They've heard 'em all

The other day I had a deep conversation with Meg about the state of the blogosphere, a conversation which made me question my very own motives for blogging. Am I really doing this to hone my writing skills in order to someday become a novelist? Or have I become the very thing I’ve always despised: an ego-blogger, one of those comment-obsessed types who consider their life a total complete failure if they see comments(0)?

This afternoon while sitting at the library waiting to meet up with my study group, I realized that the real reason I blog is because it makes me extremely good at shit shooting. Because I’ve already had practice putting my life stories down into words, I always have something impeccably funny or interesting to say. It’s great. I just reuse some of the one-liners I wrote up in my blog, and deliver an anecdote in the same way that I originally wrote it, and people walk away from the experience thinking I’m totally witty.

When you’re on a date and you’re worried about being entertaining enough, I say you should always come prepared to talk about your black penis.

The problem is, most people have already read my blog.

There were three of us this afternoon at the library — me, Diti, and Ryan — and we were waiting for two more. I can't stand sitting in silence, especially among friends, so I decided to spout for ten minutes about whether the Chicago Bears could break the NFL record for fewest points allowed in a season. But Ryan is a mellow indie boy who could care less about the trivialities of sports, and Diti just looked horribly bored, so I decided to change the subject.

“I had the most intense dream that my sister Lynn and I were fighting the devil inside a corn maze. The devil, as tall as a skyscraper—”

“Oh, I read that last night,” Diti interrupted. “Your sister ends up becoming the devil right?”

“Very Linda Blair of her,” Ryan said, mellowly.

“You bet,” I replied. “Hey! Did I ever tell you about the time my friend Roy and I found a fat, slimy slug, so we decided to bring it back to my apartment and kill it? I thought about chopping it into itty bitty pieces with my cleaver knife, but scraping the sticky slug off would have been an impossible task—”

“And then you killed it with Greek seasoning, I remember,” Diti said.

“That’s... right.”

Silence.

“You know what I hate about getting professional massages? This one time—”

“That’s the one where you ended up farting on your masseuse, isn’t it?” Ryan asked, mellowly.

I frowned. “Hey hey, did you guys know I had a black penis?”

“Yes” and “yeah” they both responded.

More agonizing silence.

“I’m blinder than Stevie Wonder with his eyes closed when I’m not wearing my contact lenses, so let’s just say that it wasn’t a good idea at all for me to—”

“You parked your car without your contacts on, yes we know, Pete.”

“I’m reminded of that one Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode where unexpectedly dolphins take over the world after Lisa frees its leader. This is all because lately I’ve noticed how suspiciously intelligent and successful the squirrels—”

“We know, Pete.”

Silence again.

“...Ding?”

“WE KNOW, PETE!”