July 9th, 2008

pranks, search terms, homers, read on, salmonella is delicious, thank you, thank you again, off to LA
Jason posted on July 29, 2005

In college, my friends and I played a lot of jokes on each other.  Some of them were on a grand scale.  For example, one time my buddy Bill and I came back from a trip to find our all our clothes missing.  Somehow we got tipped off that they were in his car, which we had left in Boston for the weekend.  When we got to Bill’s car, our clothes were indeed inside the car, but also inside the car was newspaper.  Pages and pages of crumpled up newspaper, filling the entire fucking car.  It took us a long time to clean that up and get our clothes out.  However, a year later I had sex with the cousin of one of the guys who did it, so I won in the long run. 


Other stuff was less mischievous.  We all had laptops that we would take to the library to study (and by “study”, I mean “cram”).  As you computer nerds know, when the laptop (or any computer) is left idle, the user has the ability to bring up a screen saver of words that scroll across the screen against a black background.  Usually, these say stuff like “Michelle’s computer” or “BC ‘01″ or whatnot.

I used to love manipulating these screen savers.  Say a bunch of us were at a table in the library and one guy got up to use the bathroom.  I’d scamper over and change his screensaver from “BC Football” to “Girls with pubes are overrated” or “My dad tastes good” hoping that someone in the library would glance over and be horrified.  Of course, no one else in the study group would find this funny, least of all when he returned the dude whose computer it was, but I thought it was pretty f’in’ funny.

I find myself feeling these same urges today, at work.  We have a law library at my firm and every time I’m there, I see not laptops left open, but pads of paper.  Attorneys go up there to do research and often leave their desks or cubbies with books open everywhere and legal pads with notes unprotected. 

I practically have to physically restrain myself from going over to these unattended legal pads and writing “Shit tastes like love” or “Poo is GOD!!!!” in between their notes about torts or the Southern District or whatever.

I don’t know how long I’m going to keep this urge at bay and I imagine that it will result in me being terminated from my current job.  So think of me if your company is hiring. 

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Now onto something I invited that countless other bloggers later stole!  Here are some terms entered into Yahoo, Google and other search engines that brought people to this site.

First, a few about me:

- jason mulgrew homophobic
- jason mulgrew eats entire bags of dicks for breakfast
- jason mulgrew masturbates with crushed egg shells
- jason mulgrew real name

I’m pretty sure that the first and last searches were genuine, but I have to believe that someone who reads this blog and knows that every month we do this little post intentionally googled the middle two just so I would write about them.  Or conversely, someone found out that I eat entire bags of dicks for breakfast and is trying to expose me.  I haven’t decided which. 

- drunken injuries on spring break
- men’s face crushed under women’s asses [sexy pics and video clips] 
- mom dad i‘m gay 
- my mom‘s bridge club likes to watch me masturbate 
- snoring gay men video 
- my large breasts keep getting larger 
- disgusting child molester deformity puke doesn‘t look real 
- i got drunk and woke up with a guy 
- i wish to seduce ladyfriend 
- want to masturbate on the internet for money 
- whitney houston shits herself on airplane 
- what part of kevin millar’s body is fake

My favorite is probably “I wish to seduce ladyfriend”.  I mean, can’t you just see some Eastern European guy, who hopelessly has a crush at the woman behind the deli Kenmare & Elizabeth, sitting down in an internet cafe to google ways to seduce her?  The poor son of a bitch.  I hope he eventually gets to F her. 

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This week, Sammy Sosa passed Frank Robinson for fifth place for most home runs in Major League history.

My first reaction: “Really?  Are we sure?  Sammy Sosa is 5th all time?  What?”

I guess that’s what happens when you hit 292 home runs in 5 years (that’s an average of 58.4 a season).  I did some research, and when I was growing up, the top 10 in all time home runs was something like:

1) Hank Aaron
2) Babe Ruth
3) Willie Mays
4) Frank Robinson
5) Harmon Killebrew
6) Reggie Jackson
7) Mike Schmidt
8) Mickey Mantle
9) Jimmie Fox
10) (tie) Willy McCovey and Ted Williams

That’s some serious shit right there.  True baseball gods.  Now’s let look at the top ten as it stands today:

1) Hank Aaron
2) Babe Ruth
3) Barry Bonds
4) Willie Mays
5) Sammy Sosa
6) Frank Robinson
7) Mark McGwire
8) Harmon Killebrew
9) Rafael Palmeiro
10) Reggie Jackson

I’ll give Bonds his due, because even before he become a steroid-freak he was still the greatest player of his generation.  But to have Sosa, McGwire, and (gulp) Palmeiro on that list instead of Schmidt, Mantle, and Ted Williams, well, that makes me a little sad.

For all the statistical analysis that has been done for baseball, you’d think that there would be something to justify this, something to adjust numbers based on the era in which they were achieved (like adjusted ERA).  For example, in 1921, Babe Ruth led the league with 59 home runs.  The next highest guy, in either league, was Bob Meusel with 24 home runs.  Ruth had roughly 145% more home runs that Meusel. 

Conversely, in 2001, Barry Bonds hit 73 home runs, a hugely astronomical number.  But the next guy was Sammy Sosa, with 63.  Luis Gonzalez hit 57.  A-Rod had 52 in the AL, and in both leagues, 19 additional players had 35 or more home runs (8 had 40+).  The point: a shitload of players were hitting shitload of homeruns.

Why can’t there be a formula that gives a mathematical value to the number of home runs hit per year, based on league-wide averages of that year?  Something like, “One home run hit in 1974 is equivalent to 2.2 home runs hit in 2002″.  I dare not get into it, especially here, since I’ve bored you enough already.  But it obvious that 500 home runs ain’t what it used to be, and there should be some sensible mathematical formula that would allow us to better appreciate a guy like Mike Schmidt, who never hit more than 48 homers in a season - and only hit over 40 three times in 18 years - but was arguably the most feared power hitter of his generation, over a guy like Raffy Palmeiro, who has had a solid if not entirely unspectacular career.

(And yes, I’m biased here, but I don’t think it’s clouding my judgment too much)

Anyway, I’ll stop now, because I can hear about 1/3 of you typing emails to me saying, “I hate sports” or “I had no idea what you were talking about.”  For those you who do know what I’m talking about, I love you.

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We have been having some trouble with the “read on” function on posts on the index page.  If this happens, click on the “Everything is wrong with me” tab above.  This is a collection of the most recent posts.  This is not hard, people.  Thank you in advance for not emailing me saying, “I CAN’T READ YOUR POST!!!!!!!”   

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On June 9th, I wrote about an incident in which I got drunk, got some Cold Stone ice cream (cake batter, oreo, and whipped cream mix) and the came home and puked a bunch.

 

Last night my friend Corinne called with some terrible news.  I did some searching and found this article, which says Cold Stone, on July 1, recalled all its cake batter ice cream because of a salmonella outbreak.

 

I’m not a doctor, and it is entirely possible that it was the dozen beers, then some ice cream, then the pizza, then some more ice cream that got me sick.  But the question still remains: can I sue them?  I sure hope so.  I haven’t been involved in litigation in four months and I miss the adrenaline rush. 

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I should hope by now that it’s obvious that I’m only doing this blog thing for rock stardom.  Isn’t that what everyone wants, to be a rock star?  Unfortunately, though I play guitar and have the voice of an angel, I don’t have enough talent to become a rock star.  However, I do have band names already picked out, and they change constantly.  Right now, I’d say my band name if I were to start a band would be either:

 

- Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts;

- The Center Street Jigglies; or

- Two Fat Guys in Chairs And [that's it - it ends with "And"]

 

I’ll let you know if these change, but I don’t think you can beat Muslim Ron and the Juggernauts.  That’s just gorgeous.

 

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Though I hinted at it and mentioned it in passing before, I am extremely grateful to those of you who donated.  I know that I had to beg, give up my pride and generally sound like a douche, but really, any money donated was/is used to deflect the cost of running the site.  It’s just that, as I mentioned, this shit costs money - especially since I had to pay for more bandwidth - and my bank account is not exactly overflowing with cash.  And there are a lot of you fuckers out there reading, so $1 from a bunch of you = a lot of help to me.

 

I could have gone the normal route and put some ads put, but like I said, it’s tacky and it messes up the gorgeousness of the blog.  Instead, I asked y’all (or rather, begged y’all) to send me a small token for helping you waste your employer’s time and money, and many of you gave.

 

[And yes, I know begging is tacky too, but whatever.  I think it's obvious I have very little pride anyway.] 

 

I don’t mean to get all soft on you, but I do thank you for giving and reading my whiney rants about it.  Now we’ll just move on before I start crying or some shit (not out of gratitude, but because I’m coming down from a major buzz right now and it’s really hot in my office). 

 

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While I’m saying my thank you’s, thank you to everyone who gave me advice about LA and about digital cameras.  I hope to enjoy many of the bars and restaurants you guys recommended, and if I’m able to do so, I certainly will.  And as for the cameras…I was hoping that I would get 500 emails from you, each miraculously raving about the same exact camera, which would be head and shoulders above the rest.  Instead, I got 500 emails from you, each pimping a different camera.  I haven’t bought one yet, but I will do so tomorrow.  I’m probably just gonna go it and get whatever one they put in front of me, because I’m fixing to get drunk tonight and will be too hungover tomorrow for anything difficult.  

 

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I will still post from LA, but remember the time zone difference.  My days are busy, so I guess I’ll write them at night and they’ll be up then.  I can’t say how often, but I’ll get you something.  Probably. 
 
And wish me luck.  If this works out, things are going to get out of control very quickly.  And I mean that in the awesomest way possible.  Like:
 
CORONER’S REPORT
SUBJECT: Jason Mulgrew
DATE OF DEATH: June 24, 2006
LOCATION: Four Seasons Hotel, Room 412, Los Angeles, CA
CAUSE OF DEATH: cocaine- and hoagie-induced heart attack
NOTABLES: Subject had one testicle in Cambodian prostitute and one testicle in Nigerian prostitute.  Subject’s penis was in a pastrami sandwich.  Written on walls of hotel room in ketchup or other tomato-based condiment was “MEAT FUCK!” sixteen times.  Thirty-three pounds of food (mostly meat and dairy, though also a picture frame, a bicycle tire, a showerhead and $68,000) found in subject’s impacted bowels.  Shaved into subject’s chest hair were words “I’m awesome”.
AWESOMENESS OF DEATH: 9.4 out of 10

emails!
Jason posted on July 28, 2005

Alright!  It’s time for you guys to do all the work while I sit back and pass judgment!  Yes, that’s right – I’m answering your emails. 

 

Like I admitted before, I’ve been bad about emails.  The People thing came out on June 17.  By the time I left for vacation at the end of June, I had gotten a few thousand emails from people who had read the magazine and were either amused or horrified by my inclusion on this list.  Then I went on vacation and couldn’t really check email.  When I got back, there were lots.  I’m not bragging (well, I guess I am), but this is why for a while I sucked with returning emails. 

 

The good news is that all the hype died down and most of the readers left, so I can actually read your emails and answer some of them.  Here are some of the best I’ve received this week.

 

The first comes from Libba from Birmingham, AL.  She has a question about an older post:

 

Jason,

I read your “Upper hand” post from- well, I can’t remember because I’ve read pretty much the majority of your archives. Anyway, a guy in my class, Thomas, was telling me that his ex-girlfriend (dumped her before spring exams and she was pissed off/heartbroken) had started medical school this summer and was taking Gross Anatomy- you know, where everybody has a partner and you’re assigned a cadaver to dissect over the course of the semester. Apparently, these med students always name their cadavers.  Well, this girl names her cadaver “Thomas.”  What?!  It seems to me that this is an unprecedented granting of the Upper hand to Thomas.  I don’t think there is a better way to let the person who dumped you know how “not over it” you are than to name your med school cadaver after them.  

 

Thomas (my friend, not the cadaver) thought this was awesome and really funny.  Definitely, upper hand for Thomas.  Unfortunately, he decided after a couple of days to send her a really smartass “thank you for naming your cadaver after me” email.  Here is where the argument ensues.  I say that he has now lost the upper hand by giving her a reaction to her behavior.  It would have been a lot cooler if he would have continued to laugh about it behind her back with his buddies.  But, now I think that he conceded a half of the upper hand to her.  What do you think?

I think that Thomas did not lose the Upper Hand.  It would be nearly impossible for Thomas to lose the Upper Hand in this situation.  I mean, my god.  Women be crazy.

 

But you are right – Thomas did give her something back by a) contacting her; b) admitting that he knows about her “Thomas” cadaver; c) gloating about it.

 

Perhaps I didn’t explain this well enough last time.  When a relationship ends, each person usually wonders what the other is thinking, what the other is doing, who the other is doing, etc.  At this stage, the greatest sin a person can commit is to let the other know that he/she is thinking about him/her.  After all, isn’t this the most basic human desire: to occupy the thoughts of another?  Don’t we want to believe that when it ends, we haunt the thoughts of our ex for days and weeks and months?  

 

Therefore, the best thing you can do post-relationship, especially if you hold such an astounding Upper Hand, is, well, nothing.  Feel free to gloat in private but the minute you let the ex know that you’re thinking of him/her, you lose a bit of the Upper Hand and seem a little more pathetic.  Nothing says “I’m over you” like a complete lack of communication and indifference toward the ex.

 

[When I first wrote this, I had a paragraph in which I used Eli Wiesel's quote, "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference."  However, I apparently grew a conscience because I took it out, realizing that maybe it's not so good to manipulate a quote originally describing the greatest evil humankind has ever known to talk about having one up on your ex.  I am definitely, definitely dying.]

 

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The next email comes from James in Melbourne, Australia:

 

Mulgrew,

 

You really gotta cut out the cheese out of your breakfast diet or you’re gonna have a heart attack.

 

Now I love cheese as much as the next guy, but unlike say, the cheese in a ‘ham,cheese & tomato’ sandwich the cheese just isn’t required in a bacon & egg bagel.

 

Ask the British, they invented the ‘Full English Breakfast’ after all.  Which by the way contains all kinds of shit: Baked beans, sausages, blood pudding (I don’t even know what that last one is) but importantly NO CHEESE.

 

Give it shot Jason. It might even add a few years to your life.

 

You know, I used to think that Americans and Australians had a lot in common before this email.  When James wrote that cheese “isn’t required“ with bacon and egg on a bagel, I made a promise right then and there: I would destroy Australia with my bare hands, even if it killed me. 

 

I mean, what?  Cheese should be “required“ on EVERYTHING – from sandwiches to stand-alone meats to desserts to more cheese.  To say that it’s not necessary on a bagel that already has bacon and egg, well, I don’t know what to say about that.  So I just punched the wall.  I hope you’re happy James.  I hope you’re satisfied. 

 

[And why are we holding up the "Full English Breakfast" as a culinary delight?  I'm supposed to taking an eating cue from the British?  That's like me giving advice on dieting or about how to make your girl happy on Valentine's Day.  Sheesh.]

 

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Moving on, Cassandra from San Francisco writes:

 

Just read your tale of the stress test and must say that it has produced a recollection that I swore was buried never to be relived again just for the sheer horror of it all, but nope, so I shall share. I was a Biology major in college with a concentration in nuclear medicine which in one respect involved the preparation of the stress test - the shave, the probe placement and the sweaty run. And this one day after taking the appropriate background information from a woman, I asked her to remove her shirt wherein the shivering memory laid - she had chest hair, and very dramatic in fashion all across her chest and breasts. I not sure you can imagine the oddness of chatting with a woman about the weather when you are politely shaving her tarzanian mange of hair, but yeah, uncomfortable. So, thanks for the memory. I guess I should venture to ask - if one of these fortunate days you have the pleasure of viewing the breasts of a woman, and they were covered in hair, what exactly would you do?


Ok, first: eww.  I mean, eww.

Now that that’s out of the way, I may be lonely, but to quote Jack White, I ain’t that lonely yet.  Hair is bad on women and is one of the few absolute dealbreakers, even for me.  To wit:

  • I know of at least two instances off the top of my head wherein friends of mine did not pursue otherwise attractive women because of their slightly excessive arm hair;
  • I personally did not pursue a girl about two years ago because my friends pointed out her “sideburns”.  Even though there were only faint traces of hair on the ear/cheek area, my friends talked about her sideburns so much I eventually started thinking they were worse then they actually were and couldn’t proceed further;
  • My freshman year of college, my buddy hooked up with a cute girl.  Problem?  She had nipple hair.  Naturally, my buddy told everyone about this, and it eventually her nipple hair became so widely known on campus that by senior year even I wouldn’t hook up with her, for fear of the repercussions and being ostracized by other women.
So a big “no-no” to women’s hair.

And yes, I realize the irony here that I’m extolling the virtues of hairlessness when last time I went swimming shirtless I was shot because it was bear hunting season (and I was only 3 years old at the time), but c’mon - just roll with it.

 

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Last but certainly not least, we have Dante from NYC chiming in:

 

Jason-

I was reading Friday’s post, and I think you should indeed make a list of guys you would sleep with for money.  That’s my 2.9 cents.

Do whatever you want, like I care.  But as a 100% homosexual - OK, fine, maybe like 99.44% - please believe that I, personally, don’t have any delusions about your non-gayness.  You are a special kind of tool I like to think of as “the straight guy who might try to pick a fight with me, but not JUST because I’m gay” guy.  You would probably be amusing to hang out with, but - make no mistake about it - you are definitely not smooth enough, in terms of personality and/or body hair, to be thought of as gay.  A pussy maybe, but not gay. Even those girls who can’t tell that their best friend (who sings show tunes and helps her tweeze her eyebrows) is gay can tell that you aren’t.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Thus, your list would make people think not so much that you’re gay, just that you are clueless.  And we all pretty much already think that.

Furthermore, I can still be a 99.44% homosexual and list hot women I’d sleep with.  I’ve always had in my mind the top two women I would bone if it were left to me to repopulate the planet.  (God help us, should it come to that.)  Alyssa Milano held the top spot for a VERY LONG time, but after I saw Jennifer Garner in 13 Going on 30 she moved into the top spot.  I suspect her dancing in the Thriller dance number had a lot to do with it.  How’s THAT for gay?  Very.

I’ve already begun contemplating who I think your top 10 men would be.  So, without further delay:

The Top 10 Men I think Jason Mulgrew Would Sleep With for $50,000 (even though we all know that $10 and a 6-pack of beer would be enough for him in most cases.)

10.  Johnny Knoxville - self-destructive chemistry at its best
9.   Brad Pitt - because a solitary mention in People magazine isn’t enough for you
8.   Robert Downey Jr. - so you don’t have to always feel like the screwed up one
7.   Richard Simmons - to score a discount on a deck of deal-a-meal cards
6.   James Lipton - it’s your wet dream to have him ask you what your favorite curse word is
5.   Tom Cruise - because THAT would be the best blog post OF ALL TIME
4.   Hugh Hefner - why should the playmates get to have all the fun?
3.   Geraldo Rivera - you know you have a thing for moustaches
2.   Arnold Schwarzenegger - so you can feel safe and protected
1.   Billy Dee Williams - because Ghostbusters rocked and you know it

Um, I don’t think I can top that, so I’m just gonna leave it alone. 

 

However, I do have to point out that Billy Dee Williams was not in “Ghostbusters”.  Could Dante perhaps be referring to Ernie Hudson or perhaps he is referring to Billy Dee’s dramatic tour de force as Lando Calrissian in “Star Wars”?  I suppose we will never know for sure.

the stress test
Jason posted on July 26, 2005

Last Friday was a pretty normal day.  I woke up, showered, went to work, went to a cardiologist’s to get a stress test, came home, got drunk, went out, passed out.  Standard really.

 

Except, of course, for the stress test (I was hoping that you’d pick up on that in the middle of the normal activities, but I think that’s giving you too much credit). 

 

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this once, twice or maybe three hundred times before, but I am a hard-core hypochondriac.  It’s a pretty big part of my life.  If I had to make a list of my hobbies, it’d go something like:

 

  • Music
  • Hot chicks
  • Having a blog
  • Drinking lots of fucking beers
  • Obsessing about my heartbeat and my death, including when I’m going to die, how I’m going to die, and whether I’m going to die in the next five to ten minutes because my chest hurts and I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or not but I feel kinda dizzy and sweaty and I know from webmd that these are signs of a heart attack and oh my god is that a shooting pain in my left arm or is it just in my head god I hate myself
  • Kickin’ it

It’s an awful thing, to be a hypochondriac.  Sometimes it can dominate your life.  There are certain things that I can’t do when I’m feeling hypochondriacal, and sadly this includes taking drugs and abusing alcohol.  Figures.  Thanks again God, for everything.  You really did a good job on me.  Ass.

 

It comes and goes though.  Some days, I’ll feel indestructible.  Some days, I’ll wake up and eat a whole pizza, go back to bed, get my heart racing in some robbery or other felony, and not think twice about it.  Other days, I’ll wake up with a pain in my back and convince myself that it’s a tumor and I only have three hours to achieve my life-long goal: to get it on with two chicks at once in a fancy hotel room with a waterfall while Elvis Costello sings and plays guitar and Mike Schmidt takes batting practice and there are big plates of spaghetti and meatballs everywhere and I get a perfect score on the SAT. 

 

But in the summer, especially this summer, it’s pretty bad.  First and most obviously, it’s hot, and this summer has been brutal in this department.  I spend all of the day and most of the night sweating and panting (how many of you have boners right now?).  Second, I like to listen to my iPod and walk around NYC. This is basically the only “exercise“ I get, and I can’t do it when the heat index is 102°.  Third, summer is great for, “Since it’s 96°, I’m going to get a pint of ice cream and eat it in the air conditioning!  I don’t care if it’s 9am!  It’s hot out!  Maybe I’ll get one for later too!  Or two!  I love it!  Fuck yeah!“  So that doesn’t help either.

 

And then there was what we call in the entertainment industry the “inciting incident“: the crazy heart palpitations I had while playing with my aunt’s dog a few weeks ago (good band name: My Aunt’s Dog).

 

But I figured that this time I’d do something about it.  So I called my doctor and told him I wanted a stress test.  This was ballsy for me.  See, hypochondriacs are usually cowards.  Usually, when forced to talk to a doctor about my hypochondria, I pull the tough guy routine:

 

Doctor: “So you want to talk about how you’re feeling?“

Me: “Yeah, no, it’s nothing.  It’s just stupid.  It’s just that I’m under a lot of stress and all.“

Doctor: “What do you do for a living again?“
Me: “Um, I do marketing for a law firm.“

Doctor: [unimpressed] “Oh.“

Me: “But I’ve been under stress in a lot of other ways.  It’s just that, um, my gym is closing, so that’s got me pretty bummed out.  Also, um, world events.  World events have me bummed out.  But overall I’m fine.“

Doctor: “So when you left a message on my office voicemail at 4am on Tuesday sobbing about how your chest hurt – that’s because your gym is closing?“

Me: “Yeah, I’m really attached to it, so it’s stressing me out.  And world events too.  That shit is messed up.”

 

But this time there was no backing down.  I called him and said I wanted to get a stress test.  He acquiesced (easily, I might add; perhaps he’s getting tired of dealing with me) and then prescribed me 100 more Xanax!  JACKPOT!!!

 

So this was all starting well.  I made the appointment and on the day of, brought in a little gym bag into work with me with a change of clothes.  I was ready for this stress test.

 

Though I had never had one before, I had a pretty good idea about what a stress test was.  Basically, they hook up all this crap on you to measure your heart rate while you walk and maybe even run on a treadmill.  The “run“ part is a problem.  Oh, and you’re shirtless.  Um, yeah, problem.

 

There are very, very few things that I never do.  Even though I despise any unnecessary activity, every once in a while I’ll be overcome by a desire to use my body for more than consumption and self-induced orgasms and my roommate Brian and I will throw the old pigskin around (of course, this lasts all of about three minutes before I need some Gatorade and Brian needs a cigarette).  Even though I am terrible with women and entering them, sometimes I do get laid (or rather, sometimes in the past I have gotten laid).  Even though God and I are on not-so-good terms, I still sack up and go to church occasionally (though admittedly only to spy on Him). 

 

But two things that I never ever do are a) run and b) be shirtless.  And this stress test required both.  Yikes.   

 

I showed up at the place and thankfully it was empty.  I came in with a cocky attitude, because I had an excuse.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but my excuse was “My girlfriend made me do this.“

Yes, apparently we are in junior high, because I invented a girlfriend to make me look better in the eyes of others.  Only in this case I’m not trying to look cooler by telling the kids in algebra about my camp girlfriend who lives upstate; I’m telling the nurses and doctors of Manhattan Cardiac about my overly cautious girlfriend to sound saner.  I have come so far in the past fifteen years.  I wonder if I still have my therapist’s number?

 

So that was my story and I stuck with it.  I was admitted to an examination room where a guy and a girl (who were nurses or medical assistants or whatever) asked me a battery of medical history questions.  As always, there was a sore spot.

 

Guy nurse: “Do you drink?“
Me: [wincing] “Lil’ bit.“

Guy nurse: “Do you smoke?“
Me: “Smoke what?“

Guy nurse: [looking at me] “Cigarettes?“

Me: “No, no cigarettes.“

Guy nurse: “Anything else?“

Me: “No, no.  No.“

 

God I love lying.

 

Then they explained the procedure.  They were going to put some thingees on me – I’m not sure what they’re called, but they’re little suction cup-like things that you see put on people in hospital dramas.  Then they were going to put my height and weight into the computer to determine my average heart rate.  Then I’d get on the treadmill to slowly build toward that heart rate while they monitored what my heart was doing.  I would only be on the treadmill eight to ten minutes.  Then the fun began.

 

“Do you have a hairy chest, sir?“ 

 

Not want you want to hear from a guy in his late-twenties wearing a white coat, but them’s the breaks.  I answered, “Oh god, yes.“  That got a slight chuckle from the female nurse, who, of course, was pretty good-looking.  The male nurse went on, “Well sir I’m going to have to shave certain areas of it, because if hair gets trapped under the [thingees], it will throw off the readings.  Please remove your shirt.“

 

I did.  And for the next two solid minutes, this guy shaved patches out of my fucking chest hair.  Good lord.  

It was quite an interesting two minutes.  The guy nurse was shaving me while the girl nurse watched him, while I sat upright on the little reclining chair you sit on with the wrinkly paper, thinking, “Think happy thoughts - think happy thought - think happy thoughts.”  The silence was very uncomfortable, so I started talking about my “girlfriend”.  “Man, my girlfriend is going to get a kick out of this!”, I said as the guy continued to shave me.  He didn’t say anything, but the girl nurse sort of gave a smile.  I kept staring at the wall and after what felt like a day and a half, it was over.  I now had two hairless holes on my chest, one hairless hole on each side of my neck/shoulder area, and one hairless line under my left man-boob, from my side to the middle of my chest.  Sweet.  Super sweet even.

 

So he threw away the little disposable razor and grabbed some goo.  The goo, he explained, was to keep the thingees on during the test.  So he put some goo in his hand, smoothed it over his hands, and started rubbing this goo all over my shirtless, fat, partially shaved chest.  GOOD LORD.  Again, this man was rubbing goo all over my patchily-haired flabby torso.  Quite an erotic scene. 

By the time that was over, I was getting confused and nauseous, so I didn’t even noticed when he put the suction cup thingees on me.  When that was done, we walked into the room with the treadmill.

 

Before I got on the treadmill, they strapped some sort of battery pack on me, wrapping it around my body so that it sat in the middle of my stomach.  This battery pack was the nerve center of the device - all the suction cups were hooked into it, and it in turn was hooked into a big-ass computer that showed my heart rate and my heart beat.  Once everything was securely fastened, I got on the treadmill.

 

When they said I’d be on the treadmill eight to ten minutes, I thought, “That’s nothing.  It’ll be over in no time.”  I could NOT be more wrong here.  Eight to ten minutes, when you’re half-naked and partially shaved walking on a treadmill with shit and wires all over your body in front of people you don’t know, is a long-ass time.  Not only that, but unlike the gym, which has music playing or tvs around or at least the hum of the other exercise machines, this room was completely silent, save for my treadmill.  The two nurses didn’t speak, I didn’t speak.  Just a hum and me panting while they stared at the machine.

After about two minutes on the treadmill, another nurse walked in.  I had seen her earlier, when I was in the waiting room.  She walked into the office and into the back in plain clothes, and I thought, “Please don’t let her attend to me” because she was good-looking.  Sure enough, here she was again in her nurse’s uniform, saying hello to me and monitoring my heartbeat.  I had been only slightly sweaty before, but now it was like I just got out of a pool.

 

As an aside, I should take a minute to explain my back hair situation.  I, Jason Mulgrew, have back hair.  I am not ashamed of this (lie).  I don’t wax it or shave it.  To get it waxed would be too embarrassing.  There’s no way I’m walking into some salon to have some chick rip hair out of my back.  And I don’t shave it either, because it would only grow back thicker.  Also, if I know anything about women, it’s that they don’t like stubble, be it on a man’s face, chest, back, whatever (though I’m still not sure if they like back hair apparently).  Also again, though Brian drinks a lot, I don’t think he drinks enough to shave my back for me.

 

However, I usually groom the back hair with a device I invented.  The device consists of my beard trimmer (without its attachment) fastened to a ruler with rubber bands.  This allows me to trim the back hair into oblivion without removing it entirely via waxing or shaving.  Also, I can reach my entire back without assistance because of this device.  This is probably the greatest idea/invention I’ve ever had.

 

My beard trimmer is rechargeable, like a cell phone.  I recently lost this charger, so when it ran out of juice, that was it.  My beard grew thick and I had to trim it with scissors.  My back hair went unchecked and grew to Bigfoot-esque proportions.  There was simply nothing I could do about it prior to my appointment.  So as I ran on the treadmill, I was basically a giant, sweaty ball of hair, except where I had been shaved, of course.

 

[And if that info about the back hair was too much for you, know that I, um, was lying.  Yeah, that's it - I was just kidding.  At any rate, I found the beard trimmer charger this weekend, charged it up, and now the back hair has been neatly groomed.  Thank you.]

 

So the new attractive nurse looks over my sheet and asks me how old I am.  I say that I just turned 26.  Without skipping a beat, the male nurse says, “He doesn’t look 26, does he?”


Thanks dude.  I’m right here, and I’m not deaf.  Yeah, I know I’m hairy, but I can’t help it.  Guess what?  In addition to being hairy, I’m also fucking famous.  So suck it.  At least I don’t shave body hair and rub goo on fat hypochondriacs for a living, cocksucker.

 

Fortunately, my time on the treadmill was coming to an end.  The average heart rate for someone my size is 164 beats per minute, and we were just about there.  I started making myself panicky to raise my heart rate, thinking about werewolves, sharks, black people and other things that make me scared, and got to 164.  At that point, the cute nurse said to her colleagues, “I want to get him to 185 to make sure.”

 

In a way, this was reassuring.  They obviously could tell I was crazy - what 26 year-old gets a stress test?  So I thought it was nice of her to verbalize that we’re were going to go that extra mile (literally) to make sure I was sound as a pound. 

But on the other hand, I was sweating like a pig and just about tired of briskly walking half-naked in front of these strangers in this silent room.  At that moment, the treadmill kicked it up a notch and I had to actually start running to keep up with it.  I watched the machine as my heart rate went up…166…168…171…175…

 

Finally it got to 185 and the treadmill started slowing down.  I was panting heavily at this point and just wanted a big bowl of ice cream.  I sat down on the wrinkly paper and as the guy nurse was removing my battery pack and suction cups, he said, “Well, it appears that everything is fine.  No abnormalities, no stress, nothing unusual.  The doctor will review the readings and get the results to your doctor on Monday.”  He directed me to the first room, where I got dressed, made my co-payment and left and I could not have gotten out of there quicker.  Done and done.

 

The good news: immediately after it was over, I felt 100% better and less hypochondriacal.  There is nothing that beats hypochondria like real medicine, and even I could tell there was nothing wrong with my heart as I watched it beep-beep beep-beep on the monitor.  Since I left, I haven’t felt like I was going to die even once.  Not once!  Score!

 

And how did I celebrate?  By eating the worst foods possible, of course!  On Saturday, the day after the test, my diet consisted of:

  • Breakfast: bacon, egg, cheese bagel, piece of carrot cake
  • Lunch: Tostito’s, french fries
  • Snack: Coldstone ice cream
  • Dinner: Tostito’s, pizza, 20 beers
  • Dinner II: remainder of pizza, way too many pretzels dipped in nutella
Ah, nothing like being stripped down and partially shaved by a stranger to bring back my old joie de vivre!
 
So in the end, it was worth it and I have no regrets.  And my chest hair, which has an amazing capacity for growth, has already begun filling in the shaved patches!  And the best part is that when I start feeling hypochondriacal again, which should be sometime next week when I wake up in the middle of the night to sneeze, I can just go back and get another stress test!  Hooray!

Although next time, I’ll definitely shave myself beforehand.  That, or I’ll just get my “girlfriend” to do it.  When I visit her upstate, of course.

weekend notes
Jason posted on July 25, 2005

Friends of mine, a married couple, recently had a baby.  On Friday after work, I went to see the baby.  And I mean, wow.  I really love babies.

I don’t mean to be getting all soft on you or anything.  I’m just as bitter and angry as I’ve always been.  And I’m pretty sure I’m not dying (at least 60% sure).  Nor have I found God or anything like that.  He and I are still not anywhere close to reconciling, especially since two weeks ago I called Him at 4 in the morning to leave an angry rant on his voicemail about how quickly milk goes bad and how expensive condoms are. 

And it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with babies.  I am the second oldest cousin on both sides of my family.  On one side, I have fifteen cousins.  On the other, twenty-four.  The point is that I grew up around babies…it seems like I had at least one cousin born every year for about twenty years.

But I’ll tell you, maybe it was the tequila, but seeing this baby really got me.  And I immediately made a decision without seriously thinking about it: I want one.

I know what you’re thinking, “Aren’t you the same guy who fell off his roof two weeks ago because he drank a bottle of shampoo and tried to fly?”  Well, yes, that’s true.  Although it wasn’t technically “falling off”, as I did get a pretty good running start.  Just pointing that out.

All I know is that that baby was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen.  Upon seeing it, I forgot about my low self-esteem, my drinking problems, my sexual, physical and mental impotence, and all those crimes I committed in Ohio, Illinois, Tennessee, Oregon, Washington, Pennsylvania, and New York from 1988 until 1995.  And three times last week.

I realize that in order to have a baby one most procure the help of a real live woman.  All I can say about this is that I’m working on it.  I won’t take any further questions, because they are just too painful.

Two side notes about my baby experience:

1) Everyone came to the new parents’ house with gifts for the baby: clothes, stuffed animals, toys, etc.  I showed up with a bottle of Grey Goose.  Some people made fun of me for this, but I thought this was perfectly acceptable.  Who needs a gift more: the baby who’s been sleeping, eating, and pooping every three hours or the parents who have been harried and sleepless since its birth?  Mulgrew: 1, Others: 0.

2) There was a lot of talk about how expensive baby clothes are.  I think this is kinda moot.  Why would you care what your baby wears anyway?  The baby doesn’t have any idea what it’s wearing, so why not just drape it in old t-shirts for the first few years?  Of course, you can start buying the child clothes when it gets school-age, maybe five or six, because you don’t want him/her getting picked on.  But in the meantime, why not save the cash for other crap and fit him in your old Zeppelin shirt?  Seems pretty simple to me.

**********************************

A lot of the emails I get go something like this:

“Dude, you rock.  Mostly because by being so terrible, you make me feel better about my miserable life.  You should write more about New York City.  I love New York City.”

I don’t exactly know how to respond to this, because I don’t really know what you all want me to say that I don’t say already about NYC.  It’s cool.  And beer is expensive.  Otherwise, not bad.

Do you want me to name drop?  Not that I can name drop, since I know only about seven people here now, but should I say things about where I go?  Like, “On Saturday, went to Anatomy in Alphabet City.  It was cool.  Had to leave though, because Brian somehow lost a shoe.  Then caught a cab to 151 in the LES.  God, that place was so much cooler before all the frat boys discovered it (much like 6s & 8s, which now can get so fratty they might as well set up a beer pong table in the middle of the fucking bar).  Disdain, disdain in your general direction.”

Well, I can’t do that.  It’s too tiresome.  So I’m glad you like NYC and I thank you your suggestion, but th