Category Archives: Uncategorized

Sorry, I can’t eat all of those hotdogs

I want to make it clear that, when I had said months ago that I would eat a hotdog for every person that donated to my race fund, I honestly wasn’t expecting such an outpouring of generosity from my family members, my friends, the friends of friends, it’s really funny how Facebook just kind of decides for you which of your posts will languish in obscurity while others, it’s like everybody sees them, your cousin, you cousin’s roommate’s mom, that mom’s sister, her kids.

Again, to all of those people that freely gave, I’m humbled, I truly appreciate it. But nobody could’ve expected that to go viral, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to eat all of those hotdogs, it’s not physically possible. So everyone, thank you, but it’s not going to happen. And the money’s already gone, the foundation cashed everything in once the race was over.

I get it, it is kind of a let down. If I were in your position, I’d feel cheated too. You saw something on the Internet, a random guy promising to eat a hotdog for every donation, you thought, that’s something I’d like to see, something I’d like my money to help finance. So thanks, and I’m just looking at the list here, Mike B. from Chicago, I really appreciate the two dollars you donated, that was cool of you, but just try to picture those two dollars going to help some poor kids somewhere, some poor, sick kids.

And, you know, I’m not trying to take away from your donation, but how far did you think that two dollars was going to go? I mean, if you’re donating two dollars to charity, and part of that donation comes with a hot dog, it’s not like I’m doubting your intentions. Or, you know what? Maybe I am doubting your intentions. You weren’t in it for the charity at all, were you?

Whenever you make a donation that comes with a gift, it’s never worth it. Like donate one hundred dollars and we’ll give you this charity t-shirt. If it were really about the t-shirt, I could’ve gone online had them screen printed. So stop harassing me about the money, OK? Because I’ve already told you, it’s gone.

And no, I wasn’t totally full of shit, I was planning on eating some hot dogs. Obviously, like I’ve said, I couldn’t have imagined my plea for donations to go viral. You think I chose for this to happen? Come on, in terms of stuff that I’ve put on the Internet, this “hotdog for every donation” campaign ranks probably in the bottom tier of things that I would’ve wished to have gone viral.

Like maybe some of my writing, some of these blog posts, I would’ve picked any one of these to have gotten even a fraction of the attention as my hotdog stunt kicked up. Maybe some publishing house could’ve gotten in touch with me, “Wow Rob, you’re a great writer, here’s a book deal.” But no, I’m stuck here getting threatened with a class-action lawsuit from a bunch of Internet strangers that paid an average of a dollar-thirteen to see another Internet stranger get himself sick from eating too many hotdogs.

Except for that one donor who gave over a grand. I don’t understand your angle, pal. I mean, maybe if I was super, mega rich, this might seem like a really twisted way at buying a laugh. Was it a mistake? Did your credit card get charged and you haven’t figured it out yet? Because even if it was on purpose, my original bet was one hotdog per donation, regardless of how much you donated.

Or maybe you really care about the kids, I have no idea. Look, I ran the race, you guys all donated. Can’t we just leave it at that? Is it really necessary for me to shovel down over four thousand hot dogs? Where would I get four thousand hotdogs anyway? I wouldn’t be logistically capable of cooking them all, serving them, let alone getting them down my throat. Just, I’m going to change my email address, OK? Just, leave me alone, I’m off the Internet for a while, all right?

It’s not that I don’t want to help

It’s not that I don’t want to help, I do. I want to help. I just don’t feel like it. If only I felt more like helping out. Like, I wish that I were in the mood to lend a hand. So I want to help, it’s just, I can’t get past that internal inertia, dammit, if only that weren’t there, then we’d be good to go, because I always want to help out, in any way that I can really, it’s just, right now, I don’t think there is a way. Because I’m so tired.

And it’s not that I don’t like that shirt you gave me. I do like it. It’s only, well I can never figure out the right occasion to wear it. Like, yeah I guess I could have worn it out tonight, but then that would have been it. The first time you put on a new shirt, that’s something special, something you can’t recreate the next time. After that it’s just an old shirt. So yeah, I’ll get to it eventually, but it has to be the right time. That’s something you can’t force. If anything, it’s too nice of a shirt. I may never get around to wearing it. And that would actually be a good thing, get it?

Please, don’t mistake my not eating very much of this meal as any sort of judgment on your cooking, it’s delicious, really, it’s just that, I’m still full from lunch. That happens sometimes, you eat lunch but it kind of just sits in your stomach. Right? And your appetizers, I mean, they weren’t that big, but they were really filling. Even just that one bite that I took out of those … what was that, a celery stick, yes, but filled with what? Yogurt? Cream cheese? Mayo? I couldn’t pinpoint the tartness exactly, and, when you put chocolate chips instead of raisins, was that on purpose? Those were raisins? Right, of course they were. And they were delicious. Can I take some of this home? Because I’m totally going to wolf it down tomorrow.

And come on, I think you’re a great driver, but I couldn’t accept a ride home from you, it would be too much. Besides, I always walk home, it’s only like seven or eight miles, I’ll be home in no time. I know, I did look pretty anxious the last time you gave me a ride, but don’t take it personally, I’m nervous in any type of an automobile. Christ, you should see me on an airplane. And the constantly checking to make sure you looked when you turned, the grabbing onto the side handle, the violent flinching when you kind of ran that red light. Well, it was pretty much red. Yeah, well, just because you didn’t get pulled over doesn’t mean you didn’t run the light. But whatever, you nailed it. You’re a great driver. But I’m going to walk.

And, again, I’m sorry if I misunderstood the reason you had us all over. I had no idea you were trying to organize canvassers to help out on Election Day. And bravo to you, seriously, that’s very commendable, getting out there, providing a great role model for the rest of us regular citizens. It’s not that I don’t want to help … I told you this already, right? Yeah, it’s just, I thought you were just having people over to have people over, not to fundraise or organize, or … and yeah, I’m a grassroots guy all the way. Except for right now. I’m so tired. I think that huge lunch from before, it’s turning into an upset stomach. Good thing I didn’t waste that shirt on tonight, am I right?

Well, hopefully this long walk home will help everything settle down inside. But let’s hang out soon, OK? Next Monday? Next Monday I think I’m busy. Actually, all of next week, and the week after that, man, I can’t believe I was even able to get free tonight. But this headache. Soon, definitely soon. See, look, I’m writing you in my calendar, “soon.” I’ll see you soon, man. Later.

If you want the premium experience, you’ve got to buy premium products

I was at the deli and I asked the guy behind the counter for a pound of pastrami. “You want Boar’s Head?” he asked me. And I just kind of looked at him for a minute. He didn’t get it, so I had to spell it out for him, “No, give me a pound of the cheap stuff. If you have any that’s been lying in the back for a few weeks, I’ll take that. And make sure you rub each slice on the floor before you wrap it up.” And he still just kept staring at me, so I had to spell it out even further, I screamed, “Yes! Yes I want the Boar’s Head. What do I look like, a charity case? Give me the Boar’s Head cold cuts!”

Because, look, the world’s your oyster, right? So go for the good stuff. What are you saving, a dollar ninety-nine a pound? Come on, the difference in quality shouldn’t even have to be mentioned. If you want the premium experience, you can’t settle for anything less than the very best.

That goes for sandwich meats. It goes for cookies. One time I was at my grandmother’s house, she made me a sandwich (Boar’s Head) and a glass of chocolate milk. It was a nice visit, I felt like a little kid again, but the whole day was ruined when she busted out the cookie jar after lunch.

“What’s the matter?” she asked me as I started spitting black and white crumbs onto my plate, “Is there something wrong with your Oreos?” and I shot back, “Oreos? You have the nerve to call these Oreos?” They weren’t Oreos, they were Hydrox cookies, imitation, the knock-off brand. “You can’t just go around calling any chocolate cream-filled cookie an Oreo!” I railed at her. You would have thought she learned the lesson about premium products that time she tried to give me a deli-brand ham sandwich, but come on, Hydrox cookies?

“Grandma!” I got a little carried away, “What the hell Grandma, have you tried these cookies? They’re terrible. What did you save, like thirty-five cents here? And don’t give me that Great Depression nonsense, do you see any breadlines? Look, if the economy crashes and everybody gets sent to Europe to fight the Nazis, maybe we can have a discussion about possibly saving some money on buying some Hydrox cookies.

“And do you know how that discussion would go? You’d say, ‘Rob, I hope you don’t mind, but I think it’d be a good idea if we stocked up on Hydrox cookies to save some money to buy war bonds for the boys overseas,’ and then I’d say, ‘You know what Grandma? I’d rather eat nothing. If you really care about the troops, why don’t you send them some cookies instead? Send them a box half-filled with Oreos, and half-filled with Hydrox. They can enjoy the cookies, and use the Hydrox as blunt hurling objects in case they run out of bullets.’”

Everybody’s looking to save a quarter, I went hiking with a few of my friends last week and Derek was in charge of sandwiches. And besides my Boar’s Head and Oreo requirements, I didn’t have much to say in regards to instructions, I figured, you focus on quality, you stick the best, you won’t have a problem.

But we stop for a bit, he pulls out these sandwiches, they’re all wrapped in the cheap-o plastic sandwich bags, I’m talking the off-brand ninety-nine cents for two hundred, thin, flimsy, won’t-even-close-on-top plastic bags. So I took all three sandwiches and threw them far into the woods, I screamed, “Come on man! What the hell? You’re spending all of this money on the good meats, the good bread, the premium cookies, you’re going to shove it all into the cheapest sandwich bags you can find?”

They accused me of overreacting, and yeah, I was pretty hungry for the rest of the hike, but come on, I refuse to appease this penny-pinching. What’s the point of living in the twenty-first century if we’re still going to be using inferior twentieth century products? I want the ones with the resealable ziplock tops, the ones with the space-plastic technology that won’t break, it doesn’t matter how much you put in there, like on the commercials, they’re carrying around bowling balls, and maybe it’s a little much, sure they’re more expensive, but why do you think they make this stuff? You think sandwich bag research and development is going to continue to be funded if consumers aren’t spending their money on the technology? Come on, you want to live in the future? Buy the good stuff. Don’t cut corners on lunch. You’re going to be eating lunch every day until you’re dead, so just, stop trying to save fifteen cents here and there, ooh look, here’s a quarter, I’ll give you a quarter, you want it? Take it.

Mapping Out My Future!

Originally published at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency

Today I’m going to make a plan for the rest of my life, for the future. I’m going to lay out all of my goals, break down what I need to do to achieve those goals into individual steps, and I’m going to come up with a timetable, a reasonable expectation for when I should commit myself to realizing all of the smaller tasks that will eventually add up to those larger objectives.

And then tomorrow, I’m going to go to an office supplies store, I’m going to shop for a bunch of binders, color-coded plastic tabs, all sorts of organizational stuff that I’ll need to really put into focus everything that I should be working on. Highlighters, maybe some plastic sheets that can fit into the binder that have separate pockets for different index cards, I’m just thinking maybe I can write out individual reminders on each card, take them out as I need them, really just keep my priorities in check. Forty-seven bucks? Yeah, that’s a lot for office supplies, but it’s nothing compared to the price of my future. That price is priceless, definitely more than forty-seven dollars.

Then the day after tomorrow, I’ll finish eating lunch, I’ll look to that bag of office supplies, I’ll think, man, I can’t believe I didn’t come straight home and get right to work. I don’t know what happened, I took a nap, I made myself some dinner. And then it’ll be halfway through the following day. I’ll think, should I get to work right now? In a minute. I just want to lay down for a second.

And then the week after that, my wife’s going to be like, “Rob, what’s the deal with this bag of office supplies?” and I’ll be like, “Honey, please don’t move those. I need them. I bought them so I can map out my future,” and she’ll be like, “OK, well, are you just going to leave it there on the floor? Can’t you put them away?” and I’ll get annoyed, I’ll say something like, “Listen, I’m going to use them, like very soon, so it doesn’t make any sense to put them away just yet. Just let me take care of it, OK?”

And then sometime later, like maybe a month or a month and a half after that, I’ll yell upstairs to my wife, she’ll be in the shower, I’ll be like, “Hey! Where’s my bag of office supplies?” and she’ll say, “What?” and I’ll repeat, “Office supplies. Where did you put that bag that I had, the one from the office supplies store?” and she’ll say something like, “I can’t hear you. I’m in the shower. Can you wait until I’m out of the shower?” So I’ll run upstairs and open the door, “The office supplies…” but the cold air is going rush into the bathroom and she’ll scream out, “What the hell, Rob? Close the door!” and I’ll say, “Come on, just tell me where you put my…” and she’ll scream louder, “Now!”

And then maybe like one or two years after that, I’ll be on the computer, surfing the Internet, not really understanding why my life is so aimless, the days blending into the nights, each month flying by seemingly faster than the last, and what do I have to show for it? Why can’t I figure out what I’m supposed to be doing? And I’ll think, it’s because I’m not organized enough, I just need to make a plan, I need to set some goals, and break those down into more manageable chunks. But just as I grab my keys to head out to the office supplies store, I’ll remember that I already did this, that I should have some supplies around here somewhere. My wife won’t be home, so I’ll send her a text, but by the time she replies, I’ll be watching TV or listening to a podcast.

I can’t see us staying at our current place for more than three or four more years, and so when we finally decide to move on, we’ll be packing all of our stuff into boxes, I’ll come across that bag of click pens, not the cheap kind, but the ones that come two for seven-fifty, the label maker, all of those plastic separators that go in that binder. I’ll think, this is perfect, I know exactly where I’m going to put this stuff in our new apartment. Once we’re settled in, I’m going to get to work, I’ve still got a whole lifetime ahead to make something of myself.

And then maybe forty or fifty years from now, my kids and my grandkids will be hauling all of my old stuff into a dumpster right after I’ve died. The younger kids will be searching through all of the years of accumulated trash, looking for some sort of hidden treasure, and one of them will come across this bag, they’ll say, “Look mom, a whole bag full of multi-colored post-its, a faux-leather bound document folder, and something called White-Out tape. Can I keep it?” But she’ll say, “No, come on, it’s just going to sit there and take up space, go ahead, toss it into the dumpster, they’re going to haul it away in an hour and we’ve got piles and piles of junk to dig through.” And the kid’s going to go, “Why did Grandpa have a whole bag of old office supplies?” To which she’ll reply, “I have no idea. He worked in a restaurant, and the Internet was around by then, so I couldn’t tell you what he needed any of that stuff for.”

I hate the United States Postal Service

I’ve been waiting for this package for forever. I ordered something from Amazon, but I didn’t realize that the product I purchased was sold from a third-party, from somewhere in China. I got an email one day in broken English informing me that my tracking number could be plugged in on the China Post web site.

So I dug in my heels and prepared for a long wait. I mean, it’s China, it’s like on the other side of the planet. It boggles my mind how we’re able to send things even across our own country, but from China? Man, I buy one item, what kind of process is that like, getting that one item from China to New York?

Does it go on a boat? On a plane? And then there’s the whole question of taxes, of customs, I don’t know, I’m sure that the system works, because stuff comes from China all the time. What doesn’t work, and this I’m all too familiar with, is the United States Postal Service. It’s terrible.

Talk about low-hanging fruit, complaining about the Postal Service is almost not fair. It’s like written into their charter or something, that in addition to never stopping for rain or sleet or snow, they also have to make the most routine pickups and deliveries as maddeningly impossible as they can. I’ve had problems with the Postal Service in the past, and I’ve vowed never again, but every once in a while you don’t have a choice.

It’s the default option. I didn’t specifically choose for my most recent package to be shipped via the USPS, but when I plugged that tracking number into the China Post’s web site, it eventually told me that it was located in some sorting center in New York. OK, well that’s something, I thought to myself, at least my package and I are in the same country. It should only be a matter of time before it shows up at my door.

But then a week passed. And then a month. I’d go on to the China Post web site and enter the tracking number, but the New York sorting center was the last information it gave. I tried the USPS web site, and much to my delight, it recognized the tracking number. Apparently the Postal Service attempted to deliver my package on October 15, but nobody was there, so they left it at the Post Office.

I clicked on an option to schedule a redelivery for the 25^th. That date came and went without any package. That Monday I figured I’d drop by the branch, see if maybe they had it at the office. Actually going to the Post Office, it’s a last resort, you’re only there because everything else you’ve tried has gone repeatedly wrong.

I opened the doors and the place was jam packed with bodies, a line that had nowhere to go, so it just kind of started snaking in on itself, like I had to ask several people to move and reposition themselves just so I could join them at the very end. And even with four tellers actively helping customers, it seemed as if no progress was being made at all.

I tried to mentally prepare myself for a long wait. I took out my phone, started reading the paper. Still, I couldn’t help but feel my pulse accelerate every time I took stock of my life, standing here on this line, it was getting close to an hour here, every ten minutes or so someone ahead of me or behind me would verbally announce their frustration, a whispered, “Come on!” or an, “Unbelievable,” all laced with several grunts, sighs, these general noises of being totally pissed off yet completely unable to do anything about it.

When I finally got to the window, I told a guy wearing a “Steve” name tag about my problem. He told me to hold on, and then disappeared somewhere in the back for maybe fifteen minutes. He eventually resurfaced, shaking his head, telling me to write down my name and number, that he’d give me a call when they found it.

I never got a call. I came the next day and repeated the same routine. After explaining my situation to someone else, I was told to wait by the side for a supervisor. It’s not just the waiting that got to me, it’s the waiting that’s punctuated by five or ten seconds of ridiculous instructions. Step to the side. Give me your address. Wait here. When I finally spoke to the man in charge, the best he could do for me was hold up his hands in confusion and apologize.

What could I do? I voiced my frustration, I explained how long I’d been waiting, and yeah, the guy acted genuinely sympathetic, but what could he do? What could any more complaining do? I was beat by a faceless institution, a mail delivery service fueled by high wait times and general incompetence. I guess I could have stood there and chewed him out for a little longer, I mean, he wasn’t acting defiant or anything. But would I get my package in the end?

No, so now I have to file a claim and hope that I get my money back. What a waste. How absurd is it that I can buy something from across the world only to have that delivery totally botched right at my doorstep? It’s got to be somewhere, right? Was it delivered to the wrong house? Is it buried in the back of some truck somewhere? I have no idea. I’ll never figure it out. All I know is that, going forward, I’ll pay whatever it takes to make sure that USPS stays far, far away from my stuff.

Every once in a while I’ll hear something in the news about the Postal Service, how it’s going bankrupt, how without assistance from Congress they’re going to have to cancel Saturday delivery or even fold up all together. Normally I’d be like, come on, let’s get our act together. But seriously, just shut it down. What a waste. Quasi-government run operations like the Postal Service only exist for groups like the Tea Party to point at and rail about the government’s inability to get anything done. Enough wasting everybody’s time and money on the USPS. Just let UPS and FedEx take over completely.