"If You Had a Spaceship...": A Guide to 8minute Dating

Dear avid readers, I have recently realized that although my previous articles have been comical, or perhaps amusing at best, they provide nothing of worth to you, the readers, that we love so dearly. With this in mind, and the weight of my obligation to inform society, and Matters, I bring to you my guide to 8minute Dating.

Our good friend Woody stumbled across 8 minute dating (8md) quite some weeks ago, and expressed his interest to us via electronic mail. He further requested that we attend an upcoming event to be held at the Fire & Ice restaurant in Boston. Amiably, Adam and I agreed, and the three of us registered for the event, upon which we were told that we would be put on a waiting list, until a gender-balanced attendance could be confirmed. After several days of waiting by the proverbial mailbox, we received notification of our acceptance onto the elite list of members who would be allowed to attend this auspicious event.

Danielle, Alix and Sonia came too.

The guide to 8md begins before you even get in the car.

Step 1: Dress Gay/Metro

This rule applies unless you are in fact gay or metrosexual, in which case you may consider dressing down. Adam, stubbornly, wanted to wear his baggy-ass jeans and his lucky red shirt. Woody and I protested...this was completely unacceptable. Not because it made him look even more like a farmboy, but more because he would be a bad reflection on us. After several hours of verbal abuse that eventually turned physical (Adam lost a few pints of blood. Ask him), he agreed to wear black pants, and borrowed my fancy black shoes, as opposed to his blue-collar work shoes.

Silly blue-colored folk. Those smurfin' idiots don't know what's smurfin' good for them.

Step 2: Arrive Early

This step is crucial to your success with 8md. Why? Arriving early allows you to do several opportunities. Once you have checked in, you are provided a card with your table assignments for the eight 8 minute dates you are about to have. Review this card carefully. If possible, sneak a peek at other peoples cards and consider dates you may want to avoid. Furthermore, move every table you will be seated at closer to the bar.

Which brings me to your next advantage of arriving early. Drink. Drink as much as you can. Your initial thinking may be that you want to stay sober, and keep your breath fresh for your dates. You learn quickly however that no one has fresh breath after munching on the garlic meatball hors d'oeuvres, and feigning an interest in pancreatic cell synthesis is much easier when you're plastered. Forget the puny bottles, go for the 20 oz. drafts. And keep going.

Step 3: Practice Your Pitch

I hear you saying, "What pitch? It's me, of course I know what I'm going to say about me. How hard can it be?" Oh, my naive little friends. You have already assumed too much. This brings me to the next step:

Step 4: Lie
Through your teeth. Observe the following scenarios.

BAD
Henry: Hey, how's it going?
Girl: Good, good, how about you?
Henry: Yeah, I'm alright.
Girl: So, what do you do?
Henry: Oh I work at a software company designing order management software...
Girl: Oh my father did that. I killed him.

Note how things turn disastrous when you tell the truth. Let's see how it should be done.

GOOD
Henry: Hey, how's it going?
Girl: Good, good, how about you?
Henry: Yeah, I'm alright.
Girl: So, what do you do?
Henry: Oh I'm Brad Pitt.
Girl: Please insert yourself.

I can't stress the importance of this step enough. Let's move on.

Step 5: Avoid Eye Contact...
...with everyone but your date. Doing so will help you avoid awkward conversations.

Henry: Yeah, so whereabouts are you from?
Girl: Well originally Indiana, but now I...what are you looking at?
Henry: Oh my god, this is so embarassing.
Girl: What? Whats wrong?
Henry: I've got this thing about looking and talking to fat people at the same time...

Awkward.

Step 6: Cut The Crap
Come on, let's face it. You've got 8 minutes. Find out what you really want to know.

Bad questions:
Where did you grow up?
What kind of work do you do?
What do you do for fun?
Whats your favourite ____?
What are your needs?

Good questions:
Do you like cooking? For me?
How do you feel about porn?
Do you trim the hedges, or mow the lawn?
Do you do...
...blowjobs?
...anal?
...fisting?
...anal fisting?
...threesomes?
...DVDA? (Consult a perverted friend)
...windows?
...small pets?

That concludes the learning part of this program. If you follow these few simple rules, I guarantee you will succeed at 8md. Take Woody for example, who earned big points with Trisha (names have been changed to protect the identities of the inviduals involved):

"Oh Woody is just the best. I could tell I wanted him since I saw him passed out on the barstool in his pink feathered boa and chaps. I love a guy who can get straight to the point, though I'm worried I don't have enough...experience....I've only been to three orgies! And what can I say....I guess I've always had a thing for British secret agents...."

Bravo Woody. Bravo.

MATTERS OF INTEREST: The Human Brain

It's arbitrarily time for another MATTERS OF INTEREST. In a rabid fit of grandiose delusions, I am Matters.

This installment broaches a subject 8 to 14 inches from all our hearts: The Human Brain. Down through the ages of man and beast, philosophers have pontificated upon the majesty and miracle of the mind of man. Beasts have lapped up its gooey remains after cracking through our deficient skulls. Both have appreciated its good aspects to the full possible extent. Unfortunately, The Human Brain is also the source of nearly every species-shaming idea that has ever been or shall be. Every stupid, half-assed, or ill-conceived thought since the dawn of creation can be attributed to The Human Brain, with the notable exception of the Unicycle. The Unicycle was invented by a bear. Stupid bear! It's got only one wheel.

For the purposes of illustration, I have gone to the trouble of obtaining an image of my brain, which, scientists assure me, is practically human in nature.

This image, and some others with my top off that I won't post on the internet, were taken during a medical experiment for which I volunteered some years ago. The suckers paid me $50, and there were no lasting effects lasting effects. Two important regions are indicated in the image above, and I will explain these in due time.

Now, The Human Brain, being filled with scrumptious brain goo (neurotransmitters, deoxyribonucleic acid, monosodium glutamate, high fructose corn syrup) is immediately tempted to do the following:

But I assure you, this tendency is stupid. What does it even mean? Am I really storing miniature hamburgers in my sinuses? No one has an adequate answer.

The other immediate temptation is to create some kind of Warhol-esque modern art travesty:

It could be used to advertise for a brain surgery clinic run by artists, or to burn the retinas out of the eye sockets of attacking coyotes. Whatever the motivation, it too is assuredly stupid, and a mockery of all things good and descent.

Other stupid acts that belay the vast reserves of dumb contained within The Human Brain include:

• editing the above picture to fictitiously insert images of genetalia into the mouth, or
• using the brain image as a mechanism to describe the quality of a motion picture in a "movie review and a meal" format column.

For perspective, let's examine some other key stupid ideas throughout history, and take a moment to briefly debunk the ignorance that contributed to their inception.

• Screen Door Submarine: Ha, silly Pollaks.
• Phrenology: If you know what this is, you know why its stupid.
• The Narwhal: Ok, I am well aware that this is not a result of The Human Brain, but come on, what is this thing? A Sea Unicorn? Give me a break. Keep them out of our communities, I say.
• Intelligent Design: Dress up some bible passages in fancy Scientronomy and Researchology terms to skirt the Separation Clause, and all of a sudden you have an alternate theory? Well answer me this yokel (that's right, I called you a yokel) if your omniscient intelligent designer was so worried about creating a world that merely seemed old (dinosaurs, radio-carbon dating, speed dating, Dick Clark) in order to conceal his existence, why would he have created proponents of intelligent design to reveal it? Hmm?? OR DID I JUST BLOW YOUR MIND.
• Republicans: I don't want to be a racist, but hey...

How, you ask, can I give such poignantly reasoned arguments in the face of such overwhelming stupidity? Well, if you will refer to the diagram at the beginning of this page, the red arrow indicates the region of the brain responsible for belief in stupid crap. You will see that it is conspicuously missing from my brain scan. Unfortunately, the green arrow indicates the region of the brain that makes one's personality repulsive to the ladies. Even a walrus in a doctor suit could tell you that its well developed (that's how it happened to me).

It is my personal and heartfelt belief that we all can take comfort in the fact that absolutely nothing was resolved in this high velocity probe of The Human Brain. I will continue my mission to violently probe the orifices of science, nature, and the universe.

~Matters

Before They Were Stars...

I'm not even TRYING....

...Damn right it shows.

Diphy, The Omni Elixir

For those of you who have been sharing a bed with me recently (it doesn't count if you leave after sex, Wanda), you may want to skip down a few paragraphs as you probably know all of this already. For the rest of you, read on, and keep in mind that my Thursday slot is still open. All services come with a complimentary walk of shame. Make your reservations now, at www.humpahenner.com.

Over the past few weeks I have experienced a gradual degradation in the quality and quantity of sleep. Why you ask? I dont know I reply. I have always had a simple formula for a good nights sleep:

(X*Y*Z)/(S*O) = R * q

Where:
X = physical exhaustion
Y = mental exhaustion
Z = mild cerebral hemorrhaging
S = stress
O = inflicted or induced pain (the Owie factor)
R = sleep
q = Quarelle's constant, which is 1.

But now all thats gone to shit. Take last night for example, perhaps the worst bout of insomnia I have ever had. After a long day at work, followed by a tiring callback audition for Rainbow Tribe (not a gay coalition), running on only one cup of coffee and a Lean Cuisine, my physical and mental exhaustion was at a high. Admittedly my stress levels are mildly high, but not any higher than before, and to balance that out I rammed my head into the bedpost repeatedly to get those cerebral juices flowing.

After all that, one would think there'd be no problem nodding off to dreamland, snoring like a obtuse Jew with irritiable bowel syndrome on Rosh Hashanah...but NO. Nothing. I lie there, staring at the ceiling with my hand down my pants, wondering why I can't even yawn.

I go through the gauntlet of sleep aids I have previously employed. The first and most obvious is food. I scarf down some leftover roast chicken ($6.99 at Shaws, good shit) and some Ruby Red grapefruit juice, then wait for the food coma to take effect.

Nothing.

Next, some light reading. And by reading, I mean listening, since I now refuse to read anything I can listen to while multitasking instead. I'm currently enveloped in a book called The Secret Life of Bees, a story about a white Southern girl during the Civil Rights movement, who runs away from home and lives with a family of black sisters that run a honey business. Magical. Magically 10 hours long. Anyways, I get through Chapter 13, when she comes to terms with the reality that her mother left her as a young child.

Nothing.

Next on the list is the white noise. They say it works on babies, so why not Asians? I downloaded it on Limewire, meaning I could very well be listening to someones heart murmurs. Lying there, I wonder if I'm subliminally learning Swedish, or regulating my menstrual cycle.

Nothing.

Finally, sleep hypnosis. Again, downloaded from Limewire. Limewire rocks. This has definitely worked for me in the past. Though not so much the hypnosis part, where the man (who sounds like he has low self esteem and a brain deficiency) counts down from ten to zero, telling you to do things like imagine a soft mist around your body, and tell your mind to slow down...sloww.....downn.....its time for your mind....to slowwwwww.......dowwnnnnnnnn......send me money.......and slowwwww........dowwwnnnnnnnnnn.

No, it really just bores me to sleep. But tonight?

Nothing.

So I give food coma another shot, combined with late night television. Okay, so leftover KFC and Conan O'Brien probably isnt the best way to fall asleep. It's just too damn stimulating. Especially when Conan is being supremely funny:

Clips from WALKER: TEXAS RANGER
The Other Guy: What is it?
Walker: It's Vietnamese, but it's in some kind of code...
The Other Guy: Code?
Walker: It's been encrypted.
The Other Guy: Well what do we do now?
Walker: I don't know, but we should find Sumyung Gai
The Other Guy: Sumyung Gai? Why?
Walker: Because he speaks Vietnamese....and is a computer genius.

How convenient. Alas, no sleep. In a fit of frustration, I peel my naked ass off the couch and throw some pants on. Off to the 24 Hour Brooks pharmacy.

Why is it that I always, ALWAYS get stuck behind the slowest person at the checkout? It's 2 in the morning. There are only three people in the store...me, the guy behind the counter, and the oldest woman in the world between us. Regardless. I purchase a pack of Reds, and my new friend Diphy.

Diphy, short for diphenhydramine hydrochloride comes with with my old buddy Ace, short for for acetaminophen. They make me happy. Well, then don't. Thats just about the ONLY thing they don't do. I did a little background check on my buddy Diphy:

Diphenhydramine hydrochloride is given to people who are experiencing allergic reactions, such as itchy skin, runny nose, cough, hives (types of skin eruptions), other skin rashes, and hay fever (allergic reactions to trees, grass, or weed pollens). Because diphenhydramine hydrochloride causes sleepiness, it is also taken by people who are having difficulty sleeping. It is also given to relieve motion sickness and nausea, vomiting, and dizziness that is unrelated to motion sickness. Furthermore, it gives you the power to fly, become invisible, and shoot mind bullets.

Doesn't that sound lovely? Aside from allowing me to sleep, it also protects me from...well...pretty much anything.

Umm...I forgot what the point of this whole entry was. So I'm just going to stop now. Toodles!

MATTERS OF INTEREST

Its time for the first, and arguably best, MATTERS OF INTEREST. In an obvious infringement on Henners nom de plume, I am Matters.

As the first installment of this heap of excrement (generously bestowed the rank of English text) some explanation is warranted. This column is chartered to violently probe the orifices of science, nature, and the universe.

In keeping with the narcissistic self-aggrandizing precedent of this blog, today's MATTER OF INTEREST will be me.

LIFE ALTERING FACT #1 I was awarded a seat of indefinite tenure on this triumverate of webly loggers for my profanity laden critique of last Monday. It can be found in shamelessly adulterated form here.

LIFE ALTERING FACT #2 I am a humble citizen of East Cambridge. I live in a 146ft. Ivory tower, engraved with dragons and likenesses of Bill Murray, which can be seen below, from a distance of 3 miles, looming over the skyline of our fair city (red arrow).

In conclusion, for so long as it is allowed by my capricious handlers Henners and A-Dub, this section will serve up a host of personal neuroses, vendettas, and trivia that should prove thoroughly uninteresting to the general public, readers of this blog, and FBI agents tirelessly scouring the internet for instances of the word jihad. Jihad jihad jihad.

~Matters

Spy Games and Utility Friends

So our protagonist, Adam, has been putting off a 'date' with our antagonist, a girl we will affectionately refer to as The Beast, that he met online. After several (fortunately) failed attempts to meet, he finally has no choice but to make her acquaintance at the Green Dragon.
Naturally, Brice and I think it'd be nice to tag along, incognito. Adam thinks it'd be nice too.

Upon arrival, we find Adam munching on a chicken sandwich, alone.
"WTF?" I says.
"I'm meeting her in a few somewhere else," he says.

But since Brice and I have already ordered our beers, we decide it'd be good to stick around. This is when we get into our conversation about utility friends. It goes something like this:

Henry: I think we need more utility friends.
Brice: Me too.

Essentially, the definition of a utility friend is one who can provide you with free, discounted, or previously unavailable goods or services, and allow convenient access to otherwise difficult or inaccessible establishments. Jen FlatTops is probably the best example of a utility friend we currently have, and perhaps the only good example. Other lesser examples may be Annie Grendels, or DJ Orleans MacFaddens.

Coincidentally enough, right smackdab in the middle of our conversation, somewhere between the words 'need' and 'utility', our bartender interjects, "You guys go to Paddy O's sometimes, right?" I thought he looked familiar.

Over the next half hour, we come to know and love our new potential utility friend Burnsy, who bartends at the Green Dragon during the week, and bounces at Paddy O's on the weekends. He'd make a great utility friend. We plan on visiting him again next Tuesday.

Now, the important point we must stress here is that, utility friends are friends before they are utilities. Note that 'utility' describes the 'friend', and not the other way around. They're not 'friend utilities'. Although a friend utility infers a completely different meaning - an XBox is a friend utility. So is sausage and mushroom pizza, or the ability to produce large amounts of chocolate from your pituitary glands.

All credit for the phrase 'utility friend' goes to Adam, for I believe it was he who coined the term. A Google search produces nothing remotely similar to our definition. So don't look. Don't. You'll just feel stupid if you do.

Getting back to the Spy Games part of our story, Brice and I bid a hearty farewell to our Burnsy, and proceed towards the Gas Light Pub, located directly between Durgin Park and the Black Horse Tavern.

Its a Tuesday night and business is scarce - nary a wanderer find their way here. We locate Adam at the bar, defeated, slumped over his stool and weakly clutching his Sam Adams in both hands. Next to him sits The Beast. She towers above his sullen form, in a tube top and matching earrings.

Being as discreet as possible, Brice and I sit at the bar, one stool between us and them. The stakes are high, the tension is thick. During pauses in our conversation, we catch glimpses into theirs.

The Beast: Oh my god. I totally fell asleep with a beer in my hand. In my hand. Oh my god.
Adam: [half-hearted chuckle]

We decide it best to change Adam's name to "Jason" in our conversations, else The Beast may catch on. Later we decide to change our names too. The story continues.

Ben and I (Eddie) order another beer. Adam excuses himself to use the bathroom. Brice takes the opportunity to follow suit. I remain in guard at the bar. The Beast is quiet, and keeps to herself. She refuses to look at me, although I stare awkwardly at her in my little Asian way. I call out to her, "Dr. Jones! Dr. Jones!"...Nothing. She appears to type something into her monster cellphone (how appropriate) and proceeds to bite her nails.

Meanwhile, Brice and Adam return to their respective stools. Brice recites the recent urinal conversation:

Brice: You want out? I can punch Henry in the nads and amidst the confusion we'll make a run for it.
Adam: No, I think we can..wait..you'd do that for me?
Brice: Hells yeah babygirl.
Adam: Oh Brice...
Brice: ...
Adam: ...
Brice: ...
Adam: Umm..nah I think I'll be fine. Just don't leave without me.
Brice: You got it. Seeyas.
Adam: Wait...Brice..
Brice: Yes?
Adam: ...nothing.

The night continues. Brice and I hear more of their conversation:

The Beast: Oh my god. I was totally drunk at work. At work. Oh my God.
Adam: Every moment I live is in agony.
The Beast: What?
Adam: Oh nothing, I was just chuckling..half-heartedly.
The Beast: Oh okay.

Finally they leave the bar, as do Brice and I. We follow, yet keep our distance to be safe. I battle the urge to run up behind The Beast, smack her ass while taking her purse and fleeing in the night. The journey is near unbearable.

Brice and I watch with relief as Adam prods her through the turnstile, and with a "Yeehaw!" scrambles towards us. The Beast scowls, but it is too late. She cannot get back her dollar twenty five. The war is over. But there are no winners. Just survivors.

Adam: You guys wanna get a drink at The Kinsale? I could sure use one.

Attendance is scarce at The Kinsale, and this is where we meet our second utility friend of the night. Nicolette, the bartender from Attleboro, originally from Hawaii, heightens our interest in implementing Green Dragon/Kinsale Tuesdays.

As the sun begins to rise..in Japan..we make our merry ways home, thankful for coming out unscathed, looking forward to the embrace of another day.

With Love, Matt.

The following e-mail was received last night. It has been reviewed for content and modified to fit your TV.

How could you start the worst f***in blog ever without my f***in input? I don't mean to say that in an indignant sort of way, but rather as a c**ks**kin legitimate question of f***in practicality. F***in, I have reams of evidence, and at least five f***in credible sources to attest to the fact that f***in everything I f***in touch predictably and precisely decays into a state of abject crap. F**in. I have every f***in confidence that any contribution on my part to any hypothetical f***in blog would send it into a horrific and tactless spiral of decline the likes of which would surely dwarf any possible f***in measure of morbidity that you might hope to f***in maintain in your so called "worst f***in blog ever." I'm sorry to be so f***in critical of what is clearly a legitimately heinous f***in travesty against the f***in auspices of human thought, but from my f***in perspective you are f***in doomed to f***in fail in your f***in attempts to alter the f***in world through bad f***in writing.

Point in fact: Aaron is ALREADY spelled with an extra A.

~Matt.

I Love Nuts: A Comparative Review

So in an effort to stay healthy and save money...well...thats not true.

So in an effort to stay healthier and have more money for booze and that back-massager from Brookstone I want, I've started eating nuts at work.

I think its a great idea. I buy a giant bag of nuts from Shaws and keep them at work, and munch on them nuts throughout the day. They prevent me from buying crap out of the vending machine, which is usually unhealthy and overpriced. They also prevent me from buying sodas and stuff too. They generally curb my appetite. And I drink lots more water to get the bits out of my teeth. Furthermore, I'm even more popular now because people like coming by and munching on my nuts.

But the point of this review is that I've been thinking about what my favourite nuts are...lets find out!

Peanuts: meh. They're alright. I was never much of a fan of peanuts, salted or unsalted. They're just kinda blah.

Almonds: pretty darn good, but they're tough to munch, especially after you've had them out for a couple days. I found them to be a little hard going down too, since they're so brittle.

Pistachios: way tasty, but they're super salty, and can get messy with the shells and the powderyness (thats now a word) and the skins. I guess peanuts have the same disadvantages.

Cocktail Shrimp: the meatiest, juiciest nuts around, but not particularly good for you. Plus they get expensive unless you do your own cocktail shrimp-picking. Cocktail shrimp farms are the best, so long as your dont throw the shrimp around (strictly prohibited). Great place to buy fresh-made cocktail shrimp cider and cocktail shrimp pies.

Cashews: they taste alright, but they kinda remind me of limp penises. I frown upon macaroni too.

Macademias: what the fuck are macademias?

Walnuts: damn tasty. they don't remind me of shriveled gentalia at all, though they should, and no messiness to worry about, provided you get them pre-shelled.

Looking at all the options. I'm probably gonna go for pre-shelled walnuts, if I can find them at Shaws. But first I gotta finish off this giant bag of pistachios, and the half bag of cheesy poofs I keep for my monthly wine-and-cheesypoof parties at work.

ADDENDUM FROM AARON

This reminds me of that thing Henry did once. Remember when we were on Spring Break and he caught that...well...you know. He had Cocktail Fever. The picture I took will explain all. Best Spring Break Ever.

love, A-Dub

We Will Bury You