ron Jeremy is known for his 11-inch girth.

Before this blog post turns into a series of less-than-clever dick jokes, you should know that this cyst isn’t a STD. I have a long history of skin problems. Eczema, allergic reactions to earrings, a cyst surgically removed from my face, acne, dry skin, and I once had to have my foreskin removed. So a “penis-cyst” (medical term) is no problem – call the dermatologist.

Finnish doctor offices are sterile and lifeless. The colorless white walls scream out, “Healthcare is free in Finland, quit complaining!!” And only the gentle hands of an Estonian could get a floor that shiny. Grab a number, sit down, take your pick of two Finnish magazines. For women – a magazine with a plump, dyed-red-hair feminist on the cover. For men – a magazine on boats. One of a plethora of boating magazines available in the country, in Finnish, in a land with six days of summer each summer.

The 2013 Oscars are over and the nominees are beginning to be released for the masses on DVD, Blu-ray and Netflix. The critics have weighed in, the film geeks have watched, and the jury has decided. But what about the world’s most beloved demographic? That’s right… Moms.

Moms aren’t like you and me. They have different wants, needs, and desires. While we might be impressed with brilliant directing, stunning cinematography, and impeccable acting, Moms demand more.

Better! Funner! rounded up nine Moms for each of the nine Best Picture nominees and asked for their exclusive reviews. For Moms, by Moms.

ARGO (Winner) by Joyce Meyers, divorced mother of 2

Ben Affleck! Can that man get any more handsome? Am I right?? And how about that beard? Umph! Just like a lumberjack! He can chop down my bush. He can smuggle me out of an embassy, unless it’s the Embassy Suites!! Jennifer Lopez was never a good fit for him. So happy to see him with a nice girl like Jennifer Garner. Two thumbs up? No, three FINGERS up!

Lincoln by Debbie McCarthy, Boston, mother of 3

If you have one movie to see this year, make it Lincoln! Like I did. When you have three kids, you just don’t have time for movies anymore. My husband and I had just one date night last year, and I chose Lincoln because I knew it would be educational for the kids. And it was!

Django Unchained by Melissa Meadows, Savannah, mother of 2

I didn’t see this movie. It’s too violent and too grotesque. Is that really necessary? All that blood and guts. Not for me. Couldn’t they have showed slavery in a different light? Why the brutality? Just to shock audiences and sell tickets? Oh, and I heard they used the n-word too.

So I’m heading to Hollywood, California for a work thing. Ordered a car service to the airport because my company is paying for it. The best part about a car service is the robot-like driver who doesn’t speak a word. But this driver kicks off our 20-minute ride to the airport with, “Schwarzmann! I was expecting someone darker.”

“Umm…huh?”

“Schwarzmann, it’s a Jewish name from Germany. German surnames are often adjectives. Adjectives! Your ancestry had dark skin. The Jews came from North Africa after the fall of the second Roman temple…”

This anti-Semitic history lesson continued on down Route 101 to San Francisco’s airport. Now I’m not Jewish, and neither are my ancestors, but I’m on my way to Hollywood! I appreciate how he thinks I’m a Hollywood native.

And I’m not exactly sure his remarks were “anti-Semitic”. I don’t know what “Semitic” means, but I do know I’m staunchly NOT against it. Plus I’m an American, I never paid attention in Social Studies class, so maybe this history-teacher-turned-cab-driver was going to learn me something. After all, he is wearing a tie.