I'm A Driver, I'm A Winner

I've been on antidepressants for a week. I've been depressed since elementary school. Let's just say the drugs have some catching up to do.

I wonder what school would have been like with the finest products of modern psychopharmacology running through my system. Would I get picked sooner for dodgeball? Would I have lost my virginity any earlier? Would I have, for the love of God, picked a major?

Probably not, but then, no one is ever told what would have happened.

For most of my life, I have lacked motivation, been tired all the time, and expertly formulated excuses for not trying the things that I was sure I would just fail at anyway. I really hope that these are the results of a correctable chemical imbalance. I guess we're going to find out.

The Filth And The More Filth

*please sing to the tune of the opening line of "Oh What A Beautiful Morning*

"Theeeeeere's a dim greyish stain on my carseeeeeeat..."

I gots mildew. In my car.

And here's the funny part: from washing it!

You would imagine that washing a car would make it cleaner. You would imagine all sorts of things, you silly billy! Talking chocolate dinosaurs, flying Coke machines, and cleaning procedures that actually KILL smelly fungus instead of creating its IDEAL LIVING CONDITIONS.

It's partly my fault; I got my car interior shampooed and didn't know how to dry it out. I also didn't know that you should take off the plastic sheets they put over your seat once you're out of the car. Turns out moisture from the still-damp seat condenses on those sheets and drips right back onto your upholstery and soon enough you have what smells like a colony of tiny filthy gym socks living in the thing that you have to sit on for your two daily hours of commuting. After an hour of driving, my butt smells like Shaq put his foot in it and never took it out.

I'm thinking I'll have to get it shampooed again, but maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. Maybe I need to rub the seat down with Gorgonzola cheese and half-rotted garlic, with a light dusting of poop, and the mildew will get confused and leave.

It wouldn't be the first time this strategy has worked; I've managed to keep cavities at bay for the last eight years via a cunning strategy of guzzling sodas and chocolate and never going to the dentist, and my chronic McDonalds habit has helped me stay slim and clear-skinned. What am I, the Mayor of Not Making Sense Town? Answer: yes. Yes I am. Read the sash: it says "CAPTAIN FUCKLES". Check out my giant ribbon-cutting scissors: they're made of spaghetti.

Seriously, what's the best way to dry out a freshly-shampooed car? I'm counting on you, my zero readers, to help rescue me from my swamp on wheels.

Before I Forget

Last night I came up with my greatest invention and y'all better not steal it.

You ready?

The Panshake.

It's a pancake, in milkshake form. With syrup and maybe some butter. And batter and ice cream. Mixed together somehow, I haven't worked out the details.

Tell me that isn't the greatest invention ever. I am like the Thomas Edison of breakfast desserts. I call them "bresserts".

Recipes and neologisms. From my brain to your unbelieving joy-tearful eyes.

Hard-Hitting

Last night I saw a comedian start a joke with the following question:

"Anyway, marine biology: what's up with that?"

I have no idea where he went with this. I was laughing so loudly at this introductory query that a firetruck with sirens blaring could have driven through my head and I wouldn't have heard it. I have no idea if he was intentionally parodying the rhythms of bad observational standup comedy, or if he had a legitimate beef with marine biology that he needed to discuss with us.

I watch a lot of bad comedy, and usually I just sit with my head in my hands while some guy talks about which rapper his dick would sound like if it could talk, trying to think happy thoughts (like toys at Christmas! sleighbells! snow!) and keep my suicidal/homicidal urges in check. I usually don't give big fake sarcastic laughs to bad comedy, because I don't want anyone else to do that to me. If I feel like being a dick, I usually exchange whispered smartaleckisms with my friends in the back of the room and then we laugh and highfive each other and maybe open-mouth kiss a little bit.

Note the repeated use of the word "usually" in the preceding paragraph. "Usually" did not apply last night. "Usually" took a holiday.

Okay, I didn't laugh sarcastically at Mister I Hate Marine Biology. I laughed genuinely, because sometimes bad comedy pushes you to that point. You suddenly can't believe how incompetent this person is, and this disbelief, this astoundment, this amaze-itude, expresses itself through laughter. It is not the laughter of "this is funny"; it is the laughter of "this is incredible". The laughter of one's first viewing of Battlefield Earth. The laughter of watching as a sea serpent rears up out of your swimming pool and devours your dog.

The problem with this laughter is that, for the comedian onstage, it can be very difficult to distinguish from the desirable sort of laughter. I'll bet a lot of awful, awful comedians have felt that they received encouragement and support from an audience that was actually sending wave after wave of astonished, giddy horror.

I think I'm going to start bringing a large picket sign to comedy shows, and hold it up to clarify the emotions behind any easily misinterpretable laughter. I'm not sure what it would say; "THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU'RE GOING FOR, TRUST ME", maybe, or just "YOU ARE HORRIBLE".

Come to think of it, a sign saying either of those things would be useful in all sorts of situations. Maybe I could bring it to church.