“you want what?” said the incredulous cashier over the phone. “what’s a calzone?” i should have known right then, but a calzone is so easy to describe, i barely wasted a breath before explaining. “ah, mangiatta,” the plant responded, his watery italian accent returning with unearned confidence, “we make-a the calzone for you just the way you like. that’s it though, right?”
any doubts i had about the restaurant’s integrity were confirmed when i walked in and all eleven employees working that wednesday night were glaring at me, staged in various positions of “what’s a matta you?” around the kitchen. it goes without saying that i was their only customer in the building or perhaps the zip code that evening, but the focus i was receiving while picking up my order cannot be overstated.
“here’s your order,” the cashier said without a trace of accent, unless “stoned surfer” counts as one. he didn’t bother to ask for my name or see a confirmation number, i was the singular customer for the evening. did i reflexively close a pop-up on their website that clearly stated their intentions to package and distribute illegal drugs? a “not a real restaurant” disclaimer?
i felt their eyes burning into me as i left and got into my car, e.g. the single car parked in the entire plaza. it was becoming more obvious to me by the minute. i shook it off, hurried home, and started tearing into my meal like an amish boy with a victoria’s secret catalogue. imagine my surprise when the calzone was actually incredible.
and imagine their surprise when i placed another to-go order the week after. i actually saw one of the “chefs” throw his hands up in the air when he saw me pull in. but at that point, i didn’t care. when you find something special, you hold on with all your strength, and by god, these drug mules didn’t know what sort of italian gold they had in their hands. fresh ingredients, bargain pricing, and a guaranteed parking spot outside the store? i don’t care what you’re doing in the back room, give me that lasagna. i’m working my way through their menu one item at a time. i figure eventually i’ll accidentally use a secret code word and get a glock held against my temple, but until then, i’ll be drowning in these garlic knots.
we can all stop pretending like we find basketball interesting, it’s OK. march madness? only if i’m being driven to madness by boredom and having to listen to my coworkers talk about the upset by Longwood State against Big Ol’ Texas or whatever these stupid separatists call their schools beyond the civilized boundaries of california.
but since it seems that basketball is here to stay, why not at least try to make it more interesting? today, i’ve compiled some suggestions for rule changes the NBA and NCAA can implement to amp up the entertainment value of their sport. idk if they’re called NCAA, but you know who i mean, the organization of adults who’ve dedicated their lives to making money off of the hopes and sweat of young college kids, whatever acronym they use. let’s move on.
#1. all basketball games will start with a score of 75-75.
“uhh, that’s exactly like starting at 0-0,” you manage to say after choking on your own saliva. no, it’s not. on average, 93% of basketball games are tied at some point in the 2nd half.1 starting the game tied at 75-75 simulates the “progress” and “entertainment” of the 1st half of basketball games without forcing the audience to sit through the mind-numbing back and forth shit that don’t matter. speaking of…
#2. teams will get an extra point awarded at the start of the game for every celebrity they have in the audience.
apparently this is a thing that people care about. basketball is known for being a celebrity-favorite pastime, and people love to talk about “who was at the laker game last night,” as if it had any bearing on the game’s excitement. so i thought, why not make it actually matter? if jack nickelson or cindy sweeney or whatever gen z kid from euphoria shows up to the game, the home team will be awarded one point for each before tip-off. fair? no, of course not. but if people continue to inexplicably care about celebrities liking sports, let’s at least make it count for something. plus, let’s not pretend that american pro sports leagues care about small market teams, OK? get your own celebrities, minnesota.
#3. basketball games will now be two minutes long.
don’t worry! the last two minutes of a basketball game usually take about 45 real life minutes. people will still feel satisfied that they got their money’s worth (especially when they see the final score of 82-81, wow what a close game! lucky jay z decided to bring p diddy tonight for that extra point!) the coaches are still well-equipped to manage the game clock with their 14 time outs apiece, and players can still foul to stop the clock to their heart’s content with pretty much zero consequences. if you tune in late, i promise that you will not miss anything. you could probably just turn on the game for the last 1.3 seconds and not miss anything important.
#4. there will be a sticker hidden on the court that is worth 50 points if a player finds it.
the sticker will be the size of a dime and only a little darker than the surface of the court. it will be placed by the referee before they game and before they let the teams and fans in so nobody can cheat. any player that sees the sticker must also be able to remove it with their nail—they can’t just point at the sticker, that would be stupid. the player who is able to remove the sticker and give it to the ref will earn their team 50 points and effectively end the game. who doesn’t love a coup de grace in a sporting event that can end the game in a matter of seconds? especially when players only would’ve used all that extra time to foul each other anyway.
#5. tied games will not go to overtime.
y’all can go home, just call it a wash.
1. i can’t believe you scrolled down here as if i use sources on this blog.
Oh, Death! Oh sweet, elusive sleep that teases the shadowy corners of my room, whispering honeyed, vacant promises into my failing ears like a young maiden in heat. Cursed that I cannot reach out to take her into my embrace, kissing her soft neck even as she reaches into my chest and stills my beating heart. For even now, the sun rises and fills the shadows of my room with unforgiving light, and I see through my morning haze that she is not here. Another day alive in this execrable world.
As I shuffle to the kitchen, pulling my slipping nighttime suspenders back over my shoulder, I must pass the Bad Room. I would shut and lock and hang chains upon the door to keep the Bad Room from sight, had I not removed the door years ago. For you see, the Bad Room is my greatest enemy and my only salvation. I am a prisoner for life in this penitentiary, and the Bad Room is the sole escape route, a dark tunnel protected by a thick wall of concrete with which I have only a spoon to scrape through. In there sits my typewriter and notes, my accolades, scripts, pens—anything to do with my damnable life as an author is collected there. And I must look upon it every day, for I either leave this prison one keystroke at a time, or in a body bag. I favor the latter.
Why, you ask? If you didn’t have to Google my name before reading this article, I’m sure you’re aware of my contributions to literature. Telling stories comes as natural to me as breathing, or leaking out a little bit of urine into my trousers after I thought I was finished my deed—it is simply what my body does unbidden. Or at least, it is what it did easily before the attention, the accolades, the… expectations. What a pernicious, cataclysmic word. As I turn on the coffee maker, I shudder at the thought of sifting through the morning’s dozens of #windsofwinter tweets. Depending on what is trending on Elon Musk’s digital sandbox filled with the excrement of stray cats known as Twitter, it might be in the hundreds. How did it come to this?
The walls of my prison encircled me slowly as I slept, imperceptibly closer and closer each day. I did not realize their presence until one day, I struggled mightily with thought and keyboard, only to tally a meager 300 words for my manuscript. This minuscule progress was promptly made obsolete by one of my many interns, gently reminding me that Dany’s eyes are purple, not blue. Then, like a mentally unstable TikTok star with a YouTube’s education of civil engineering digging tunnels under her yard, everything collapsed around me, locking my limbs into rigor mortis and suffocating my every breath.
Then, those insufferable imbeciles David Benioff and D.B. Weiss (a man most unworthy of the illustrious initialed moniker) took it upon themselves to turn decades of my writing and guidance into a pile of slowly drying dragon shit. How was I to know that the two men capable of bringing my vision to life on screen were so incapable of finding creativity that wasn’t spoon-fed by my books into their convulsing, drooling mouths? “Open wide David, here’s the dragon coming in for a landing! Nyoooom!”
And now the world has soured upon my beloved child, my life’s masterwork. Or worse, they’ve sided with me against Benioff and Weiss and crowned me their savior, waiting eagerly for my final two books to redeem the story and reclaim the narrative from that $90 million wank job Benioff and Weiss chafed out of HBO with their dry, flaky nerd hands. And the expectations mount. With every day the Winds of Winter stays in the Bad Room and is not delivered to my editor’s desk, the expectations creep and the walls of this prison rise slightly higher.
My beloved wife pours me my morning Wheaties and I stab at them with a letter opener, pretending they are the treacherous politicians of King’s Landing and hurling witty barbs at them as they succumb to my noble blade. She smiles at my morning ritual, happy to see that I have not entirely lost my love of murder and betrayal. But when the last Wheatie is defeated in this morning trial by combat, our smiles fade. We both feel the weight of the boulder I must now push up this hill of my own making.
I take a deep breath and step over the threshold of the Bad Room.
Three hours later, I have about 450 words written and a respectable 16 wins and nine losses on Chess.com. It’s been a good day.
the camera pans across a softball field as a game is in progress. the pitcher delivers a slow, underhand lob to a batter that isn’t even wearing a helmet, so low are the stakes. the batter makes solid contact and the ball sails lazily into shallow left field as she jogs for first. the camera continues to pan as she rounds for second, but the camera moves away from the play and turns its attention toward the dugout. there, we slowly zoom on a lone player who sits, stoic and placid, save for a rapidly jerking right leg that twitches up and down at an addicts’ pace. he is wearing a baseball cap, cleats, gym shorts—clearly dressed for the occasion, save for a bright pink shirt that reads, “titty bitch” across the chest in a tasteful sans-serif font.
*record scratch*
yup, that’s me. you’re probably wondering how i got here. well, in order to tell that story, i have to start at the beginning of the story.
it all started when my coworker kyle made the mistake that many have made in the past: assuming that, because i’m tall and skinny, that i have any athletic ability whatsoever. “hey man,” kyle said without a hint of tragic foreshadowing in his voice. “you should come play softball after work with us. it’s pretty low-key, we usually keep a few beers in the dugout for in between innings.”
“how serious are you guys?” i asked. “like, do you keep score?”
“of course we keep score, you bedlamite,” kyle spat into my face, his beady bostonian eyes narrowing beadingly.
“oh, ha ha,” i replied, reverberations of my little league 0.015 batting average screaming from the muffled void of my repressed memories. “cool cool, for sure for sure.”
i was 26, i was a gd man. surely i must have improved at baseball since little league. it’d be fine. and besides, it was slow-pitch. so, like an overly-winded monologuing shakespearean protagonist, i doth-ed my cleats and headed to the nearby baseball fields after work.
“hey,” cried out kyle upon my entry, stage right. “you made it! grab some pine, i’m writing up the batting order right now.”
as i squeezed past kyle into the dugout, i noticed a fold of pink fabric spilling out of his equipment bag. after i inquired about it, kyle put down his clipboard and pulled out a bright pink t-shirt. chekov’s titty bitch shirt. “oh this? we make players who strike out wear this until someone else strikes out too,” he explained, laughing. “but don’t worry. it’s slow-pitch softball—no one ever strikes out.”
“oh nice, ha ha,” i said. and from that split-second onward, it was inevitable.
now i won’t oversell kyle’s confidence in me by lying and saying i was batting clean-up, or even lead-off. but i was batting sixth, and let me be clear, that felt like a far cry from the 9th out of 9 that i always batted in little league. to say the pressure was on was an understatement. every hiss-click sound of a natty light being cracked in the dugout only punctuated the dread i was feeling as batter after batter on our team easily reached base.
suddenly, i was in the hole. top of the first, no outs, bases loaded—your typical slow-pitch softball scenario. then another single, a run on the board, and i’m on deck, high-fiving the scoring teammate with my damp, sweaty palms. “yugh,” said kyle, wiping his hand on his pants.
with an aluminum bonk, the batter in front of me punched a single into center right field off the first pitch. “fuck,” i shrieked internally. no outs, bases loaded. not only was i about to strike out in front of everyone, but i’d be the first out of the entire game. at this point in my life, i’d faked being ill to leave work, and i’d faked an orgasm to get out of some awful sex. how hard could it be to fake a heart attack?
“no,” i told myself. “this is slow-pitch fucking softball. you are not about to strike out.”
well at this point in the story it’s no shocking twist to reveal that i did, in fact, strike out. but not only did i strike out, i struck out looking because i missed the first two pitches by so much that i thought i should take a couple balls to get back into the count. it’s slow-pitch, everything’s a ball if you don’t swing…until it’s not, and the guy who invited you to play sucks in air through his teeth and politely asks you to leave the batter’s box.
and while you could say this is a story about hubris, about toxic masculinity’s aversion to the color pink, or about how it’s actually really hard to judge the placement of a ball when it’s thrown underhand, it’s ultimately about one man’s journey to enlightenment. for as i sat there, a titty bitch manifested, i realized…baseball’s for losers, anyway.
generally speaking, i do not consider myself a smart man. i’ve merely figured out ways to sound convincing enough through my years. it’s pretty easy actually; just memorize some ten-dollar words and phrases, look up when to properly use a semi-colon, and all of a sudden people will start asking you for your opinions on boring shit like contemporary art and international politics.
unfortunately, when faced with hollywood prosthetics and trickery, my facade of intelligence falls apart faster than that kid’s sand castle my drunk uncle mike pissed on.
it all started in high school with a box-office comedy smash, “Tropic Thunder”. picture if you will, me at 17: a 6′ 3″ acne-ridden caveboy who was insecure about everything save for the knowledge that shaggy, uncut hair was indeed a way to hide myself from the world. then put that walking tribute to anti-social disorder into a movie theater with four other teenage boys who may or may not have hated me (it’s high school, who can ever really be sure?)
so imagine my shame when the credits roll and i saw tom cruise’s name listed. “tom cruise?” i said, idiotically. “where was tom cruise in this movie?”
Pictured: Tom Cruise, apparently.
“he was the movie executive, you mouth-breathing inbred fucking shithead,” responded my best friends.
“oh, ha ha,” i replied, sweeping my hair in front of my eyes and disappearing into the crusty movie theater chair.
and thus my paralyzing fear of hollywood prosthetics and makeup was born. and sadly, to this day, i cannot tell the difference between a wig and someone’s real hair unless it is literally falling off. what might have been a one-time mistake was quickly confirmed as diagnosed blindness whereupon seeing “The Dark Knight,” i was unable to recognize heath ledger until about the two-hour mark. i was eagerly awaiting his arrival up to that point, having heard about his masterful performance beforehand.
since then, a number of actors have reignited the burning shame of my facial blindness: tilda swinton (pictured above) as lutz something-or-other in the 2018 “Suspiria” remake. more recently, mia goth as maxine and pearl in the 2022 slasher, “X”. and, most shamefully, adam sandler in the 2011 disasterpiece, “Jack and Jill”.
and thus, i am proposing a new bill for consideration by congress: the American Patriot’s Transparency in Film for Those With Facial Blindness Act.
this bill requires filmmakers to:
publicly disclose all actors and their roles no less than two months prior to the film/show release date.
add opening credits to their movie/episode disclosing all actors and their roles in a legible sans-serif font that takes up no less than 80% of the screen.
include an introductory scene no less than three minutes long of any actors wearing prosthetics being physically put into said makeup and practical effects by the hair and makeup department.
the American Patriot’s Transparency in Film for Those With Facial Blindness Act makes it a felony if filmmakers fail to meet the three generous requirements listed above. penalties include no less than two years in federal prison and peter receiving 25% residuals for the offending movie/TV series.
it’s really the least they can do for all i’ve been through.
FINE, i’ll be the one to say it: the letter J has overstayed its welcome. i’ve never liked it, and frankly i get a little irritated when i’m forced to type it.
i don’t like the way it looks with it’s stupid little hook hanging off an otherwise respectable T. i don’t like the way it sounds, either. so fucking whimsical and bourgeois. every time i’m around a coworker named “Josh” or “Jim” i can practically hear their names tittering at me like a french aristocrat.
“whoa peter,” you might be saying. “you can’t simply get rid of a letter. wouldn’t that really mess up the english language?” you ask. “also,” you add, quite impertinently, “this sounds like undiagnosed OCD.”
well guess what, enabler? you’re wrong because i’ve written every post on this blog for the last five years without using the letter J until today. feel free to read every post on this blog–i’ll wait here and count my ad revenue, you rube.
and let’s be real: there’s no word that starts with the letter J that can’t be replaced with a G anyway. gust give it a try and goin me on this gourney to a brighter tomorrow.
Christopher Nolan and Cillian Murphy’s shared filmography has been well documented and appreciated, but it seems like they may have taken it a step too far. According to Nolan’s son Magnus, he and his siblings went to watch one of their home movies and were shocked to see none other than Cillian Murphy being bathed by their father.
When the children confronted their father he said that their performance had been “stale the first go around” and “He just gets what I’m trying to do”. Needless less to say, the children were less than pleased.
“I can’t believe he would do this to us”, Said a dejected Flora Nolan. “I can’t help but question how my own father feels about me now. I’m gutted”, recounts a melancholic Rory Nolan. “Dude we saw his whole cock and balls in that video why did he record that he could have just kept the camera above his waist”, pointed out an understandably confused Oliver Nolan.
We reached out to Cillian Murphy for comment, but when he responded we couldn’t focus on what he was saying because he looked us directly in our eyes which made us seriously think about some pretty confusing feelings.
Early this morning, Warner Brothers held a press conference to announce Chris Pratt’s next role, and it might come to a surprise to you. Contrary to any objections you have, Chris Pratt will give the opening eulogy at your funeral. Now we know what you’re thinking, “I have never met this man in my life. There’s no way this is happening.” We raised these concerns to Warner Brothers, who had this to say: “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you want. You fucking idiot. He’s testing so well right now. You’ll see. It’s going to be the best performance he’s ever given. People hated Robert Oppenheimer too and now look at him.”
When we reached out to your mom for a comment, all she said was that you’re adopted and you never make your bed.
It’s hard to argue Pratt’s appeal. The Mario movie has the highest box office earnings of any film about an Italian man, and Arnold Schwarzenegger is his father-in-law. We also heard that he sits in chairs backwards but our correspondent we sent to confirm this converted to Christianity after taking one look at him in person.
As this is still a developing story, we will keep you updated as new information rolls out, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anything you can do about it. So you know… Make the most of your life for as long as possible because when your time is up a guy who Hollywood really wants you to like is gonna say some generic bullshit about how you’re in a better place and everyone else shouldn’t take things for granted. Also you can’t afford healthcare.
Mission Statement: “We strive to provide parents, partners, and grandmothers everywhere the opportunity to approximate the fit of clothing purchases upon the bodies of strangers with similar physical stature as their loved ones.”
Company Overview: About His Size is a shopping services provider that escorts customers through malls and various brick and mortar stores in order to “stand-in” as a body double for the customer’s loved one they are shopping for. How many times have you been browsing through the fishnet stockings section of Hot Topic trying to contain your visible arousal when a wrinkled walking prune of a grandmother approaches you with a Gwar t-shirt and says: “I’m shopping for my grandson, but I’m not sure if this will fit him. You’re About His Size, can you try this on?” And you oblige because you’re Neutral Good alignment, but you can’t help but feel like you just gave away a valuable service for free. This is where we come in. About His Size provides shoppers with body rentals (“Doubles”) that approximate the height, weight, and posture of the loved ones for whom they are shopping. (For a substantial additional fee, we will match the customer with a Double who kinda looks like their loved one too. This is useful for color matching clothing, trying out new styles, or simply being around someone vaguely familiar when you’re feeling like maybe early retirement was a mistake due to your crippling loneliness.) Our flexible rental plans allow customers to rent by the day or just the hour for smaller shopping excursions. Renting a Double addresses all the problems that may arise when shopping for:
Surprise birthday/anniversary/holiday gifts
Kids who prefer their mother’s house to your new “Bachelor Pad”
Children deployed to Iraq (Ask about our Memorial Day special pricing!)
Products & Services: Well, I feel like I kind of already explained this in the Company Overview. Google says to detail any equipment or materials needed to provide my goods and services here, so… Lots of hair dye for getting the Doubles as close to their person as possible. Maybe clip-on piercings or temporary tattoos if the customers really insist on accuracy. That might be it, tbh. It’s actually a pretty slim operation.
Market Analysis & Sales Plan: This is easily the longest thing I’ve ever had to write. How much more does the bank need to read to know this is a good investment? I’ll assume we’re already shaking hands at this point, but I’ll keep going just in case. Anyway: Market trends are incredibly optimistic for shopping malls and brick & mortar clothing stores! The study shows that shoppers are tired of the impersonal online shopping experience and same-day shipping and are craving the more hands-on approach of the ’90s. This means that, now more than ever, About His Size is poised to provide a service that not ONE single business currently fills! Imagine a market share all to yourself–no competitors, no consumer choice, no pressure to innovate. We could be the Disney of shopping services.
Operational Plan: While About His Size is literally a billion-dollar company in the making, CEO and Founder Peter (me) recognizes that even the mighty oak tree is born from a humble pinecone. Therefore, I will take a hands-on approach until the company starts turning a profit (estimated to be about a month, maybe six weeks depending on the strength of word-of-mouth marketing.) I will personally recruit boys of average build into my organization for rental by older clientele. To ensure efficiency, employee integrity, and customer satisfaction, I will shadow rented Doubles for the day with a Tippman ’98 Custom paintball rifle with attached scope and custom sniper barrel (see: “Funding Request”) and mark (“shoot”) employees who are not living up to the high standards of customer care that About His Size pledges. As profits increase and the customer base expands exponentially, I will recruit boys whose body types fall outside the average bell curve of BMI, height, etc. I will charge extra for these boys.
Funding Request: About His Size will require funding for the following:
Safety deposit & first 18 months rent on 900 sq. ft. brick & mortar HQ in Downtown Los Angeles
from the day i was hired, i’ve been waiting to quit my job. retail is its own distinct circle of hell, and while it can feel highly personalized based on your own insecurities, triggers, and weaknesses, it’s a pretty large floor of hell that welcomes in the damned and unskilled laborers alike through wide gates complemented by greeters on either side. and much like my own IRL retail store, the emergency exits are almost always blocked by people stacking their empty carts immediately outside the door with the massive “FIRE EXIT: DO NOT BLOCK” sign, so escape is rare and most employees inside the system have resigned themselves to their fates.
that’s why, when i finally graduated college and landed a job in my field, i expected the lesser demon in charge of my department to wail upon receiving news of my imminent departure from hell. i even texted the demon on his day off when i turned in my two weeks, hoping like all quitters do that my tormentor would text back immediately, “where r u? stay there i’m omw” and proceed to beg for forgiveness for all the times he changed my fucking schedule the night before and fucked over my plans with friends.
that made the “Did you find a new job? Congratulations!” text all the more unsatisfying. i should have known that these unholy creatures are prepared for every eventuality and show not their weaknesses to those in their custody. that’s OK, i’ve been extending my 15-minute breaks by five minutes since then to regain a sense of control. it doesn’t seem to be helping but i’m gonna keep at it.
now that i think about it, the entire ritual of turning in my two weeks was largely unsatisfying. my manager wasn’t there that day, nor was the micromanaging gremlin he inexplicably thought worthy of promotion to supervisor. in fact, none of my coworkers were even in the department (which did not help to alleviate my paranoid concern that my workplace ceases to exist when i’m not scheduled like some Truman Show deleted scene), so i wasn’t even granted the happiness of waving my two weeks notice to friends who would no doubt share in my triumph.
when i made it to the administrative office to turn in my two weeks to the major demon in charge of the store, Whitemalé the Privileged, he was in a fucking meeting so even that small W was taken from me. i should have known that the cruelty does not end until one is free entirely.
i’ve dreamed about quitting for so many years that i definitely elevated it to unattainable heights, much like a christian girl waiting for her wedding night to have her first, true love’s kiss (and subsequent penetration). and like this christian girl’s wedding night, my turn to achieve my dream turned out to be disappointment by way of crushing, mundane reality and an impossibly fast finish. and yes, like the christian girl, my disappointment is entirely my fault for imagining in the underdeveloped critical thinking part of my brain that it would be any different.
but hey, as of writing this i still have a week left before i’m completely done. maybe on my last day, i can deliver personalized, dramatic monologues to all these shifty assholes who’ve made my life hell for the last five years. they may not have cared when i turned in my two weeks, but they’ll definitely weep when i eviscerate them with my scathing critiques of their lack of work ethic and leadership.
pete n' tony's internet adventure 