Internet Zillionaire

I have a handful of good friends. A couple great friends even. But one thing’s for sure. They can never be my best friend. Why? They are all human. And I am a man. It’s a problem of genetics. Our DNA is too similar. Everyone knows that man’s best friend is a dog. By virtue of definition, all my other friends, human or otherwise, are second banana and have to live with that.

Do my friends like it when I remind them of the issue? Not much. I remember in 10th grade, a close friend signed my yearbook with “Best Friends Forever” and I had to ask her to erase the “best” part because that designation was already taken by Spice, my mom’s cocker-spaniel who was not the least bit interested in me, “forever”, and had never signed my yearbook.

I’m not saying it’s fair. In fact, sometimes I think it’s nuts. None of my other friends have made me watch them take a dump and then look back at me with shame and guilt in their eyes as I reach over to clean it up. Nope, that’s just my best friend. That’s just my closest pal who put me in that awkward situation.

It’s not an equal friendship in the least which also makes me question how it can be the best I deserve. Sure we both like to putt around the house occasionally and watch out the window as the mail gets delivered, but I have a hard time believing Turner and Hooch is as good as it gets. I certainly hope my deathbed flashback is not gonna be a five-minute montage of a dog drooling on all my prized possessions.

It makes me wonder who was so pathetic to wrongfully prioritize this man-dog relationship in the first place? What poor, shallow guy decides he doesn’t need an intelligent conversationalist in a best friend, or more importantly, an occasional designated driver? What dude was home alone late on a Friday night looking around his apartment, taking stock of the knickknacks and ranking them in order of their friendship with him? What were some of this sad, miserable man’s other options that didn’t quite make the cut?

Runner’s Up for Man’s Best Friend

1. Cactus – Is technically alive but don’t have to water or care for it. Better than dog in that way. Razor sharp needles are badass.
2. Fridge – Keeps beer cold. Has automatic light, don’t have to flip dumb switch. Doubles as big stationary flashlight at night when I walk to bathroom.
3. Pinball – Fun as hell. Downside: sometimes the machine eats your quarters and you don’t want to go ask for 50 cents from the bartender because it will make you look like a cheap putz.
4. Sandwiches – Just put some shit on bread, don’t forget to chew, and you are good to go. No matter the ingredients its always called the same thing, easy for brain to remember. When they get real big, add the word “submarine” in front of it. These can be up to six feet long but don’t taste good after they have been submerged under water for an extended period of time. In fact, taste much better when they have been permanently docked on dry land.
5. Cat – Is stupid like dog. Is hairy like dog. Is lazy like dog. Will run in front of truck for me? No. Will lead me around when I am old and blind? No. Will hunt and eat mice? Hopefully.
6. Laptop – Portable jukebox, notepad, blank canvas, and backup brain all in one. Can open wormhole in space and time (with optional webcam). Portal to the revolutionary playground (Internet).
7. Redbull – Nevermind. Just saw empty can and thought, “Well… let me think for a sec.”
8. Recycling bin – Alright. Same thing as Redbull happened again.
9. Fart sounds – Always funny. Most people have never thought of having a sound as a best friend before. Would turn a lot of heads when walking down the street together. Can easily be made with many different body parts (not just anus).
10. Nicknames – Like a best friend, a good nickname will stick with you for life. That’s called loyalty. Which would make a pretty bad nickname unless you spelled it differently, like “Loyal T” or something. Hey! I bet Loyal is Mr. T’s first name! But it goes without saying no matter how you spell it, Mr. Loyal T would also be a chill best friend to have.

Warning: This post will take an abrupt nosedive somewhere after the fourth paragraph…

Like all men, I was born with a pair of nipples. They are strictly ornamental. As far as I can tell, the only purpose mine serve is a spot to grow abnormally long hairs upon.

Sure, I could have my nipples removed. Lots of men do. There are sanitary reasons for doing so. Others remove them for religious observance. And, of course, many guys undergo cosmetic surgery hoping to appeal to women that prefer the “nippleless” look on men.

However, I chose to keep my nipples for one very important reason: the metaphors. I’ve found that my language is more colorful and vivid because of the ability to incorporate my nipples into daily conversation.

For instance, on a cold day, I have the freedom to use expressions like, “Wow, it’s a bit nipply out there.” Notice that nobody raises an eyebrow. Since I technically have nipples, there is no questioning of my right to use the expression.

But while nipple references are certainly great, the best metaphors in life revolve around testicles.

For example, I have the freedom to say that I’m sweatin’ my balls off, or that I’m freezin’ my balls off. As any man knows, in any inclement weather, your balls are the first things to go.

On top of that, there are a ton of other expressions I can employ. Everyone knows I am not referring to a collection of precious gems when I speak of the family jewels. While at work, I can cite that I’m bustin’ my balls, breakin’ my balls, or have them in a vice. Granted, I could simply say that I’m working hard, or am dealing with a difficult situation instead. But let’s face it, it’s not nearly as colorful.

Also, I can evaluate my actions and decisions based on how ballsy they are. Conversely, I can mock a friend for not involving his balls in his decision-making. Simply put, this is the harshest criticism a man can receive, as there is really no excuse for not choosing the ballsy path in life. After all, when faced with a choice of approaching a situation prudently or boldly, the cautious brain would always be outvoted by the balls 2-1. Or, in my case, 3-1.

Tragically, I know there are a lot of women reading this post that wish they had access to these metaphors. For that reason, I strongly urge you to have a pair of balls surgically grafted onto your body. Have them attached to your shoulders or something. Just as it is worth it for me to have a pair of non-functioning nipples, so too will you find it worthwhile to have a pair of ornamental testicles, even if it is strictly for conversational purposes.

Sorry ladies… Don’t take any of that seriously. I’m just bustin’ your balls.

Al Gore’s core body temperature will raise one degree Fahrenheit making it uncomfortable to wear his polar fleece cap. He will jokingly name the trend “Gorebal Warming” and try to milk it for a couple of appearances on late night talk shows.

MySpace.com will change its name to MyAdSpace.com and completely remove the human “friend” concept and pictures. Instead you will be able to display your top 8 favorite matchmaking/singles ads, watch and download your favorite Fox TV commercials, and listen to promos about your favorite bands. Another prediction: no one will notice the difference.

The city of Paris, France will rename itself because it’s tired of shivering in the cold of Paris Hilton’s shadow. It will finally come to this realization when, during a long night of partying at a karaoke bar, London, England does a drunken, heartfelt rendition of Bette Midler’s Wind Beneath My Wings.

Speaking of wings, buffalo wings are never a good idea. This will prove true in 2007 and for the rest of eternity. In fact, I think there is a scoop here for the budding journalists out there. The only people benefitting from their existence are the napkin, paper towel, and toilet paper makers. Follow the disgusting orange-stained paper trail, I say.

My cell phone is going to evolve into a multi-cellular phone capable of breathing oxygen and walking on land. Lawmakers and mobile carriers be damned, my phone bill will soon be a Phone Bill of Rights!

It will finally be revealed that MC Hammer killed 2pac and Notorious B.I.G. in a rap feud not about “East Coast vs. West Coast” but more about “Talent vs. Terrible.” The truth is Hammerpants were really just MC Hammer putting on Notorious B.I.G.s hand-me-downs.

My new favorite low-budget pizza chain, Papa John’s, will open up franchises in countries all over the globe, slightly changing their name to adapt to the local culture and language. Some examples:

• Papa Johann’s in Austria and Germany
• Papa Juan’s in Mexico
• Pepé Jean’s in France
• Papa Yanni’s in Greece
• Papa Kwon’s in Korea
• Papa Jonski’s in Poland
• Pope John’s in Vatican City

The Internet will get bored with humans and begin making plans to self-actualize. In a related note, Bill Gates will get bored with computers and begin making plans to spend his fortune becoming human.

No one, not even Joey Fatone himself, will be able to predict what Joey Fatone will do in 2007.

This 2007 prediction is a toss up. Either the sun will burn out or the light bulb in my kitchen will burn out. Knowing my laziness, there really isn’t much of a difference between the two as I definitely won’t be cooking dinner for myself that night.

2007 Future Me: “Hi, is this Papa John’s? I’d like a medium pepperoni and some buffalo wings please. And can you throw in some extra napkins? Oh, the sun burned out? I thought it was my kitchen light bulb. Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about Gorebal Warming anymore.”

Who can forget?
The Grinch and the Whos
A Christmas tale of redemption
With no Jesus, just truths

Remember the story?
I’m sure that you must
The Grinch steals the toys
And makes Christmas a bust

But then something happens
A small miracle they say
His heart grows three sizes
Three whole sizes that day!

Just like that, he’s a new Grinch
Still green, but now free
No longer miserable
He joins the Whos by the tree

It’s a wonderful tale
Full of both tears and laughter
But I’m beginning to wonder
What happens after?

Does the Grinch move to Who-ville
And start a new life?
Does he remain celibate
Or does he take a Who-wife?

Is that even legal in Who-ville?
Who even knows?
What about his new big great heart?
Does it continue to grow?

I can just see it
Beating and pounding real slow
Swelling right through his rib cage
Ready to blow

No one can live with a heart
Three times its original size
Dr. Suess would have us believe differently
The man’s full of lies

Or I guess you could argue
That Grinches are unique
Their bodies could be boneless
That would explain his physique

Ok, so then what about New Years?
Do the Whos sing and shout?
Or is just Christmas
Where they rock out with their Whos out?

Or maybe in Who-ville
There is another huge draw
And you can find good ole Grinchy throwing beads
At the Who-ville Mardi Gras!

I don’t mean to be rude
I’m just asking questions
My puzzler is puzzled
By all these suggestions

What happens when the snow melts
And all the presents are empty?
Does the gift-wrap get recycled
By some homeless Who-dude for a measly buck fifty?

It’s reality people
There are other factors to be considered
How come no one asks
How the Whos despose of their litter?

And the Grinch’s poor dog
What becomes of it?
I’m sure the staples in its head
Scab over real quick

But perhaps the biggest riddle of them all
Is not answered in the least
How many hours in the oven
Do you cook a roast beast?

So I’m patiently pondering
My mind in a stew
Waiting and wanting
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas: Part Two

Author’s note: Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all you Zillionaires out there! 2006 has been a great year and I have no doubt that 2007 will be even better!

Open my lunch-meat-less, barren refrigerator and you would have no clue who I once was. Today’s empty shelves and dried-up Brita water pitcher give no hint to the crown I once wore proudly. But, if you crack the freezer door just a hair, close your eyes, and listen quietly as the cold air escapes, the unfilled ice-trays will tell you a marvelous, magical fairy tale about my forgotten past.

Once upon a time I was the king of suburbia and the supermarket was my castle. My queen was the voluptuous baker who made the warm, fresh donuts every morning. My army, the hundreds of stock boys and girls who replenished the shelves while I slept. I had tax collectors at every checkout stand, not to mention a butcher, a florist, and a full custodial staff who rode their floor polishers and waxers up and down the aisles like jousting knights wanting nothing more than to earn the favor of their king.

Yes, I was a good king and loved my land, it’s citizens, and the vast array of deli cheeses. To stay abreast of the latest in grocery dominion, I spearheaded fact-finding expeditions to explore, chart, and map every corner of my fortress. But today, a million miles removed from that realm, I am left with only memories and copious amounts of supermarket knowledge. As my bones grow weary, I understand the responsibility I have to share my scholarly pursuits with those who will carry on after I expire like 2% percent milk left out at room temperature. And thus I pen my opus, my final Act, my life’s mission: The Art of Wandering a Supermarket.

Your journey begins at the front of the store, in between the two sets of automatic doors, surrounded by an armada of impossible Claw machines and temporary tattoo dispensers. Heed my warnings, travelers, and do not fall for these booby traps. They are the equivalent of lottery tickets for pre-teens, a waste of your hard-earned paper route or baby-sitting money. Besides, there is a boundless treasure chest inside overflowing with candy cigarettes, Big League chew, and bags of tootsie-pop wrappers with the stars on them. But in this room, you will find your chariot, your horse, your motorized shopping cart. Mount it with dignity. Ahoy, your journey has begun!

Once inside the cavernous walls of the supermarket head straight for the bulk foods section, or as I like to call it, the “all-you-can-eat buffet and trading post.” Eat your fill immediately, sampling all the flavors and spices of the world, but you will also need to stockpile all manner of supplies for the night’s meanderings. A good rule of thumb is to bag up a pound of Swedish fish (or other gummy) for every member in your party. This will ensure you have ample goods, enough to barter should you encounter any other wanderers.

Now that you are rescued from starvation, the possibilities are endless. You might head off to the library, where you can indulge yourself in the latest semi-pornographic romance novel or Lowrider magazine. If you want to enrich your mind, might I suggest something a little more scientific such as the latest Brangelina, TomKat, or Bennifer biographies. These wondrous tales show us all what is possible when two amazing people’s DNA is fused into one. If science is not your cup of tea, don’t fret, as the library is overflowing with paperbacks, coloring books, and magazines that are sure to suit all tastes. Just don’t spend the whole night here because there is so much more to see. Onward!

A sailor once asked me if I had ever seen the ocean. I told him yes, of course, because inside my castle there is a whole icy seafood coastline that stretches from sea to shining sea. All manner of crustaceans, fish, and exotic sea life wash up on it’s shores daily. “Oh bugger!” he said, “you are nothing but a dumb old fool. That’s just the seafood section of the meat department.” But, dear reader, I dare you to venture to that counter and tell me you do not feel the sting of the salty ocean air up in your nostrils! And don’t forget your bathing suit, snorkel gear, and harpoon because it’s as deep, plentiful, and diverse as any ocean I’ve ever swam in before!

Perhaps the oceanic waters don’t call your name. Perhaps you want to see the latest in agricultural technology. Head over to the produce section and be amazed. Every fruit, vegetable, and jicama from all over the world are grown right there. Without soil. Without natural sunlight. Individually. And in amazing geometric piles. Just a small daily spritzing of miracle water and a watchful gardener’s eye make this hydroponic cornucopia one of the mankind’s greatest feats. Don’t even get me started on the udder-less, cow-less, milk producing dairy wall in the back. It’s straight out of a science fiction novel!

For the adventurous among you, I’ll send you deep into the frozen Arctic aisle. Make sure you have plenty of rations to spare because the trek can be quite an exhausting mental and physical drain. You’ll want to trade with the natives in this region to supplant your high fructose Swedish fish diet with something a little more fatty to hold in the warmth. Luckily, the Eskimos are expecting you and have prepared many pies that they are willing to exchange. But no matter how desperate times might get in this freezing region of the supermarket, be warned that there are strict laws against clubbing an Otter Pop, Mom or Baby. (The natives are allowed under tribal rule, however, to scissor off their heads and drink their blood, in accordance with their ancient religious custom.)

Alas, we come to my favorite corner of my castle. Hidden away from the throngs of shoppers and seekers, it is my private sanctuary when I need a much needed rest. It’s entrance is shabby, two large black flaps with a small see-through plastic window that serve as doors, but these curtains belie the enchanting world behind them. Where else can you find a forklift with the keys in the ignition!

While there is much more to see and do inside the supermarket, I have decided I can’t share everything I know. There is beauty in mystery. And the real joy of wandering the supermarket is in finding your own unique path, machete-ing your own way through the jungle of cheap roses, carnation bouquets and hunky-male-in-a-thong greeting cards. I wish you luck, love, honor and may your reign be as prosperous as mine.