Archive | April, 2009

My Interview With the CIA

15 Apr

Tuesday I had a job interview with the CIA. I drove up to the CIA Dallas office, apprehensive yet hopeful. I put on my Mavs Fan For Life t-shirt, turn my Cowboys hat backwards on my head, throw on my Rangers jacket and blow my nose on my Dallas Stars hoodie and began the walk to the offices. I wanted to look full of spirit for my interview. I have to change though, when the men at the door say that what I’m wearing isn’t appropriate attire for a formal appointment, so I go back to my car and put on my suit. I look fantastic.

“Hello. I’m here for my interview.” I say, nervously. My back and legs are covered in a cold sweat– my crotch, several small drops of urine.  In my stomach, there are butterflies. Probably because of the nervousness–but more likely because of the handful of butterflies I ate out of the flower beds adjacent to the sidewalk. I thought eating them would give me positive, butterfly-like energy. It didn’t. It gave me the runs and feelings of guilt and shame that I haven’t experienced since that one time I yelled out “Hey everybody! Wait for the hilarious bloopers!” at the end of “the Passion of the Christ.”

“Who are you here to see, young man?” The receptionist asks me. God, they’re already trying mind games with me. ‘Who am I here to see?’ Are they kidding me? I want to reach out and open palm slap this woman, but I won’t. No. I’ll do ’em one better. I’ll beat her mentally. No, I’m too scared.

“I’m here to see…the government?” I put my two hands up in order to make the “me no know” motion. She laughs. I think she wants to have sex with me.

“What kind of business do you have here, sir?” She seems impatient. This hurts my feelings a little bit, mostly because  the eating of the butterflies has made me very, very sensitive.

“I have a job interview,” I say.

“Ok. That’s fine. If you’ll just have a seat, Major Peters will be out any moment.”

“Thank you.” At this, I lift up the pen that is chained to the desk and, in a manner that can only be described as ‘sextreme,’ wrap the chain around my pointer finger and make a jacking off motion with the pen. Then I rip it off the desk at the point of climax, and with the essence of cool I lean over and say “…Oops…”

We bone.

Approximately 15 minutes after I ejaculate I am asked into a small room by a Major Peters. He’s a nice man–tall, clean cut, eyes stern yet inviting, as if he knows that everyone he’s looking at has something important to do. I automatically hate him.

“So, Mr. Irion, I see you applied to be an OOR officer overseas.”

“Yes sir. I would very much value my time in the Gaygency.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” He said. He’s still smiling, but with a tinge of confusion.

“Gaygency. Remember? From ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls.’ How many people called you guys about my job?”

“P…nobody. Mr. Irion, nobody called about your employment here. And I have no idea what ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls’ is.” I burst out laughing at the point of someone not having read my material. I’m laughing almost to the point of hysterics. My gut starts to hurt. I spit up 3 butterflies.

“You haven’t read it yet?” I asked, “You still on that Easter one? Cool, man. You’re busy. You’re busy.”

There are several moments of markedly uncomfortable silence. I decide to just break the ice and cut to the chase.

“When do I get my check?”

I’m violently removed from the CIA offices by two burly, gay men.

Ugh. They weren’t really gay.

The Central Intelligence Gaygency lived up to its name today. I didn’t get the stupid job, but I didn’t want it anyway. I still have my friends, and that’s really all that matters!

Also, I’m going to need a place to live and some food to eat once I graduate–so–if I could get you guys to maybe leave addresses for me to stay at–that’d be great. I need a home. Adopt me.

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For Kyle the Bell Tolls

12 Apr

Recently, I’ve been notified that sometimes people, old people, have to get jobs in order to make what my father lovingly refers to as “money.” I’ve never had a need for money. All my expenses have been paid through an intricate system of bartering and a unique economic strategy I call “stealing.”

When I went to college, I decided I wanted to pick  a degree that would almost automatically ensure me six figures or more of dollars a year (Sorry, I’m still getting used to using money cents terms in my life.). Anyway, the major I ended up picking was English, because I knew that Ernest Hemingway was rich as hell and he went on boats and did big game hunting. That sounded perfect–just what I wanted to do. The cruel joke was revealed to me two weeks ago, when I went to a local publisher, handed them a manuscript of my first novel, “Kyle’s Alright: The Kyle Irion story, with a foreward by Maury Povich.” I then patiently waited to receive my boat. After twenty or so minutes of standing silently at the front desk, coughing to receive attention, then looking away as if I hadn’t, I asked the woman where my “damn money boat” was. She looked at me, confused. I told her that authors get money, usually in increments of large, unwieldy piles, for their work. She laughed. I growled. She looked nervous and backed away from me. I looked hungry and stepped toward the desk. However, I was already leaning on it, so all I could really do was lean forward slightly. After several uncomfortable seconds, I backed away. It was here that she told me that manuscripts had to be accepted and then published and then enjoyed by several thousand readers before I could have anything close to Hemingway-esque glory. I asked her what about the guy who wrote Goosebumps, can I just get what he got? I could not.

Have you ever seen me cry? If you said yes to this question, consider yourself marked. If you said no, believe me, it’s not pretty. Long story short, I cried. I hate it when people tell me “Sir, no, there aren’t any…millions of money bucks…in that fountain. Please, leave.” I figured I was being Punk’d, so I ran up and viciously assaulted the closest guy in a trucker hat, not because he looked like Ashton Kutcher, but because he probably thought he did. I wasn’t being Punk’d. I was being Truth’d.

So what do I do? I can’t just give up, right?

I was really asking. Could I give up? No, of course not. So, last Monday, or “Funday” as I call it, I heard an ad on the radio advertising advertising opportunities with the CIA. I love James Bond, and I love abbreviations. I lv. abbr.’s One day, I’ll write a blog completely in abbreviations, and they’ll have to close down the internet because of all the traffic to my site. I’m saving that one, though, for when dick jokes aren’t funny anymore. *Shivers*

I applied online, and it took me half an hour. This is roughly 28 minutes more than I’d wanted to spend filling this application out. After filling it out, I clicked “submit” and then opened my wallet, so I could literally watch all the centavos entran mi carpeta. No go. No centavos. No entran. No speaky ingles. So I figured that they were probably going to want to interview me first, to make sure that I actually own a wallet. I was so excited I made this face:

Wait...no, that's not right.

Wait...no, that's not right.

The face I made was closer to this:

That's it. There you go. that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So there I am. I’m waiting. I’m anticipating. I’m respirating. Sure enough, I never get a call from the CIA. I’m not sure why, but they never gave me a ring. I signed up to be a secret recruiter. Pretty much I would of gone overseas to find people who I thought were CIA material and bring them into the fold. Why did I think I would be qualified for this? The same reason anybody thinks about joining the CIA: I really liked The Recruit with Al Pacino and Colin Farrell. What is it about me that’s so un-CIA? Is it that I have a degree in writing and literature? Could it be that I have no military experience whatsoever? Could it possibly be that my last job was listed as a “Salad Cook”? No. I will posit that the CIA is not interested in me because every single staff member is afraid that I would steal their job.

That’s it. Nothing else makes sense. Please call or e-mail your congressman and lobby for my employment in the Central Intelligence Agency, or as I call it (at least until they wise up) the Centrall Intelligence Gay-gency. Get out there and make a difference, kids.

Marshmallowy Candy and Crucifixtion. YUMMY!

11 Apr

So Sunday is Easter. Today (when I started this…thing…) is Good Friday. I have in fact had a good Friday. So hurray! I believe in God again. Anyway, I recently heard about a new kind of the Easter marshmallow candy known as “Peeps.” They now have chocolate Peeps. **Sits for roughly 45 minutes staring blankly at computer screen. “Where the hell do I go from here?” I think to myself. OH I KNOW! Ok. Now I’m inspired.**

Honestly, who among us knows why we hide Easter eggs on Easter (other than the fact that it would be abundantly stupid to call them Christmas eggs), or why the mascot for Easter is a giant rabbit? I sure as hell don’t. And if I don’t, you better not know either, because if you do, that means you got one up on me, and that makes you dangerous. I don’t like dangerous people. Dangerous people make me nervous, and I don’t like to be nervous. Being nervous makes me gassy and needy. I fixed St. Patrick’s day, I turned April Fool’s into a day celebrated by scholars and academics around the world, and now it’s time for me to blow this Easter shit down to China town. Let’s make a memory.

A long time ago, way before Rocky I, the Persians started celebrating a festival called Nowrooz every year around the time as the Spring Equinox. This served as their New Years celebration.

You can call me Xerxeaster from now on! Let's kill some Athenians!

Once a year King Xerxes demanded to be called "King Xerxeaster."

This tradition is roughly 2,5oo years old. Some believe that Darius I put the Holy Grail in a giant, pink Easter egg and hid it from his people as an Easter joke. Of course, we have yet to recover the Holy Grail, and we probably won’t ever recover it unless we start taking all the Indiana Jones movies a lot more seriously.

The egg is also seen as a symbol for rebirth and renewal, a parallel to the biblical story of Jesus’ resurrection.

Pre-Christian Saxons, a big bunch of Germanic tribes that invented the saxophone (Editor’s note: saxophone invented by Adolphe Sax. Kyle’s an idiot.), had a goddess called Eostre. The feast for this lovely ethereal lady was held on March 21, their vernal equinox. Her animal was the spring hare, or rabbit if you’re not a pretentious bastard like the guy who wrote the Wikipedia article. I hate that guy.

Pope Gregory the Great (preceded by Pope Philip the Just OK) ordered his missionaries to preach from old religious sites and absorb them into the christian doctrine. This would explain the Easter egg’s presence in western, predominantly Christian, culture.

For Orthodox Christians, the eggs are called Orthodox Easter Eggs and they’re painted red to symbolize the blood of Christ. I paint my easter eggs green to symbolize the blood of the Grinch. It’s taught that when Mary came to visit Christ’s tomb, she brought some eggs to share with the other women who were grieving. Upon seeing Jesus risen, the eggs became red…Commie Red. (Editor’s note: The eggs turned red to symbolize the blood of Christ. There are no communist leanings in the Gospel. Kyle’s an idiot.)

The Easter bunny was brought to America by the Pennsylvanian Dutch. The bunny’s roots are in Germany. For years these Easter bunnies were called “Oschter Haws,” a phoenetic pronunciation of the German word Osterhase. Children were told to hide baskets in secluded parts of their homes and the Easter bunny would come and lay eggs in it. This was a long time ago when rabbits layed eggs…like the 80’s or something. Cows also reproduced as cells do, by splitting. (Editor’s note: I’m really sorry.)

So eerie...so pagan...so German.

Delightful!

Happy Easterz, bitches.

MAIL TIME

4 Apr

I get “tons” of reader e-mail every day. People ask me all kinds of questions: relationship questions, sports questions, cooking questions, disposing of evidence questions. I try to answer as many of these as I can. Most of the responses read like this:

“You’ve e-mailed the wrong person.”

But every now and then I’ll take a few moments to sit and really think about the e-mails I receive. All your e-mails mean a lot to me, as they are tangible symbols of my fame and importance. Also, I love to help, especially when I can do it in an entertaining way, like when I helped that woman out of her burning vehicle, all the while doing my best Christopher Walken impression (“WOW your car is uh..your car is on FIRE.” Classic.).

Let’s get this shit going.

I was wondering what the precise meaning and origin of the word “dumbface” was. Does the person have to be dumb, or just look that way? And also, if you put together a Dumbface Hall of Fame, who would be in it, and what makes them qualified? i was thinkin’ maybe John Rocker and the fat kid from “Remember the Titans” for starters. –Sam, Denton TX

Sam, great question. I almost cried when I read it. For those of you who don’t know, “dumbface” is a recently innovated term describing faces that resemble the likes of this:

perfect.

perfect.

The look of “dumbface” has nothing to do with being dumb or being ugly. No, dumbface is something completely its own. Someone with dumbface perpetually adorns a look just south of confusion, maybe a little bit of “Wait, what?”. These people are sometimes called “mouth-breathers.” Obviously, the Dumbface Hall of Fame would include Eli Manning, Super Bowl Champion, as well as 14-time Olympic gold-medalist Michael Phelps.

mike-orioles-hat

I think in some circles, George W. Bush, 43rd president of the United States, could also be included; but let’s not get political.

Kyle, I hate most things. I’m an incredibly negative person who is almost impossible to please. When my friends and me go to movies, I can never get excited about them. When I meet new people, they’re always kind of spare-ish. Music is always just “all right.” I want to like things. I’m getting more and more depressed daily. Sometimes I wonder, what is life worth living if you never enjoy a second of it. What should I do?-Phil, Charlotte NC

Phil. I’m hoping this is Phil Collins. Really. If this is Phil Collins, it would make sense that you don’t like any other music–everything sucks after you’ve written a song as good as “Easy Lover.” That’s perfectly normal. I love that song “Mama” you wrote when you were with your band Genesis. Awesome, Phil. I wish you’d written the book of Genesis. The writing would be way less “holy” or “usable,” but the drum solos would be badass. Do you like the movie “Tarzan”? Ah, nevermind. I don’t care. I hope that helped.

Just got done reading your “Liveblogging” entry. How is Jane Austen in bed anyway? How proud was she? How prejudice was she? I want the dirty details. –Seaborn, Highland Village TX

Hahaha, Seaborn. You’re crazy. You are. Well, I didn’t ACTUALLY have sex with Jane Austen. You see, I was trying to appeal to the literary intellect of my professor. He didn’t like it; I mean, he kicked me out of the class. That stupid Jane Austen joke ruined my academic career. Why would you think it would be funny to bring it up again? Your name is stupid. Get off my web site. (But between you and me, she was fucking insane.)

Me and my boyfriend have been together for nearly 4 years now. He still hasn’t mentioned anything about marriage, and every time I do, he gets really weird. I try to be calm and talk to him about it, but every time I do he kind of shuts down and asks me to please return to my seat, that he’ll “call my number when my order is ready.” What does that mean? Oh, Kyle. He’s so distant. He just stands there behind the counter and takes peoples’ coffee orders. What should I do?-Charlene, Orlando FL

Charlene. Are you at a Starbucks? Is that guy behind the counter wearing a green apron and an expression of somewhat unfounded superiority? If you answered yes to these questions, you’re at a Starbucks. Close your laptop, throw your coffee away, and leave the building. Never return. I once fell in love with a girl who worked at the Chick-Fil-A in the food court at the mall. She actually loved me back, though, so I suppose this isn’t all that relevant. My bad.

Kyle, how many gays? Lanny, Dallas TX

What?

Hey Kyle, long time reader here. Just a real quick personal question: do you think it’s funny to trick your room mate into doing illegal shit just so you can have the pleasure of yelling “April Fools!” while he’s being carted away to Denton County Corrections? You think that’s funny? I hope you die, Kyle. God in heaven I hope something terrible happens to you. I hope you get a bad batch of whiskey that actually ends up giving you some kind of cancer, any kind really, hopefully the worst kind. You know what I hope? I hope your life ends up like that lady boxer in “Million Dollar Baby,” except instead of Clint Eastwood mercy killing you with some injections, he just looks at you, snarls, and shoots you in the leg with an M1 Garand.Derek, Right Fucking Next Door

Oh hey, Derek! I love how you love to reminisce. Anyway, we’re out of milk. Can you get it this time? Kylester’s a bit low on cash, you know. The credit cruch, AIG ‘n shit, right? Love you. I used your bed as a toilet.

Well there you go, everybody. My first mail bag. Really, really good stuff. If you want to have a part in the next mail bag, e-mail me your questions to ri0026@gmail.com . Happy Saturday, everyone. Say your prayers, call your mom, apologize to your dog or cat for spaying or neutering it. It deserves that much.

You’re My April Fool

2 Apr

It’s April 2nd. I’m an idiot. I was so excited about April Fool’s Day this year, I stayed up for 4 days straight planning the greatest prank ever, and accidentally slept through most/all of yesterday. OOPS! Anyway, today is Thursday, April the 2nd, and this is Giggle Time™

*Theme music plays, beautiful women cover themselves in chili*

Hello to all of my gracious readers (mom, dude from English class). Did you have a good April Fool’s Day?

April Fool’s Day is a holiday that not many people know the actual origin of– much like Christmas and Easter soon will be. I’m here to remedy this grave holiday injustice. I saved St. Patrick’s day from obscurity (Several readers wrote in saying they thought the holiday had something to do with the canonizing of Patrick Swayze.), and now I’m turning my cross-hairs of truth onto April Fool’s day.

April Fool’s is “officially” recognized nowhere, but “unofficially” recognized all over the world as a day for humor, jokes, and various forms of physical and emotional abuse conveniently masked as “pranks.” In most countries, such as the UK, Austria, New Zealand, South Africa, and Canada, the practical jokes usually last until noon. These pranksters are called “April Fools.” In countries like the US, Ireland, and France, where the jokes last all day, these pranksters are called “Ass Holes.”

There are several theories as to the actual origin of this hallowed day. May 1st, May Day, used to be known as the first day of summer. Now it’s known as Candy and dances at “Master Blaster.” But back in the day, May 1st marked the beginning of summer and the day to plant for the spring harvest. The people who got confused and did this early, on April 1st, were called–you guessed it–big fucking idiots. Also, they were called April Fools.

Some other, less interesting people believe that the April Fool tradition dates back to France, when King Charles IX changed the beginning of the year from April 1st to January 1st. Some historians believe King Charles did this so that New Years Day would line up with Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve, which up until that point had been a confusing, somewhat pointless celebration of dropping a spherical chandelier onto Times Square.

April Fool’s is also thought to perhaps have a biblical origin, with Noah sending off a raven to search for land prematurely (on April 1st). However, in recent years, this has been found to be historically impossible, because ravens were not invented until 1996, when the National Football League commissioned a Baltimore scientist to invent a new mascot for their latest expansion team: The Baltimore Ravens. That is so interesting. I love that.

Last year I pranked my room mate Derek when I called him and told him I had been shot and robbed by a marauder and was dying, and that he could save me, but he had to come rescue me–fast. I told Derek he needed to run as fast as he could, I wasn’t sure how long I would be able to hold on. I also warned him about people getting in his way and slowing him down, so he’d probably want to be screaming so they could hear him coming and get out of his way. Feigning weakness, I told Derek that I’d lost a LOT of blood and didn’t have much time, so he needed to come extra fast, maybe take his shirt off or something to decrease wind resistance. Derek agreed to all of these. I told him I would probably need him to help get the bullet out, so he needed to bring a big knife to dig the bullet out with. On the verge of tears, Derek asked me where he could find me. I told him I was in the woman’s restroom in the University of North Texas Recreation Center. Later, I got him again when I told him I was going to post his bail.

AHHHH! A BEAR!

AHHHH! A BEAR!

Did I scare you? April Fools! Oh, that’s right. I forgot that was yesterday. Well, I don’t care. I’m not taking it down. I’m not.

...I'm noT...

...I'm noT...

Ok, enough. This is getting out of hand. Happy April Fool’s Day everyone.

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