Love Sentence
Love Sentence
Comedy Writing
Observations Like a Greasy Red Card
I don’t want to say I’m never watching the NBA again, because I know I will. But, after the officiating in The Finals this year, let’s just say I’m not watching professional basketball for the games anymore. I’m officially gonna start watching basketball like a guy who intensely watches a magician close up. I’m looking for the wires, the smoke and the mirrors.
The Snippets With the Shot
Me: Has there ever been a Hispanic in the NBA?<br />Tony: I mean, I’m sure there has.<br />Me: Tony, you’re like forty, right?<br />Tony: Something like that.<br />Me: And you’ve been watching basketball since..?<br />Tony: Since I started watching television.<br />Me: And in all that time, have you ever seen a Hispanic basketball player?<br />Tony: You know, Kobe’s wife is Mexican.<br />Me: What’s that got to do with anything?<br />Tony: Hey man, you’re the one who wanted the Latino-NBA connection. I’m just helping you reach.<br />Me: Thanks, man.<br /><br />Chris: So, you been watching the World Cup?<br />Me: No.<br />Chris: Not at all?<br />Me: I caught twenty minutes of it. We tied.<br />Chris: Yeah.<br />Me: I hate ties. It’s like, I’d rather see a bad ending than no ending.<br />Chris: Yeah well, you’re an American.<br /><br />Me: Has there ever been a Hispanic in the NBA?<br />Dave: Manu Ginobili’s Argentinean, I think.<br />Me: Are Argentineans Hispanic?<br />Dave: I don’t know.<br /><br />Jenny: Do you believe that everyone gets what they deserve?<br />Me: God, I hope not.<br />Jenny: What are you saying?<br />Me: I’m saying that so many people deserve so much that I would just hate to see the love of material possessions fall in the way of the beauty of our character.<br />Jenny: Wow, that was deep.<br />Rod: And he knows he probably deserves to go to hell.<br />Me: You cock-blocking bitch.<br /><br />Me: Has there ever been a Hispanic in the NBA?<br />Chris: I mean, I’m sure there has.<br />Me: How are you sure?<br />Chris: Okay, so I’m not sure. But I would think there would have to have been?<br />Me: Why?<br />Chris: Law of averages.<br />Me: I hate that law.<br /><br />Brian: How’d it go with Goody Goody Girl?<br />Me: She was buying my bullshit, but then public opinion intervened.<br />Brian: You should really try taking your act to places where people don’t know you.<br />Me: Thanks, Brian. Thanks for caring.
The Four Levels of Slut
Sluts can be rated on a number scale, but unlike hurricanes, you don't need a weatherman to tell which way she blows. (Hint: Up and down.)
Thirty Bucks Worth of Beer
“Tell me about yourself,” said the waitress. <br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Because you seem interesting. Everyone who comes in here just drones on and on about their new cars and real estate deals. No one in here ever talks about anything of substance.”<br /><br />“Like what?”<br /><br />“Like the meaning of life.”<br /><br />“Never notice when you win. Never care when you lose. And always smile.”<br /><br />“What’s that? The meaning of life?”<br /><br />“To me it is.”<br /><br />“Oh,” she said. “Let me get you another beer.”<br /><br />And she got me another beer. <br /><br />“How can you not notice when you win?”<br /><br />“It takes practice.”<br /><br />“How would I start to practice?”<br /><br />“What do you want right now, that you are having trouble attaining?”<br /><br />“Well,” she said. “I’d like to find a nice guy. One who’s smart, funny, attractive and real.”<br /><br />“Okay, now imagine you’ve found him.”<br /><br />She smiled. <br /><br />“Alright,” she said. “I’ve found him.”<br /><br />“Now imagine he dies a week after declaring his love for you.”<br /><br />“Oh no.”<br /><br />Her face curved into a frown. <br /><br />“Why would I want to do that?” she asked. “That’s like killing a dream.”<br /><br />“Exactly,” I said. “You see, for most people, life is a series of ups and downs. You can’t enjoy not having what you want, you can’t stop yourself from enjoying what you have, and then you can’t bare to lose what you have. It just goes on like that. Over and over again. You want it; you’re unhappy. You get it; you’re happy. You lose it; you’re unhappy again. And on and on.”<br /><br />“So?”<br /><br />“So, by eliminating the need for happiness, you eliminate the unhappiness as well. You are now free to always smile.”<br /><br />“Is this easy for you?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“Do you want another beer?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />She never said a word to me the rest of the night. She just kept the beers coming. But hey, at least she picked up my tab.
The City Bus Fuck Up
My friend Joe once hit the back of a moving bus with his old Chrysler Le Baron. The bus, like all city buses, had a sign on the back which, in big letters, offered the following piece of information: This Bus Stops at All Railroad Crossings.<br /><br />Joe was doing something other than watching the bus in front of him (I wasn’t there but I’ll bet whatever he was doing was marijuana related) and, as the bus slowed to stop for a railroad crossing, he slammed into the back of it, severely damaging his hood.<br /><br />The bus driver stopped the bus and exited it in time to find Joe driving away from the scene of the accident. The bus driver didn’t get Joe’s license number, but that was okay, because more than twenty people on the bus did manage to get it.<br /><br />That’s right, more than twenty witnesses saw my friend hit this bus and drive away.<br /><br />Before he died, Joe was fond of telling this story, which he would introduce with the words, “You know, the two dumbest things I ever did happened within thirty seconds of each other.”<br /><br />He was right.<br /><br />Hitting a bus that stopped at a railroad track was very stupid. Fleeing the scene of a witness clogged accident was also very stupid. Joe was usually a bright guy, but here… well, he just fucked up. I blame the weed.<br /><br />Anyway, one day we were drinking in the kind of shit hole little bar where the owners don’t mind eighteen year old kids with fake IDs sucking down beer (as long as they paid cash) and Joe started telling a couple of prostitutes this story. After he got to the part where he hit the bus on 22nd street, one of the prostitutes said, “That was you. Wow. Thanks so much.”<br /><br />“What?” responded Joe. “You’re thanking me.”<br /><br />“Yeah,” she said. “That was really cool. Thanks to you, all the people on that bus had a story to tell, and from then on, whenever we would sit together, if we recognized someone from that day, we’d all have something to talk about. The bus can be real creepy if you ain’t got no one to talk to.”<br /><br />“You’re welcome,” said Joe.<br /><br />Now, I was born on Christmas Day; I once burnt my house down and my mom ended up marrying the Battalion Chief who helped put it out, so I knew all about mixed blessings. And I just thought it was awesome that Joe’s infamous bus fuck up had finally become one.<br /><br />As we walked home that night I said to Joe, “You feel a lot better about hitting that bus, don’t you?”<br /><br />“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”<br /><br />And then, after a few steps in silence he added, “The minute I get a car again, I think I’ll have to hit me another bus.”<br /><br />In case you were looking for it, this story has no moral.
Don’t Piss in my Sandbox
Recently, I have been keeping track of where my money goes, and I learned something very frightening. I waste pretty much all of it.<br /><br />Now, I don’t make that great a living. I’m somewhere above the average teacher and below the average engineer, but I’m nowhere near broke or destitute. Or rather, that is, every month I end up pretty much broke, but it’s not from paying my bills. My rent, debts and utilities represent one third of my monthly income. I have no savings.<br /><br />That means that two-thirds of the money I make is spent on partying. I love taking trips to cities that I can’t afford, or buying drinks and meals that I can’t afford. I love strip clubs and bars, gambling and loose women. I love living, basically. And I guess that’s how I justify having a straight job instead of forcing myself into the guarantee of poverty that is being a professional freelance writer.<br /><br />You see, when you write for a living, and you don’t get to write about what you want (which is what writing for a living happens to entail most of the time), then you come to hate your job even more than someone who works in a field for which he or she has little to no passion. Writing, to me, is like playing. Sure, it would be great if I could get paid to play. But if you change the game on me, or worse yet, make me play an entirely different one, I shrug, think to myself, “fuck this” and go find a baseball game to umpire or a girl to pimp. Whatever makes me happy. So, trading in my hours for a handful of dimes just so I can live beats trading in my craft for a handful of nickels just so I can live. Essentially, what I’m saying here is, welcome to my sandbox. These are my toys, and you’re welcome to play with me, but never forget that this is my box. These are my toys. And that’s why I do what I do.<br /><br />Recently, I had a conversation with PIC writer, <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/writers/michael_curtiss.htm">Michael Curtiss</a>, a talented writer with absolutely no inclination towards the craft. He just recently found out that he could do this, and hopefully, he’ll be able to find his own sandbox, fill it with toys, and play just a little more often. When writing becomes work, well, fuck it. I mean, that’s not what this is about. Ask <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/dan/blog.htm">Dan Opp</a>, who recently quit writing a column because he felt that the weekly deadlines were taking the enjoyment of writing from him. When this starts to suck, well, there’s nothing worse. When it feels good, well, few of life’s emotions feel better. That’s why we do this. That’s the way writers think.<br /><br />Now, as I have mentioned many times, I am currently working on a book. And you know what? The damn thing just hasn’t gotten old. I’m still having fun constructing new and bigger sand creatures in the sandbox; and maybe the book will make me money and more than likely it won’t. But that’s not why we do this. We do this because, like drinking, fucking, gambling and fighting, it feels good. And, unlike our other vices, this doesn't cost a thing.<br /><br />I guess the best way to sum up what I mean is with a snippet from one of my old Creative Writing classes back in college.<br /><br /><strong>Celeste:</strong> Would you look over my story, Nathan? I mean, I don’t know if this major is for me. Could you just read this, and like, if you think it sucks, just tell me and I’ll switch to history or something.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Sure, Celeste. Just umm, let me have your phone number and after I finish reading this, we could set up a time to—<br /><strong>Jenny:</strong> Wait a minute. Celeste, you can just quit writing?<br /><strong>Celeste:</strong> Well, yeah, if I’m not any good at it, then why bother?<br /><strong>Jenny:</strong> Nate, can you quit?<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Writing?<br /><strong>Jenny:</strong> Yeah.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> No way, no how.<br /><strong>Jenny:</strong> Celeste, if you can quit, you probably should.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Jenny, you cock blocking bitch.<br /><strong>Jenny:</strong> Nate, you arrogant slut.<br /><br />Jenny knew what Celeste and I did not. Everyone knows how to read and write. Not everyone is a writer. That’s the difference between playing in a sandbox and building a sandbox. One is fun. The other is work.<br /><br />So, if anyone out there is entertaining thoughts of becoming a writer, to them I say: congratulations, by definition, you are not one.<br /><br />And I wish you the best of luck.
Snippets of Principle
Me: She cheated on me.<br />Kevin: With a man or a woman?<br />Me: A man. It’s not cheating if it’s with a woman.<br />Kevin: Ahh, well clearly I need a copy of this rule book.<br /><br />Kevin: Let me ask you a question.<br />Me: Alright.<br />Kevin: If I drank a bottle and a half of red wine and two beers and didn’t even get a slight buzz even though I haven’t had a drink in six weeks, do you think I have a problem?<br />Me: How much do you weigh again?<br />Kevin: I’m about six foot two, two sixty.<br />Me: Yeah. I’d definitely be concerned.<br />Kevin: Thanks, hoss.<br /><br />Me: I can’t believe she cheated on me.<br />Main: She cheated on her last boyfriend, didn’t she?<br />Me: Yeah.<br />Main: And she sucked you off in the bar, didn’t she?<br />Me: Yeah.<br />Main: So, what surprises you again?<br />Me: Fuck off.<br /><br />Jamie: I don’t think my parents want anything to do with me.<br />Me: Why not?<br />Jamie: They moved like a month ago, and they still haven’t told me where they live.<br />Me: That’s fucking hilarious.<br />Jamie: Whatever, Dick.<br /><br />Tiffany: That was great. Your girlfriend must be lucky.<br />Me: No girlfriend. She cheated on me.<br />Tiffany: She left you for another guy?<br />Me: No. She just cheated on me and I broke up with her.<br />Tiffany: Wow. I’m glad my man isn’t so strict.<br />Me: You have a boyfriend?<br />Tiffany: Fiancée, actually.<br />Me: Man, it’s good to be back.<br />Tiffany: What?<br />Me: Nothing.<br /><br />Tim: You looking at her ass?<br />Kevin: Yeah.<br />Tim: Wanna hit it, huh?<br />Kevin: Yeah. But I can't. You?<br />Tim: Boss, I would hit that ass so hard, whoever pulled me out would become the next King of England.<br />Kevin: That’s going to Nathan.<br />Tim: Who?<br />Kevin: Get to work.<br /><br />Becky: I’ve heard rumors that you beat women.<br />Me: Like, in a bad way?<br /><br />Me: Do I strike you as the kind of guy that hits women?<br />Becky: No, but you never know about the people in [The Smoky Pool Hall]. You have to make sure.<br />Me: Well, I’ve slept with a few of the women who work there. I can give you references if you like.<br />Becky: That’s okay. Thanks, though.<br /><br />Becky: I think that cheating is cheating, whether or not a girl cheats on you with a man or a woman.<br />Me: I disagree. When it’s girl on girl, the only cheating that’s going on is when they don’t film it for me.<br />Becky: You’re a real man of principle.
Alberto Suave
Well, Tropical Storm Alberto hit land today. My friend Larry, who lives near Alberto’s landing place, is most likely surfing because of this. Back in the day, if you really wanted to know if a hurricane was coming to Florida, you just went to a beach and counted the surfers. If there were more than ten, we had a hurricane. Between six to ten was a hurricane warning. And less than six was just another day. Now we have all kinds of technological advances so we can figure out at what precise moment, my friend Larry is surfing (at least I think that’s what we’re figuring out here—I never pay much attention to, well, anything, but I digress).<br /><br />Anyway, a tropical storm is just that: a storm. Look for the fun stuff to hit in July, August and September. Buy your plywood now. Seriously, I can get you great deals.<br /><br />Now, I love hurricane season because it gives me something to write about. Also, I had my first threesome as the result of 2004’s hurricane, Frances (scared chicks kick ass). But, most importantly, I love hurricane season because I wrote my first piece for Points in Case as a result of it. <a href="https://www.pointsincase.com/surviving_hurricanes.htm">Here it is if you’d like to read it.</a><br /><br />Court Sullivan actually added this part: “provided you aren't the asshole who took the last case of Bud Light from the University of South Florida Exxon during Charley.” I always thought that addition was funny because a) I hate Bud Light, b) there isn’t an Exxon anywhere near USF, and c) he added a cuss word. I had been waiting my whole life to find an editor that added cuss words. It was a a beautiful moment in the history of me, but yet again, I digress (which reminds me of a joke my buddy Main told me).<br /><br /><strong>Main:</strong> Nate, it’s a good thing writing ain’t like basketball.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> What?<br /><strong>Main:</strong> It’s a good thing writing ain’t like basketball or you’d be fucked.<br /><strong>Me:</strong> Why?<br /><strong>Main:</strong> ‘Cause you hardly ever make a point.<br /><br />My friends are dicks.<br /><br />Anyway, if you take anything away from this bumbling ramble, I hope it would be the following: Hurricanes can cause threesomes, kick start writing careers and make good waves for my buddy, Larry, who is probably surfing, right now.<br /><br />In the words of Dick Fletcher, esteemed weather geek, “Here we go again, Tampa Bay.”
Nothing Much Tonight
There will be no lies, tonight.<br />Tonight we offer<br />Absolutely nothing.<br />Tonight we offer truth<br />Like the soft stain on an over-washed beer glass.<br />Tonight we offer class<br />In a ratty T-shirt.<br /><br />I drink too much<br />And I know it.<br />But that will not stop anything.<br />From stopping us.<br /><br />Freedom takes on only one form,<br />Formed not from suggestion,<br />But from desperation.<br /><br />Remember that no good dream<br />Goes unfunded. <br /><br />Remember that no evil dream<br />Goes unfunded.<br /><br />There will be no truth, tonight.<br />Tonight we offer<br />Absolutely nothing.<br />Tonight we offer lies<br />Like the soft stain on an over-washed beer glass.<br />Tonight we offer crass<br />In a ratty T-shirt. <br /><br />Thanks for coming out.
Observations Like an Old Cop
<a href="http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/6818/columbo.gif"><img style="float:right;width:200px;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/Studio/6818/columbo.gif" border="0" /></a>The greatest part about having broken up with your girl is how easy it is to see which girls are interested in you.
The Nate DeGraaf
A true friend takes for granted the fact that you help him or her out. A true friend expects that help because a true friend would do the same for you. And, as a result, you usually don’t reward your friend's kindness, either. Such is life. <br /><br />When I was a junior in high school, I had quite the reputation. I also had a friend named Sean. Sean was a senior in high school, and as such, he was about three months away from graduating when his parents announced that they were moving his whole family to San Antonio. Sean elected to stay behind in St. Louis and crash on the floor of my bedroom (which was more of a basement apartment, really—had my own entrance to the house and everything). Sean was then, and still is, one of my best friends. He was as polite as he was funny, which was a winning combination, especially when I was trying to get laid and needed him to get the hell out of the house for a while. <br /><br />Well, one night, I had a fifteen year old girl over at my house. After we completed our amateur sex (it’s amazing how right Coach was: practice really does make perfect), we laid in bed and talked. I had not heard Sean open the door to the basement, nor had I heard him crack the door to my bedroom, so I did not know that Sean was sitting outside listening to every word. <br /><br />I don’t remember much of the conversation, except for the following part. The little, blond, freshman girl (whatever the hell her name was) actually said to me, “I can’t believe that I am lying in bed with The Nate DeGraaf.”<br /><br />To which I replied, “What the hell are you talking about? I’m just like everybody else.”<br /><br />To which she replied, “Huh, like, you’re only a living legend.”<br /><br />To which I replied, “It’s time to call your dad, little girl. Play time is over.”<br /><br />I don’t remember why it bothered me so much that she had placed me on that pedestal. But it did. Anyway, her dad came and picked her up shortly after Sean pretended to have just returned from White Castle (a burger place, for those that don’t know) and Sean and I got good and drunk. <br /><br />The next morning, Sean was driving me to school. He lit a cigarette, smiled the smile of a happy psychopath, looked over at me and licked his lips. <br /><br />“What the hell is wrong with you?” I asked. <br /><br />“Nothing,” he responded. “I just can’t believe that The Nate DeGraaf is letting me drive him to school. I mean, you’re a living legend.”<br /><br />“Fuck you.”<br /><br />So Sean, because he is who he is, basically went around that huge building and told the whole school the story of little What’s Her Name and her admiration of my reputation. He even went so far as to write, “I’m in love with The Nate DeGraaf” on the walls of every boy’s bathroom in the school. So basically, thanks to Sean, a statement that I found to be embarrassing in private, was now public. <br /><br />Whether I liked it or not, there was now a “the” in front of my name, and it was all the fault of Sean (nicknames: The Dope Pig, The Half Spic, and Gel Boy). And this, ladies and gentlemen, is how your true friends pay you back for your kindness.<br /><br />They embarrass the holy hell out of you.