Saw a UFO

“You know what you should do?”

By Pixel at December 17, 2005 at 5:11 pm. Filed in a pixelated mind, pixelated gaming, slice of life

Once, I was the boy everyone asked for advice. Girls would call me and ask me for help with their boyfriends, guys would talk about the girls in their lives. The works. I realized I had a problem when my 13-year-old cousin said that I should have a radio call-in show.

Naturally, most radio stations rejected me.

That’s another thing: humor. Half the things I do in my life, I do because of humor. I’m willing to subject most everyone I know to humiliation and gross inconvenience in the name of humor.

Usually nobody laughs at my humor, but since when has the audience been important to comedy?

Also, I’m an economist. I never do two things when one will do. I go out of my way to accommodate other people just so that two people don’t end up doing the same thing needlessly.

For instance, I could have said that last sentence in two paragraphs, but decided not to because I’m an economist. Also, I was lazy.

Advice + humor + economy = bad advice = hilarity.

It was a short leap for me to realize that my powers of advice can be used for evil.

So now, when people have dilemmas, sometimes I give fantastic advice (just because it’s too great to keep to myself), but just as often, I give terrible advice.

The kind of advice that ruins relationships.
The game, then, is to give advice that will, if followed, produce the most awkward and objectively hilarious situation possible. The goal is to keep a straight face while giving it and give it interchangeably with regular, good advice.
My mate Frank’s ex-girlfriend’s birthday is today. Last night we went for a midnight trip to buy her birthday presents (he went, I accompanied… because I’m an economist). His idea was to buy lots of little things so as to make it seem like a big present while still spending a relatively small amount of money.

He wanted to buy chocolates served in a box the shape of a star (this girl has a thing for stars), and a piggy bank with baby blue stars all over it.

I convinced him to buy her chocolates in the shape of a star, markers (we couldn’t find anything more phallic or appropriate), a hippo bank with baby blue dots all over it, and– in my crowning achievement of bad advice for the night– some lingerie served in a Hello Kitty bag.

Before I get any letters of complaint: Frank has a girlfriend of two years who would not find this very funny at all. His ex-girlfriend (whose birthday it is today) also has a boyfriend who would also not find this funny. The last time I played one of my little ‘games’ with these three people, one of them ended up crying and Frank had to be there for two girls who could not know about each other. Those letters of complaint can be made out to Aeger at aeger.wtf@gmail.com. Be sure to include lots of swear words in the title and some pornographic images of goatse in attachments.

(by the way, this is my 529th post. Isn’t that grand?)


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The Gift of Love

By Pixel at December 17, 2005 at 5:07 am. Filed in a pixelated mind, advocacy, seriously now, slice of life

I’m at Barnes & Noble and I see a book on Philosophy that I know my mate Frank would love. I just know it. I grab it off the shelf and proceed to the cash register… only to stop half-way because I realize it’s December and he might take it to be an X-Mas gift. Any other time of the year, he’d have an extra book on his shelf, but now, because it’s X-Mas and we agreed not to get each other anything, his bookshelf is as lonesome as a gay cowboy’s wife.

X-Mas.

Bah humbug.

I love love. I love people. I love red, green, and white. I love trees. I love jolly, old fat men who break into children’s houses every year. I love presents.

I hate X-Mas.

It’s the presents, actually. It bothers me that people expect presents. It never used to bother me, but somewhere along the line (I’m thinking December 25th 2003) when I saw my little cousins ask when they could open their gifts, it occured to me: they didn’t deserve a damn thing.

Not an iota of a present. Nothing. They were bad children and deserved a lump of coal and a seasonal beating the likes of which Oliver Twist would recoil in terror from.

But they expected presents. They expected presents. We all expect presents. And we’re expected to give them. Well, bah humbug! to you, sir.

A present is special because it shows that someone thought of you and that they care about you. A present that is expected is not a present, so much as a concealed gift.

It’s a fraction of a shadow of an imitation of what a present should be.

I want my presents to mean something. I don’t want them to be semi-annual expressions of feelings that I may or may not have.

It is why I refuse to participate in this holiday. From this day forth, I shall only get gifts for people I care about and only when I think about them.

Also, I won’t wrap them.

Because I’m terrible at wrapping stuff and, frankly, it’s just embarrassing.


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