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my world. my journal. my rules. XXXL 08/08/2003I was out drinking with some friends last night, when Jack, a former co-worker, told me he had something for me in his car. So in between rounds, we took a walk out and he bends down into the backseat of his 19-who the hell knows Volvo station wagon and throws me a t-shirt. Please allow me to digress for a moment. Once a month, after work, a group of us would volunteer at the Delaware Food Bank, doing different jobs such as packing boxes with food donations from food drives, or supermarkets, sorting donations into different categories, etc. Each year, the Food Bank hosts an event to raise more money. This money is spent on upgrading their facilities, advertising, you know the drill. So last April, we participated in this annual charity event, a bowl-a-thon. Is now a good time to mention that I haven’t bowled since elementary school? Yeah, we sucked it up. I don’t think we could have purposely bowled poorer than we did. I believe my highest score was something like 110. Yeah. I suck at bowling, what’s it to ya? So from the total number of points scored, our sponsors donated money to the Food Bank. And since our donations totaled more than a hundred bucks, we got t-shirts. Cool, right? I mean, who couldn’t use a free t-shirt? So I’m standing in the parking lot, fairly intoxicated, looking at the shirt. It has a graphic of a bowling ball knocking down some pins with the caption “Pin Down Hunger to benefit the Delaware Food Bank.” And then I realize that it looks a little big. I glance at the tag, squinting to make out the size. XXXL. No, my fingers did not clench, nor did they experience a muscle spasm. That shirt is triple-extra-large. Granted, I’m 6’4”, about 220 lbs, and I can honestly say I’ve never work a triple-extra-large. Hell, I’ve never worn a double-extra-large. Even an extra-large is big on me. “It’ll shrink,” Jack slurred. “Three sizes?” Jack just shrugged and I threw the shirt into my car and headed back into the bar for another round. What the Hell am I going to do with a XXXL shirt? I don’t know anyone who would fit in it. Perhaps I could use it as a pup tent. It could probably shelter a small family of four. And back by popular demand…
Dear Jeff, Recently, I decided to undergo a pretty radical career change. It involves pretty serious work, and many difficult decisions, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it. Luckily, money won’t be a problem, as I’m already a millionaire several dozen times over. My wife, who has been nothing but supportive of my decision, even quit her job to be by my side. People say she looks like the Predator, from that movie The Predator (which was wayyyy better than that lame-ass sequel with Danny Glover), but I love her and don’t want to hurt her feelings. I guess my question is that given my utter lack of experience in this new role, including my questionable grasp of the English language, how can I win the public over to my side? Confused in California Dear Confused, The Predator, you say? Hmm… I think you should have a serious discussion with your wife about how you feel about her accompanying you on the campaign trail, err…I mean supporting you in your decision. I think you need to let her know that while you appreciate her quitting her job, that there may not be a lot of “us” time in the coming months. As for winning over the public, may I suggest the following paid advertisement… INT. GOVERNOR’S OFFICE – SACRAMENTO, CA The Governor, a huge hulking Austrian is seated behind a desk listening to a pitch from the tobacco lobby, as he puffs on a cigar. LOBBYIST Governor Ahnuld, we would love to sponsor a 5K Race for Tobacco. All the money would go to researching a non-addictive cigarette. Even, Ciggy, our 6-foot cartoon cigarette mascot will be there at the finish line, cheering on the participants, handing out free Gatorade, and Menthols… GOVERNOR Yoo wahnt me to grant yoo a license to have a race for cee-gah-retts? LOBBYIST Yes, sir. GOVERNOR Leesten, pal. I don’t bow to special interest groups because I have a trillion dollars. I don’t need your keek-backs. In fact, let me geev you my own keek-back…A back-keek! The Governor vaults over the desk, still chomping on his cigar and delivers a powerful back-kick to the Lobbyist’s sternum, and the Lobbyist crumples like aluminum foil to the plush carpet. As the Lobbyist struggles to rise, the Governor has revealed a gatling gun, and has started unloading 300 rounds per second into the Lobbyist’s body which flails about in an intricate dance of death, as he finally falls out the window and falls ten stories, finally landing on top of another lobbyist walking down the street. The Governor peers over the edge of the precipice that used to be his window, down at the carnage below, his gun still smoking, his cigar still smoking. He turns and looks over his shoulder to the camera. GOVERNOR Vohte for mee. I’ll cleen up dis town.
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content is copyright © Jeff Marks 2003. All Rights Reserved.
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