News & Articles

The flushable wet wipes in my bathroom are not there “because my nephew recently visited.” My nephew has never been to my apartment. They are there because I am an impatient man.

“Walden” by Henry David Thoreau holds one of the most prominent spots in my bookshelf. I’ve never read it. I tried to read it once, but my limited attention span only allowed me to get through ten pages.

I lied in that last paragraph. I only got through three pages. Sometimes I even have trouble getting through comic books. This frightens me.

Other books I own but have never read include “The Poetry of Robert Frost,” “The Silmarillion” by J.R.R. Tolkien, “The Waste Land and Other Poems” by T. S. Eliot, two different John Updike books, a graffiti art book that is roughly 90 percent photos, and that giant freaking autobiography of Mark Twain, the size of which has frozen me with fear since the day I bought it.

I have, however, read two biographies of Chris Farley and nearly all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond books. The latter’s reading difficulty is about the same as the back of a cereal box.

My PlayStation controller wasn’t broken by the dog. It broke because I got mad and threw it across the living room. They were spamming us with grenades. It was TOTAL BULLSHIT.

I once won a feature photography award from the Minnesota Newspaper Association, and constantly bring it up when touting my “journalistic” talents. What I neglect to mention is that I won it for a photo I took of a fat guy who fell asleep with his hand down his pants at a horse pull. I would explain what a “horse pull” is, but it’s not going to make things any more impressive.

To make matters worse, the feature photography award was second place. The winning photo was of a little girl holding a rabbit at a petting zoo. Seriously. I’m not making this up. It’s the Minnesota Newspaper Association. Shit is real.

My resume says I’m fluent in PHP coding, but I’m actually only semi-fluent. It’s okay if you hate me. I understand. I’m sure I’ll find friends in the new town I have to move to in order to escape this despicable lie.

Yes, I listen to the Monkees album I have hidden in the back of my record collection. No, I don’t listen to the Miles Davis record in the front. It’s just there so people don’t think I’m 14 years old or racist.

If you come to my apartment and ask about my toy collection, I’ll lie to you about which ones are most valuable, just in case you plan to rob me later.

I haven’t updated my Facebook profile photo in roughly four years. Does that count as a lie, even if it’s mostly general laziness?

When I was 18 years old, I claimed to enjoy artsy films, but my actual movie choices were based on whether the actresses in a film had nice boobs. That strategy has not changed for me since. It’s the reason I have seen nearly every Jennifer Love Hewitt film ever made, despite all of them being terrible.

I tell everyone that my dog is really happy, but I’m pretty sure he’s bored off his ass.

I own five forks. I use zero of them.

Sometimes we tell lies to ourselves. I once bought a shirt because I thought it would make me look like Matthew McConaughey. It did not. Oh lord, did it not.

I’ve tried to convince myself that the liquor warehouse wasn’t placed next to the Petco on purpose, but how could it not have been? Toys for the dog, toys for me. If they add a White Castle and a fitness studio where ladies do yoga in front of a giant window, I’ll rent an apartment across the street and die there of old age.

I tell people I haven’t worked out since high school, but that’s not really true because in high school we mostly just stood around the weight room and drank Mountain Dew until an hour had passed.

I’m not sure I’m cooking eggs correctly, but I don’t want to search the internet for “how cook eggs” because Google saves that shit and I don’t want to create definitive proof of me being stupid. Well, I don’t want to create MORE definitive proof.
It’s okay for me to print embarrassing things in this column, though, because no one will ever read or save copies of the Duluth Reader. If this nonsense is remembered, it will only be by accident.