What I Learned from Selling My Ouija Board on Ebay

In my continuing attempt to sell everything in my house not bolted down to further my fancy hat collection, I decided to list our vintage Ouija board on Ebay.  For those that have spent the last 50 years either under a rock or in a correctional institution (you'd be amazed how much of my reading audience includes one or the other), a Ouija board is a spirit board used by teenage girls to contact the spirit world. It's made from a mystical combination of plastic and cardboard by the Satanic church of Milton Bradley.

You'd think such a transaction would go relatively smoothly, but apparently I was vastly unprepared  for the level of freakitude the spirit worlds had sent my way.

Worth it.

Just in case you find yourself cash-strapped and decide to offer up your cherished Ouija, here are some tips to prepare yourself:

4. There are four types of Ouija buyers:

• Board game collectors (yes, this is a thing)
• People who want a 'connected' board
• Christians
• Small children who got a hold of their parent's computer and who went on a bidding streak

Board game collectors will ask you a million questions related to condition. Take a lot of pictures and do not make snarky comments about 'mystery stains from the spirit world'. Board game collectors do not have a sense of humor.

I was fully expecting the board game collector questions. Collectors, for the most part, are all different sides of the same anal retentive coin. I was not, however, prepared in the slightest for the avalanche of crazy that followed the usual questions about the 'integrity of the cardboard box'.

3. Buyers don't just want a Ouija board, they want a creepy story to go with it.

For the 'connected' buyers, it's not enough that your board does not contain any dried up Cheetos, it must be a fully operational gateway to the other side.

Can't a brother use the toilet without getting summoned?

These buyers want to hear about how you acquired the board (i.e., found it in a cemetery on the tomb of a convicted serial killer, obviously), why you're selling it (i.e., because you were unprepared for the angry spirits who kept visiting you), and if you had any notable experiences while using the board (i.e., you're too freaked out to talk about it).

I'd like to remind my readers that this game is made by Milton Bradley, the same people who make Candy Land. It's about as mystical as a pair of argyle socks but making up shit is apparently part of the social contract of selling Ouija boards and it is your solemn duty to honor that.

2. Beware the Christian buyers.
So apparently in certain Christian circles (you guys have circles right?), Ouija boards are taboo. Something about witchcraft and and Dungeons and Dragons and Harry Potter and Gary Busey all being aligned with demons and the devil.  I wasn't entirely paying attention as I was masturbating furiously while watching The Exorcist.

These buyers do not want a 'connected' board. They want a clean board, one that has preferably been blessed by a Catholic priest. They want assurances that nothing weird has come anywhere near this board. They want you to tell them about how clean the planchette is and how you only used it at your youth group after the elders had gone to sleep. For them, this purchase would be like you buying a slutty pair of underwear. Something you can slip on for a while to feel naughty, but can change out of the moment it starts riding up your butt. I think that metaphor holds.

Do not confuse the 'connected' buyers with the Christian buyers or be prepared for an avalanche of Biblical quotes.

And not even the cool ones.

There's at least six people in Michigan who are praying for my soul right now so I guess, if nothing else, I've got that going for me.

1. Ouija Boards are a Nightmare to Mail

Seriously, just look at that thing! It's like two pizza boxes stacked next to each other. Boxes tend to be tall and squat, not flat and long. You were probably expecting some wry comment here, but honestly I was just wondering if you had something that fit. I've got a Bible study group in Des Moines who's been waiting on this thing for a month. 

So You're Crazy? A Quick Guide to Understanding Mental Illness

So you've just been told you're crazy. And by a professional this time and not just the receptionist in the office who has no interest in going hot air ballooning with you this or any other weekend. There are some important things you should know on your road back to health and normalcy, things that not even your psychiatrist is going to tell you.

7. Psychiatry is not an exact science
We put a lot of trust in our doctors. And it's easy to see why. Not only do they undergo years and years of specialized education and constant re-certification, but they also have millions of dollars of high-tech, state of the art equipment at their disposal.

Psychiatrists, however, sit in small rooms with lots and lots of old books.

Don't get me wrong, shrinks spend endless hours reading journals, attending conferences, and working with patients, but the field is less science and more boozy guy in a bar standing in front of a dart board, praying his next shot sticks.

What does it mean if it lands on the guy leaning against the wall?

There's a lot of guess-work involved in diagnosing mental illness is what I'm saying and how you're treated usually has less to do with your symptoms and more to do with:

1. Your doctor's particular field of study
2. What drug/disease is currently trending (more on this later)
3. Which drug rep just left the office (more on this too)

The human brain is complex. Think of an early map of the earth with a large blank space marked out with the phrase 'Here there be dragons'. That's essentially what we're still doing with the human brain--trying to map out a mysterious land without the proper tools or technology required to accomplish the task. Only in this case, the dragons are real and they're everywhere.

Property values are shockingly low.

Knowing what effects which part of the brain and why is a complete mystery. So all psychiatrists have to go on are symptoms and those symptoms are usually filtered through patients' descriptions and (occassionally) observed behaviors.

I'm not telling you this so you can fake an illness and score some fantastic anti-psychotic drugs (though you definitely could). I'm telling you this because, as a crazy person, it's important that you don't go into your doctor's office expecting an easy solution to your very complicated brain's problems. It doesn't exist. And it's important that you not put all your trust in your shrink to find the answers on your own. A good shrink-shrinkee relationship involves both of you working your ass off to understand the issues at hand and what might be causing them. If it helps, think of yourself as Short-Round and the doctor as Indiana Jones. Sure, one guy gets the bad ass fedora and whip, but where would he be without his little Asian buddy with the cool gadgets? Dead. That's where. Maybe the metaphor doesn't completely work here, but still, Indiana Jones. Amirite?

6. Psychiatry goes through more trends than the fashion industry.
As I mentioned above, psychiatry involves a helluva lot of guess work so when shrinks do make a break-through, they get very, very excited about it. Even if that guess later turns out completely wrong (and it often is). For example, the guy who came up with lobotomies was once awarded a Nobel prize. I'll say that again, the man who decided that what a broken brain needed most was just an appropriately applied ice pick, received a reward for humanitarianism.

Pictured: Someone whose work with ice picks was far more deserving of a Nobel.

And how long did it take psychiatry to figure out that maybe therapy and medication were a better alternative than stab-hating brain matter? 20 fucking years.

Nowadays, break-throughs tend to involve less making brain soup and more the naming of illnesses that already exist. Like Aspergers. And Autism. And before that Schizophrenia, clinical depression, ADHD, ADD, etc. etc. etc.

And like a kid with a new label-maker, when psychiatry comes up with one of these new illnesses, they go around sticking it on everyone. The same happens when a new medication makes it to market. For a while, damn near everybody was on Prozac. Today, it's Ritalin. I swear if I so much as nod off in a meeting, four people are shoving an ADHD pill in my face.

Psychiatry's answer to this is quite brilliant--they're not getting caught up in the heat of the moment and over-diagnosing (or over-prescribing) the latest crazy flavor of the month, they're just correctly recognizing people who had these issues all along. Which does nothing to explain why the same people with depression twenty years ago who were nom-nomming on Prozac like Tic Tacs are now depression free and in treatment for ADHD.

The point is that you have to be able to separate yourself from the headlines and look at your symptoms in a vaccum. And you're going to have to help your shrink do it, too because he's more immersed in that sort of thing than anybody.

5. There is never a cure
One of the most difficult things about being mentally ill is accepting that this is a lifetime diagnosis. You don't ever stop being sick. All you get is different degrees of manageable. You don't even get the luxury of finding one pill that works and living out a happy, medicated life. Because the body's chemistry changes--it builds up tolerances or changes and your pills no longer work. Or they get recalled because it grows a third nipple. Or the manufacturer stops making it because it's not profitable enough. Or your insurance won't cover it because it's too expensive.  You will spend the rest of your life mixing medications like Tom Cruise in cocktail. 

Like this if the depression hadn't crippled you into complete inactivity. 

And for that reason you shouldn't ever let yourself feel too comfortable with any one medication. But it doesn't matter, because even if you did, you'll probably quit them on your own at some point because...

4. Beware the vicious circle
When you do find a drug that works (inasmuch as drugs work), it's easy to get caught up in a state of normalcy. You may find that you no longer cry everytime you burn a piece of bread or see that goddamned long distance commercial about the kid calling his grandmother.

No, not that commercial. Sickie.

You may even begin to think that your normalcy has nothing to do with the obscene amount of pills you take everyday. Or maybe you're an artist type who has discovered it's much more difficult to come up with rhymes for 'abyss' when your head is delightfully clouded with anti-suicidal medication.

At any rate, at some point in your newly doped up career, you will come to the unfortunate decision that 'I no longer need these meds' and you will stop taking them. I call this stage, "You are a fucking idiot." That normlacy you've got is solely because of the meds. They'v given you a window to real life. A little space to breath in and practice acting like a normal person. But never forget what opened that window in the first place. And for God's sake, never stop taking your meds. Which brings me to the next point.

3. You can never stop taking medication. 
The pills can and will alter your brain's chemistry, but the brain does not fix itself. Once broken, it's always broken. Think of your head as the Hoover Dam and your crazy is a tiny leak at the base. Everyday that you don't plug that hole, the leak gets larger and larger until one day you are naked in your apartment disconnecting all your phones so the government can't bug your calls. Those pills are the only thing stopping the leak. And the moment you stop taking them, the crazy starts dripping out all over again. It's slow and gradual so you may not notice it at first. But listen to your friends and family when they tell you that the cat is not trying to communicate hidden messages from the television to you. They have your best interests at heart.

Or maybe they've never met your cat.

2. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease
Sleeplessness, anger, irritability, suicidal thoughts, sexual disfunction...no, I'm not reciting symptoms from the DSM, I'm listing some of the side-effects from the hosts of medication you will try. No medication is side-effect free. And depending on the severity of your crazy and the dose of your medicine, you may be faced with a choice between say never having sex again or having to listen to the voice of Gilbert Godfrey chanting 'Kill' all day. And you know what? Whether you want to deal with those side-effects for a chance at normalcy is a private decision, but just know that the end result of a person with a mental illness who goes unmedicated long enough, and I'm talking just about any mental illness, is often suicide. Which leads me to the last item...

1. Suicide is always option.
That's an awful statement, just hanging out there. But let me clarify. The thing about mental illness is that people who have it suffer in silence. You've probably heard that cliche a million times. But it's true. And you know what sucks about suffering in silence? Nobody believes you. So aside from the crippling depression and physical effects, you will also have the added bonus of everyone thinking it's all in your head. And when that happens, it's easy to stop talking about your issues, which in turn only makes things worse. It's a terrible cycle.

Now I'm not advocating you throw yourself off a bridge the moment you find out you're OCD. You should try every option available to you to get back a normal and healthy life. You should fight every day. And when you can't fight for yourself anymore, fight for the people who love you. Because suicide is a terribly selfish option. It leaves nothing but blame and guilt and unanswered questions in its wake.

Just like a visit from my mother-in-law

What I'm saying is that if things ever get too terrible to manage, you have that option. Should you ever take it? No. But sometimes, when the fire is closing in, just knowing where the exit is can be comforting. And there's nothing wrong with thinking about leaving. It's actually normal. Don't hate yourself for it. Don't be ashamed of it and don't try to ignore it. And for God's sake, don't ever stop talking about it. 

5 Giant-Sized Versions of Your Worst Nightmares

Yesterday, the spider puppy crawled out of the depths of the South American rainforest and click-clacked through the leafy undergrowth into our hearts.

If it weren't for the venomous and near-lethal bite, I'd give you kisses all over. Yes I would! Yes I would! 

But this isn't the only super-sized phobia out there. Here's some more nightmare fuel for your Thursday afternoon.

Ratzilla Doesn't Die

How bad can a rat be? Sure, they sometimes live in sewers and bite and carry all kinds diseases but when you get right down to it... oh my freaking god look at that thing.

This massive sewer monster was so hell-bent on terrorizing a Swedish family, he burrowed through concrete just to get to them. At close to a foot and a half long, it promptly made itself at home in their kitchen, despite the presence of a cat who was the only member of the family who had the good sense to stay the fuck out of there. Nothing could slow this goliath down as it promptly continued to make itself at home even as its damned neck was snapped inside an exterminator grade trap.


Ear Roach

A rat in the kitchen is one thing. Sure, it's horrible, but you can always burn the house down, salt the earth, and walk away like nothing happened. The same can't be said for Austrian Hendrick Helmer who had a 2cm long cockroach crawl in and set up shop in his ear. Attempts to remove it with a 'vaccum cleaner' only angered the beast and presumably the evil god who first creatd it.

2 cm may not seem big, especially compared to the lifeboat-sized rat you just looked at, but try to remember IT WAS IN HIS FREAKING EAR. And just look at that guy...it takes a ballsy insect to make that scary ass dude's brain his home.

Ceiling Snake
Do I even need to tell you this next story happened in Australia, a place where animals only come in large or venomous.

That's not a snake. This, this is a snake. 

Now I live in a moderately rural area in that the trees out-number the amount of cars on my street. So occasionally I'll find a harmless brown snake slither across my driveway.  In winter, a snake might make its way inside the basement to keep warm (don't tell my wife). But that's about it.

In Australia, apparently, the snakes are so damn eager to get inside they puncture their way through the ceiling and pop out like the most strangly jack in the box in the world. Because this happened in Australia, however, the owners paused to snap a few shots and upload them to Reddit before calmly making themselves a new pair of boots.

Giant Bee

In what appears to be a scene in the opening film of a 1950's monster movie double-billing, a reporter is assaulted on the air by a giant man-sized bee. Her face frozen with fear in a smiling richter of death. I don't know. I didn't actually read the story. It's probably just a bug on the camera lens, but still. Look at that thing!

5.5 Meter Alligator Attacks Shark

Obviously, this also happened in Australia. How come they don't mention this shit on their visitor websites?

The picture you are looking at is not a scene from King Kong. It's a 5.5 meter alligator casually eating a mother fucking shark like a construction worker with a baloney sandwich on his lunch break.  5.5 meters? Are you fucking kidding me? I can't even run that far without getting winded.

Once again, the Aussie local who happened to catch this scene which proves once and for all there is no just creator, sat casually back and snapped pictures like he was on Disney's Jungle Safari. Hey dude, giant shark and alligator in front of you locked in a death match. Put down the damn food and pack your shit up. Australia wants you dead.

6 Dog Costumes That Tell the World You're a Horrible Person

So apparently there are some people who think it's just adorable to dress their pets up in costumes for Halloween. And who am I to judge those people or tell them that what they're doing is wr--oh, who am I kidding? This is abhorrent behavior, people. Dressing your pets in costumes should be added to the DSM. If you are buying outfits for your pet, you should be in therapy. You need more human contact. If you're already in therapy, tell your therapist your current dosage is just not working. Tell him now. Seriously. I'll wait.

And beyond being all kinds of freaky-deaky, this kind of behavior is just plain cruel to your pet. Sara McLachlan should do a PSA against this kind of activity. If there was a telethon, I'd pledge.

Back away from the Batman mask, you sick fuck. 

I've lost my train of thought. You've got me all confused what with your cats in booties and crazy eyes. Let's see...Pets. Costumes. Abhorrent activity. Yes!

And just like any other activity, what started off presumably innocent enough--a bowtie here, maybe a little sweater there--has of course gone horribly, horribly wrong. Dressing your schnauzer in a hot dog costume? Ok, I see what you did there. But put your poodle in a Madonna with pointy bra? Then you've crossed that imaginary line. You know the one...it leads straight to the registered sex offenders list. Go ahead and move to the front. The others won't mind.

Here's six more pet costumes to avoid to end up on that list.

6. Harem Costume

The official description: Get your pretty princess dancing the seven veils in this heavenly Harem Dog Costume! Featuring a pair of pink pantaloons and matching chest piece, this Arabian dancer dog costume comes with a gold headpiece with pink veil that ties under the chin. Scheheraz-dog returns!

It's no surprise that the costume makers are not familiar with the story of Scheherazade--there can't be much time for reading literature what with all that time dedicated to violating the dignity of helpless animals. But the story of Scheherazade deals with a woman being sold off to a king for a night of defloration followed by decapitation. Those veils were meant to be yanked off as part of foreplay/rapey violation. So there's that. Now you know, how do you feel about your four-legged friend nuzzling his face in your crouch as he begs for a treat?

5. Bikini

The official description: our pup can frolic in the water the American way with our American Flag Dog Bikini! This doggie two-piece swimsuit features the vibrant stars and stripes of the American flag. With a cute flared bikini skirt and elasticized waistband, American Flag Dog Bikini gets your pooch ready to hit the pool or beach!

A bathing suit on a dog. Yeah, sure. I guess. At least that will minimize the pee while he paddles after the damned tennis ball you keep throwing in the pool. But why is this poor dog wearing a bikini top? Was he part of some kind of human growth hormone experiment?  And why is he looking all coquettish at me over his shoulder? Is, is he hitting on me?

4. Santa Baby Tutu Dress

The official description: For the pooch that has been good all year! Our Santa Baby Dog Tutu Dress features a luxe red velour design with a silver screen print of "Santa Baby" across the back. The attached white tutu sparkles with sprinkles of silver glitter. This super-soft pullover Santa Baby Dog Tutu Dress has an elastic waistband for a secure fit while your pet makes spirits bright this holiday!

There were other Santa costumes available, but this one really bugged me. Unless they're in heat and in the mood to hump something, dogs rarely seem to pay attention to gender.

And if my poor violated leg is any indication, even then it rarely seems to be a concern. 

So why do we insist on dressing our damn dogs in gender specific costumes? You want to put Sir Pup-a-lot in a Santa costume, stick him in a Santa costume. Don't slut it up just because he's a she. And for that matter, why do pet costumes follow the oddly specific rule of costumes for humans that if it's a for women, it's got to be slutty as hell. Seriously, this is a dog Santa costume, but because it appears to be for female dogs (bitches!), it's got a see-through tutu, sparkles, and fucking glitter. Gross.

3. Snookie

The official description: This The Lady Is A Tramp Dog Costume includes the wig, costume with cleavage, and the fur boot covers. Yes, it really is Snookie in a dog costume!

No, the lady is a fucking dog. And if you're putting cleavage on a dog, you have a very distinctive sexual deviancy and there are laws against this sort of thing, sickie.

Even our beloved website copywriter is a little shocked at this one. 'Yes, it really is Snookie in a dog costume!' as in 'I can't fucking believe someone came up with this idea and three other assholes went along with it and helped him make it. This is my career. What have I done with my life?'


2. Pimp

The official description: This Big Daddy Pimp Dog Costume is just as adorable as it is funny!

C'mon website copywriter, you're not even looking at the damn pictures anymore. 'Adorable'? You're describing a god damned pimp. As in the guy who back-hands hookers for not bringing enough money.

I'm trying to imagine a scenario of someone buying this costume that's not terrible. I can't. It's just...I want to hug my mom now, but I feel too dirty.  I'm not sure I'll ever be clean again.

Just promise me, if you do buy this, you will not dress up as a hooker. Let's agree to not live in a world that would allow such a thing.

1. California Cupcake

The official description: This California Cupcake Girl Dog Costume includes the blue wig, novelty glasses, and the costume cupcake bra.

Let's just agree that no sane human being has ever uttered the phrase, "Can you hold down the dog while I slip her in this cupcake bra?" And then let's never speak of this monstrosity again.



Also check out: 11 Kids Costumes That Tell the World You're a Terrible Parent

5 Terrible Things I Learned After Getting Mugged

In 1996, I was fresh off college graduation and faced with the least difficult decision of my life--become a responsible, working adult or fuck off to London until my money ran out.

Guess which I chose.

Three months into my attempt to drink England dry, I made a colossally stupid decision. My parents were in the country visiting me.  We’d just parted and I was on the tube heading home when I decided I absolutely had to find an ATM and take money out for the next day.  It was close to midnight and even the subway car was damn near empty.

I'd like to blame this set of poor decision-making on alcohol but, as I mentioned, I’d just left my folks and I was desperately trying to keep up the illusion that my stay in England was more about soul-searching than testing my liver’s ability to withstand lethal doses of grain alcohol.

I got off at Baker Street, which you might recognize as the site of Sherlock Holmes’ fictional home.  There’s some irony there, but it’s nearly 20 years later and I still haven’t learned to appreciate it.  Let me add that Baker Street is not a bad part of London—in fact it’s one of the nicest neighborhoods there to live.  But again, it was almost midnight in a large city and I was the only idiot out. At least that’s what I blissfully assumed.

I found an ATM close to the well-lit subway entrance, entered my PIN, and then felt someone tap me on the shoulder.

5. It all happens very quickly.
British people are notoriously polite.  During my first week in the country, I caused an accident because I stepped into traffic after foolishly looking in the wrong direction.  The driver, after discoveringI was American, bought me lunch, gave me a tour of a cricket field that he worked at, then politely reminded me that ‘Brits’ drive on the other side of the street, before sending me on my way home.  You can imagine him ‘tut tutting’ if it helps. It’s not far from the truth.

So when I got a tap on my shoulder in the middle of the night, I just assumed, it was a tourist who needed directions or, at worst, a polite reminder from a local that my pants had fallen down (see, drinking England dry).  What I was not expecting was to get repeatedly punched in the face and stomach.  Which I did.  And hard.  You know that expression ‘seeing stars’?  Apparently, that’s a real thing.

And now you'll never watch Bugs Bunny cartoons the same way.

I slumped to the ground while the man withdrew as much money from my account as the ATM would allow.  When he was done, he kicked me in the side for good measure and ran off.  I never saw his face.  My life didn’t flash before my eyes.

4. You’ll blame yourself. 
When I did realize what had happened, there was a moment of shock, and then I cried.  The pain hadn’t even set in yet.  It was a different kind of cry.  It was the kind of cry a baby makes in the middle of the night, in the impenetrable dark, when he desperately wants someone to come get him.  I didn’t even recognize my own voice.  It was that kind of cry—deep and from a place of terror and helplessness I hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

My thoughts were a fucking mess.  If anything, the burgeoning rise of pain in my face and side gave me some clarity and something to focus on.  A voice in my head said, ‘Yes, this happened. Now get your shit together and do something.’  But I didn’t.  I didn’t move.  Because immediately, another voice said, ‘Why didn’t you do something to stop it?’ And I cried some more.

3. I’m a lover, not a fighter.

Above: Fighter, not lover. Don't confuse the two. 

You know that old adage about fight or flight?  Well, that's utter bullshit. After the first attack, I had a few seconds to myself while the man calmly emptied my bank account. I didn't think about getting the fuck out of there, nor did I think 'I can take this guy'.  I froze.  I locked up.  Which, if you know anything about self-defense, is about the worst thing you can do.

Looking back, I guess I could say I was, was stunned. And not like 'in a state of shock'. I was taken utterly by surprised because I had discovered that I was not the person I thought I was.

Nobody thinks of themselves as a coward.  And most of us are lucky enough to never have that belief challenged.  But I was challenged that night and I had failed miserably.  I was actually worse than a coward because at least a coward has some sense of self-preservation.  So I sat there, on the dirty concrete, bleeding, and secretly hoping that the guy would come back and finish the job.

2. Everything changes. 
I did finally manage to find the clarity to pick myself up and get back on the subway. I cried when I passed the ticket taker.  I cried when I got home and called my parents and, later, my girlfriend.  I cried myself to sleep that night.  I never called the police because I thought, and still think to some extent, that I completely deserved what had happened.  Poor judgment aside, I thought people like me should not exist in a blissful state of self-delusion where they are allowed to believe they are strong or self-sufficient or courageous.

I didn’t spend my next three months in England looking over my shoulder. Alcohol has the useful and completely under-rated ability to cloud your senses and I saw fit to minimize my sobriety as much as possible.

Sadly, alcohol also gave us Chumbawamba so let's call it a draw.

I didn’t suspect everyone and everything or avoid unlit places at night.  I didn’t stay home, cowering under my blankets. If anything, I became more reckless.  I realized at my core, I was someone who wanted to die.  Who was so gutless, that’s probably what he deserved.

1. There is no getting over it.  
If this were a movie, you’d get to see me hit rock bottom only to find myself tested again.  Only this time, I’d react swiftly and decisively. I’d discover that a stronger, better person was inside me all along.  You’d see me heroically take down an attacker.  I’d emerge unscathed, maybe with a renowned purpose for bettering the world around me. And that cowering wretch I was would be forgotten forever.

Come and get one in the yarbles!

If this were a book, I’d have time to work through what happened.  I’d find meaning in it, maybe by bonding with someone else who’d gone through something similar.  Maybe I’d even risk myself to save a loved one.  I’d be a hero.  I’d find hope and beauty in a world that had lost all color.  I’d grow tulips out of thin air.

But this is neither of those. It’s not even a blog post by a very talented writer.  Instead what I did was refuse to talk about what happened.  I got drunk as much as possible until I had to move back home and start working and be an adult.  And then I got married and had kids, both of which have a funny way of defusing any self-destructive tendencies you might have.  Children are selfish that way—they need you in a way that makes it very hard to think about dying.

But that person I was hasn’t changed.  I know that. I’m more cautious now.  Much more protective of my kids than if I hadn’t been robbed and assaulted.  And silently, I hope every day I never have to be tested again.

4 Crappy Items We All Keep (that Must be Destroyed Today)

My basement currently resembles the warehouse at the end of Indiana Jones condensed into a much, much smaller space.  And instead of priceless artifacts stored away in neat, organized rows of identical containers, I have a mountain of crap randomly stacked in corners of the room that I'm sure will either eventually fall over and kill me or become sentient and take over the world.

Anyone remember where we parked the car?

Unless I do something about it first.  Unless we all do something about the enormous collection of junk we think is so valuable and precious that it must be stored away forever. Like this crap:


4. Tape cassettes, VHS Tapes, and DVD's
This one I can't even understand, but I'll be damned if I don't have two full cases of cassette tapes, a box of VHS videos, and two boxes of DVD's in my basement right now.  I don't even have a device capable of playing 2 out of the 3.  Do I really need a copy of Full Metal Jacket taped off commercial TV in 1994? Am I really going to listen to the Spin Doctors deep tracks (on warped cassette no less)? As for the DVD's, I can't remember the last time I thought 'I just have to see _____ again.' In the days before cable and on-demand, and Netflix, and RedBox, sure. There's nothing on TV, let's watch 'Dude Where's My Car?' again and finally polish off that bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 (Grape) I found under my carseat. But the choices these days are pretty much limitless and re-watching shitty movies just doesn't make sense.

Hello darkness, my old friend.

What to do with them instead: You can try and give the DVD's to Goodwill, but just recycle the other stuff. Seriously, it's trash now. You're storing trash. That doesn't make you sentimental or a collector. It makes you a hoarder.


3. Books
I'm terribly guilt of this, but I realized something the other day while looking at my bookcase. I'm never going to read any of the books on those shelves again. They are going to sit there forever, just gathering dust; sad reminders of the far more literate and culturally aware person I used to be, until I die. Those aren't books, they're trophies. Would I be less complete of a person if I gave away my entire collection of Lewis Carrol's collected works? Fuck no. Because 90% of the shit on my shelves can be downloaded for free. The rest can be had for peanuts on the digital reader of my choosing.

What to do with them instead: If you try to sell your old books, you're going to be horribly disappointed. With few exceptions (text books, genuinely rare volumes), you are going to get pennies on the dollar for what you paid for them. Even used bookstores will only take a portion of what you dump on their counter and Goodwill has been known to leave the boxes of the books sitting on the curb after the far more useful clothes and furniture have been carted away. My advice is to recycle whatever is left and get over the notion that every book must be preserved and cared for until the sun goes black.


2. Old Clothes
Parents are probably most guilty of this. It is a scientific fact that kids automatically grow approximately six inches every time you bring a new bag of clothes home [citation needed]. So I get the frustration at getting rid of something that's been worn once. But clothes,like food, have a shelf-life. If you're thinking of 'handing down' those parachute pants to a younger sibling, you're only setting him up for  a life of failure, ridicule, and writing bitter, angry blogs.

Likewise, it's also time to give up your collection of band tshirts from college. Do you honestly think there will ever be a time when it's not shameful to wear a Hootie and the Blowfish tshirt out in public again?

Of course, some things are just timeless.

What to do with them instead: Give those clothes to a charity or a women's shelter while they're still fashionable and can be used by someone who will truly appreciate it (and won't be scarred by them later).


1. 'Important' Papers

The only important paper you ever need.

"Hey dude, what grade did you get in Mrs. McRobie's home economics class in 7th grade?" asked no one, ever. So why do you have a complete run of old report cards dating back to kindergarten? Likewise, do you really need a series of love letters from that girl with the lazy eye that stopped abruptly after she finally had surgery? Those boxes and boxes you have of paper aren't fond mementos, they're tonnage of crap you're passing on to someone else to hoard after you're gone. Because throwing away a departed loved ones old composition notebook is next to impossible without a lot of Vodka, tears, and a possible exorcism. Spare them that burder now and dump that shit. The world will be better for it.

What to do with them instead: Go straight to the recycling, do not pass go, do not collect $100. And while you're burning your school papers, go ahead and toss in any receipt, tax form, etc. older than seven years. Not even the IRS wants that shit.

5 Halloween Candies for People Who Hate Children

Remember that guy who used to give out whole Snickers bars or jumbo bags of Skittles or dollar bills for Halloween?  That guy clearly loved children.  He loved seeing the joy on their sticky faces even as they changed costumes and rang his doorbell for the third time that night.  If Halloween had a Santa Claus, this guy would be it.  

Adorable.

This article isn't about that guy, though somebody should write one.  This article is about the house down the street.  The one with the lights off and the angry dog barking on the other side of the door.  The door your friend Paul insists you knock on because it's almost 9pm and there aren't any other houses left.  

This article is about the sad, angry man who answers the door in a stained pair of boxer shorts with the perpetual three-day stubble and eyes blurry with booze.  More importantly, this article is about the crap that guy hands out for Halloween every year.  

Don't be that guy. 

5. Cow Tails

Cow tails were first manufactured in 1984 by a very ambitious, misinformed candy maker who looked at a cow's ass and thought, 'You know who loves chewing on cow butt? Children.' . 

I'm convinced billions of this stuff were knocked off the factory line and 30 years later we're still trying to put a dent in the left-over stock. They are sticks of caramel around a 'creamy center'.  What is the cream you ask?  Don't open that door.  If you look into the abyss, the abyss will change you. 

This is the candy that survives until Halloween the following year, but only because you're afraid of throwing it out and raising the ire of the angry god who first created it.  This isn't a candy, it's an albatross.  If Coleridge were alive today, he might write poems about it.  He would definitely dip into his reserve opium stock just to get the taste out of his mouth.

One of these tastes like bovine bottom and the other is the rear end of a cow.

4. Candy Corn

Every time a child cries, the candy corn manufacturers produce another bag.

I have a new rule for candy makers--don't produce any sugar confectionary based on something that can be found on a farm.  Then we might have also avoided the inedible concoction that is candy corn.  

For some reason, this stuff is actually popular enough that it's produced in multiple flavors (indian, Christmas, and styrofoam).  This isn't candy.  It's wax without that sweet waxy taste we all know and love.  

3. Any Hard Candy

Would you eat what's in this woman's purse?

Especially butterscotch. It tastes like butter flavored sorrow.  

Hard candies are not for trick or treaters.  They're for visits with grandma when you need to get the taste of kasha out of your mouth.  They're for swallowing and choking on during long car trips when you find one tucked between the seat.  They're for post-dentist visits when there's literally no other candy around, but you still want to give a fuck you to the hygienist who told you to floss more. 

4. Good and Plenty

All the taste of cough medicine with the visual appeal of aspirin. 

I'm adding anything licorice flavored to my list of banned Halloween candy.  You know what else is licorice flavored? Jagermeister, or the perpetual answer to the question 'What were you drinking right before you threw up?'

2. Tootsie Rolls

It looks like something a Cow Tail might have shitted out. 

Caramel is the most abused candy ingredient.  Caramel apples-- delicious.  Caramel on ice cream--yes, please.  So why does it become a biohazard in the hands of candy manufacturers?  Seriously, Tootsie rolls are disgusting.  Stale tootsie rolls (and they're always stale), are indigestible.  And why do the wrappers always mysteriously open up in a Halloween bag?  This is a candy the creepy guy down the street could soak in arsenic and it would only improve the taste. 

1. Mary Janes

First manufactured in 1914, which is also the last time they changed the design on the wrapper.

Mary Janes are the Dorian Gray of the confectionary world--outwardly, they don't appear to have aged, but open them up and their true horror is revealed.  

Do you like molasses?  No, because you're not an 1880's gold miner.  But the makers are a century into insisting that molasses is as popular and delicious today as it was during the gold rush.

Instead give: Skittles, Snickers, Kit Kat, Gobstoppers, Almond Joy, Hershey Chocolate, etc.  Or even better, don't answer the damn door.  Your entire judgement is in question.