Very funny, guys.

March 20, 2010

A week ago we had a group meeting. My boss is giving a presentation, and he stops in the middle and turns to me. “You never used to have a beard,” He says, “You remind me of Tom Hanks.”

I think for a minute. “In castaway?” I inquire. I was once accused in an elevator of acting like Bill Murray, and for a moment I had confused the two.

“No, in Forrest Gump. He goes jogging. Lets himself go. Looks like a madman.” He says. It’s the most aggressive thing I’ve ever heard him say. And let’s face it: I was getting pretty hairy. Perhaps a trim? Well, the weather was nice, so I decided to just shave the whole thing away. As soon as I did, I remembered why I grew a beard in the first place. My head is asymmetrical. My head has a fine texture not dissimilar to that of a golf ball. My head is pear shaped. I have more than the appropriate number of chins. My head is perched upon my neck with the graceless clumsiness of a sack of flour sitting on a garden fence.

Regardless, the ladies seem to like cleanshaven Aaron. “Hello!” I said to one of the young ladies in my research group this morning. “Oh god!” She said, her voice thick with disgust in the way that a bagel might be thick with cream cheese.

The worst was Dr. Mo, a young lady of Chinese extraction who is in our group. After the group meeting, she pulls me aside. “Why?!” She demands. “I liked your beard. It hid your face.” She puts her hand on my shoulder, as though consoling me. “Hopefully it grows back, fast. Ugh.”

Damn you people. I’m just going to bring back the furious muttonchops, the way I like, and you picky jerks can just deal with it.


The Worst Diet Ever: Update

March 13, 2010

In December, I was sitting at a red light at 69th and Market streets, and the Police pursued a stolen minivan straight into my car.  I try and make light of it, but the best I can do is to refer to it as the worst diet in the world. I’d have lost 220 pounds in an eighth of a second. A spot slower on the brake pedal, and I’d be a bad smell right now. And yes, it still sometimes bothers me.

My insurance company wouldn’t pay because I didn’t have collision. They told me the other guy wouldn’t pay because his car had been stolen, and he wasn’t driving. The Philly police haven’t told me squat (other than that they don’t have to pay, because they’re the police.) I guess they’re afraid that if I know who almost killed me over a 1999 Pontiac fucking Silhouette, or why he did it, I’d go to his house and shoot him.

I’m not going to lie. The thought has occurred to me. The ‘no-snitching’ policy is one the PPD probably needs to continue.  I wouldn’t shoot him, probably, but I’d mail his pets to him bit by bit. Call me passive aggressive, I suppose.  Anyway. Imagine my surprise when my insurance company called and gave me the VIN, plate number, and owner of the stolen minivan. It turns out that rather than me suing the thief, the owner’s insurance company will pay me, and then they will sue the thief. Here’s to hoping that damnable Gecko keeps his end of this bargain.

Oh. The name of the minivan’s owner? Jesus deJesus. I think it’s Spanish. I guess it just goes to show no one is safe.