Ha ha ha! Comedy Eric Schneider, Comedian

They say that the sun shines on a dog’s ass every once in a while. I’m not exactly sure I know what that means, nor do I know who “they” are, but I’m pretty sure my ass just got exposed to some sunshine.

A few weeks ago I purchased a “gently used” M-Audio MobilePre Audio Interface off of eBay. It’s really not important to know what it is, but you can click on that link and check it out if you want. Feel free to buy it too… I’ll make some money if you do.

Anyway, I paid $75 dollars for it, and had to wait about 4 weeks for the jackhole to ship it to me. When it finally came in the mail, guess what? Exactly! It didn’t work. You’re very smart!

I emailed the seller and received the standard response: “It was working when I sent it to you. You probably forgot to plug it in, retard. Go F yourself.” (I’m paraphrasing).

So I went to M-Audio’s website to see if anyone else was experiencing the same issue. I thought perhaps I was forgetting one vital step to get it functioning properly. I found a post from someone who seemed to have the same problem, but there was no resolution. Feeling dejected, ripped off, and totally horse F’ed, I left a feeble comment at the end of the thread simply asking if anyone figured out a solution.

Well, within hours, a representative from M-Audio responded to my message letting me know he would send me a FedEx air bill in the mail so I could ship it back for a replacement. I told him I bought it used off of eBay, only paid $75 dollars for it, and I didn’t have the original receipt. He said not to worry about it, and two weeks later, I have a brand new, in the wrapper, M-Audio MobilePre!

That may have been the best non-face-to-face customer service experience I have ever had in my life. I have to specify non-face-to-face because I’ve been to a Mexican strip club, and they take customer service to a completely different level.

So, thank you Paul from M-Audio, and suck it Mr. Ebay Seller!

If you’re not familiar with lifehacker.com, I strongly recommend making it one of your daily blogs to follow. Essentially their articles follow the format: “Did you know you could do this to help you do that?”

“This” can range from a piece of computer software to a skateboard, duct tape, and a camera tripod. And “that” could be anything from organizing your appointments to making your own camera rig to photograph insects.

Anyway, today I found a post about how to handle a kitchen knife to reduce the chances of stabbing yourself of severing fingers. That post linked to the source article which went into more detail and also recommended a few kitchen knife brands. I did a double-take when I saw that one of the brands was called “F. Dick.”

Now, I’m sure if you’re knowledgeable about cutlery, you’ve heard of it before, but for the rest of us (well the rest of us with the mentality of a 12yr. old) it’s comedy gold!

I immediately Googled the brand to see how much their knives were. If they were reasonably priced, guess who was going to be the proud new owner of a genuine F. Dick knife?!?! Me, that’s who!!! What could possibly be more fun, or more juvenile than to show off my new F. Dick to all my friends?

Well, I’ll tell you what could be more fun, and more juvenile, and ridiculously more expensive…

Showing off my new 30lb F. Dick Manual Sausage Stuffer!!!

WHAT THE… WHO THE… WHAT THE HECK?!?!

Some things just make life worth living.

click to view larger image

Well the Super Bowl is over, the New Orleans Saints won, the devastation from Katrina can finally be put behind us, and the best part is I won’t have to hear about Fantasy Football for at least 7 months. Once again, the world seems balanced.

I didn’t get to watch the game as I was being a good little worker bee and finishing up a freelance web design project. I’m pretty excited, because it’s my very first legitimate client that’s paying me with money, not food. So, pat pat on the back for yours truly.

When I was done being a responsible grown-up, I popped over to hulu to see if there were any new shows in my queue. It was empty, but they did have all the Super Bowl ads posted. Although as a general rule I hate advertising, like many other Americans, I look forward to watching the Super Bowl ads. It’s the one time during the year where advertisers deviate a little from the norm and show off their creativity.

This year’s submissions were nothing to write home about, although I did like the Google ad and the CareerBuilder Casual Friday ad. What struck me as both strange and frustratingly annoying was the fact that the ads had ads. The page itself had the Coke logo on it, and before every other clip or so, I had to hear “The following clip is brought to you by Coca-Cola. Open happiness.”

I was planning on making this post a giant rant about advertising, but I just don’t have it in me tonight. I’m just mad because if you’re going to voluntarily subject yourself to 61 commercials, it should be without commercial interruption. Except for the commercials. You know what I mean!

By the way, part of the commercial marathon was a 13 minute short film called “Hotel Hell Vacation” with Chevy Chase and Beverly D’Angelo, resurrecting their roles as Clark and Ellen Griswold. They stay at a hotel, get a really small room, receive bad service, and then are charged lots of crazy fees when they check out. That’s about it. I’m not even sure exactly what it was supposed to be about, or if there was a sponsor somewhere in the film. All I know is it sucked huge sack.

The street I live on is commonly known for its prostitution activity. I have my own personal homeless guy security guard who sleeps near my car at night. I can’t go to the Circle K without someone begging me for money. On several occasions I’ve had to wait in my car for a drug deal to finish, and the participants to move out, before I could get get out and go to my apartment. The apartment complex itself is flanked by a used tire yard on one side and a vacant lot on the other. The area’s residents are predominantly those of a higher melanin content variety, and are described by Zillow.com as low-income and foreign-language-speaking urbanites; most with a high school education or lower.

Okay, I live in a shitty neighborhood. I get it. But does that mean all the grocery stores in the neighborhood have to be shitty too? Do the grungy, low-life inhabitants of our tiny little patch of Phoenix not deserve fresh produce, properly stocked shelves, or dry goods that have yet to expire? Must we be forced to first walk through cigarette-smoking store employees gathered out front before entering the store? Can a brother get a gallon of milk without dirty fingerprints all over the jug? And what the hell is that weird smell in Food City?

I’ve always wondered about the relationship between economic class and the quality of goods and services in their respective communities. Do you naturally get a substandard shopping experience in a low income neighborhood because the quality of the employees and managers isn’t up to par? Or do the people of a poor community just ruin everything no matter how nice you try to make it for them? Even if the latter were the case, that doesn’t explain why all the fruits and vegetables at my local Sprouts are consistently bruised, rotten, damaged, and discolored while the produce at the one in Paradise Valley looks like it could be used for print advertising. It’s seriously like night and day.

I think, at a corporate level, the stores set aside the B-grade products for the poor people. This may sound cynical, but I might go as far as to say that they transfer the “unpicked” produce nearing the end of its shelf life from the nicer stores to the crappy ones. Either way you look at it, in my mind, that’s discrimination! Why should my bell peppers be wrinkled and soft while others enjoy firm, unblemished ones? Why should my cilantro be limp and brown, while someone only 10 miles away gets to have lush green cilantro that snaps when you bend it? Why?!?! WHY?!?!?

Although in a way, it feels good to finally be part of an oppressed group, I believe this is an injustice that has gone ignored for way too long. I’m going to boycott!!! I’m going to plant my own fruits and vegetables in the vacant lot next to the homeless guy! I’m going to open my own Farmer’s Market! I’m going to use my own waste to fertilize my crops (and maybe to throw at my neighbors for disturbing me at night with their domestic violence!) And then we’re going to South Carolina and Oklahoma and Arizona and North Dakota and New Mexico, and we’re going to California and Texas and New York! And we’re going to South Dakota and Oregon and Washington and Michigan, and then we’re going to Washington, D.C., to take back the White House! Yeeeeeeeeeeah!!!

Who’s with me?!?!?

It’s been a little over a week since I’ve been without my cat. I’d be lying if I said I’ve been coping well, but I imagine it’s all a part of the grieving process. I never realized how much impact my cat had on my life; not just emotionally, but physically as well.

I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t have a cat anymore because I still unconsciously move around my apartment as if there were an invisible cat weaving between my feet. When I wake up, I look to see where she’s curled up so I don’t kick her when I swing my feet out of bed. I leave the bathroom door open just a tad so she doesn’t start meowing while I’m in the shower. I open cans of beans very quietly so she can’t hear (I think it’s mean to make her think I’m opening up tuna.) Every time I open a cabinet door, I expect her to run inside. When I leave the apartment, I open the door barely wide enough for me to fit though so she doesn’t sneak out. I look expectantly for her behind the door when I come home. I make sure not to throw my jacket on the bed so she doesn’t cover it with hair. When I first sit down at my desk I lean to one side to give her room to jump up on the chair. When I go to bed, I get into my sleeping position quickly because I only have about 5 seconds before she jumps up on the bed to find her spot.

Now, those five seconds pass, and then there’s nothing. It’s an incredibly lonely feeling.

I put my Kitty to sleep today. She had a terminal kidney infection and was in a lot of pain. She spent the last half hour of her life purring in my arms.

My cat was my best friend. I love her and I will miss her.

The first rule of grocery shopping:

You DO NOT talk about grocery shopping.

No, wait… wrong rules.

The first rule of grocery shopping is not to shop on an empty stomach. Everybody knows that, but it leads us to the age old question: where are you supposed to buy food when you’re hungry? Fast food? Try to convince yourself that you’re only going to get the salad and only use 1/4 of the dressing that comes with it? Tonight I took my chances at the grocery store.

My total shopping experience lasted about 2 hours. For the first hour and 57 minutes, my basket contained a bag of seedless grapes, a pack of 60 watt light bulbs, two squishy stress balls, and a new paperback off the best sellers rack. Don’t get me wrong, I touched everything in the store: different cheeses, meats, breads, pastries, cakes, fruits, veggies, pre-made sandwiches and salads, and chocolates (Halloween is coming up and they widened the sweets aisle to the size of a 4 lane freeway).

Grapes were the only edible item to make the cut. I was feeling pretty confident and proud of myself that I didn’t succumb to temptation, but grapes weren’t enough to get me through the night. I decided to pick up a bag of sunflower seeds as well. Wasn’t sure how they’d go with the grapes, but it was the best “not so bad for you” snack I could think of.

With the seeds in the basket, I made my way towards the checkout line, down the snack aisle, and past the Doritos display. I passed it three times already. The first time, I took note of the display’s football theme: two football players running into each other with the word “COLLISIONS” sprawled in high-impact lettering across the top. Football season started up again this weekend, so of course, the consumers need to see an image of two football players colliding, because how are we supposed to know what to snack on during a football game if there isn’t a picture of a football player on the display???

I’m not going to pretend that I’m not swayed by marketing. Believe me, I’ve wasted more than my share of money purchasing products simply because they looked cool or yummy on TV. I just hate the fact that I do. It makes me feel so used.

Anyhow, the second time I passed the Doritos display, I realized “Collisions” wasn’t just describing the actions of the football players, it was, in fact, the name of Doritos’ NEW product, touting, not one, but two flavors of Doritos in the same bag. Oooooh… the FLAVORS were “colliding”!!!! Get it? Get it???

Well, woopdie scoobity doo!!! How ingenious to mix two flavors of Doritos in one bag!

Honestly, who gives a crap, and how stupid must they think we are with their slogan: “With two BOLD flavors in one bag, YOU control the ultimate Doritos flavor combination.”

Wait. What?!? Are you serious?!?! Hold on just a second. You’re not saying what I think you’re saying are you?!?

I control it??? I control the flavor combination???

Holy crap!!! WOW!!! I’m finally in control of my Doritos!!!! Before, I felt so OUT OF CONTROL; like the Doritos were controlling ME!!! In the past, if I ever felt like having two flavors of Doritos, I’d have to buy two bags! But not anymore! Oh no… not anymore!

So the third and final time I passed the display, I gave it one last disapproving glare, and that’s when it hit me. Twice before, I merely looked at the display. All of a sudden, I was actually SEEING it for the very first time. My eyes widened, my lips parted, and the words “No way!” fell out of my mouth and landed right on my shoes. What i was looking at, was NOT, what I had assumed would be, a bag of Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos mixed together, but in fact, was a bag of Doritos Brand Hot Wings & Blue Cheese Collisions Tortilla Chips!!!

All of a sudden I was in control of the ultimate Doritos flavor combination!!!

The bag was open before I even left the store.

OMG!!! Did someone order chicken wings? What??? What do you mean I’m not eating real chicken wings?!? Doritos??? Come on!!! Well then how do you explain the blue cheese dressing that I… what??? Doritos too?!? How is this possible??? Waitress!!!

I sat in my car with the engine idling for 20 minutes, widening the hole in the ozone layer, and basking in the flavors of my new favorite snack. Looks like it’s grapes and sunflower seeds for dinner tomorrow.

I started this blog a little while ago, then my cat sat on my keyboard (which has a “back” browser button) and erased everything I typed. Does anyone want a fat, too affectionate cat before I make kitty burgers out of her?

Anyway as I was saying…

I’m one of those people who never gets sick. However, once every year or two, the “never” turns into “hardly ever” and today is my day to pay the piper. I stayed home from work on account of a sore throat, runny nose, heavy eyes, and some pretty gross congestion. What a perfect opportunity to catch up on a little blogging.

The only real blog worthy event of these past few months was probably my recent trip to NY for Thanksgiving. Every time I go back, I kick myself in the ass for leaving in the first place. The good news is I got to spend some quality time with my family.

The flight over was very turbulent and I had to sit next to some guy who played with his penis for 5 hours. Like, he didn’t just adjust himself repeatedly, he literally rolled his penis between his fingers through his pants the whole flight. Maybe I should feel lucky he didn’t ejaculate. Either way, I was happy to get off the plane. I ran into a two hour weather delay in Baltimore. Surprisingly, however, the flight from Baltimore to NY was much smoother even though I was in one of those propeller type planes.

My family planned to have the traditional Thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday instead of Thursday. So when I arrived at my dad’s house, I was treated to a great meal, highlighted by Grandma Blanche’s stuffed cabbage. I’d been fiending for some stuffed cabbage for about 2 years now. Just writing about it makes me want some more. So good!

Thursday night, we went to Caffe on the Green for the official Thanksgiving Dinner. In attendance was yours truly, my two brothers, Justin and Jordan, Justin’s girlfriend Michelle, Dad, Helene, Blanche, Uncle Steven, Cousins Andy and Phillip, Steve’s girlfriend, Grandma Blanche, and Dad’s gay friend Jeffrey. Jeffrey recently emerged from the closet, but considering he looks and acts just like Christopher Lowell and has the voice of Harvey Firestein, I’m sure no one was all that surprised.

Dinner was very nice (I had the fish), however Helene prepared a banquets worth of pre-dinner snacks right before we left for the restaurant, so I could barely finish dessert. I did give it my best shot. The evening’s notable moment came when Helene (my step-mom) was having a discussion with my brother Justin about what he wanted to do with his life. She told him that whatever his thing was, whatever he wanted to pursue, it should make him happy, and she wanted him to be happy too.

What made this a classic moment was, by some comedic force of nature, the entire restaurant seemed to go quiet right after Helene finished her sentence. So what everyone there recalls was a sudden silence, followed by Justin’s response, which was “What if my “thing” is just hanging out and having anal sex with Michelle all day?” Because just seconds earlier, the restaurant was bustling and exceedingly noisy, Justin practically screamed his remark across the quiet room. The entire place spun around and stared at our table with horrified looks of shock and disgust. The reaction at our table was mixed. Jordan and I thought it was hilarious. Grandma, not so much.

Friday I spent most of the day helping my Dad and Helene tag merchandise for an estate sale they were running. Although it’s kind of creepy rummaging through dead people’s belongings, it’s also fun trying to piece together what kind of lives they lived. After a long day of work, we capped off the evening with some amazing Korean food.

By the way, my father happens to be famous at every restaurant in New York, so if you’re ever there, just say you know David Schneider, and they’ll give you a free glass of water. Seriously though, my dad and his wife are like local celebrities. When we go out to eat, everyone knows who they are, and they get free food. It’s incredible really. One Italian place we went has a dish on the menu called “The David and Helene”.

Saturday was more Estate Sale stuff, and we also went to the Mercedes dealership to test drive a few cars (unfortunately not for me). Jordan joined us for dinner at some sushi restaurant where my dad embarrassed me by letting the waitress know I was single. The funny thing was, before we got there, my dad informed me that she was single as well, but once she saw me, she miraculously had a boyfriend. When my dad introduced me, she said, “OH Meesta David… dis yaw numba won son? Oh.. I’m too old faw heem. Prus I would haf to reeve my boyfriend fust. Ha ha ha ha!”

Saturday night, I went into the city with my brother Jordan to celebrate his friend’s 21st birthday. After drinking 40’s on the LIRR like a bunch of thugs, we went to some Romanian club where all the women were smoking hot and all the guys they were with were… well… Romanian. They all wore tight American jeans with pointy shoes and were very… um… interesting dancers. We had our own interesting dancer in our group so we were able to take on all dance challenges and emerge victorious. I was even able to simulate Romanian dancing to the point where I was mistaken for one of the brotherhood. One guy in particular put his arm around me and spouted off several Romanian phrases to which I responded “Noooo!” I figured “no” in English is the same as “no” in Romanian. It seemed to work because he just laughed and walked away.

We had a late night snack at a Cuban sandwich shop (deee-lish!!! by the way), and then decided to go to a strip club to look at boobs. Unfortunately we ended up with the only cab driver in Manhattan who didn’t know where any strip clubs were other than the most expensive one in the city, Scores. It cost $30 just to get in the door and we all chipped in to get Mark, the birthday boy, a special on-stage dance in his boxers. We were promised a bottle of champagne as part of the package, but we were totally horse fucked on that deal. The worst part was when the DJ announced Mark’s name to go on stage, he introduced him as the “21 year old virgin”. Ironically, Mark happened to really still be a virgin, and thought we told the DJ to say that. Needless to say, he was terribly hurt and pissed off. I yelled at the club manager, but got no restitution. We didn’t stick around too long after that.

By the time everyone was back in their beds, it was after 6am and the sun was clocking in for another day. I spent most of Sunday watching TV and recovering from pretending to still be in my 20’s. Grandma Flo showed up in the afternoon with Aunt Marilyn. Grandma just turned 81. Happy Birthday Grandma!!!

Monday, I flew back to Arizona without incident, and the gentleman I sat next to kept his hands off his penis the entire time.

When we last left our lovable, yet unlucky hero, I was being “evicted” from my apartment. I have since left that crazy situation and found a nice little place only a mile and a half from the last one. Although the commute is not as convenient as it used to be, I don’t have to worry about drug addicts and well… drug addicts. I think that’s enough to worry about.

I’m now shacked up with two new roommates, Seth and Hector; both of whom are 110% gayer than gay. I guess that makes them 420% gay. Seth, however, claims that he’s not really gay because he has no interest in fashion nor interior design, he just sleeps with men.

Being the only heterosexual person in our house, I have acquired a renewed sense of masculinity. I started exercising again, and I was successful in luring two ladies back to my bedroom (not at the same time). Now I’m not going to go as far as saying I fulfilled their every sexual desire, but let’s just say, one of them, I haven’t seen since, and the other is now moving to a different state and doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. They don’t call me Mr. Lova-lova for nothing.

Both jobs are still going well. Tonight was the annual talent show at the retirement community. It was a full half hour of non-stop singing, poetry, and dancing. A grand time was had by all! I really love those old folks.

As I watched them sing and dance tonight, I thought how sad it is that many of them may not be around for next year’s talent show. That’s probably the only downside to this job. You never know who will be there the next day and who won’t. So I do my best to do as much as I can for them while they’re here.

That’s about all that’s going on right now. I keep saying I’m going to write on a more consistent basis but you know how that goes.

Hope everyone is doing well.

Schneider… out!

Good morning, childrens! Today we’re going to learn about the letter “F”.

“F” is for FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Ok I’m done. So here’s the update:

I called the landlord, Harold, on Tuesday and introduced myself.

“Hi I’m Eric Schneider, I live at your property in Scottsdale. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard my name before?”

“No.”

“Well then we have a little problem.”

I told him the whole story about how the crazy ass bitch rented out both rooms of his condo, using a fake name, pretending to be the owner, and now she’s living on the couch, has no job, and she’s selling his furniture for extra cash.

Well good ole’ Harold almost had a heart attack. He really liked the part about the furniture.

“WHAT?!?! THAT’S MY FURNITURE!!! YOU CAN’T SELL IT!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE?!?!”

“I’m sorry, Harold… it’s gone. Sold, paid for, picked up, and gone.”

I thought he was going to cry. Harold confirmed that Jools was supposed to be renting the place while his sister was away, but he hadn’t received a single penny of rent in over two months. The funny thing is Jools has been charging me $550 and Rob $450 per month, and guess what? Her rent to Harold is $800. She’s been pocketing all the money and using it to buy $50 meals every night and cocaine! I was actually relieved to find this out because there’s no way this story would be complete without a fucking drug addict. Did I forget to tell you she hasn’t paid the utilities either?

During my conversation with Harold, I told him, “Harold, I can only imagine what might be going through your head right now. However, I want you to know I am willing to do whatever I can to help you out. If you need me to make a statement to the police, or whatever, just let me know. In fact, if you want to have someone take over the lease on your condo; someone responsible, with a job, and references, I wouldn’t mind staying. Whatever you need.”

And what do I get for my efforts? What do I get for doing this fuck the favor of informing him of the scandalous shit going down here? What do I get for saving him from further financial loss and having to spend time and money finding a new tenant? A giant, straight on, full force kick to the fucking ball sack. Well, that and he also threatened to call the cops and change the locks, and informed me I’d be receiving an  eviction order. That’s odd, my birthday isn’t for another 11 days, but one should never underestimate the generosity of your fellow man.

So I have to move out of here as soon as possible; preferably before that nut job, Jools gets back from Lake Havasu.

Before I moved in here, my father warned me to make sure these roommates were alright, and I told him “Yeah yeah… I know. They’re fine.” Needless to say, I didn’t take his advice. What fun would that have been?

Excuse me, can you pass me the cyanide?