Dear Poor Lucky Me,

 

I love ham.  Really, I love all pork products- including rinds and head cheese. Then I was at a friend’s hobby farm and met her pigs. 

 

The bad news is they are so sweet and smart.  I mean they are as fun to hang around with as my dog!

 

What do I do now?

 

Signed,
Please Don’t Call Me A Hippie

 

Dear Hippie,
I completely understand your internal swine strife.  Pigs are one of the earliest animals domesticated by man, yet are known for their intelligence.  Their meat is delicious, yet they can learn their name and come when called.

 

Most vegetarians object to people abstaining from meat eating based on how cute they think animals are.  One may not want to eat cows but have no problem eating scary smelly gross chickens.  It’s ok to eat tuna but not the dolphins that are caught alongside them.

 

I think that it’s acceptable to not eat something based on any reason you want.  I don’t eat bananas because they smell bad and taste nasty, I don’t eat lobster because they look like crayfish which are in my opinion a little too close to bugs for comfort.  Not eating pigs because they remind you of dogs is as good a reason as any.

 

I don’t want to bum you out further, but if you really want a reason not to eat meat, do some research on industrial farming.  Take a look at what the pigs you eat look like and live like before they get to your plate.  Also check out what impact pig poo has on the environment.  Spoiler alert: it’s some seriously disturbing shit.

 

My editor is begging me to remove that last paragraph.  He thinks it’s “not funny” and makes me sound like “a vegan douchebag” so out of spite I’m leaving it in.  I’m not a vegan or even a vegetarian, I’m just telling it like it is.  So suck on that editor!

 

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

 

P.S. Trader Joe’s makes a tofu chorizo that is out of this world.

I don’t think it’s very fair for people to judge me for being judgmental. 

 

So I sneer openly at good looking people at my gym and secretly think they’re dumb and shallow.  So what?  What am I supposed to do, be accepting of everyone?  Give everyone the benefit of the doubt?

 

Take today for instance: I was secretly watching the Latin-Cardio-Dance-Grooves-Bullshit-Class-Where-You-Wiggle-Your-Hips-Around-A-Lot-but-Don’t-Sweat from the stationary bike.  Sure, it was sort of pervy for me to be watching, but I was only doing it to be critical.  And some jealousy.

 

Anyway, I see this sexy young girl in tight pants squirming all around the dance floor.  I turn to my friend and say something like “that ho is totally a stripper in the evenings.” 

 

My friend tries to convince me that the girl was really young- like in high school- and that I was being a crabby asshole. “No way” I said “I can see a Professional when I see one.”  Then I sat back and congratulated myself for being so perceptive.  Until that very girl came out of the studio with another woman and said “Hurry up mom, I’ll be late for school.”

 

Ooopsy.

 

Still, a lot of people rely on me to be snarky and catty.  I can’t let them down just because I miss the mark occasionally. 

 

Do you want the baby thrown away with the bathwater?  That’s a perfectly good baby.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,
What would you do if you really wanted to bitch some one out but felt like doing so would be a violation of your proper British manners? I mean I’m not British but I watch a lot of BBC.

 

There’s this girl in my condo association who I really really hate.
She sleeps or stares at her Blackberry through out the whole meeting, then says “Huh” when anyone asks her opinion.

 

I want to kick her in the back. It’d probably be best to just have words with her, but what do I say?

 

Signed,
Cheerio

 

Dear Cheerio,
I’m pretty sure if you were British you would just make snide comments about the offending Blackberrier and everyone would laugh and sneer under they put their phone away. That’s the kind of think that Hugh Grant does, and he’s English, so it makes sense.

 

I also listened to the Ricky Gervais podcasts and he just says mean stuff right to people’s face. I guess you could try that, but it’s probably best left to professionals.

 

You know I was thinking about Ricky Gervais the other day actually. I think he’s really funny and I love the British Office (all smart people are supposed to like the British version better than the American, but it is acceptable to say you like the American one “but they are totally different in tone”) but I’m beginning to think that Gervais is quite a bit of a prick. Wouldn’t you agree? Maybe I’m delicate but I think he’s really very vicious sometimes. Actually, it’s not that surprising, because he plays David Brent so well there’s no way he’s not at least a little bit of a turd in real life.

 

Anyway, I had a professor in college who carried a bell with him while he lectured. He’d wait until the second half of the class before walking to the back of the lecture hall and ringing the hell out of the bell right in some one’s ear. It was sort of a dick move, but it did freak people out. I don’t know, why don’t you just pull the girl aside and say “I’ve noticed your not into the condo association meetings, why don’t you take of the gardening (or whatever) in exchange for not having to come?”
Then at least you don’t have to stare at her face.

 

That’s what always drives me close to the edge; staring at people’s damn faces while they’re pissing me off.

 

Good luck!

 

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

This weekend I departed from my usual routine and watched a movie made for adults.  Not an “adult movie”, but a movie intended for audiences over the age of 15. 

 

I chose The Curious Case of Benjamin Buttons because I read the book in high school and felt confident that I could get through the movie version with some booze and the ability to pause and nap if necessary.

 

It turned out that frequent breaks were very necessary.  I don’t know who’s idea it was to make the movie almost 3 hours long but by god it almost killed me.  Here’s an idea for cinematic efficiency: TALK AT A NORMAL PACE.  Apparently Benjamin’s curious life only featured people who speak like they’re teaching a diction class to ESL students. 

 

In addition to being tear-jerkingly long and carefully pronounced, the movie was also very dark.  I mean the scenes were colored in a Dracula-esque way that annoyed and depressed me at the same time.  Three hours of staring at a dark brown, dark blue, and dark green screen made me want switch from vodka to Oxycontin.  My tongue lolled out of my mouth for the entire second half of the film.  I didn’t have the energy to lift my head up off the couch.  I sobbed from boredom.

 

Interestingly, the script was a big departure from the F. Scott Fitzgerald novella. It seemed to be a crappier, boring version of the book The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer.  Both books are well worth a read and don’t make one want to throw shoes at the television or knock oneself unconscious to avoid one more minute of an indulgent Hollywood barf bag.

 

All in all I learned a lot.  A) I much prefer 90 minute ‘tween romances, or young adult adventure/romance/comedies.  B) Movies based on books suck C) Sophisticated CGI can make a baby look like an old man, but can’t make a shitfest into a worthwhile film to watch.

 

For a grown up movie, I’d give it 5 out of 10 stars.  If Amanda Bynes had been the female lead, I would have given it 8 out of 10 stars.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,
Can you please tell me the street address for the headquarters of evite.com? I would like to firebomb them around 10:00a.m. on Wednesday so that I make sure everyone is in the office.

 

If I get one more “We Can’t Believe Little Jessica is Turning One!” emailed invitation I will explode. Can’t believe she is turning one? I can’t believe she has stuck around for a year you shitty hostess.

 

Even my fellow gay friends are sending them: “Jeffrey is turning 40. Ssshhh — It’s A Surprise.” Ha! The only surprise is that Jeffrey is claiming to be forty years old. He looks like he catered the Last Supper. If the homos aren’t even creative enough to make an invitation, society is doomed.

 

When someone sends an evite it automatically signals to me that the entire event will suck: Boxed wine. The “good” paper plates. Gargantuan chicks walking around with diet sodas exclaiming “We’re preggers again — tee hee.” Hooray, does that mean I can expect a parade of evites from you for baby showers, christening, birthday, first communion, confirmation? I’d really love to drive out to the suburbs in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday to celebrate the fact that your one year old poop factory marched out of your womb a scant three hundred and sixty five days ago. Honestly, I would rather do anything else.

 

And please, please, please don’t serve any alcohol or decent food. I’m sure everyone would be tickled pink if you decided to wear that crappy shmata you plucked from the clearance bin at Kohls six years ago. It gets even more lovely every time I see it.

 

Screw poor baby evite. Wah, wah.

 

Signed,
God I hate evites

 

Dear God,
Your passion excites and terrifies me. Unfortunately Poor Lucky Me does not support domestic or international terrorism, so I will be unable to provide you with the Evite headquarters address.

 

I understand your rage, but I think you have to study the evite issue from another side. Evites allow very cheap people to have big crappy parties for every god awful event in their lives

 

. However, internet invitations also allow lazy people (like me) to have awesome parties without having to figure out how to mail invitations. Mailing things requires a proper address, a stamp, and knowledge of where a mailbox is located. That’s a lot for lazy/stupid/party animal types.

 

The trick is to immediately reply “maybe” on all Evites. That gives you some leeway. You don’t have to commit to every baby shower you get invited to, but if it turns out that you are alone and depressed on a Saturday afternoon you can grab a roadie bottle of tequila and hit the day-party circuit.

 

Evites are also used as a passive-aggressive gift getter. “I know my party is in Oak Park and you just moved to Boston, but here’s an invite so you know where to send a gift” I always reply “Yes” to out of town parties. I think it makes me seem like a jet setter without having to actually go anywhere.

 

I hope I was able to soften your stance a little bit. At least try to refrain from wanting to kill or maim people.

 

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

To The Older Gentleman Who Works Out In Running Shorts,

 

Please, put a pair of pants on. I can’t watch you stretch, do leg lifts, lunge, or do leg presses anymore. I swear to god I’m going to have to say something if I catch one more glimpse of your pale, hairy, upper thigh. It seems like you prefer to do exercises on your back- which causes your tiny silky shorts to slide down your leg and reveal more skin that I see on an average episode of The Girls Next Door.

 

Today I sat on the rowing machine and stared at the ceiling to avoid an anatomy lesson that could be impossible to recover from. I’ve seen you in those shorts every weekday for 7 weeks now (which gives me a whole other set of nightmares) and I am certain that you are doing this on purpose. I have attached a picture of another man who thinks he looks sexy in running shorts. At least he has the decency to wear his shorts really tight so they won’t bag and slide around his twigs and berries when things get strenuous. Although from the looks of it, that’s not why he wears his shorts so tight.

 

Anyway, I could write paragraphs describing my terror at the prospect of your shorts bagging a little too low. I don’t want to burn out my imagination on awful images. I’d rather imagine myself getting unnecessary surgery or having to survive on my own urine after a camping trip gone awry. I’d rather imagine getting napalm burns or how eating broken glass would feel. I’d rather imagine shaving the gentleman in this picture than have to watch you do one more set of deep squats.

 

Please, I’m begging you; if you want to expose your genitals join a social networking group Internet for older semi-fit bears. Please let me burn the calories I plan to replace with ice cream cake and nachos in peace.

 

Sincerely,

Poor Lucky Me

If you assumed your whole adult life that you would just be sort of a loser- a  malcontent, a napper, an open-mouthed breather- then suddenly realizing you’ve had some success can be very unsettling.

 

I feel like one minute I was doing an army crawl on the floor of my office to sneak out early, and the next thing I knew I was getting my own clients. 

 

How could this have happened?  What are the implications of success on my lovable-loser personality?  Maybe I’ll become very serious and abandon the tee shirts and sneakers for business suits and pork pie hats.  Or bowler hats.  Even fedoras.

 

The point is, I’ve never even imagined this happening to me, so I don’t have a fear/fantasy reference point.  I never made a vision board or a scrapbook of what my life would look like if I didn’t spend most of the day watching reality tv and combining different kinds of pretzels with different kinds of cheese.  Soft and nacho are the best, but rods and port wine are a close second.

 

I did turn down a few promotions and fail several certification tests to avoid this very situation.  And it’s not just work; I’m succeeding in my personal relationships and in my creative endeavors.

 

Oh woe is me.  What will I do?  My identity is on the line, and I’m out of options to sabotage myself.

 

What if I just have to be happy and content and enjoy life? I wonder if I can manage. I’ll have a lot of free time if I’m not bitching about stuff all the time.

I hailed a cab on Saturday night to go to a friend’s house.  The driver was a polite brown man with heavily accented but superior English. 

 

We quickly established a nice rapport and chatted about upcoming summer events in Chicago.  He told me how he had just driven by Grant Park and they were already setting up for Taste of Chicago.  I groaned.  He asked if I had ever been.

 

“Not since I was little” I said “but if I died and went to hell I would wake up every day in the middle of the Taste of Chicago”

 

The cab driver laughed.  “It’s very crowded” He replied.  “And expensive.”  Then he seemed to change the subject, and insist that he wasn’t a racist.  I assured him that I believed him.  Then he asked me if I knew the real problem with Taste of Chicago.  I shook my head- no.

 

“The black people” He said.

 

“Errm” I said.

 

“I’m not a racist, I’m just saying that the black people cause all the problems at the Taste.”  He turned around in the driver’s seat to make sure I knew how serious he thought this issue was.

 

“Huh.  All the problems?  I didn’t realize that.”  I started counting how many more blocks until we got to Belmont.

 

“It’s like Lollapalooza” he continued.  “I’m am not a racist, I am not.  You must understand that I am not a racist” I braced myself.  “But the problem with Lollapalooza is all the black people.  They make it so bad.”

 

We came to a red light and he slammed on the brakes.  He turned around again.  We stared at each other for a moment.

 

“I’m not sure you know what racist means” I said.  Then I put my headphones on.

 

That cab driver was not only a racist, he was totally wrong.  The problem with Taste of Chicago is that no one wants to stand up while eating a turkey leg in 99 degree heat surround by swarms of fat people in shorts. 

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

 

I am single and looking and I thought you could help.

 

I have a fine personality, nice waist and good teeth. After college I worked at a Christmas tree farm where I was promoted to manager. Because of my status, the girls were after me, but I was too involved in my work to take notice.

 

Due to the economy the farm closed and I took a lesser paying job as a banana salesman. My boss recognized my talents and promoted me to “head banana” and I flourished. Again, I became a “chick magnet” and again I ignored the women for my job.

 

The banana poison scare hit and again I was on the street working as a consultant to a brassier manufacturer and now I am looking for a nice woman with a ski jump nose and small ear lobes.

 

What advice do you have for me on how to “score” with the chicks using my work experience as an “entre” (French for “get in”)?

 

Signed,

 

F. Myron Cheesbourough

 

Dear Myron,

 

Well you have a lot going for you. You have had an extensive and bizarre career path. It sounds like you are ready to enter the next phase of your life: using a tool to lure women into have sex with you. The tool you have chosen is your job- it’s a fine route to cruise down.

 

Banana salesman is a great icebreaker. Bananas are of course titillating for their shape, while being repulsive due to their disgusting smell and vomitous taste. In fact, I would eat a mushroom omelet (blech blech) before I would sit next to some one eating a banana. In fact, once I was on a plane and the woman two seats over started eating a banana and I called the stewardess over and begged to be reseated. I was moved eventually, but had to recreate some very convincing retching noises to finally cement the deal.

 

Anyway, the point is just be yourself. Well be yourself but try to imply that you are very wealthy and have a big dong. The ladies seem to like when men make jokes and sexual innuendos about their penis, especially if they are really drunk.

 

Also, don’t be afraid to lurch into potential mates and assure them that you “work in the industry” before you paw at their boobs.

 

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

I’ve been terrified of internet tests since I took an IQ test that put me somewhere between Forrest Gump and Cookie Monster.

 

However, recently my astute and dear friend piqued my interest while talking about the results of the Meyers & Briggs test she took through work. She suggested I find the test on the internet so we could compare results.

 

I was afraid, but willing to do anything to avoid several work assignments I had been putting off. My friend assured me that I would not be required to predict where holes would appear if punched into a piece of paper, and directed me to a decently reliable version of the test. found here

 

Although I was bored almost immediately and found it tedious to read each question, I was able to complete the exam in a timely fashion.  The test writers must have known how difficult it is for smart, clever people like me to follow through on anything, because I was still awarded the coveted ENFJ personality type.

 

My boredom faded away as I started reading about myself.  The results are like reading your horoscope, but much more sciencey and therefore induces less eye rolls at work functions.

 

Here is the explanation of the glorious ENFJ results:
Warm, empathetic, responsive, and responsible. Highly attuned to the emotions, needs, and motivations of others. Find potential in everyone, want to help others fulfill their potential. May act as catalysts for individual and group growth. Loyal, responsive to praise and criticism. Sociable, facilitate others in a group, and provide inspiring leadership.

 

Fascinating!  There was no mention of my awful spelling skills, hypersensitivity, foot odor, laziness, frequent tearful outbursts or habit of calling 911 when I’m drunk and lonely.

 

Apparently I’m much much much more of a useful and important person than I thought I was. I mean I knew I was great, but inspiring leadership?

 

Of course it all makes sense when I think back to my involvement in student government in the 7th grade.  I may have to revisit my “starting a cult” notebook and put away my “ideas on how to quit my job and live under a bridge” notebook.

 

I will probably start writing more inspirational memos to my coworkers.  Do they even know what a catalyst I can be for group growth?  It’s ridiculous that I’m expected to go to meetings with the other office turds when I am so highly in tune with the emotions and needs of others.

 

I will contest several parking tests based on these tests results, and will no longer sit idly by while the girl who works in the sandwich shop gives me sub-par slices of cheese.

 

I am an ENFJ goddamnit, and I demand preferential treatment! Also, let’s rap for a few minutes on how you can reach your potential, friend.