Hosting is Hard Work

Party planning can be hard, especially if you're a social parasite. If you would like to encourage a friend to take over planning for the next bash, be sure to send them this postcard. They'll get the message and you'll be praised for your snappy, scathing pun-liners.

http://recycledorhpan.tumblr.com/post/8965420220

Never Forget Who's Voted for You

I know you’ve heard this from me before and it's going to sound like I’m beating a dead rocking horse, but my life is devoid of materials. It isn’t that I don’t want the goods; to feel a whole person, I need a wide selection of footwear, designer sunglasses, moderately priced paperback novels, and microwave-safe bowls just as much as the next guy. Unfortunately, I have some hot daughters living in the backyard that have torn through and eaten everything I just listed… including the dead rocking horse.

The Bench-walking Wench

When the dogs aren't testing their jaws of life on inanimate and often poisonous products, they are flirting with visitors to the house. While the driveway acts as a revolving door to our hostel environment, our adopted sassholes act as pushy greeters, offering to carry guest’s bags in with their teeth. Of course, this all takes place after each dog has shoved a nose into any new groins in the room; a strict check-in process, not to be disturbed.

We don’t ask anything of visitors but to have a good time, but we do warn them that by the end of their stay here they must vote for their favorite pup. Inevitably, opinions become polarized and tempers flare - ours and the guests mostly, but sometimes the dogs. When I recently saw Mosey cast a disdainful glance at Kona after someone cast a  vote for Kona, I knew it was time to teach her a lesson. Thankfully, she took my words to mouth and I watched as she digested everything I said. In fact, the advice worked so well with Mosey that I’ve decided to take it and apply it to my own life. It’s very simple, as I told Mosey: Never Forget Who’s Voted for You.

Two commas, chillin' on the floor.

I think each of our relationships is an individual Trust spectrum with a ballot box at each end. The boxes slide from Bust to Trust and multiple votes are allowed over a lifetime of interaction. It is important to pause often and check the boxes; I’d like to stay updated on who’s voted/voting for me and thank them for doing so.

I’m not going to thank those that elected me “Prom Prince: Wesley King." Votes for me weren’t cast at some grand event, they happen more often and in much smaller doses than that.

"Don't make me Power Tie you to the chair."

My preschool teacher decided against punishing me for being a “smart-alec” and gave me a kitten instead. A girlfriend’s Grandma and her Grandma’s friends gave me some money for “college expenses” because someday, they said, I was going to do great things. I barely knew them! A redneck gifted me a dollar to fill my flat tire... I gave him all the credit I could even as my credit cards were worthless in that situation. Here, you can borrow my car. Here, you can sleep on my couch. Here, you can stay here, right here, with me! Here, I don’t really know you but you can meet my circle of friends… I’d rather you do that than continue to stand in the corner by the umbrella stand, wading for rain.

I’m sorry to say that each of the above votes of confidence were based on a bad assessment. I’m not untrustworthy, but most of my decisions are path-of-least-resistance and you would get a better return tossing liquid assets into a waterfall. Yet people continue to trust me, and someday, inevitably, someone will do the same for you. I know, I agree, they are entirely too trusting! But whether the trust is small (they trust you with their time, their smile, their secrets) or large (horse-sitting, model train-set, experimental brain surgery), remember to thank them, or, at least, acknowledge their actions.

I’ve discovered the real world isn’t a vacuum, so I’m trying to suck less. Help me out… remind me of a time you trusted me so I can make fun of you for it. Just please don’t tell me which pup you like more; I’d rather you whisper it in their ears when you visit. Trust me, they won’t forget.

AARP: The American Association of Resplendent Penguins

My cousin has been getting flooded with AARP mail. Without fail, every time the mailbox is opened there is another bullet-point riddled printout unabashedly spackled with pictures of Jerry Geriatric. Jerry is usually using his feeble cane-graspers to massage an older woman who he is probably dating because she puts out… the trash every Thursday night, which he somehow always forgets to do. The mail is by far the most entertaining communication we receive as a household; all else consists of bills and birthday cards from our insurance agents.

Smile! The camera adds ten years.

AARP is an acronym for Appropriate Age to Rest in Peace. While this doesn't mean you must necessarily find the nearest bucket and kick it, it does mean that you and whoever you spend your time with should break out that bucket list and ravish it from top to bottom. Some couples have a concerted art attack; the two biggest draws on their bank accounts become museum tickets and postcards from museum gift shops. Others choose to find peace by swapping overmedicaiding for oversharing and overmedicaring. Some get angry at their inability to express their thoughts; life becomes effing ineffable.

Back to the mysteries of the mailbox. At first, it seems odd that anyone in our household should be getting AARP mail. Our average age is 23.52. However, when you take into account my cousin’s maturity level, the picture begins to clarify; he is wise beyond his years. When you witness the things he can do with an eagle-handle cane with exotic inlaid hardwood, it becomes even more evident that he is the definition of what the AARP hopes to be. Finally, when you find out that he recently added himself as my Grandpa on Facebook, you understand completely. It proves that what happens off of Facebook didn’t happen, and what happens on Facebook is the most vital of the USDA’s recommended daily intake categories for social meat eaters.

Age is so circularly peculiar. What once was the most arresting void – the three years between 18 and 21 – is now simply one collection of memories on the line drive that is life. As birth and death act as baselines, pastimes lose their significance and we begin to find appeal in the sexy wild pitches the future is sure to toss at us.

Bring on the wild pitches, bitches. My name is Wesley King, my cousin is my grandpa, and I collect AARP mail for motivation. Viagra is my favorite salad topping.  

White t-shirts: recently patented by young AARPers.

Blessing in The Skies

Friends,

I will always cherish the days of recent and hope for better to come. For that, I thank the likes of North America, that country of no small wonder which has given me some of the best it has to offer. From Wisconsin, Michigan, Colorado, New York, North Carolina, California, and Illinoise! (even one from Ohio.) Oh, and CHINA!

You have sat with me through free clinics about ankle health and wealth clinics about the mental self. You've humored me as a large man wearing NOTHING but overalls broke the news that the party I found on Craigslist was, as we suspected, strictly for gay people. You have guided me through the 72 oz. mini-waterfall needed to stay hydrated on "binge day." You have helped me write rap and love songs about global warming and speeding trains. 

You have touched me on the shoulder and asked questions you knew I wouldn't answer, because I always have to be the question-asker. You have seen me hot, you have seen me sweaty. You have seen me grab collars and defend bow ties. You have seen me with your dog and you have seen me onstage laughing with a gay ghost. We have watched a #TigerBleed #TigerBlood on the sidelines of a soccer match, and never once considered this inappropriate.

You have passed me the basketball and asked me to pass the ketchup. You have watched me embarrass myself and watched me watching you, which is embarrassing. I have slept on your couch and your coupon futon and if you're a good friend I've probably shared a hotel bed or tent with you. We've danced (no exceptions) and shared family dinner. You found out I was homeschooled and still let me meet your parents (except you, Zhang it!),

You've walked with me on the streets of Chapel Hill; you've watched me talk the breath out of a taxi driver; you've paid for my dinner a time or two. You let me give you a nickname and bad relationship advice. You've seen me smile with my eyes closed. You showed me your Golden Gate city, you've laughed with one hand in the air and the other on the handlebar of a hastily-rented tandem bike.

Me + my three best friends of all time.

You've talked me down to my face and talked me up behind my back. You are as a whole more than I deserve, but individually I see how I could have done better. Joking, haha. You are a Carbamaraptor taking shots at a Pink Thang in the lime-green leafery of SoCal. I have fixed your computer with one hand and broken the license plate off your Audi with the other. We graduated together, we were new hires together. We have lived in sin in a 21st century brothel, meanwhile, we've watched the universe expand. 

No matter who you are, I've been worried about you. You can always do better, be cuter, get richer or die faster, in my opinion. I want these things for you, but I'd almost rather we put that on pause and press play on Dexter or Californication. I miss you if you're gone; I welcome you if you're just getting here.

Why the Eagle Floating Above your Doorway should be Named Wes, not Mike

So my best friend Joe lives with my other best friend Pete and last weekend they decided they were going to name their eagle after me. Well, technically they decided they were going to name it Wes or Mike, depending on whose essay was better. So here is the essay previously requested, by my best friend Pete and my other best friend, Joe (the Taxidermist):

Why the Eagle Floating Above your Doorway should be Named Wes, not Mike

I'd like to quickly get to the point. Kinda like an eagle likes to immediately tear out the heart of it's prey; let's get to the heart of the matter.

An eagle named Mike is bound to be orthodox, loose of the loins, and full of bad suggestions. An eagle named Wes, on the otherhand, is sure to inspire wild pride among partygoers, raucous trends (in the sexual sense), and be a scary judge of talent*.

Cameron Diaz has a cousin who once said, "If giving a whore a tip is a sin, then I'm the Devil's avocado." Where does this insight leave us? Naked on a friend's porch... undoubtedly. But how can we apply this to life in the 21st century - or life in the fast lane, with Facebook in our left hand and MySpace between our legs? Just like this: An avocado is ripe for the plunging, ready to be eaten and succulent to the lips. Put it in your mouth. Put Cameron Diaz' cousin in your mouth. You won't regret it.

An eagle named Mike is like Cameron Diaz' cousin. Has a voice, has a reason to live, but no reason to "soar."   An eagle named Wes gets sore every night and goes soaring every morning.

An eagle is freedom, strength, courage, good eyesight, hunting, aggressiveness, a good haircut (an always haircut), talons, wingspread, an anti-owl political stance, liberty, a "can do, will do" attitude, and a crisp respect for female eagles (often referred to a feathered Fionas!).

An eagle named Mike is apt to be a hit at your party... but will anyone remember the eagle's name when they get home? No. Sorry Mike, but no. Nobody is going to say "Do you guys remember that eagle, uh sorry, can't remember his name. Help me out?"

Will they remember an eagle named Wes? Absolutely! "Guys, I felt so focused under Wes' admiring gaze last night! I want to meet Joe and Pete again!"

Sure, Mike might be laying eaglets around the globe at an alarming rate, but is that really what you want in a house mascot? Personally, I wouldn't mind a classy feathered fella named Wes who gives hope and pomp, AND circumstance to anybitch who walks within 5 leagues of his observational range.

Make the right choice. Name the eagle Wes. You won't regret the choice, but it might just change your life for the better. Be ready to be popular.

-Wes, the Human

*Only at wet t-shirt parties.

The Rarest Heiress

I don't want you to walk unarmed into a conversation about me. Here's the down low.

Sketch from Scratch

Teaspoon and I scratched our way through the Sketch 201 class at DSIComedy in Carrboro, NC. Each week we wrote a sketch and then went to class to get yelled at for being too racist, too sexist, or just plain unattractive. Then they took a look at what we wrote. By the end of eight weeks, our class size had dwindled to Three Kings: myself, Teaspoon, and a Brian. We performed four sketches on a Friday night to a crowd that was well attended by many of our friends. Sketch topics ranged from gay raccoons to gay ghosts to uncatchable pussies. Yeah, there wasn't much range.

Social Meat Eater

In an attempt to strengthen my online prowess and influence, I've decided to become a woman and start talking more. While that shouldn't need further explanation, I'll elaborate anyway. I found out through Klout that I wasn't where I needed to be socially. I have launched an attack on Twitter to remedy. 

The Plan? To "create."  Then "engage." Then "share." I've been historically cyclical at creation, which draws from motivation, determination, and emaciation. I usually keep my mouth to myself, but I've been opening it more and sharing opinions... whatever those are. Engaging is still an area that needs improvement. Help me out and engage on me.