There were a lot of people from all over the world staggering down La Rambla. The first thing I saw was two Spanish guys shoving a girl. The girl seemed to be enjoying it, which is good because I really didn’t want to beat up any Spaniards this early in the morning. The Spaniards seemed relieved, too, when I sprinted to the other side of the road. They waved to me. “Thank you for sparing us,” I think they said. (My Spanish is not so bueno.)

As I continued to ramble down La Rambla, my nose was filled with a fragrance that reminded me of the time I fell into a bathtub full of wine and then, when I tried to get out, slipped and fell into a pile of dogshit that had been piled next to the tub of wine by a prankster. Amazing how things smell the same wherever you go in the world, I thought as three British men in matching soccer jerseys vomited on my shoes.

I was approached by a 6-foot tall North African prostitute. I brushed her off—she was far too short—but she kept coming back and trying to grab my arm. She said, “Come on, baby. Why not?” I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I just started bawling. “I am cursed,” I told the prostitute. “Everything my penis touches turns to stone. My last girlfriend? She’s in the permanent collection at the Met.” The prostitute left.

At that point, I was beginning to get hungry. I stopped in a well-lit shop and used my rudimentary Spanish to order a coffee and a piece of toast. I asked the shop-keeper, “Could you please over-charge me by 4 Euros?” Apparently my Spanish is better than I thought, because he did just that!

I looked at my watch. What an ugly watch, I thought. Then I looked at the clock on a pharmacy sign. It was time to go back to the hotel. If my grandmother woke up and found I wasn’t lying next to her she would worry herself sick.

NOTE: I NOW HAVE A TUMBLR. GO THERE.

My mother’s name has been changed to “Courtney Love.”

The name of the degenerative bone disease the kid had who beat me with his crutches in fifth grade during recess until I peed myself has been changed to “big muscles.”

The name everyone called me after a handicapped kid literally beat the piss out of me has been changed to “Cool Normal Guy.”

The name of the online role-playing game I played so much in middle school that I stopped showering has been changed to “Volunteering at the Animal Shelter.”

The name of the special class they put me in at school for a week to teach me proper hygiene has been changed to “an accelerated learning program.”

My father’s name has been changed to “Steve Martin.”

The name of the brand of sweatpants I wore every day to school in 8th grade has been changed to “Normal Pants Any 13 Year-old Would Wear.”

The name of the girl I would masturbate to every day while crying softly in the bathroom after school has been changed to “The Real Girlfriend That I Had.”

The name I eventually gave the two-handed masturbation I developed during these sessions has been changed to “Writing My Novella.”

The name for the rare type of muscle strain I developed in my wrist in high school due to incessantly writing my novella in the bathroom has been changed to “winning a prize for how good my novella was.”

The name of the special brace I had to wear on my hand due to my condition has been changed to “a stylish watch.”

The new name the other kids began calling me when they learned the reason for my arm brace has been changed to “Friend.”

The name of the college I attended has been changed to “Princeton.”

The name of the girl I dated for more than three years at Princeton before she dumped me for my best friend, Stephen, has been changed to “Slutbag McGee.”

Stephen’s name has been changed to “He Who Sleeps With Slutbag McGee.”

The name of the sexual dysfunction Slutbag McGee cited as the reason she left me has been changed to “my penis was so big it was intimidating.”

The name of the substance found on my person by police shortly after Slutbag McGee told me she was leaving me for He Who Sleeps With Slutbag McGee has been changed to “cinnamon sugar.”

The name of the job I lost due to my arrest has been changed to “NASA astronaut.”

The name of the nightclub in which I was arrested for possession of cinnamon sugar has been changed to “Kennedy Space Center.”

The name of the act in which police found me and three heavily oiled male strippers engaged, surrounded by cinnamon sugar in a private room at Kennedy Space Center, has been changed to “testing the fit of my astronaut suit.”

The name of the court-mandated treatment facility in which I am writing this has been changed to “extra training for a secret astronaut mission.”

My name has been changed to “Dr. Neil Armstrong.”

Roommates from Adrian Chen on Vimeo.

Here is a video my friends and I made: “Roommates”

Given recent events, we at Survivors of Extremely Violent, Extremely Recent Extremity Detachment (SEVERED) thought it an appropriate time to make our views on health care reform heard. As politicians in Washington chart our country’s health care future, SEVERED feels the interests of those uninsured Americans who have very recently had one or more fingers violently removed are not being sufficiently represented. We refuse merely to sit on the sidelines of this crucial debate, screaming insanely at the pain of having had our thumb and forefinger lopped off by a deli slicer forty minutes ago.

ARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!
It really does hurt, though. Jesus Christ.

As I was saying, SEVERED advocates universal access to health care.  De-fingering affects all Americans. No one is immune from their co-worker Keith distracting them while slicing roast beef so they lop two of their fingers clean off and have between 12 and 36 hours to seek proper medical care before they (the fingers) shrivel up and die forever. This isn’t political ideology: It’s medical fact–at least according to what Keith looked up on WebMD. And it’s a fact that the only option for many de-fingered Americans is to sit on a bench in the parking lot of Mt. Sinai Medical Center, helplessly watching the ice melt in the little baggie carrying their fingers because apparently it costs four hundred bucks just to have a doctor look at the damn—

OH SHIT. Shitshitshitshitshitshit. Jesus mother of Christ. Accidentally just typed those last few letters using my finger stumps. OWWWWWWWWWWW. That was the worst pain ever. What’s weird is it didn’t hurt at all when it first happened; I didn’t even realize they were off until Keith and a couple customers started screaming and pointing. The blood was pretty incredible, though. Who knew fingers used so much blood? Jesus. Look at them, in their little ice baggie, all curled up and white like a couple of jumbo shrimp. The ice probably is from the seafood department, now that I think about it. Ew. OK, feeling light-headed. Feeling…like… I… might… pass… out… No. I’m good. It’s all good—just… just don’t look at them. OK. Whew.

SEVERED believes meaningful reform must reign in the out-of-control costs at the root of our country’s health care crisis. Simply walk into any hospital for emergency finger reattachment surgery and you will see how the current system encourages wasteful spending. Why does a patient who shows up carrying his thumb and index finger in a baggie need a full-body CAT scan? Especially when a CAT scan costs like two thousand bucks, which the fact that the patient arrived at the emergency room in the back of Keith’s beat-up Nissan instead of an ambulance obviously means he doesn’t have that kind of cash. SEVERED supports a health care bill that reimburses doctors based on the number of fingers they actually reattach, not on how many expensive procedures they perform. SEVERED also advocates a bill that reimburses Keith for steam-cleaning the back seat of his Nissan. Shit’s like 50 bucks.

Prevention is the key tad;zlkxcvcf—

Whoops. Pretty hard to type with all this blood on my keyboard. Jesus, there’s a lot more blood since the last time I checked.  Like, a second wave… of… blood.  Am I… passing… out?  No.  Hold on, I’ll staunch the bleeding with this copy of OK! Magazine I stole from the waiting room.  There. Wow, Jennifer Aniston got kind of fat.

Where was I? Oh, right: Prevention is the key to cost containment. Instead of treating severed digits we should address key de-fingering risk factors: Namely, Keith. As nice of a guy as he is, Keith is always trying to tell uninsured Americans about the time he cut a can of beer in half with a chainsaw while they’re trying to concentrate on not having their fingers chopped off by the slicer. We should encourage employers to reduce Keith-related risks in the workplace by placing Keith in a department where there is little-to-no chance of someone slicing their fingers off. Like Produce. Produce is a perfectly fine department, Keith.

HEY! Give that back! I don’t believe this: A crow just swooped into my window from a power line and stole the baggie with my fingers in it while I was typing! GIVE ME BACK MY FINGERS YOU CROW! Great. Another crow just stole my OK! Magazine.

Which brings me to another point: Crows. What are they good for? Seriously: Fuck you, crows. FUCK YOU, CROWS! SEVERED will support any health care bill that includes at least $5 million per year for crow extermination. Come to think of it, SEVERED will support any health care bill whatsoever, as long as it includes the phrase “Fuck you, crows” anywhere in it—even the appendix. Mischievous, finger-stealing crows are the most pressing issue facing uninsured Americans today. I mean, look at Canada. Nobody’s saying everything’s perfect up there, but at least every Canadian goes to sleep at night knowing they’ll be able to kill any crows that might steal their fingers. God forbid.

In conclusion, call your representative and tell them I have lost way too much blood and am definitely passing out now.

HOMELAND SECURITY ALERT NEWS!  A “special task force” (which, in my opinion, every task force is special!) recommended yesterday that Obama reduce the number of colors in the terror alert system from five to three so that Americans can ignore a less-confusing system.  At first I was a little upset, because back when Bush developed the terror alert system I ran to JC Penny and bought an outfit in each of the terror alert colors so I could wear whatever color we were at and let everyone know how frightened they should be. (This turned out to be a bad plan since the level hasn’t been changed from yellow, or “elevated”, since 2006)  Then I read the panel’s proposed replacement color scheme and I became even more upset:

Yellow or guarded: constant state of vigilance to protect against a terrorist attack.

Orange or elevated: increased protective measures based on specific threat information regarding a known or suspected terrorist plot.

Red or high alert: maximum protective measures to protect against an imminent or ongoing terrorist attack.

So, the lowest level–the least threatened state that the U.S. can be in–is a “constant state of vigilance to protect against a terrorist attack.”  Clearly, this isn’t the least amount of terror threat we could be experiencing.  The lowest level of terror threat we could be experiencing is:  “Relax, everybody, no need to worry about a terrorist attack because we killed all the terrorists and all countries love America now.” They should at least tack this on at the bottom so that we’ve got something to shoot for.  The idea that we’re going to forever be in a “constant state of vigilance” is really exhausting to me.  I don’t know what else to say about this because I just got so tired thinking about it that I can barely… type… out… this… last…

MY TERROR ALERT OUTFITS

This recent Times article especially makes me feel like I am squandering my unemployment experience:

[Unemployed people] are flooding the offices of even the most obscure campaigns, looking for purpose and fighting off the despondency and isolation that come with being unemployed.  “I was getting into kind of a depression, so to be a volunteer for Eduardo is like a medicine for me,” said Maria Guillen of Queens, who lost her $100,000-a-year job as a loan officer in December and is volunteering for the City Council candidate Eduardo Giraldo.

So, reader, should I volunteer?  What cause should I lend my comedy writing/cooking skills too?

In recent years, Lego has increasingly focused on toys that many parents wouldn’t recognize from their own childhood. Hollywood themes are commanding more shelf space, a far cry from the idealistic, purely imagination-oriented play that drove Lego for years and was as much a religion as a business strategy in Billund.

So sad, right?  Kids are opening up a LEGO box full of little pre-branded pieces and putting together flawless, corporate-approved copies of their favorite Hollywood blockbusters to reenact the same stupid plots they’d just watched slack-jawed on the big screen two weeks earlier.

I mean, I remember the waning years of the 20th century, back when I was a young LEGO bricklayer–my friend John and I actually had to use a little thing we liked to call our IMAGINATIONS to build incredible things from scratch.  We would have contests to build the most imaginative weapons and then beat each other over the heads with them until we passed out.  I remember, we would stage these incredible penis-building competitions:  Starting with nothing more than 5,000 flesh-colored bricks we would build whole gardens–entire cities!–of erect penises to frolic in.  These days, the only LEGO spaceships kids build are Star Wars™ X-Wings™ or whatever.  But back in those heady days of the early 1990s, John and I would spend hours in my playroom, building intricate, penis-shaped spaceships that we would imagine could take us far away from Earth and all the pain and humiliation we suffered daily at the hands of the enormous kid with the scraggly goatee who would shove us down the front steps at school, calling us “fags” and beating us with his own imaginatively jagged LEGO club until we passed out in a brick-filled haze.

No, I am not taking sole responsibility for this historic achievement.  I am, however, taking most of the responsibility.  See, if there truly is an “army of unemployed” out there then I’m a five-star general.  This is because, outside of the occasional summer job and internship, I have never been fully employed.  This makes me THE MOST UNEMPLOYED PERSON IN THE WORLD–the Martin Luther King Jr. of the laid-off! The Jesus of the idle masses!  And it is writ in Milton Freidman’s Capitalism and Freedom that once every millennium THE MOST UNEMPLOYED PERSON IN THE WORLD appears in the shape of a half-Asian man; and when THE MOST UNEMPLOYED PERSON IN THE WORLD takes a human form, THE HIGHEST UNEMPLOYMENT RATE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD will reign for the next 300 years.  It’s simple cause-and-effect.

So how did a 24 year-old nobody become so spectacularly unemployed that he single-handedly caused the highest unemployment rate in 26-odd years?  Probably the smartest move I made was majoring in Sociology at a small liberal arts school.  This guaranteed my unemployment in all but the most real-estate-bubbly-fucked-up-financial-products-bloated-market.  I wish I could say I shrewdly chose the major because I knew it would help me achieve a record unemployment rate, but I was young and naive at the time and actually believed Sociology to be “interesting” and “maybe useful.”  You know, even penicillin was discovered by mistake!

The second crucial move was taking a year off from college after my sophomore year, thus ensuring that I would strategically graduate at the height of the biggest economic downturn since the Great Depression.  Again, I wish I could say this was far-sighted planning on my part.  In fact, I took a year off because I was uncertain about “what I wanted to do with my life.”  If only I had a time machine!  I would go back to 2004 and show my young, unsure self how he would come to lead the world, as long as that didn’t require putting any pants on.  (Reader, you will come to learn that not putting on pants is one of the great benefits of unemployment.)

The third most important decision I made was choosing journalism as my career.  Everyone knows there is only one journalism job left in the world, and it is calibrating the soulless supercomputer that writes Maureen Dowd’s New York Times column.  (OK, that’s an exaggeration: Calibrating the supercomputer takes twenty-seven people.)  Surely, I must have chosen a clearly dying profession because I knew it would aid in my quest to become THE MOST UNEMPLOYED MAN IN THE WORLD.  No!  I chose journalism because I thought it would get me chicks.  And, judging from all of the fan mail I am receiving in my capacity as THE MOST UNEMPLOYED MAN IN THE WORLD, it looks like that prediction came true, albeit in a round-about way!

So, there you have it.  That’s how I became THE MOST UNEMPLOYED MAN IN THE WORLD and caused our 9.7% unemployment rate.  But if you think I’m stopping now, you’re sadly mistaken.  I have big plans for the next 300 years.  We’re talking double, maybe even triple digits.  There’s only one thing that can stop me, and that’s THE MOST EMPLOYED MAN IN THE WORLD.  Lucky for me, Gerald Ford died a long time ago.