Bad conversations tend to happen. You’ll be at a party and someone will comment on your pants and before you know it, you’ve just spent ten brain-melting minutes discussing the merits of button-down shirts. Or maybe you’re at a restaurant and you bump into someone wearing a University of Whatever sweatshirt (oh – I went to that school!) so you’ll debate how awesome the dining common’s grilled cheeses tasted (they were super-sweet …but I was also stoned every day). Once conversations like these end, each participant walks away harboring a sinking feeling and sick heart – pretty much exactly how you felt last weekend after accidentally having sex with that chubby Mexican freshmen with the lazy eye and annoying dachshund.

It doesn’t need to be this way. There are at least seven thousand intriguing things you could be talking about that will lead to conversations several times more interesting than any dialogue about Ikea dressers. The trick is to forge the discussion on your terms, and the best way to accomplish this is with a groundbreaking opener:

I wonder what you’d look like pregnant.

Either a genuine curiosity or a twisted pick-up line – only you will know for sure. This one works great on girls and guys.

Considerations: May not be as effective when conversing with actual pregnant people.

Have you tried the artichoke dip? It tastes like a mole den.

This works best if you’re actually carrying around artichoke dip you brought from home. Bonus points if the dip is in a special container. I like to use my tiny plastic baby teeth treasure chest, complete with rotting molars poking out like ocean bathers.

Considerations: If artichoke dip is already being served at the social event, don’t bother. It will yield conversations as inane as the Jonas Brothers’ career.

If Count Chocula was accused of rape, would you defend him in a court of law?

A tricky inquiry indeed. One one hand, he’s a grown man who wears short capes and loves children (I’ve seen pre-teens eating elaborate breakfasts in his secluded castle). On the other hand, his cereal has helped you through your most depressing years.

Considerations: Feel free to substitute any of the monster-themed Cereal mascots: Franken Berry, Boo Berry, Fruit Brute, and Yummy Mummy are all ghastly pedophiles.

You look like you’d be proficient at repairing wristwatches.

Compliments are often the best opening lines as they put your converser in a cheery mood. Be sure to mention how agile his or her fingers look, even if they appear lackadaisical.

Considerations: Make sure you’re not talking to a watchsmith, unless you really want to discuss timepieces all evening. Also, make sure you’re talking to someone with fingers.

Which Microsoft Office app would make the best one night stand?

Visio 2007 would be the obvious choice because UML diagrams are hot as shit, but this is completely subjective I suppose. Perhaps the overly-calculated Excel would be a popular choice as well – they don’t call them “spreadsheets” for nothing (insert rimshot).

Considerations: Change it up by going open source with OpenOffice.org. You might meet someone better at grepping and fscking then you.

I’ve found that churning butter makes life less complicated.

Things were simpler in the old country – except for the whole Black Plague thing. That sucked for a lot of people.

Considerations: Don’t mention the Black Plague.

We should all aspire to be like David Duchovny.

I applaud the strength David summoned to check himself into sex addiction rehab. On the same token, I often imagine his sexcapades as being magnificent productions involving interplanetary visitors and the supernatural …or maybe just women with masks and large hands. I watched the X-Files religiously in middle school because I wanted to make out with an obsessed girl in my orchestra class. That didn’t work out so well.

Considerations: The truth is out there. Seriously. Good fucking luck.

I have a task for you. This weekend, go to some random bar, approach a complete stranger, and fire up a conversation using one of the above openers. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed – unless you get arrested for harassment. Unless, of course, that is your goal. If so, congratulations in advance from the bottom of my intrigued heart.

Together, we can make this world a more interesting place. Maybe.

I recently obtained a killer box. Check this shit out:

I’m naturally excited about the possibilities although my box repurposing skills are quite rusty; the last epic box encounter I had was probably in middle school, and by then I was too busy crying about my pathetic life to care. But before middle school thrust it’s dagger through my stomach, I remember boxes being mystical devices: peanut butter spearhead factories, giant cardboard glow worms, the entire cast of Silver Spoons ...the possibilities were infinite, much like Nick and Norah’s Playlist. Unfortunately, my “mystical devices” these days equate to bonus closet space and the “Credit Bumper” – a machine that raises your credit score proportional to the amount of nickels you feed it.

I decided to do some deep thinking and soul searching. If I could transform this killer box into anything, what would I choose? After a few days of pondering, I drafted this list.

Albatross Bird Bath

Dinosaur Jack-in-the-Box

Tiny Jack in the Box

Ghost Trap

Internet Confession Booth

Hot Sex Booth

Chuck Wagon

Portal to Brax, City of the Undead

Portal to Toys R Us on 28th Street in Grand Rapids, Michigan

Aborted Zombie Fetus Containment Unit (AZFCU)

The direction I take will be a tough decision, but I’m confident I’ll be happy with any of these choices.

Or I might just throw the box out. Or sell it. Anyone in the market for killer box?

Oh, and if you thought you were about to read a post about “sweet pussy”, you were sorely mistaken. Check back next week.

I bet at least one of you is wondering where I’ve been for the past month, so I’ll address this special entry to a special person:

Hi, mom. I know you’ve missed my rants on fucking this and shitting on that, but you’ll be glad to know that I’ve returned to the Internet. My life has been in pieces for the last 24 days and much like those huge puzzles we used to enjoy before I learned how to masturbate, it required intense concentration and epic tedium to complete this masterpiece.

To decode the above blockquote, I’ve moved into a cave of seclusion and have been preoccupied with the many nuances of relocating. Here’s what I’ve done instead of writing:

• Bought a really nice frying pan from Target for cooking eggs and cracking heads.
• Transported a bunch of boxes containing nostalgic garbage that I’ll probably never sift through from one house to another.
• Rescued a cheeky zebra from the clutches of DR. D’ARGONNE.
• Ate at least two egg, sausage, and cheese breakfast sandwiches on everything bagels from Einstein Bros.
• Received a $47 parking ticket for not crimping my tires on a hill.
• Started playing Final Fantasy II for the SNES (I just obtained the Earth Crystal from the Dark Elf and I’m about to rescue Rosa).
• Vacuumed my old room for the first time in hopes of receiving some deposit cash.
• Bought a $20 toilet brush from Target (what the fuck was I thinking?)
• Built a Rube Goldberg machine using only folding ironing boards and stale Funyuns.
• Started eating cold cereal again.
• Bought plane tickets to Phoeniz, Arizona and Seattle, Washington.
• Constructed no less than twelve pieces of Ikea furniture.
• Visited Ikea no less than six times.
• Repaired this blogging engine because my shared hosting provider likes to upgrade ruby gems seemingly randomly, thus breaking 90% of my installed applications. In all fairness, they probably posted an announcement on their blog so I guess it’s my fault. For less than $10 a month I can’t complain. Speaking of which, does anyone out there want a Dreamhost account? I’m running out of referral credits.
• Discovered a new-found hatred for Freehand.
• Discovered a new-found love for water bears.
• Discovered that free neighborhood wifi is really shitty.
• Developed a crush on Bristol Palin.

I’ve also spent ample time putting my studio together. Here’s what it might look like:

Here’s what it probably doesn’t look like:

So worry not loyal readers, I’m back an have a new found boner for writing. (For those of you counting at home, that equals two boners.) Expect a real post sometime next week, most likely about moving …because that’s all I’ve been doing really. Well, that and daydreaming about Bristol Palin.

A flamboyant landlord ushers me into the “quaint studio one block away from the park” and I feel suicidal. The kitchen is about the size of Kirstie Alley’s ass with ample counter space to prepare a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, providing I use tiny hors’ devours bread and Smucker’s Goober (which is completely nasty). I imagine the main room to be barely large enough for me to create carpet angels. As for the bathroom, it is an ingenious feat of interior design; if I desired, I could take a shit on the toilet, wash my feet in the shower, and shave my face over the sink – all at the same time. It’s a steal at $900 per month but I kindly turn down an application.

The next place on my list is freezing and damp – and by damp, I mean the carpeted floor is covered by 6 inches of icy water. My potential kitchen is a floe and the bathroom is a jagged block of shorefast ice. Every basin in the apartment brims with fresh cod. I decide to argue with the rental agent.

“Look,” I say. “This place is perfect for ringed seals but not for humans.”

“That’s a poor opinion,” scoffs the agent. “And completely relative. Ringed seals are more human than, say, platypuses.” He pauses a moment. “And more interesting than ringed seal humanness is platypus pluralness. Did you know that there are several forms of the word and they’re all disputed? Platypuses and platypi are both somewhat common while platypodes is rarer and seen as more scientific – and pretentious. How exhilarating!”

“I often change up the plural form I use depending on the social situation,” he continues. “Platypuses in farmer’s markets, platypodes at the ball, and platypi when talking to elementary school children. Do you talk to children?”

“Not really,” I say. “I don’t really know any, and I’m a bit of a recluse.”

“That’s a shame,” the agent says. “So, how about this place?”

I decline and return home to change into dry shoes and pants for the next open house, which is a one bedroom cottage that has a “GREAT LOCATION!!! CLOSE TO FREEWAY AND SHOPPING, VIEW OF BRIDGE!!!!!!” However, upon my arrival to the address, I find that the “cottage” is really two large metal tubes touching each other at one end, creating a long cylindrical hall. This place would be perfect for an o-ring.

Regardless, I ask the landlord to show me the onsite laundry, which is nice. This still doesn’t warrant the completion of an application to live in a pipe for one year, so I leave the site frustrated and starving. I’m in the mood for cheesecake, and when I think “cheesecake” I immediately think “Jack in the Box” so I head to the drive-through and order two slices of heaven. They plop into my gut like a delicious bomb.

Weary and bloated with sweetness, I drive to the final rental on my list and I’m pleasantly surprised: it’s a large ground-level duplex with high arched ceilings and loads of windows. The appliances and fixtures are new, as is the wood floor and paint job. Peering out the front window, I have a perfect view of downtown framed by exotic landscaping. I almost have a boner.

The only problem is that five other people are looking at the place with me, and they’re all carrying stuffed manila envelopes and are frothing at the mouth. I ask a young woman to disclose the contents of her envelope and she lists them without blinking: rental application, credit report with FICO score (dated yesterday), photocopies of her driver’s license, birth certificate, passport pages, last 24 pay stubs, dissertation, and infant footprints, homemade matzo, the first valentine she ever received, a favorite Dilbert comic, and a coupon for “buy one get one free” Garden Herb Triscuits.

I have nothing and decide to leave dejected rather than compete in the Olympiad of Preparedness. Naïve is the best word to describe me at this point. Who would have though finding a place close to downtown would be this difficult? With only one week left before I get kicked out of my current living arrangement, I do the only thing left to do.

I end up putting money down on the first place I saw – the tiny studio – which actually comes furnished with Kirstie Alley’s ass. So I’ve got that going for me.

1.

A child explains the concept of fire flowers to his mother:

“First you need to get a mushroom if you’re small. You hit the question blocks. If you’re big then instead of a mushroom there will be a fire flower. When you get it you turn red and shoot fireballs.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah and you can kill anything by shooting them except for Buzzy Beetle because of it’s shell and Bowser takes five hits.”

“Ah.”

2.

I wake up Saturday morning with a throbbing hangover. Usually a nice thick torrent of vomit provides a solid remedy, but I heave and retch to no avail while wrapped around a laughing toilet. With determination, I slam a few Tums to soothe my heartburn and eat a bowl of instant blueberry oatmeal. I want to know where oatmeal companies get their blueberries – they’re so tiny and delicious. A few minutes later I attempt to induce vomiting once again and unleash a bowl’s worth of undigested instant blueberry oatmeal and bits of Tums. After thinking for a moment, I slam a few more Tums to be sure my twitching body absorbs the stomach soothing agents. Still feeling nauseous, I slam a Pabst, masturbate, and take a cold shower. Much better.

3.

The Kingdom of Loathing is a web-based MMO where you are allowed to click things a certain number of times each day. Most of these things are buttons and hyperlinks, but sometimes they are map areas that were drawn in MS Paint. Your stick-figure hero can earn titles like “Yeast Scholar”, wear “Ravioli Hats”, and battle “Undead Elbow Macaroni” and such. It’s a pretty sweet game I guess.

While hypnotized by the Kingdom of Loathing motorized diorama depicting the signature stick-figure hero – sword in one hand martini in the other – advancing and retreating from a giant tentacle wall, I’m accosted by the two booth girls. They are cute and ask me if I’ve played the game. I decide that the game sucks.

“Yeah, that game sucks,” I say. “It makes no sense.”

They basically accuse me of being a slave to advanced graphics and rendering engines and I state that it’s simply not the case. I don’t like clicking things and reading ridiculous passages (both are lies). I then notice that girl #1 is wearing a Minibosses t-shirt, which is very hot, and ask her it she’s going to the show later. She says yes (not verbatim) and claims to be friends with the band. I ask her if she’s from Phoenix and she says yes (also not verbatim). I tell her Arizona sucks and smells funny. She then grabs her digital camera and shows me a photograph of MC Frontalot passed out in the corner of their booth. I’m delighted.

4.

A scantily clad female bounty hunter of sorts with long rocket tits stares down a giant inflatable Pikachu. Enough said.

5.

People crowd around a table, awaiting their chance to spin the Mega64 Wheel of Mystery. I lurk behind them, cowering from the unrecognizable, raw power emanating from the large black disk. What secrets will this artifact unleash?

A brave soul spins: Tattoo.
The wheel host calls for the young participant to outstretch his arm. With a Sharpie, he doodles something quickly by his elbow. I cannot see the result, but I’d like to think it’s a tiny cock and balls.

A brave soul spins: Constructive Criticism.
Without hesitation, the wheel host calmly explains that the font on the participant’s shirt is old and busted, and they should avoid wearing clothing with out of style fonts. The participant agrees.

A brave soul spins: Game Ruined.
Immediately, the wheel is taken behind the booth and out of sight. “Sorry,” the wheel host addresses the crowd. “This guy ruined it for everyone.” This is fine with me because my hangover headache is starting to pound again. I retreat to the restroom for some dry heaving.