At 25 I don’t necessarily feel older, but old people things keep happening to me. Example: Today I got a call from a financial planner. That’s something that should happen to people with canes and dentures, not comedians. The planner–who sounded sixteen–was eager to speak to me about my money and what he could do with it. This was the short conversation that followed.

• Fiance Boy: Hi Daniel, I got your number from a close friend of yours. And in a meeting this week she said that it would be smart if you and I meet each other.
• Me: Meet in regards to what?
• Fiance Boy: Well I’m a financial planner and would like to sit down, buy you a cup of coffee and talk about your finances.
• Me: Though free coffee is tempting, I really don’t want to waste you time. What is it exactly you do?
• Fiance Boy: Well, have you ever wanted to save more money? I could teach you how to do that.
• Me: LOL man, I’m Jewish–my mother thought me how to do that.
• Fiance Boy:What about stocks? Ever think about buying some Apple or Google.
• Me: Yeah, they’re great stocks. I currently own both of them. I have long positions to take taxation from 30% to 15% and future stop and buy orders already preset.
• Fiance Boy: Oh. What about retirement? A lot of people get lost when it comes to planning for that.
• Me: I’m 25 and single; I’m not currently worried about retirement. But when that time comes, I’ll open a Roth IRA investment account, contribute the $5000 yearly limit and enjoy not paying capital gains when I take the money out at 59 and a 1/2. Hopefully I don’t get lost.
• Fiance Boy: Wow, it seems like you really know what you’re doing.
• Me: Yeah, well if you ever want to sit down and let me buy you a cup of coffee, I’d love to talk to you about your finances. You ever wanted to save more money? I could teach you how to do that.
• Fiance Boy: LOL I’m Christian–my mother taught me how to do that.
• Me: Yeah, but she learned from a Jew.
• Fiance Boy: I don’t think so. What Jew?
• Me: Jesus–he saves like crazy. At least that’s what the religious lady in my math class told me.

He laughed and I went back to eating my sandwich.

As I’ve begun to age into an adult I’ve attempted curb my cursing habits to almost nonexistent. Using vulgarity is the quickest way to lower you perceived social status and always a cheap way to express emotion. Don’t limit your ability to socially excel by using trashy verbiage–speak well and smile and people will assume you’re a handsome little devil with endless potential. With that said, some times it’s essential to use fowl language to convey a message.

I fucking love ice cream. That is a statement that requires the use of the offensive language. Mainly because I don’t love ice cream, I fucking love ice cream. There’s a big different. I love t-shirts, but if you showed up at my house wearing a sweater I’d be totally fine. I’d probably even be like, “hey cool sweater, man.” On the other hand, if you promised me ice cream and showed up with a bowl marshmallows I’d punch you square in the jaw. I’m not kidding, square in the fucking jaw (note the difference between loving and fucking loving). Adding the f-word emphasizes the noun like nothing else would. I could say, “I really love ice cream,” but I’m not a six-year-old girl, so that’s not an option. Besides, if a six-year-old girl honestly loved ice cream that much, she’d curse. She’d have to or else she’d be lying about how much she really cares about ice cream. Which would be hard to do, because when you fucking love ice cream, you can’t front. It’s easy to love things, but not fucking love them. I dated a girl for three years and didn’t even fucking love her. Don’t get me wrong, I thought she was cool, but I don’t throw the f-word around that carelessly.

Example: I love Cinnabons, but I don’t fuc–actually Cinnabons are a bad example–I fucking love those as well. They’re just so delicious. Pause for a second, if there’s a Cinnabon ice cream–which I’m googling right now to check–not even the f-word would suffice as an adjective. Update: there is a Cinnabon ice cream and I just sent out an email to my love-handles letting them know to make room for the sweet, slow-churned, vanilla swirls that are going to make their way down my mouth and into my already full pockets of fat.

I just re-read what I wrote and really don’t understand why I want to be this fat. I’ve been drooling for the last two paragraphs. I have an addiction to terrible foods and I’m not sure how to stop it. It’s not like I want to stop it. If I walked into a room to be surprised by an ice cream intervention, straight up, I’d walk out and then text message mean things to everyone that was there. I say things like, “ice scream at you for being so heartless!” I’d feel bad afterwards, but in the moment, I’d be furious. I don’t want anything to come in between me and my sweet cream.

It’s 2:00am and I’m blogging about cursing, ice cream and Cinnabons? The supermarket is closed so I’m leaving to get my fix at a gas station. I need to go to sleep.

Daniel Dickey

As I’ve said before, Christmas is much cooler than Chanukah. So I do have a Christmas tree in my house–a very Jewish one.

Happy Holidays,

Daniel Dickey

I hate technology. Yes, I wrote this on a wireless computer that allows me to access the internet and–after procrastinating on Facebook and Twitter–eventually my blog. I know, I’m a hypocrite. I used one of the things I hate to complain about hating it. But of all the over-publicized, over-priced, gizmo junk that technology has brought, I’d like to convince myself that the internet was one the good guys. It offers the ability to keep tabs on the world, diagnose your aliments and see explicit movies starring that quiet goth girl from your 11th grade art class. So I’ll keep my anti-technology rant strictly to text messaging.

I did not have text messaging until 2010. Seeing that we’re going into 2012 you might be thinking, “oh hush it you pansy, that was two whole years ago.” But my four closest friends have had text messaging since 2002. If math isn’t your subject–Asian’s this doesn’t apply to you–that’s eight years after everyone in my social circle. I spent eight years saying, “dude, I’m not typing out a conversation when I can just call you and tell you what I want to say.” I even went so far as to turn off text messaging so I wouldn’t be tempted to use it. Do you know how many times people texted me and just assumed I was ignoring them because I didn’t reply? No, I’m literally asking you, do you? Because I have no idea.

Speaking on the phone is impersonal; understand that. Usually it consists of one person in their car driving to a 24-hour Target while the other is eating celery sticks and painting their toe nails. They are both preoccupied with something else, but yet hearing the others voice offers some sense of bonding. It affords you the opportunity to multitask while maintaining a friendship. Fine, I can dig it–if I must. But text messaging or texting, as Justin Bieber would refer to it as, is the most impersonal form of communication ever. What the hell does, “LOL SMH last night was crayyyy ;o) WTF hap’d to G? I think he broke my feets” mean? That was the text message I woke up to this morning. Yes, my previous night was cray, but why not at least call me? Why not verbally explain to me what ‘broke my feets‘ means? Remember when people used to meet up to talk? Now people hold full-out conversations via text message. People have purposed and accepted marriage proposals via text message. Home have been purchased over text message. One of the kids in my contemporary literature class orders strippers by text–at least he tried to convince me so after class yesterday.

Of the six friends I asked, five of them said voice mails give them anxiety. Two of them said they’d be fine never using the phone again. Really?! I’m all for the banishment of the phone if it meant more communication in social settings, but they meant never again using the phone to speak. To quote a friend,

• “I hate speaking to people on the phone. It’s so awkward.”
• I replied, “but don’t you think it’s awkward because you’re using it less and less? It seems foreign because you’re forcing everyone to text you.”
• “What’s wrong with that? I hate talking.”

I text enough to understand how convenient it is to have no commitment to a conversation. If a weird girl asks me in person if I want to go out on a date I can’t get out of answering her. If a weird girl does it via text I can press delete and continue eating my ice cream sandwich. I get it. But part of what shapes us is the awkward moments when weird girls ask you out on dates. It’s being stuck there face to face and saying yes because you can’t think up a viable excuse in the moment, that makes us who we are. Do you know what happens when you go out on that date? The weird girl turns out to be not that weird, ends up looking sexy and is all about giving you a hand job in the movies. Now she’s your wife and the hottest mom in the carpool lane–you know why? Because you weren’t texting. You were talking and eventually getting a hang job. Can you text a hand job? I think not.

I need to go to bed or else I’d ramble on further,

Daniel Dickey

Note: I felt the need to write this after seeing a group of six teenagers at the mall, all standing in a semi-circle with their phones out text messaging. All right next to each other, eyes locked to their crap phones, not saying a word. Do you know how many hot girls walked by that they didn’t see? Eight (I did not need an Asian to count this, I managed on my own). In the five minutes I watched not one word was said–well at least not spoken. I wanted to brake their feets. Little bastards.

For those of you curious, though I doubt anyone actually is, I spend the bulk of my time carelessly flirting with fat girls and reading books at my local library. That is legitimately what most of my time goes to. The library offers a tranquil place to expand my weak mind and petty writing talents and the internet offers databases of obese biracial women looking to hookup at The Hardrock. It’s a win win either way–though the thought of sexing an overweight mulatto usually does more for my young libido than a chance to read, The Bridges of Madison County. There’s something about a women with a belly the size of a small sheep that… alright, I’ll stop. I lied. I don’t really spend my time loving large women. Nothing against them, as weight does not dictate who you are as a person. It’s just a personal thing. I am, and always have been, scared to have sex with anyone that’s strong/big enough to beat me up. I won’t even kiss a girl who goes to the gym more than twice a week. Totally serious, whenever I see a girl with muscles I start to pee a little. Like not enough to wear diaper, but definitely enough to think, “damn it, I have pee all over my leg. This sucks.” While most men ask girls about their goals and ambitions on a first date, I just ask them to arm wrestle me. If they lose we can go out again. If they win, I run like fucking hell.

Why am I bringing this up now? Because last night I met and thoroughly enjoyed an awesome girl. She was funny, sexy and in great shape… too great of shape. We met a bar. She was standing alone waiting to order a drink when I walked up and said,

• “Did it hurt?”
• She rolled her eyes and sarcastically asked, “When I fell from heaven?”
• “No. Did it hurt when we had sex later tonight?”

She stared at me dumbfounded while I smiled, knowing the line I just made up was either going to get me laid or punched in the face. I was drunk and willing to gamble. After a moment she spoke up.

• “That was the cockiest-funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
• No longer worried about getting punched I replied, “well I found, ‘when I fell from heaven?’ to be the cockiest-stupidest thing I ever heard.”
• “That’s the pick up line you were supposed to use!”
• “What pick up line? I was just asking you a question and then you tried to trick me into thinking you fell from heaven. People don’t fall from heaven, people fall down stairs. Had you said, ‘when I fell down the stairs?’ then yes, I’d probably would’ve assumed that hurt. But heaven? Come on.”

She smiled and that first drink turned in six. Next thing I knew it seemed plausible that I was going to be shaking hands with this girl. Just instead of using our hands we were going to use my penis and her, well you know what it’s called. I was really digging her. She was silly and able to keep up with whatever drunken wit I tried to mumble her way. Her face looked like a mix of Taylor Swift and a young Persian Santa Claus. Her hair smelled like a Bed, Bath and Beyond; I wanted to climb in it and just spend several months swinging from hair to hair like a little cerebral Tarzan. If she asked me to marry her right then and there, I probably would’ve done it. I would’ve signed a prenup, but I would’ve done it.

I was closing out my tab at the bar when she said she needed to be up early to go to the gym.

• “Okay, a little working out is fine.” I thought to myself. But still I nervously called out, “Yeah bro, gotta hit those weights.”
• Unaware of my fear she replied, “Yeah. I love working out. Hehe I’m a gym freak.”
• What the hell did she mean by a “gym freak”? Little beads of sweat began to form on my wrinkled forehead. “By any chance, no biggie if you’re unsure, but how much to do bench press? Again, no big deal if you don’t know–doesn’t matter to me. I’m just asking, man.”
• “Uhh” She said as she paused to think. “I’ve been working for strength lately, so maybe 140lbs.”

One hundred and forty pounds?! My arms get tired after carrying a bag of groceries to my car–and that’s only potato chips! My breathing got short and wheezy and I felt a small stream of pee leak down my leg. I went to the gym once and got dizzy just looking at people work out. I once saw a guy squatting 200lbs and almost fainted. The reality that this girl could murder me while I was sleeping started to sink in. But she was so hot. I was torn. How could I let this girl get away? How often do you get to sleep with a girl whose face reminds you of Christmas? You know the feeling you get when you stick like seven soft-baked cookies into a big cup of milk and after waiting for them to melt together into a big milk cookie you drink it?! That was what I imagined sex would be like with this girl. Something about her made me believe her genitalia would be like a big milk cookie. I was so thirsty, but I was also so scared.

There were two roads I could’ve traveled. One was a road paved in pee and filled with potholes. The other was a big genitalia milk cookie road. Know this, I followed the milk cookie road and that has made all the difference. I am now IN LOVE with girls stronger that me. Whenever I see a weak girly girl now, I say things like, “ew, gross.” What that little body builder did to me–OMG. Never again shall I cry myself to sleep because another girl has beaten me at arm wrestling. Now I arm wrestle girls just to find out if she’s the one. I like a lady strong enough to put me over her shoulder and beat me with a newspaper just like a bad little puppy dog. The girl I took home last night will probably end up being my wife. She’s as strong as a horse. Just today I started several fights with guys just so I could watch my girlfriend beat them up for me. She did, because she loves me. And I love her–but I would’ve never known the happiness I now hold had I not conquered my fears. I could’ve ran in fear like the times before, but instead I decided to close my tab and tap that ass. I’m a man now–sort of.

If you’re reading this and know deep down there’s something that scares you, don’t be scared, fight your fears. Lets say your neighbor has a huge dog that bit you several times in the past and you know if you go into their backyard again, it’s going to bite you. Who cares! Run over there, climb that fence and let that dog bite you. Yell out, “bite me dog! Bite me! I’m not scared, I love you.” Bark at the dog and try to put your tongue in its mouth. If it still has balls, just yank on his balls and scream, “give me your balls! I’m not afraid anymore.” Stick your face in that dog’s face and let it bite you right on the nose. It doesn’t matter if it eats your nose. Fuck your nose! You’re free and when you’re free you’re living the dream.

Live the dream, even if you can’t smell it because the neighbor’s dog ate you nose,

Daniel Dickey

Seven months ago my sister pushed a pudgy person out of her vagina. That pudgy person turned out to be a little boy. That little boy, whom I babysit often, giggles when I jump on the bed and make fart noises. Think about that, I don’t even have to tell a joke. I just jump on the bed and go, “fart fart fart” on my arm and he laughs his little baby butt off. Do you know how hard it is to get people to laugh when you’re standing on a stage, telling jokes you’ve written and worked on for months? Very hard. Like one dick and six chicks, hard. This little dude on the other hand laughs hysterically when I cover my face with a blanket, pull it off and yell, “peekaboo.” That’s not even a real word, but he thinks it’s comedy gold. And because of that, I watch him all the time, trying to do things to make him laugh (I’m a great person, I know this).

Here’s where things get remixed–my sister is grounding me from babysitting my own nephew because she deemed me an inadequate caretaker. Why? Apparently some of my nanny practices–though hilarious–aren’t appropriate. See, while she’s at work I send her pictures of the baby. Most of the time it’s of him chewing on his fingers and trying to climb over pillows, but here and there I switch things up.

For example: this was one of him when he was less than a month old and his face still looked like a little rat. I assume he noticed my handsome nipple through my shirt, because in four steps he moved in and tried to breastfeed. Hilarious. (Look how much he’s loving my nipple in the last picture.)

This is him, still pudgy and resembling a tiny vegetable, dressed up like a baby rabbi. Even God thought this one was funny.

Time went on and I continued taking pictures of him. I’d send them to my sister and she’d laugh–well, until I sent her this.

I texted the picture to my sister and she replied.

• WTF?! He’s crying you moron.
• Yeah, but look at the caption… it’s so funny.
• Is he still in there?! GET HIM OUT! NOW!!
• IDK. I went to the super market, I left him in there for safe keeping. I’m sure he’s still in there. Babies can’t pick locks, right?
• You’re such an idiot. You’re not watching him anymore.
• Man he was in there for five seconds. I took the picture and took him out.
• I don’t care. Take pictures of your baby in a cage.
• I don’t have a baby. And he’s not in the cage anymore… he’s in the washing machine.

She called me after that and I assured her he was laying next to me in bed, drinking a bottle. Which I made sure was not too hot. Why? Because I’m an amazing babysitter.

Now before I get yelled at by every responsible person that reads my blog, I know you shouldn’t play around with something so precious and innocent. He’s just a tiny baby and using him for my comedic gain isn’t acceptable. I know… but think about this, when he’s all grown up and his friends are showing off their stupid baby pictures of them sitting on a ugly scooter, he can say, “hey guys, look at this! This is the time my uncle let me bite his nipple, and dressed me like a rabbi and locked me in a dog cage.” And I’d like to think his friends are going to say something like, “wow your uncle is cool as hell. I wish someone locked me in a dog cage.” At that point my nephew is just going to smile as he thinks about how lucky he was to have an uncle that was willing to take funny pictures of him in the washing machine.*

Suspended from babysitting,

Daniel Dickey

*I cannot upload the pictures of him in the washing machine. If my sister got mad about the dog cage, she’d go ballistic if she ever saw the washing machine ones.

UPDATE: I’m allowed to babysit again! AND I took my nephew grocery shopping.

I tried to convince the cashier I had a coupon for him. She just laughed and scanned his ears.

I think it’s called froggy style.

One of my favorite English professors and I went back and forth all day via email. She’s super easygoing and lets me get away with murder as long as I write thoughtful response papers and get the class to engage in intelligent discussions. These are our back and forth emails.

Subject: No Place For Final

Hey Professor,

I can’t find any place to upload my final.

Subject: Re: No Place For Final

Hey Student,

That’s because I took it down two days ago.

Subject: Re: Re: No Place For Final

Well that was silly. How are we going to turn in our finals?

Subject: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

We? All of your classmates turned them in when they were due, two days ago. As for you, I don’t know what you’re going to do because I’m not accepting late work. I made this clear in the last three classes.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

Really? I think that’s a little extreme. I have a 98% in your class and participate in every discussion.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

Calling out wise ass remarks to make the class laugh is not participating in every discussion.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

You laugh whenever I make a wise ass comment, so I don’t see the big deal. I attached my final in this email. Had I known it was due two days ago I would’ve sent it then… just like all my other papers that were turned in on time. I don’t even remember you ever telling us the due date.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

Forget the fact that it’s in the syllabus, I told the class again on Tuesday. Maybe you don’t remember because that was the day you were sleeping. I’ll accept your final, but am taking off 20% because it wasn’t turned in on time.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

You played a movie with subtitles! Did you honestly expect me to stay up through that? I think 20% is a little harsh, but as long as my final grade is an A, all is well. See you next semester.

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: No Place For Final

You’re in another one of my courses? I’m going to have the registrar block you from ever enrolling in any of my classes. Have a good break.

Last night I skipped out on the opportunity to get sloppy at a South Beach bar and watched Crazy, Stupid, Love at a house with a handful of girls. It was either the gayest thing I’ve ever done or the coolest thing I’ve ever done (seeing that I ended up sleeping on the couch alone, it was probably the gayest). But despite my inability to coax cute girls to show me some cleavage, the movie still proved to be amazing. If only for the fact that while I watched it I was able to get lost in a heteroerotic fantasy that I was Ryan Gosling’s character. For 118 minutes I had a chiseled jaw line, supreme sense of style and an uncanny ability to convince women to show me body parts I’ve only seen on YouPorn. In case you’re unaware of my appearance, I look nothing like Ryan Gosling. I look like an Iraqi version of Bill Maher. I have the sex appeal of a contact lens case. And you wondered why I slept on the couch.

Three Sexual Things I Learned While Watching Crazy, Stupid, Love

• If you wear form-fitting jackets girls are more likely to have sex with you (note my above reference to me having the sexual appeal of a contact lens case, and understand I can only guesstimate how and why girls have sex). Who wouldn’t want to sex a man that knows a tailor by first name? I’ve hooked up with a girl just because she had on clean socks. Also, I know the movie didn’t depict any sexual acts while openly saying, “hey this girl is banging him because his jacket is custom fitted,” but come on, did you see how that cloth hugged his body? If a cow saw him in one of those suits you’d have to milk her twice. That cow would be like, “moo baby moo!” This weekend I’m taking in my jackets–next weekend I’m not sleeping on a couch.

• Teachers are crazy, but equally horny. Did you see the sexuality emanating out of Marisa Tomei’s character? That was spot on. It’s a fact, all teachers want to have sex all the time. Why wouldn’t they? They spend five days a week trying to teach dumb kids how to add fractions and write cursive. The only way to release stress after that is by having sex or doing heroin. My advice, find yourself a nice teacher without any track marks on her arm.

• Being funny will get you laid even if you’re not attractive*. Did you see what happened when Steve Carell got a haircut and recreated his wardrobe? Nothing happened, because a new Polo shirt isn’t going to make your face look like Ryan Gosling’s. Dressing well when you’re funny just helps a girl convince herself that she’s also attracted to you physically–she’s not, but the Polo shirt helps. If you don’t have great hair or a six-pack just write funny jokes. As the old saying goes, “if you can make a girl laugh then you can make her touch your penis.” My twitter feed alone has gotten me at least five or six hand jobs.

Buying a Polo shirt and meeting a teacher,

Daniel Dickey

*I’m not saying Steve Carell isn’t a wildly attractive man, only that in relation to Ryan Gosling it’s impossible for anyone to be attractive.

Wanna hear a joke? Kim Kardashian’s wedding.

I don’t normally speak on personal matters of celebrities. Mostly because I could care less about the personal matters of celebrities–unless it involves a naked picture scandal–then I’m willing to speculate. But since learning that Kim Kardashian and whatever his name is have filed for divorce after only two months of marriage I felt the need to speak.

Come on, you morons were married for two months! I’ve spent more time in a grocery store than you’ve spent upholding your vows. How do you spend two years planning a wedding that lasts for two months? Yes, your sister married a basketball player from Los Angeles, so marring a basketball player from New York was a great way to one up her. But you’re the pretty one, there was no need to one up her. You have a perfume named after you… Chole has a aftershave named after her. You rose to fame by getting banged out by Brandy’s little brother. Literally, five years ago he penetrated you in a Beverly Hills hotel and now you’re rich enough to buy the hotel. America cares about you because you’re beautiful, and that’s fine–as long as you don’t get every preteen in the country excited about your commitment to a man and then change your mind as quick as a pothead trying to pick out a candy bar.

Kim I’ll forever respect your butt*, but as for you and your easily manipulated, highly moronic actions, come on. What an embarrassment you’ve proven to be. As a reality TV star I expected more from you.

*I don’t really respect your butt. It actually looks bubbly and lopsided,

Daniel Dickey