Hidden Insults

I recently attended the wedding of a good friend of mine from college. I refer to him here as a "good friend" on the off chance he reads this. Unlike my "good friend" and his lovely new wife, I don't want to offend anybody.

Our story begins with their registry. The happy couple registered for real pricey items that most married couples ask for and surely never use, like fancy china, crystal sugar bowls, golden creamers, lace duvet covers and vacuum cleaners. This came as a mild shock since the last friend of mine from college (note the absence of the word "good" before the word "friend." Not a mistake) registered for shit you buy on a regular basis like energy bars, cat litter and mouthwash (not a joke). I was taken aback by the sudden increase in my "good friend's" class and style as it was not uncommon that while coaching tennis he would sleep on the floor of his office, purchase condoms online in bulk and catch middle-aged cleaning men masturbating at his computer in the middle of the night. I guess marriage changes some people, and in my "good friend's" case it appears to be for the better. But I'm getting off the subject.

My wife (hold the laughter, she's real) did the wedding gift purchasing for the two of us. Anybody who has ever unwrapped a gift from me can assure you, dear reader, that this was for the best. Sure enough, about a week or so after the wedding we received a lovely, well-written thank you note. It was clear by the handwriting, spelling and vocabulary that the note was written by my "good friend's" wife. This I can tell you came as no shock, for if you were to call my "good friend" on his cell phone and get his voicemail you will be greeted not by his subtle baritone but by the voice of his wife instructing you to leave a message for her husband (she uses the longer, and more formal version of his name) and if you were to glance at the license plate of his car, you would see his wife's name. My "good friend" suffers from Pussytus (Puss-eye-tus), which is a regrettable medical condition causing the sufferer to be a pussy. I am well acquainted with the ailment as I've struggled with a fairly strong case of it for the better part of the last decade. Trust me, it can be brutal. Though not fatal, patients tend to wish it was.

Back to the thank you note, in which this crafty castigation is so carefully concealed. First of all, to my dismay, we were thanked for the exact kind of crappy gift that I was hoping we wouldn't give. Apparently we donated a vase, a few "serving pieces" and of course, a sugar creamer to their china cabinet, most likely never to be seen again. That, however, is beside the point. As I played no part in the purchasing of the gifts, it's hardly my place to complain about what was purchased. Moving on. The following is an excerpt from the conclusion of said thank you note:

"(We) love to entertain, so I can assure it will all be put to good use."

When read over casually, one can find no fault at all with the sentence. They like to entertain, we bought them some of the means to entertain. As Homer Simpson would say "It's all wrapped up in a neat little package." But I just don't see it that way. The way I see it, this sentence is a thinly-veiled slap in the face. It should quite naturally have come to a more logical and friendly conclusion:

"We love to entertain, and we look forward to having you for a visit in the near future."

But in this case, it most certainly does not. In fact, the note seems to imply that not only are we
not invited over, but we are to be assured that our gifts are being used by other, more important friends and we should be so assured that we should, under no circumstances, take it upon ourselves to investigate the usage of these items, but rather merely trust that those close enough to the newlyweds are enjoying them. It would seem that my "good friend" has stripped the word "good" from his description of our relationship, and soon I will be nothing more than an "old friend," and then "acquaintence," and then merely "that guy I watched masturbate in college." I am left to assume that my "good friend" is enjoying a better life now that he is married, and that his new and better life will apparently not ever include me.

But then again, how would it be better if it did?



P.S. I find myself wondering if there are any relationships I wish I'd severed after my own wedding....

Dear Josh,
Thank you so much for the Simpsons Calendar and magazine subscription. You can be sure that we will be filling our calendar in with many trips to visit our close friends and family. None of these visits will be to see you, but rest assured, we will take many wonderful trips and have great times with good friends.

Partners

There are many bloggers out there today, probably millions. To those millions, who, like myself believe rather foolishly that other people really care what they think, let me offer you some advice. Do not attempt blogging with a partner.

Now, surely blogging is not the first exercise to be avoided with a partner. Andybody who has tried canoeing, jogging, juggling, masturbating, reading, picking up a hooker at 3 a.m. on Sunset BLVD, cooking a chicken, digging a shallow grave in the Central Park Ramble or raising a child with a partner can tell you that is just plain isn't worth it. Those are all tasks that clearly should be handled solo.

When blogging with a partner, you will have one main problem and it can be summed up in a short series of conversations I had with my blogging partner:

Me: Okay, buddy so it's your turn to blog now.
Him: Good, because I have a really funny idea. I'll do it this week.

ONE WEEK LATER

Me: Still waiting on that blog.
Him: I know, I got busy organizing my porn collection. This week it will get done.
Me: Sounds good. (This was referring to both the forthcoming post, and the organizing of the porn. Nothing is more annoying that trying to borrow good porn from someone and getting stuck with some midget crap, or some softcore shit with no penetration because the idiot your borrowing it from doesn't have a good filing system, so you have to go bang on his door at 4am pissed off and horny - but that's for another blog at another time.)

ONE WEEK LATER

Me: Hey, buddy. Gonna get to that blog sometime soon?
Him: Oh my god, I totally forgot.
Me: That's okay. I know it's just a blog and it isn't that important, but I have a lot of funny and clever ideas about how to get my wife and her hot friend in bed together and I want to blog about them.
Him: I promise, I'll do it over the weekend. I have a good idea.
Me: Super. (This time, however, I was not referring to two things, but instead just one. And that one thing was not my dear friend's forthcoming blog, but in fact the surprisingly large defecation that I had just left floating quite lifelessly in my porcelain toilet. Shocked by it's grandiosity, I immediately searched for something with which to capture its sheer bulk. Hoping to find a one dollar bill in my wallet to use, I unfortunately found only a twenty. I then carefully placed said twenty on the very edge of the seat of the toilet so that my photo would capture the true scale of the excrement. Tragically, at the moment of the flash, my rather hastily and carelessly placed twenty slid gently from the warm plastic rim of the toilet seat and into the putridity below. I debated my next move for several minutes, which proved a poor decision as by then my twenty had sunk even further into the foul loathsome abyss. At this point, I begrudingly decided to cut my losses and flushed my twenty away, thus completing the single most expensive shit of my life. Much to my dismay, the photo catpures, quite vividly, not only my truly heroic fecal lumber but also the rather tragic fall of my twenty dollar bill. Thusly, if I am to show my treasure to anybody, the first remark made is never to the length or width of my creation but instead a query as to the whereabouts of my twenty. I have attempted both to tell the truth about my lost money and to lie and speak of a phantom recovery, but both responses have resulted in mockery so cruel that I dare not ever show the photo again.)

ONE WEEK LATER

Me: Douchebag, are you ever going to post?
Him: Of course, I really sorry. (He's an idiot and actually talks like that sometimes)
Me: What the hell have you been doing?
Him: I've been trying to find a place that will do a manicure and pedicure for less than $20. (it's worth noting here that I would have been more than happy to simply give him the $20, however, after certain recent events, $20 has come to carry slightly more value to me than before and I am less likely to frivolously toss them away. It also prevented me from giving my soon to be former friend the proper derision that he deserved for caring so much about his toes.)
Me: I hate you. Just write something. Anything.
Him: Okay, I'll do it before I go to bed tonight.

The date of that last conversation, in case anybody has read this far, which I sincerely doubt, was in fact March 21, 2006. It is now October 5, 2006. No post was ever written. Much frustration has built. This is exactly the kind of thing that can happen with child rearing when done in pairs. One of you is supposed to feed the child, he doesn't, and then 6 months later you finally just have to do it yourself.

I can assure you that the majority of what I have written here is true, and should be taken as a warning to all bloggers that blogging is a solitarty act, (as is almost everything one can do at a computer) and should always remain so.

As a secondary warning, try to keep a one dollar bill in the bathroom at all times...