The Daily Derenger

1/10/2003

I was in a bar last night and a sign read, "Watch for swinging doors." Man, what does that say about our society when even our doors can't be monogomous?

That's it for now. By the time you've read this, I'll be en route to the UP of MIchigan. The forecast up there calls for highs in the teens with a 50% chance of snow every day. I thought that things were going well in my comedy career and then I realized that I was playing nearly on the Canadian border in mid-January.

If you fail to hear from me again, I may be frozen in a ditch along I-75. OR a small eskimo family may have welcomed into their 'gloo and we could be ice fishing and playing Scrabble.

1/09/2003

I'm now somewhat envious of Chicago cab drivers. A while back I was on their case about expecting a tip for doing nothing but drive me somewhere. While I still feel that their job doesn't warrant much of a tip, I will say this: they know the city.

Think about it, you get in the cab and say "412 West Orleans" and they're off. Most of the drivers are Middle Easterners or African Bushmen with accents as thick as non-fat cottage cheese. They come to this foreign country, land in the third largest city with traffic congestion at almost all hours of the day, learn to drive in that congestion, and then take me, a Chicagoland native of 28 years, to where I need to go. Rather impressive. Or maybe it's because I could get lost in a Chicago phone booth, if such things still existed.

They may have their own scent which is something even Yankee Candles will stay away from. But they get me there on time. Wherever there happens to be.

1/08/2003

As I was visting the Costco the other day, a woman was walking out with a large box filled with the goods she just purchased. They don't use plastic or paper gorcery bags at Costco, just empty boxes from the products they sell. Since you can buy huge quantities of iced-t or laundry detergent, the boxes are equally huge.

This particular lady had such a box labeled on the side in bright green that read "Gas-X." If someone walking by her on the way out had never been to Costco, that person might think the lady was a bit gassy.

"Who in the hell needs that much gas medication? My God, the box is the size of a Great Dane's dog house. Well, maybe she just loves Mexican food but her colon doesn't," would be some thoughts.

After Costco, I went to my friend Jennifer's place. She has one of the coolest and smartest dogs ever - Rage, a Jack Russel Terrier. One time I was over at her old place and Rage took a liking to a laser pointer. He chased that son of a bitch all over the place and it was one of the most entertaining 15 minutes in recent memory.

This last time, I didn't have a point. However, I did have a Swiss Army Knife that has a red flashlight on it. Rembering Rage's obsession with the red light, I tried to make the flashlight worth his while.

Jennifer asked that I didn't do it.

"Please, Scott, don't! He'll be looking for that light for the next 3 weeks if you don't put it away now," she pleaded.

Although I tried to make it work, the light wasn't that of a laser pointer. Rage did notice the red bulb from the flashlight and that got him going. But it just wasn't the same. No entertainment to be had on this night.

****
Today, a friend lost her cat. We're not sure if she got outside or is just scared and hiding in the basement. I walked around her neighborhood looking for the cat. I saw this grey-bearded old man sitting on the ledge of an apartment building in an alley.

"Have you seen a cream colored Himalayan cat?," I asked.

"No, I haven't," replied the man. "What's its name?"

"Bailey," I said.

"Well if I find it, I'll let you know," he said.

I thanked him and continued on.

"How much does it cost," asked the man.

"What's with you homeless, bum-lookin' people these days," I chimed back with in a voice that had a tinge of anger. "Always about money. Can you spare some change? Hey man, got a dollar? I need a quarter to catch the bus. And now you want to know how much a lost cat is worth?"

"He's worth a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, now go find him!"

With that, the man went in search of the cat. And a bite to eat.

1/06/2003

I have a confession to make: I just watched the entire first episode of "Joe Millionaire." Well, almost the entire thing. But since the show is predicated on a huge lie, what's the difference between watching 45 minutes of it or 60?

The first part I saw was Evan learning how to pair wine with certain foods. How great is that? A guy who makes an annual salary under 20 grand trying to figure out if red or white goes with lobster. Excellent. I mean, come on now, he's a construction worker - the closest he's had to wine was Boone's Farm at 13 after playing spin the bottle in 8th grade. And the nearest he's come to lobster is passing a Red Lobster on his way to buy a pair of Dickey's from Wal-Mart.

Only in America would the couches across this land be packed with curious people who, for whatever reason, have still more tolerance and desire for reality TV.

So it was time to bring in the 20 ladies to choose from. Of course they had to be brought in two at a time. No way! Are you kidding me? It had gone from a TV show to a modern day Noah's Ark. And as soon as the ladies not selected began to cry, the flood waters would flow.

The commentary from some of the ladies en route to the chateau was quite comical.

"Oh my God, I really feel like a princess," said one girl, covering her mouth in utter amazement. She should've covered her ass a little more instead, as her jeans hung off her hips like an infant in the grasp of Michael Jackson.

"Ever since I was a little girl I've dreamt of being a princess." Wait a minute - no you didn't. Your nickname is Mojo. And you asked that it be put on the TV screen. Maybe you do belong in Europe, Mojo, but I'm afraid it's with Austin Powers.

So now it's time for the ditch-digger turned knight-in-shining-armor to make his first visit to the ladies. Without question he had to appear on a horse galloping from afar. Ridiculous. Poor Evan looked as uncomfortable on that horse as ... me if I wasn't allowed to use similes or metaphors.

The only reason I was able to detect his discomfort was because I was there some months ago. I went horseback riding for the first time and almost had the saddle made into a permanent part of my hind-quarters. Couldn't they have given the guy a motor cycle to ride in on or maybe a luxurious Rolls Royce? Sure, it wouldn't have been too French but neither is some guy considering Mojo for his princess and hesitant on revealing his fake middle name. Gimme' a break!

He made such a nice first impression - on me at least.

"How are you guys doing?," asked Evan of the ladies. LADIES! 20 of 'em. All hot and busting out of their shirts with long legs and luscious lips. And he addressed them as 'guys'? Well again, what would you expect from a construction guy. I'm a little shocked he didn't whistle, slap their asses and say, "If you're sellin', I'm buyin'." I guess that would work if he was Prince Charming of Local Union 405 however.

And I'm glad the skank with the tattoo thought she was in the running. How I would love for my princess to have a shark engraved in shoulder. Nothing says classy broad like some body art of Jaws.

I thought his final selections were a bit off. While some of the ladies chosen were gorgeous, some left behind were equally as gorgeous. Call me crazy, but did he pick the black and Oriental girl for some unknown quota? They weren't that good looking to be picked instead of a hot blonde. Now you throw Halle Berry or Kiana Tom in there and Evan gets all kinds of props.

Well, I can't promise if this is gonna be a weekly thing or not on ShaveYouHead.com. You'll just have to wait and see next week. I know it's no post-Monday Night Football report but it'll do for now.

1/06/2003

I visited my friends Monica and Jim last night. As we were in their kitchen, Jim asked if I wanted a beer.

"No thanks. I don't like to drink when I'm not at work," I said.

And I was dead honest. Being a comic is great 'cause I essentially get paid to drink and talk of my pathetic life. At some of the shows over the weekend, I was given shots while at work. I can't think of too many other jobs that allow this. Nor can I think of many jobs that permit their employees to sleep 'til the crack of 5p.m. It's way past my bedtime. Goodnight.