Miss USA Makes Us Proud to Not Care About Miss USA

Everyone knows I don’t like to get political on my blog, mostly because I don’t know how to get political. But I couldn’t help but make three incisive politicalsy inferences from (Miss USA) Rachel Smith’s fall last night during the evening gown portion of the Miss Universe competition:

1. Like this is really what we need right now. Miss USA falling on her butt? Could the metaphor BE any more pronounced? She may as well have slipped on a Big Mac and started an unwinnable war while she was down there.

2. She wasn’t that pretty.

3. More people probably uploaded this clip to YouTube than actually watched the broadcast or cared, in the least, about the Miss Universe Pageant. I’m not saying this is a bad thing (beauty pageants are nothing more than long, drawn out eating disorders anyway), but when did we stop caring about winning and start caring only about laughing at people? It makes me sad for the internet.

Bonus observation! All that being said, if you’re going to fall on your ass on national television, that’s the way to do it. With the music in the background, it almost looked like a dance move. In fact, if it had been a Disney movie, every other contestant would have fallen down the same way like an impromptu choreographed dance number just to make her feel better. Instead, that fall could have led directly to Miss Japan’s victory. Like sushi, revenge is a dish best served cold.

Q&A Friday!

Q: “What better way to celebrate Memorial Day weekend than with a great Q&A post?”

A: “Having a barbecue, drinking, going to the beach, taking in a ball game, the movies, staying a bed and breakfast, enjoying the company of friends, visiting a museum, and not reading blogs.”

Have a great, long, memory filled weekend.

If a married woman gets invited to a orgy party by a male friend, would she be viewed as a slut, or damned cool? And does motherhood status, religious practice/faith, age come into play with any part of the answer?

There are many questions to factor in here: Were you invited with a guest? Do you have a gift for them? Did they bring a gift to your last orgy? These are all pertinent things to ask.

However, I think that, like all questions of “slut” vs. “cool,” this comes down to how attractive the woman is. If you are hot, you are cool; if you are tore up from the floor up, you are a slut. (I don’t make the rules, I just propagate them.)

Also, moms, Christians and old people should all be relegated to niche porn status in regards to threesomes. While I acknowledge that these things do happen in real life the south, I simply can’t get behind an old, married church-going woman taking part in a threesome. (But that may just be because I prefer being the meat in the sandwich and not the bread.) The proper thing to do is to check the “I [ ] will [X] will not be attending your orgy” box and instead send a small present (perhaps this) as a show of thanks for the invitation.
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Do I have a responsibility to sabotage the education (i.e. graduation) of a teaching-student who says "... for instance, on the way here I did 100 in a 60 zone so I could get to class on time. Like, it's illegal but it's not wrong...” Should this kind of person really be in charge of children?

Ever yours, Pedestrian.

Responsibility is a tricky thing. For example, if I hit a homeless man with my car, some people may say I was responsible for his death. But it wouldn’t have happened if he was at home and not rummaging through that garbage can on the sidewalk. So it’s a gray area.

Likewise, it’s hard to judge who should or should not be in charge of children. I mean, most them are lost causes anyway. Besides, the teaching-student brings up a good point with their argument. One could easily apply their logic to my example above:

“I hit a homeless man with my car. It’s illegal, but it’s not wrong.”

In fact, this could be revolutionary. The philosophical differences between man made laws and moral judgments have never been so clearly delineated. I refuse to follow your rules. I will follow my rules. I think in essence this is what Camus was going for in The Stranger, only it is clearly more developed here. Forget about this person graduating, get them into a think tank!
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Dear Dan,

I met up with a neighborhood business owner / acquaintance last night for happy hour. After deciding where to go we sat down and ordered a drink and some food. While waiting for our appetizers to arrive she mentions to me that she only has $20 and may need to get more money. Just as she finished saying this the waiter walks up and so I ask him if the Coronas (this is what she ordered) are on happy hour he says "no, they aren't" and then I ask him how much they are and he says "$4.75". As he walks away I look at back her and she is obviously distressed. She looks at me with her mouth open and says "I am so embarrassed, I can't believe you just asked how much things cost. I am a business owner in the area and I don't want people thinking that I care about the price of things!" I look at her stunned because I can't understand how asking the price of something would be a problem or reflect negatively on the person asking it. I convey my thoughts to her and she replies "we are not at McDonalds!" and she continues "I worked in nice restaurants for years and I would be offended if someone asked me the price of a beer!" Stilled stunned I mention that I have also worked in restaurants in the past and that I wouldn't have had a problems with this. I apologize but also reply "we will have to agree to disagree because I don't think that I did anything inappropriate" and then I add "I guess this is our first and last drink together." After an awkward silence we managed to finish our apps and drinks and part with a "see ya".

Now to my question: Is this woman crazy or am I?

Signed,
This woman owns a business across the street from me; Denver, CO

If you didn’t read that whole thing, don’t worry. I didn’t either. I just skipped to the part that started, “Now to my question . . .” But after sitting here for 20 minutes trying to deduce which one was crazy, that woman or the person who submitted the question, I realized that maybe I needed a little more information. It’s like I was saying before about responsibility. “If a homeless man–“ (I like using homeless men for my examples because their importance doesn’t overshadow the importance of my writing) “If a homeless man gets fed up with not having a home and breaks into a normal person’s home and steals their internet and submits a question to me, do I have a responsibility to read the whole thing and answer it?” And I think I do, because there is a reason they are called homeless people. Even if they don’t look, act or think like us, they are still, biologically speaking, “people.”

Anyway, the important thing here is that I’ve downed two iced coffees so far this morning and I couldn’t stop writing right now even if I wanted to. And to summarize the question above: “Is it uncouth to inquire as to the price of an item at a restaurant if there is no price listed on the menu?” I say no, it isn’t uncouth. I say that if you are going to charge me $8.50 for a side of guacamole, I have the right to make you say it out loud, to make you hear the absurdity of your own voice when you try to tell me with a straight face that half an avocado and some lime juice requires an 800% mark-up. Where I would draw the couth line is at, upon hearing the price, standing up from your seat, throwing your napkin down and proclaiming, “That is an outrage! I’m an American and I will not be raped in your restaurant in the presence of (sweeping arm gesture) all these people.”

Besides, judging by the fact that she is a business owner and you are willing to never have drinks with her again over such a small argument, I assume this woman is not attractive and you have no desire to sleep with her. Unless you are one of those people who “makes friends,” follow this rule of thumb: In arguments, the other, ugly person is always wrong. If, on the other hand, they are attractive and you want to sleep with them, then they are still wrong, but you tell them you are right, and in the back of your mind you think they are wrong. Then, years later, when you finally can’t take it anymore, you tell them that they are wrong and you get a divorce.

(Think you’ve got what it takes to have a questions? Email me at redactedblog@gmail.com)

Wednesday's Liberal Use of the Word "Cool"

SPOILER ALERT!: “24” BLOWS UP

Perhaps the best thing I can say about “24” right now is that I know for a fact I only wasted one day of my life on it.

Obviously, watching the show requires a suspension of disbelief. (Jack BROKE HIS RIBS a few weeks ago, which is really only a few hours ago. I’ve never broken any ribs, but I have to assume, from what I understand of the word “break,” that not only is it quite painful, but that it takes more than a few hours to heal. I can’t think of anything that heals in a few hours. I’ve had hurt feelings that last longer than a few hours.) I’ve always been willing to partake in the suspension as long as it was for a good cause. It was like a handshake deal: You kill people in brutally innovative ways and yell entertaining catchphrases all over the place and in exchange I let it slide that from the time you got off the cargo plane from China until the time when you were leaping off an exploding oceanic oil tower, you hadn’t eaten anything. I mean, I’m sure they didn’t feed you on the plane, and that’s what, like a 15 hour flight? So that’s 40 hours without eating? Do you have any idea how many calories you burn fighting terrorists?

Anyway, my point is that when I was done crying and calling my mom to tell her I loved her after the final touching scene, I got to thinking: this isn’t right. It’s too wild, too contrived and too unbelievable. Moreover, the format is too creative to ruin with another season of terror-who? and kidnap-what? So I came up with a few ideas for what they could do next season to improve the show.

1. Jack on a farm.

Jack moves out to a farm in Middle America to escape his haunting past. We see him riding a horse, herding cattle, feeding chickens and living a simple life. He falls in love with the cashier from the local soda shop. The morning after they first make love, she goes to work. A gang of country street thugs robs her store and kill her. Jack exacts his revenge by killing the whole crew, eventually slaying their leader with a hay baler.

2. Jack in Mexico.

Jack is a drunk in Mexico. He keeps to himself during the days, but at nights, when it hurts the most, he drinks tequilla and gets kicked out of bars for starting fights. One night after getting thrown into the street, a young girl helps him to his feet. She offers him the last drops of a bottle of tequila discarded on the road. Pained that this is what it has come to, he refuses and vows to get sober. Suddenly, a Mexican gang of organ harvesters steal the girl and sell her organs on the black market. Jack vows revenge . . . and gets it. With a side of guacamole.

3. Jack living in a casino.

Jack takes a job as head of security at a small casino off the strip. The owner, a father-figure who takes Jack under his wing, has refused to sell his historic establishment to a greedy real estate mogul who wants to demolish it and build a hotel. Fed up with the old man’s resistance, the real estate mogul sends a crew of thugs to kill the old man. Jack must defend the casino and its owner against the invasion, all while battling a crippling gambling addiction.

4. Jack as a bodyguard.

Jack hires himself out as a bodyguard to celebrities. He never gets personal – until he is hired by Victoria Devonshire, the highest profile movie star in Hollywood to protect her against her powerful though deranged husband, whom she is divorcing. He falls for her, and when she is kidnapped he’ll stop at nothing to get her back. The final episode takes place in an abandoned film studio, where someone is shot while blinded by a projector.

5. Jack as a traveling salesman.

Jack tries “normal” life. He travels around the world selling software. In London, he inadvertently witnesses a brutal execution by a powerful IRA leader. Now Jack is on the run in a foreign country, with no one to trust except himself and no way to call for help because his wireless provider refuses to give him the unlock code for his phone . . . and a sales quota to meet.

60 Minutes in Heaven

(click picture for video)

Rat 1: “Where were you?”

Rat 2: “The guy in the white coat took me to the other cage for some tests.”

Rat 1: “Are you alright? You don’t look so good?”

Rat 2: “I feel a little weird.”

Rat 1: “Here, have some water.”

Rat 2: “Ew, that water? It’s been sitting out for days. And the woodchips over there are all soggy and gross.”

Rat 1: “What are you talking about, we always drink that water.”

Rat 2: “This place is a mess, you know that?”

Rat 1: “A mess? It’s looks the same as it always does.”

Rat 2: “So what do you want to do tonight?”

Rat 1: “I don’t know, run on the wheel. Sleep. The usual.”

Rat 2: “That wheel is so boring. Let’s do something fun.”

Rat 1: “Like what?”

Rat 2: “Let’s dance!”

Rat 1: “We’re rats. We don’t dance. We eat and we sleep.”

Rat 2: “Oh my God, do we have any ice cream? Not like I should eat it; I’m such a fatty.”

Rat 1: “You’re acting really–“

Rat 2: “Do you think there’s any of that MDMA left? From those tests a few weeks ago? That sounds delish.”

Rat 1: “I think you need to go take a nap. They gave you something strong this time.”

Rat 2: “OK, I’ll take a nap. But only if you take one with me.”

Rat 1: “This is ridiculous. I’m going on the wheel.”

Rat 2: “I’ll miss you.”

USEFUL REVIEWS: My mom takes the dog to a holistic veternarian because it was complaining of an upset stomach and Western veterinarians were no help.

Mom: “He was very Chinese. He gave us a long list of herbal supplements for the dog, but I can’t pronounce any of them except ‘tangerine’.”

Autopsy Reveals Jerry Falwall Was Gay

Cause of death: Irony!

Levels of Douchebagness, From Least to Greatest

Level One: The guys holding the blue velvet ropes.*

Level Two: The guy in the middle of the blue velvet rope rectangle.

Level Three: The marketing director for EOS airlines, who decided it would be an innovative, eye-catching campaign feature to send out a bunch of douchebags to march around overcrowded streets forming a large, velvet-roped rectangle around one particular douchebag to suggest how roomy their planes are.

I don’t have a picture of him, but I assume he looks like this:

Bonus Level: This guy, who may be the first black douchebag ever.

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* Before I recently purchased one, I used to think camera phones were lame. Just like I thought Clap Your Hands Say Yeah was overrated until I started listening to them and that girl in my British Literature: 1650-1870 class was ugly until I got drunk one night and made out with her at the bar. It’s not that my opinions are shallow and entirely self-centered, it’s just that there are so many things in this world that you have to form an opinion on and I have found that not liking something is an easier default than liking something. That way there is less responsibility to explain yourself. You have to have reasons for liking something, but you can always not like something because “It’s stupid.”

Blogging: A Fairytale

So Dan’s been neglecting you. He doesn’t write anymore. And now, he’s even having me write posts for him. In some ways, he’s closed off all lines of communication – sometimes not even allowing you, the reader, to comment. And you wonder: Why? Is it me? Am I fat? Does Dan hate fat chicks? No, you are not fat. I mean, you might be. But not everything’s about you. This is about Dan. And the fact that he’s a whore.

What do you mean? Dan’s sleeping around? I thought he was in love with a brilliant girl with beautiful hair? That is true. My hair is, in fact, both bouncy and shiny. But, alas, it’s not the point. Dan is not slutting it up in the conventional sense; rather…

Dan started this blog simply for the joy of writing. And much like a teen experiments with her newfound body (allowing the varsity football player to cop a feel in the hopes that he’ll leave a nice comment…on her locker), Dan, too, gave it up. For free. His only desire: to be loved.

Then just like the teen became popular (after she grew into her body, started drinking to cope with her low self esteem, and gave it up to some guy on the lacrosse team -- lame! -- just because he said she was pretty), Dan, too, became popular.

Then one day, he thought, People really seem to like what I’m writing. I wonder if I could get paid for it? And he could get paid (very little. He’s a cheap whore.)

Now Dan’s been working hard, putting out for money. So when it’s time to relax, and do it for fun, he’s just not in the mood.

And so, unfortunately, Dan has left his readers to get themselves off. But he feels bad for neglecting them. So he sent his girlfriend to do his dirty work. Which means, in the end, he’s more of a pimp. A very sexy pimp.

Vacation In Review: Our Second Vacation, To The Poconos, As Through The Eyes Of Puppy And Trouble

Puppy and Trouble fight over who gets to drive.

Trouble wins.

Dissatisfied with the arrangement, Puppy decides to ride his trusty steed.

Once in the mountains, Puppy contemplates life.

The End.

As told by Brooke.

(Ed. Note: I’m not sure if this makes us good parents that we dote so much over a dog, or bad parents that we are this obsessed with a dog, or not really parents at all because it’s a dog. But I do know that my future children had better be really really cute, otherwise all their childhood memories will all be in reference to a dog. As in, “Oh, see that picture? That’s when we went to the Grand Canyon. I was off to the right of the dog. I think we had fun that day.”)

A Vacation in Review: Lessons Learned

Every relationship has certain important “firsts.” The first date, the first kiss, the first fart. There are different schools of thought, some suggesting you space out these firsts and some suggesting it is better to just get them all out of the way at once. (Such as the story Brooke’s father told us about his first date with her stepmother, where, while driving, he accidentally cough/farted. He wasn’t sure whether she had only heard the cough or if she heard the fart as well. It led to much speculation about whether she liked him despite the fart or whether she liked him because she hadn’t heard the fart. Of course, she had – the moral of the story being, foremost, take care when coughing on the first date, but more importantly if you really want an accurate barometer of a relationship’s potential, isn’t overcoming a fart on the first date maxing out the scale?)

Two weeks ago, Brooke and I had one of the most profound firsts of our relationship^1. – our first vacation together. The first vacation is monumental, even more so than the first time you spend the night together. Because when you spend one night together, everyone still has their guard up. You’ve worn your best underwear. You sneak out of bed in the morning to fix your hair. You can hold in that poop until you leave. It’s more like an elongated date than a glimpse into each other’s personal lives. But when you’re with the other person for every moment, days in a row, in an unfamiliar land where the only person you can talk to is them^2., and inevitably you will have to make some kind of noise in the bathroom, this is when things get serious. Inevitably you will catch her putting on perfume and think, “So that’s how she does it!” Vacations are the great magic killers.^3. You learn a lot about a person, and you expose a good amount of yourself in the process.

For example, Brooke had always mentioned how she didn’t like to fly. “That’s pretty common,” I thought. “Lots of people don’t like to fly.” Then, the closer we got to the airport the more nervous she got. It was like taking a puppy to the veterinarian, where they are excited to pack a bag and go in the car, but then when you pull up at the office the dog suddenly starts freaking out. Luckily, Brooke had the foresight to get a prescription for Xanax to calm her on the plane. However, being so riled up just at the prospect of being in the terminal and watching the jumbo death traps rolling around outside, she took her Xanax well before we even boarded the plane. She washed it down with a drink at the bar and ate a large plate of quesadillas, which I only mention because it is something else I “learned” – while some people get so nervous that they lose their appetite, Brooke’s appetite seems wholly unaffected by any outside influence, impending death or otherwise.

As we boarded the plane, Brooke seemed happy. Once in her seat, that happiness quickly turned into drowsiness. Before the plane even finished loading, she was fast asleep on my shoulder.

Unfortunately, the runway was crowded that afternoon. So crowded that, unbeknownst to Brooke, our plane spent a good amount of time taxiing. With the utmost precision of timing to render the medication completely useless, Brooke woke up forty minutes later, literally just as the plane was about to take off. It was like waking up from the best part of a dream to find a ghost actually in your bedroom. As the plane rocked and shoved upward, Brooke grabbed my hand. After one particularly heavy jolt she informed me rather loudly that, “We’re all going to die,” which not surprisingly caught the attention of a little girl sitting across the aisle from us. I looked over and smiled and shook my head like, “No, we’re not going to die,” which didn’t seem to comfort her. In fact, I may as well have told her that Santa Clause didn’t exist, because heck, what’s a pile of presents magically appearing under your Christmas tree when face to face with your own mortality?

When all was said and done, the plane landed safely, and though we had lost a friend in that girl, we had gained a new level of intimacy. For a short time, I even had an upper hand in the “overexposure” category. Right up until our first day at the beach when I “forgot about my legs” while putting on sun block, leading to a scene wherein Brooke entered the bathroom to find me with a towel wrapped around my waist and my foot up on the toilet seat while I rubbed a thick layer of aloe lotion onto my leg. Touché.

Me: 1
Brook: 1
That girl’s future psychiatrist: 3

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^1. If you thought I was going to say we had sex for the first time, Hi, my name is Dan. We haven’t met.

Not to say that sex isn’t a special first, and totally worth holding out for (a little), but it’s no where near as important as the first vacation. For one thing, you’re probably drunk. Even with an appreciable dedication it’s extremely difficult to stay drunk for five straight days. Plus, if you’re doing it right, sex is fun. It’s like going to the carnival with someone for the first time, only with less clothes and more self-consciousness.

^2. I’ve always wondered if it is the height of a sophisticated relationship or the mark of a ruined relationship when couples make friends with other couples on vacation. In admitting that you need more than the other person to keep you busy for a week, are you building character through honestly addressing your shortcomings as a team? Or are you screwed because if you can’t even go one week on the beach, try going one year in a partially renovated house with a toddler who doesn’t seem to be getting any cuter and in-laws who always remark about the “unique odor” of your living room whenever they come over?

^3. This is why vacations are centered around distraction. Where to eat, what show to see, what museum to go to. Or, in the alternative, if you decide to have a “relaxing” vacation, it involves the beach. Because if you are going to catch a glimpse of someone clipping their toenails, they may as well be in a bathing suit for the rest of the day.

Surprise Q&A Friday!

I know it’s been a while. This is why I am not allowed to adopt children from other countries, because eventually I get busy with other things and then all of a sudden it’s like, “Hey, where’s Che-choo?” but I plan on getting back into the swing of things on Monday, where you will read about such exciting things as my two vacations (ONE WAS TO PENNSYLVANIA IF THAT SORT OF THING EXCITES YOU), my mom’s holistic veterinarian and my new cell phone. It’s a Razr. Maybe you’ve heard of it.

Until then, I figured I’d do a quick Q&A just to help some people out. Because answers are the cornerstones to all good questions, and it takes a village to build a community.

I want to further my marketability for my future career (whatever it may be) and to better myself. I want to learn another language. Should I learn Japanese or Spanish?

Mozzy

There’s almost no way I can answer this question without offending some race. It’s a tough position to be in, because I’m not a racist person. But if I say you should learn Japanese everyone will think I hate tacos and gardeners, but if I say learn Spanish everyone will think I hate anime and bad drivers.

Both have good food. Spain has better wine, but Japan has sake. Japan has better TV shows (like this), but my cable provider offers like 50 Spanish channels, and there always seems to be dancing on one of them, which is big right now. Japanese is the language of business, but Spanish is the language of burrito, which I am eating as I type this, so I may be prejudiced. Very tough call.

My verdict? If you are trying to sell yourself, go with Japanese. Something tells me they’ll buy anything.
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Do you think by eliminating the use of toilet paper we can save the polar bears?

This questions is, of course, in reference to this New York Times article, which may have been topical at some point but now is just wholly outdated. That’s what happens when you don’t update your blog often enough. Polar bears die.

The article is titled “The Year Without Toilet Paper.” I read some of it, and it is just slightly more gross than engrossing. Here is a link to it, although remember that the NYT requires registration (which is free, but laborious and smacking of Big Brother-esque WE KNOW WHAT YOUR MEDIAN HOUSEHOLD INCOME IS). So here is the pertinent part of the article, reprinted illegally but for the sake of the polar bears:

“Colin Beavan, 43, a writer of historical nonfiction, and Michelle Conlin, 39, a senior writer at Business Week, are four months into a yearlong lifestyle experiment they call No Impact. Its rules are evolving, as Mr. Beavan will tell you, but to date include eating only food (organically) grown within a 250-mile radius of Manhattan; (mostly) no shopping for anything except said food; producing no trash (except compost, see above); using no paper; and, most intriguingly, using no carbon-fueled transportation.

Toothpaste is baking soda (a box makes trash, to be sure, but of a better quality than a metal tube), but Ms. Conlin is still wearing the lipstick she gets from a friend who works at Lancôme, as well as moisturizers from Fresh and Kiehl’s. When the bottles, tubes and jars are empty, Mr. Beavan has promised her homemade, rules-appropriate substitutes. (Nothing is a substitute for toilet paper, by the way; think of bowls of water and lots of air drying.)”

I have a few problems with this:

1. They are both writers. Writers denouncing paper. That’s like a farmer denouncing cows. Or a stripper denouncing low self-esteem. You’ll publish a book or a weekly magazine, but you won’t wipe your ass with it?

2. YOU WON’T WIPE YOUR ASS? If you think a bowl of water and air drying will help at all, take some steak sauce and spill it on your countertop. Then pour some water on it and let it air dry. If you’ve done everything correctly, what you will have is a bigger mess, covering more surface area than before. Seriously, you can’t find anything to wipe with? I would use the Kiehl’s bottle for Christ’s sake, something, anything.

3. I love polar bears, but I also love TiVo. And Chinese take out. And wiping my ass. Like if there was nothing else available, I would wipe my ass with a polar bear. And this is what they are talking about when they refer to “the natural order.” And nature is not to be tinkered with.
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Hi Dan! Just wondering why you got rid of the comments section?

To receive cheerful emails like this, of course!

Actually, it was an experiment I was running. I was told that if I gave up blog comments I would save the polar bears. Turns out that’s not entirely true. That’s the last time I take advice from special interest groups.
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I don't have a good question. But here's a situation. What would you do?

My friend, who works for an HMO, fields phone calls all day long from impoverished Tennesseans who are being cut off from TennCare because our state has gone broke. (yes. I said "gone broke") Many of these people are senior citizens who have recently lost a loved one, have no one else to talk to, are on numerous medications that they are no longer receiving, and are usually (excuse me if this is inconsiderate or even borderline prejudiced) less than educated. Let's call them the type that local news stations like to interview after there's been a tornado through a trailer park.

According to HIPPA laws, my friend is not allowed to place the medication orders for these people herself. She must somehow communicate to those suffering from dementia that they need to call another number to get their meds. She is also not allowed to hang up on them. They like to talk. I could go on, but I'm sure you have imagination enough to assume the worst.

Here's the question. If put in such a situation, what might you say to help these poor old folks get their medication, get off the phone, and not call back again in a day. Or in, like, an hour.

Imaginative answers are your forte, so I'm expecting you to bring it..

-Miriam

I sympathize with your friend.

While I didn’t actually read the whole email, I will now prove that all problems can be solved simply by applying The Zach Morris Method.

Step 1. Make a prank phone call. Be sure to use a fake, older sounding voice. Furrowing your brow while you speak will help. Also, stammer a lot as though you haven’t rehearsed your lines. This is how older, fake adults talk.

Step 2. Dress up in a costume. Often, a simple mustache and a change of clothes will do. if you do not look appropriately deceptive, dress up one of your friends. better yet, everyone dress up. Costumes are key!

Step 3. Convince everyone around you that someone else said something about them behind their back. You will know you have done this correctly if the person says, “She said that, did she?” with their voice trailing up at the end. This is known as “playing people against one another” and is the cornerstone of all good plans.

If all of this fails to help your friend, give the elderly people my blog address. Tell them they can find the answers to all their questions right here, on Q&A Friday!

(Think you’ve got what it takes to have a questions? Email me at redactedblog@gmail.com)