Hang in There, Home Depot Project Guy

Take a moment to check out this commercial for The Home Depot:

This is what The Home Depot logo looks like.
This is what The Home Depot logo looks like.

The Home Depot has granted us a 30-second window into this poor guy’s sad, pathetic life. He is clearly married to a complete bitch. This isn’t a commercial about how easy it is to start your garden. It’s a cry for help for men everywhere who are stuck in a loveless relationship where your only sense of joy comes from planting stupid plants in your stupid backyard.

Let’s break this down.


0:00 seconds – “What do you think?”

She asks “What do you think?” like he really has a choice in the matter. She’s not asking “What do you think?” she’s telling him that this is what she wants planted in her garden… like right now. He thought he was going to spend his Saturday relaxing after a tough week down at the office by sipping his coffee, but no. His wife has other plans.

0:01 seconds – “That’s great.”

He responds with “That’s great” as in “this is a great project for YOU to do today so maybe I can get five seconds away from your nagging.” His tone and lack of enthusiasm suggests that he knows his Saturday plans of sitting around the house and watching some baseball with his pants off went RIGHT OUT THE WINDOW.

0:02 seconds – “It won’t take long, will it?”

She’s not asking if this project is too big for him to handle. She’s asking if it will take long because she has other projects for him to do. She’s telling him that she wants this done, today, right now, and that he better make it snappy, because that “Honey Do List” is growing by the minute.

0:04 seconds – “Okay!”

She says “okay” and shoves the tablet in his face, while she scurries off to find more work for him to do. She isn’t going to stick around and make sure he gets started. She expects him to place that coffee cup down (on a coaster) and get started right now, because the sooner these weekend projects get completed, the sooner he can return to the office at 9am on Monday morning for another grueling work week.

0:07 seconds – “This… won’t take long will it?”

He knows how long this is going to take… all weekend. That is not what he is asking. What this really is, is a cry for help. He is begging this employee of The Home Depot to either talk him out of this back-breaking project, or to somehow gain sympathy for the weekend that is about to be completely ruined.

0:09 seconds – The Look

The look this frigid bitch gives her husband sent chills down my spine. This was a combination of “Were you just flirting with that slut?” and “How dare you try to get out of this weekend project I planned for you?” You can almost feel the husband’s heart sink when he realizes that his controlling wife has busted him. He knows that this little stunt just won him a night of sleeping on the couch.

0:11 seconds – “How many of these can we do on our budget?”

Notice how she asks this question RIGHT in front of her husband. She does this on purpose to show her husband that, “Yes, I was talking to this stranger about how much disposable income you have,” and, “Yes, I made it clear that it wasn’t very much.” She wants to make it clear that the hours he slaves down at Brandt & Leland don’t amount to shit, because he is the reason this family is so poor.

0:16 seconds – The Look

After the husband proclaims, “That didn’t take very long, did it?” he is torpedoed with another vicious look from his wife. The look says, “Of course it didn’t take long because I had to come out and help your sorry ass finish before it rains tonight.” The look also has a hint of “I thought I told you only to speak when you’re spoken to.”

0:22 seconds – “I already did.”

The husband tells his wife to “post it” at the 20-second mark, to which she pauses, then responds with a snarky, “I already did.” She pauses, as if to wonder how her husband could say such a stupid thing. Of course she will post it. She is well-versed in over-sharing her personal life on social media outlets. It’s almost automatic at this point. Do something amazing and immediately gloat about it online. I can just see the caption now, “Look what I did all by myself this weekend with no help from my idiot husband.”

In closing, I feel bad for this man. He is trapped in a relationship that is totally lacking in respect. The marriage probably started off normally, but when he started getting gray hair, it was a breach of their prenuptial agreement, therefore allowing the female to be a total cunt to the male. It’s sad, but it probably happens every day.

Well lady, I hope you’re happy with your garden outside your house, because inside your house is a man who is unhappy and quietly counting down the days until your death provides the freedom to which he is entitled.

Airplanes, and That Hot Chick That Never Sits by You

Travelling to a destination via aircraft is never the treat it once was decades ago. The seats are small and cramped and you inevitably sit next to the most sorry excuse for a human being imaginable. But alas, there is always hope, because out of the two-hundred-or-so passengers on this flight, there is always one hot chick, and she may end up sitting next to you.

But she doesn’t, because your life sucks and there is no way the Lord feels you deserve to be rewarded like that… especially not after the way you stared inappropriately at that girl working the Orange Julius stand at the mall. “She looked 18” is not going to help you when you’re burning in hell.

When flying, everyone wants to sit next to the hot chick. Ugly people want to sit next to the hot chick. Geeks want to sit next to the hot chick. Muscle-bound gym rats want to sit next to the hot chick. Old people want to sit next to the hot chick. Hell, even hot chicks want to sit next to other hot chicks. Somehow, their beauty is going to make your life better for the next three hours.

This is a scene from Airplane!
This is a scene from Airplane!

It really is the most perfect situation. A hot chick sits next to you. You have an entire flight to work your magic and God-willing, score a phone number. It’s made especially perfect because she can’t leave. You can bomb as often as you want and you’ll get a near infinite amount of opportunities to redeem yourself! You could even be a little creepy and eventually over the course of the flight, she’ll come to realize that you are actually a really sweet, normal guy, and that you probably don’t have people chained up in your basement.

I have been on hundreds of flights throughout my lifetime and there have only been TWO times where I was fortunate enough to sit next to the hot chick. One time, I sparked up a conversation with this cute little brunette next to me. She was smiling and laughing and things were going great. Then she casually mentioned her father, sitting in the next row up, and how the two were touring colleges in the area.


The second time I sat next to a hot chick went a little something like this. The flight was filling up fast and there was one seat in between me and the Asian dude with the weird headphones. Suddenly, a hot chick entered the plane and everyone stopped talking while they gazed upon her beauty. It was like the scene from a movie. (The kind of movie with very little plot, horrid acting, but lots of boning.) Everyone collectively held their breath as they hoped and prayed that this woman would sit next to them. She got closer and closer to our row with the empty seat. She stopped, put her bags in the overhead compartment, and sat down next to me and Mr. Asian Guy. The guy with the funny headphones and I exchanged a glance that said “Game on.”

Somehow, despite my years of awkwardness around women, I was able to be the first to strike up a conversation with the hot chick. I had some competition for her attention sitting next to me so I went for the jugular with my pick up line.

“Hey, how’s it goin’?” I said, as suave as I possibly could.

The words she said next will forever touch my heart.

“I’m hungover as fuck and just want to get this flight over with.”

Okay icy bitch. Your wish for my silence has been granted. GAME OVER.

My most recent flight began like many others. I arrived at the gate early and kindly requested a seat change to an exit row. I was granted this seat change, albeit after a 25-minute “I have to log on to my computer first” session.

Once my new boarding pass was printed, I took a seat at the gate and took inventory of my fellow passengers:

  • Single mother with child(ren)
  • Old couple who talk loudly to each other
  • Gay dude who wants to MAKE SURE that you know he is gay
  • Soldier in military fatigues
  • Possible terrorist
  • Fat man who probably sells used cars on his front lawn

The cast of characters was all there. We just needed our token hot chick. Within a few minutes of my inventory, she came strolling to the gate.

Now, I should mention at this point that I do have a girlfriend. I am in a loving relationship with her AND I HOPE TO STAY THAT WAY, even after she reads this. There is something that everyone needs to realize. For me, sitting next to the hot chick in my current “spoken for” status isn’t about hitting on her or scoring some digits. It’s about a pleasant flight. You ARE going to sit next to one of these people waiting at the gate, so why not it be the hot chick? Do you really want me sitting next to the possible terrorist, Sarah? DO YOU?

So hot chick sits down and everyone at the gate eyes her up, even Mr. “You Guys Can See I’m Gay, Right?”. We eventually board our plane and everyone waits in anticipation. The plane fills up to nearly-full. I glance around to see where little miss hot chick sat down. Seat 8A. I am in seat 13B. Drat. Not this time, I guess.

The last passenger comes aboard. The airplane door shuts and we begin our taxi down the runway. I glanced up to 8A and realize there is an empty seat next to her. Too bad for all of us on this plane, no one gets to sit next to hot chick.

Game over for all of us… even you, possible terrorist.

As I shrug off this unfortunate turn of events, I grabbed my book and began reading. (Yes, I can read. Most of the time, I choose not to.) I used my boarding passes as a bookmark. PassES because I changed my seat, remember? It was here that I wondered which seat was originally mine. I glanced down at the old ticket.


That could have been me sitting next to the hot chick, fellow passengers of Flight 4620! But I opted to be the one who must be able and willing to assist the crew during an evacuation of the aircraft. I chose saving your life over sitting next to the hot chick.

I also wanted more leg room.

The Great Carpenter Jeans Conspiracy

This is what carpenter jeans look like.
This is what carpenter jeans look like.

I have a pair of carpenter jeans that I really enjoy wearing. In fact, I have several pairs of carpenter jeans; light ones, dark ones, and slightly lightish-darker ones. They are very comfortable. They fit me nice. They are Levi’s carpenter jeans.

But on April 2nd, 2013, something happened. One of those jeans suffered a rip down the thigh when it got caught on a sharp object. Dismayed, I texted my girlfriend so that I may be consoled. To my surprise (and shock), she did not offer her condolences. In fact, she offered no emotion WHATSOEVER. At the time, it struck me as a little odd. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that not only didn’t she care that I ripped my carpenter jeans, but she actually reveled in the joy of knowing I had one less pair of carpenter jeans. Here is my evidence.

About a year ago, I was in the market for new jeans. My old Levi’s carpenter jeans had been worn to shreds and it was time to buy new Levi’s carpenter jeans. It’s all part of what I like to call “The Levi’s Carpenter Jeans Cycle of Life.”

Anyway, to me it was easy. Go to the store and pick up the exact same jeans, in the exact same color, in the exact same size and not try it on. That way, this process can be virtually painless. But my girlfriend at the time (who is the same girlfriend today, unless it’s a clone [of course]) insisted that she come with me to “pick out new jeans.”

Pick out new jeans? There was nothing to ‘pick out.’ But whatever, I allowed her to accompany me on this journey that I scheduled to last no more than three minutes (depending on the length of the checkout line).

But… the girlfriend had different plans. She wanted me to try on all sorts of different styles and brands and even made me SHOW THEM TO HER. With each pair I tried on, two more would be thrown over the dressing room door. It was an endless stream of jeans, but oddly, there were no carpenter jeans.

I shrugged off the fact that there were no carpenter jeans in the pile, thinking that maybe she just didn’t see them. I mean, after all, they were sitting next to all the other jeans. Anyone could miss that.

After about an hour and a half, I had my new jeans in hand, bought and paid for. I was happy with these new jeans. I expressed this to my girlfriend.

“I really like these jeans… and not a single one are carpenter jeans!” I casually said.

“I know,” she countered. “That’s a good thing.”

That’s a good thing? I had to ask what she meant.

“What do you mean?” I asked, perplexed.

“Those jeans are so old fashioned. And it’s not like you’re a carpenter anyway. What do you need with so many pockets?”

I felt as if she insulted my own mother.

“What do you mean? I LOVE those pockets! I can put all sorts of things in those pockets!” I defended.

“It’s time you wear some jeans that are more trendy and in style. Besides, you look really good in them!” she said, melting my heart.

I decided to drop the issue. After all, she did say I looked good in my new jeans. I thought I looked pretty sexy in my carpenter jeans, but I was happy to increase my sex appeal with my new jeans, if even by a nominal amount.

Over the next several months, the snarky comments about my carpenter jeans increased. Whether it be comments like “Can I put some Chapstick in one of your 80 pockets?” or “Didn’t you wear those stupid jeans yesterday?” or even tugging on the pocket where my hammer should go while she mockingly asks, “Where’s your hammer?” Yes, I put up with all kinds of abuse.

Then April 2nd came around. One of my jeans ripped. I was so bummed. I texted Sarah the bad news:

Text Message #1
This is what a text message looks like. (click to enlarge)

Nothing. No response. She eventually wrote back to another unrelated question, but didn’t mention the tragedy my jeans suffered. Later, I texted her again:

Text Message #2
This is what another text message looks like. (click to enlarge)

“Okay have fun”???? OKAY HAVE FUN??? WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING JEANS, WOMAN?!?!?!?! Clearly, she was ignoring the crisis in my pants. She had NO SYMPATHY for the fate my jeans suffered. In fact, it is my belief that she actually took GREAT JOY in the rip that rendered my jeans completely unusable.

I spent the next several weeks gathering evidence, tapping her phone, and opening her mail; all in search of that “smoking gun” that would indicate she was behind The Great Carpenter Jeans Conspiracy. Nothing. She covered her tracks well and her alibis were air tight. Frustrated, I decided one evening to just come out and ask.

“How come you didn’t say anything about my pants that ripped? Did you even care??” I asked, exhaustedly.

The look she gave me sent chills down my spine. It was a look reminiscent of this popular internet meme:

This is what Sarah's face looked like.
This is what Sarah’s face looked like.

“YOU WANTED THOSE JEANS TO RIP, DIDN’T YOU?” I asked, hysterically.

“Those jeans are so stupid!” she exclaimed, “Why do you need that many pockets?”

I paused, in shock. With my lips trembling and tears streaming down my face, the truth was out.

The mystery may have been solved, but my heart remains broken.


Author’s Note: I was going to call this piece “Crisis in my Pants” but I suspect I will use that title for another post in the future.

Today is a Good Day to Mow the Lawn

Admittedly, one of my faults is being a little too passive aggressive with people. I will dance around the issue with vague hints until I get what I want. (Or in most cases, until I get something-mildly-close-to-but-not-exactly what I wanted.) However, this approach to life has recently made its way into my dream world. I am passive aggressive in my dreams.

Lawn Mower
This is what a lawn mower looks like.

Last night, I was dreaming that I bumped into a person I had not seen in years. I was at their house, outside in the backyard, and we were catching up. One thing I just could not shake while talking to this person was how long they had let their grass get. They kept talking, and I kept peering over their shoulder at all the long grass. With rain in the dream-forecast, I knew that today shouldn’t be spent frolicking outside without a care in the world. Today needs to be spent mowing the lawn! Who has time for frolicking when there is GRASS TO BE MOWED?

Enough was enough, and I had to say something. In the middle of the next sentence spoken by this person, I interrupted and told them they needed to mow their lawn… like now. But I did it in a slightly more passive approach.

I looked up at the sky. I closed my eyes. I inhaled a refreshing breath of spring air. I casually glanced around the yard.

“Today is a good day to mow the lawn,” I said to my old acquaintance.

Today is a good day to mow the lawn? Really? This is MY DREAM, damn it! I could have said or done literally anything else and it would have been without consequence because this was MY DREAM. I could have said, “Hey! Mow your fucking lawn, you whiny little bitch!” I could have shot this person in the face. It was my dream! I could have had this person disintegrate in front of me and have Paul Rudd appear. I could have been sitting on the couch with Paul Rudd watching a movie! I could have been sitting on a couch with Paul Rudd, watching my favorite movie with Paul Rudd (Wet Hot American Summer). I could have been sitting on the couch with TWO Paul Rudds watching my favorite Paul Rudd movie. I could have been watching a Paul Rudd movie with two Paul Rudds while Paul Rudd is in the kitchen making me chocolate chip cookies. I could have been watching a Paul Rudd movie with two Paul Rudds, when I get a call from John Stamos. Oh yeah, and those fucking cookies are still being baked by Paul Rudd in the kitchen.

I could have done literally ANYTHING else because this was MY DREAM. But no. I opted for letting this person know that I find their current length of grass completely unacceptable and that today is the ONLY day that makes sense to mow… albeit in a passive aggressive way.

I just realized that I could have been dreaming about DOING IT!!! I could have been dreaming about doing it with P—

Let’s not start this again.

Just do me a favor. The next time you see me in dreamland, make sure your lawn in properly mowed before we exchange pleasantries.

And you better have some cookies baking in your oven.

A Taco Poem

For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was invited to a dinner party recently. We were not required to bring any food with us but if you felt so obliged, you were to reply to a facebook message with what you planned to bring.

Taco-flavored kisses
This is what a taco looks like.

“I’ll bring the salsa!” exclaimed one participant.

“I’ll bring the cheese!” wrote another.

“I’ll bring a poem,” wrote one handsome gentleman who carries my same name.

I was promptly urged to “fuck off” from another invited guest who goes by the name Anna. She later recanted, saying that I could bring my poem, but only if it is about tacos.

After much consideration, I would later agree to these terms.

A pound of beef, a pound of cheese
A dash of seasoning, if you please

Add some tomatoes, add some beans
If I have eight, will I fit in my jeans?

Get the salsa, get the sauce
I’ll eat first, ’cause I’m the boss

A bowl of cilantro, a bowl of chips
Watch me now, as I lick my lips

Set the plates, set the glasses
Pause right now, to check out our asses

Everything’s ready, everything’s cooked
I can’t believe how pretty, we once looked

Grab some meat, grab some cheese
Make your taco, how you please

Add some salsa, add some sauce
It doesn’t matter; you’re the boss

Wrap your tortilla, hold your shell
This better taste better than Taco Bell

Everyone has eaten, everyone is full
We all feel, like a massive bull

It was good, it was grand
Next time would you lend a hand?

The food was great. The food was a hit.
Excuse me now; I need to shit!

We have to leave, we have that itch
I still think Anna, is a stupid bitch.