Sunday, August 18, 2013

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY APARTMENT COMPLEX

My fellow neighbors and lessees of [name redacted],


The time has come for a change. For far too long now, this apartment complex has committed heinous crimes against us, and possibly all of humanity itself. This list of atrocities includes a failure to maintain facilities properly, a lack of communication about the appropriate length of time to keep Christmas lights stapled to your porch, and overall general cleanliness.

But today, dear citizens of this burg, there exists a greater cause for concern: the goddamn parking gate.

Surely my brothers and sisters of village enjoy the freshly-pickled fruits of a gated community. It helps keep solicitors, unwanted pizza deliverymen-and-women, and the riff-raff from outside bodied politic firmly behind a three-inch steel gate. And for that I am thankful.

Renters of this land are aware of the safety the gate provides. It is not unlike a warm blanket of protection; be it from savage thieves or guys just trying to carpool with their girlfriends. Lest we forget there is also most-certainly a level of wild animal/vermin-protection as well.

What say, then, if this magical safety device was to be harmed? Let's say a driver hypothetically... "rammed it" with their car? Leaving the scene with the gate in a state of unrepairability, by said driver.

This anonymous driver may have been listening to Metallica's Enter Sandman and might have thought or assumed the gate was already ajar before speeding to exit the complex, as the driver might have been late to work and knew that traffic would be heavy (remember, this is all hypothetical).

Should it then be the duty of this person to have to relinquish the funds necessary to pay the costly repairs of restoring the gate back to working order? Should we, the people of [redacted] be so quick to rush and condemn this poor sole of a crime that he only admitted to committing based on viewing a security cam video of the whole thing the morning after?

Can we not be a civilized society? Can we learn to live with one-another? Can we find it in our hearts to forgive? Can we take a collection because he/she does not have $1500 just laying around to give to a guy with a mallet to bang out the metal so that the gate looks better again?

Can we forgive? Can we shop around and maybe find a better estimate? Maybe take in a collection by fining residents who their dogs poop outside the dog walk? And also forgive.


Sincerely, The Concerned Residents of [redacted]

Thursday, August 15, 2013

IN THIS POST, I WRITE MY OWN BIOGRAPHY

Ryan Painter, a non-practicing physician, has been an acolyte for truth and justice for decades. From humble beginnings being born at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, he has risen to popularity through the years through published articles in Nintendo Power, SkyMall Magazine, and Highlights for Children with ADHD. Ryan is also member of the Fraternal Order of the Walrus. Sometimes referred to as his alter-ego, "Dr. Sexy," he lives in Orlando, Florida, with his wife, seven children, and two parakeets, both confusingly named "Paco."

Saturday, August 10, 2013

IN THIS POST, I HAVE MY OWN FLEDGLING RELIGIOUS CULT

Reasons why my cult isn't taking off:
  • Non-believers keep taking all the close parking spaces.
  • Can't get the zealots on my side.
  • Trouble getting my apartment declared a tax-free house of Pagan worship.
  • Robes make followers look fat.
  • Simultaneously too many and also not enough similarities with Scientology.
  • Not as many volunteers for self-castration as I initially projected.
  • It's hard to find sacrificial virgins in Orlando.
  • Always get the good ideas for chants when in the shower.
  • Newly-constructed church is really just a LYNX bus stop shelter.

Monday, July 29, 2013

IN THIS ARTICLE, YOU MAKE YOURSELF LAUGH, YOU INGRATES

I work in a theme park (that will not be named for legal reasons), but here are just a few themed phrases I use everyday.

Today for lunch, I had , and it was .

Good luck out there, on the of .

Welcome back! Wasn't that ride ?

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

IN THIS POST I REVIEW A GAME AND YOU, THE READER, JUDGES ME, THE WRITER

In Animal Crossing: New Leaf, the latest game released in the "Classic-if-you-want-to-call-something-released-in-2001-a-classic" Nintendo series, Animal Crossing, you become the mayor of your own town inhabited by cross-species parahumans. More on that later!

It's a game for the 3DS (which has NO OFFICIAL ACRONYM) and the 3DS XL (which means "3 something something eXtra Large").

The player starts out as a human moving into a small town full of freakish anthropomorphic animals. Turns out, if you're the first person to create save data, you'll automatically be the mayor of the town, totally election-free, as if they gave it to the first human to walk through the train station! BECAUSE *spoilers* THAT IS WHAT HAPPENS.

My first goal as mayor was to free these poor, wretched animals. You know, establish a democracy of some kind. But it looks like that is not programmed into the game.

It's too bad, because I really wanted Julian the Unicorn to run the town. He seemed like a good candidate because... maybe you didn't read that right in the last sentance: he's a UNICORN. Plus it would really take the pressure off. Imagine waking up to a Bell Boom, or a new, fully-funded bridge. Maybe he can do something about those balloons that keep giving me crappy furniture sets that I don't want. But I digress.

There are a bunch of tiny, new features that really just make revisions to what was already there. The first game had an island, BUT NOW you can play lame mini-games on it. Previous games had a museum, BUT NOW you can make your own exhibits. More shops! Stackable fruit! Scorpions! The list goes on and on.

But does all that matter? Isn't Nintendo just remaking the same game every three years? The game never ends, and after a while, you just stop caring. Weeds appear. Your town gets overrun with cockroaches. Animals get cancer. Life goes on for you.

But if you're a bug-tracking, fish-hunting, tree-shaking completionist, like myself, and really care about Streetpassing with a bunch of strangers so you can see all the tiny Hentai pictures they lined their little virtual rooms with, then I can't blame you. It's great fun.

IN THIS POST I EXPLAIN THAT MICHAEL BUBLE IS A BIT SHORT COMPARED TO THE IMPOSSIBLY GORGEOUS WOMEN SEEN IN HIS MUSIC VIDEOS

This is a topic which I am not sure if you are aware. Michael Buble is short. Sorry kids, my accented "e" key, otherwise known as the "lower-case e with a cumber-bun," appears to be broken. Let me explain.

On his IMDB's bio page (which is really just an ego stroke, and because he was on SNL twice), it lists a height of 5'10.5", or 1.79 meteors. I don't measure things by meteors, but the dude is Canadian, and my Canadian-to-USA height ratios are nowhere where they should be (the slide ruler is nowhere to be found). Of course, the .5 inch ruling is impossible also, as half inches would not pass in any court of law. Maybe in Canada?

On board.michaelbuble.com, a web site where users from around the world can obsess over things like this (and who are probably all Michael himself), a topic exists named "How tall is Michael? - You'll Never Know!" (warning: pop-ups). Written (presumably) by a woman named AussieGirl (and probably Michael himself), it plays up the myth that he's a towering six-footer. As if.

But that's simply not true.

According to Celebheights.com (warning: shitty web site), he is 5ft 10in (or 178cm). Sounds a bit average, no? Do I believe this? Of course, this is the site that lists Linda Hamilton's height as 5'4". Also on Celebheights.com, registered forum commenter Vancouver Girl says they've met, and that he is closer to 5'8" or 5'7".

Finally, my own knowledge. I met Mr. Buble in a secret location last year. It was not at one of his concerts. According to my driver's license, I am 5'7" although on the day I got my updated ID, I was feeling a bit tall. In reality, I am 5'6". I submit to you, dear reader, that Mr. Buble's eyeline was at my nose, which would make him somewhere between 5'4" and 5'6". I did not check his shoes to see if he was wearing platforms or corrective arch insoles. I would like to stress again, it was not a concert, and he received no money from me.

Now you're probably asking yourself questions like, "Why do I care?" or "What am I doing with my life?" BUT, dear reader, you see the problem I have with this is in any one of his music videos, he surrounds himself with beautiful, gorgeous women. True, anyone red-blodded Canuck would do the same thing (see also: Margot Kidder). But honestly, if not for the fame and fortune and remarkable singing voice, he could never, ever ever ever... ever get that kind of woman in the real world.

Never ever, never. But come on. Most of those girls are like 6' or taller. Maybe even 6'5". Hope you brought a step ladder, Michael. But in all seriousness, you could afford a Inspector Gadget-style leg surgery.

TL;DR - I met Michael Buble, I'm taller than him and not Canadian. Supermodel-class women should like me more. That's just logic.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

THIS POST HAS A THING I DO NOT LIKE

Please stop talking about actors in TV advertisements. Not a week goes by without a co-worker saying something along the lines of: "You reminded me of this commercial - you know the one..." Or maybe the old chestnut, "I saw this ad last night, and I think it reminds me of you..." Stop it.

Now, I don't watch TV, and I have not for years. That in no way makes me a particularly better person, but consider this: I don't understand how 30 seconds of non-entertainment filler could make such an impression on someone that you know, really know, in real life?

Okay, I concede that you may look like someone in a commercial, but let's face it: in this circumstance, THEY look like YOU, and not the other way around.*

Commercials are dull, just dull. They're traditionally there to sell you something (of course, nowadays they seem like entertaining filler). My point is: don't pay attention to them. That's just what they want. Just tune it out.. your episode of Everybody Loves Raymond will be back in two minutes.

Just fill your time with something beneficial to the advancement of society. Or do a crossword puzzle. Perhaps you can take a moment to discuss (alone or aloud) what was really going on with the major plot points. Or what about your own needs? Maybe it's time to open a window or throw on that afghan?

My point, which I still hold out hope I have not lost sight of, dear reader, is that in this modern, hectic, cuss-word-filled life, entertainment is important. And I get that. Commercials help pay for that, but by no means should we pay attention to them, nor should we compare co-workers to the guy in that insurance commercial. Because I don't even know what your're going on about when you do. Good day, sir.




* The only way this could be broken is if you met someone after they saw the commercial. But now we're just being silly. I hope you didn't loose your place over this tiny footnote.

Friday, February 1, 2013

IN THIS POST I SMOOTH-TALK FEBRUARY, THE MOST EROTIC MONTH OF ALL THE MONTHS

(Editor's Note: In this post, February is a woman at a party.)

Ah yeah, girl. I didn't see you over there in the corner, talking with Novemeber. Come over here, girl.

I got you here on my calendar. 28 days of pure ecstasy. You my girl, February. You look as good as a 55-gallon drum of Frank's Red Hot sauce tonight, girl. The kind they send to prison kitchens.

Now January ain't bad, but she's a little cold. March always pre-games and shows up drunk to these things. And April's always busy raining on Baseball Spring Training.

Don't get me started on other months, because I don't want to go off sounding like a Wikipedia.

February, you're so fine. You're like a classy red wine. Like Martinelli's.

You're so complicated. I like complicated. Is this a leap year or not? I can never remember that. What was that for, again? So the Gregorians could have a little extra fun? Count me in on that, girl.

All the best holidays are in February: Groundhog day, the Super Bowl, birthdays of every President, Kosovo's Independence Day, the works! And the Black history stuff, girl. It's all good.

Plus, VD. You know, Valentine's Day. I started abbreviating it years ago, but despite my best attempts, it never caught on. In fact, I ended up spending the last four consecutive VD's alone. What part of, "Got plans for VD?" don't other girls get? I guess they're not like you, February.

What do you say to coming back to my place, February? I got Netflix. We could watch a documentary about math. Yeah, I know it's what you'd like.

Maybe we could listen to some grizzly bears. No, girl, not the band. I live next to a zoo. Honest, girl, the enclosure's outside my back window. The sound is enchanting.

No? Uh, okay. You go use the bathroom then. I'll just be waiting. Waiting here for you sexy, sexy month.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

THIS POST DISCUSSES IMAGINARY PLOTS FOR MOVIES FOR GUYS WHO USED TO LIKE MOVIES

Lately, it just seems like Hollywood isn't trying. Re-makes and reboots, sequels, cheapquels, and creepquels... it's like the film industry doesn't even know me anymore. So with that in mind, here are some NEW plot ideas they can have for free. Just don't over-use these ones too, guys!

Historical Figures with Superpowers
We've already seen the vampire movies for Honest Abe and Edgar Allen Poe. What about re-imaging other parts of history: Col. Sanders as a scientist, forever transformed by his 11 herbs and spices in a lab explosion? Johannes Gutenberg who could bend metal with his mind? A flying Ghandi?

Kids in a Neo Noir
All the grit of a film like "The Good German," but with the sunny-faced kids from "Modern Family." Take my money already.

Dolphins as the Bad Guy
Films like Dolphin Tale make them all out to be good, kind, gentle creatures. I want to see one go ballistic on film. Think "Jaws" but with more puns (as in, "The Dolphins attacked us on porpoise!").

Character-oozing Biopics
Take the ensemble cast of characters from a Robert Altman movie, mixed with the talky, vaseline-smeared history of "The Social Network," and add another inevitable dash or two of pretension, and bam! I would love to see one of these about all four years of the Carter administration and the Department of Energy.

Lesbians Form a Baseball Team
- in kind of a "League of Her Own" meets "The L Word" way. Sports AND lesbians! Hollywood, do you hear that? It's the sound of money just knocking at your door. Make it happen!

A Zombie Love Story
This may already exist (probably on Netflix... probably Korean...), but picture a Nicholas Sparks-esque film with two crazy, zombie teenagers just trying to give love a chance in a mixed-up, post-apocolyptic world. Put Will Smith in it (not as a zombie), and it's a sure thing. And c'mon, Hollywood, how often do the words "Sure Thing" come up in pitch meetings?

Cannonball Run with Homeless People
Come on, you'd watch that. You can admit this. I won't judge you. The internet is a safe, friendly place.

Another Tron
Wait, I think they already did that. Nevermind.

Friday, January 11, 2013

MY THOUGHT PROCESS FOR STAGES OF GRIEF THAT I GO THROUGH, USING A STONE OR FOREIGN OBJECT IN MY SHOE AS AN EXAMPLE

Ow. There's something in my shoe. Wait, let me wiggle my feet around inside the shoe first and - nope, something's there. Something has lodged itself beside my insoles.

Perhaps it's a stone. Or a splinter of wood, or a bit of glass. What if it cuts my foot. I would have no way of knowing. I could be infecting myself, putting myself at risk for illness as I stand here in my own discomfort. Alright, Painter, keep it together.

Maybe it's not bad. Maybe I like it. Perchance it feels good. Scratching some unknown itch I didn't know I had until the object started scathing my sock. No. That's dumb.

Am I in a good spot to stop and check my shoe? Maybe flip it over and give it a few taps on the back to dislodge my mystery matter? Yes, I will.

But there's no time now. I must live with my knickknack firmly in place. I must solider on.

No, fuck that noise. I'm going in. I will leave no stone unturned (figuratively, because I wouldn't leave stones in my hightops). I will hunt you. I will track you down to the end of the Earth (I'm talking, of course, to the distressing object). I will find you, and I will take you out. Of my shoe. Damn it.

Let me just flip this... yes. I think I found the culprit. This little bit of shale shall do me no more harm. I will live a free man again, feeing like I have a whole new foot. It will feel so good. Back on the ol' foot it goes.

Sweet relief.

Until... no. Not again. It's back, egads... the phantom pain has returned. Now it's in an altogether new spot.

May this invader be in my sock? What if it's some sort of foot fungus or tape worm. Could I be infected? Do I have to loose this foot before this uncomfortableness spreads like a cancer, to the rest of my body?

Let me take off my sock.

Ah yes, it's another stone. It has wiggled it's way inside my sock, my inner-most layer of my hooves. It was the last defense against outside forces of foreign matter, but it failed. Upon closer inspection, I appear to have a hole in my sock. This won't do.

I've only had these socks for a fortnight, and worn and washed them once before. My foot relief is only matched by my disappointment for the socks I'm sporting. Never again. Never again.