If hobo scrotum cannot jolt writers block, really what can? I was double fisting caffeinated beverages in my preferred pretentious coffee joint trying to figure out how to kick-start my reign as columnist. I applied because I really just wanted to make people listen to my jokes and complain about my family, but from prior experience I have found immediately jumping into either of those topics, null of hard alcohol, really just tends to freak people out. Retaining readers, making friends and even successfully sculpting modeling clay are all like virgin sex: you can’t just start pounding away, you have to ease into it, warm things up a bit.

So back to the hobo scrotum, I was lost in an odd conversation about dog colonoscopies at the table next to me when my vision’s peripheral action won my attention. A haggard crazy-eyed man, with a look of pure vengeance, had whipped out his mighty meat and proceeded to urinate on the canine that had taken up residence on his square of sidewalk, the coveted awning shielded section. I was awkwardly transfixed and imbued with thought.

The inner dialogue that manifested as a result: I wonder how cold it would have to be for his pee to freeze mid arc… I applaud him for actually bringing his joystick out in this weather… Poor guy, he’s going to get literal blue balls.

I find myself wondering if the frequent oddities in my life are actually abnormal in occurrence, or if it is simply my reactions warping and embellishing an average reality. Regardless, I have discovered the only way not to drown in the anxieties and demands of life is to look for the weirdness and to find humor in the mundane events, and entertain yourself. Laughter is an orgasm of the soul.

Now to hold true to my motivation for this column, finding humor in life begins with the root of your being, typically, your family. My family interactions are either an example of my arguably warped view of the world or the reason for it — I am too distorted to tell. The only thing for certain is a subtle carbon monoxide leak cannot be to blame: I checked, and our air is suitable for the most immune deficient individuals!

Dec. 22, 2010: Mother Bear in the kitchen with a microwave

It was my first night home from college and I walked in to find my mother perched upon the counter gnawing away at her non-fat, synthetic, sugar-protein infused brain bar and taking some sort of Alzheimer’s prevention quiz when all the sudden smoke began to seep from our microwave, which surely fails to meet any modern safety standards, zapping our daily grub with carcinogenic waves and causing the radioactive rape of my future, now cone-headed, spawn. My dad meandered in, sporting only his Darth Vader boxers, which seem to cause a lot of uncomfortable moments. They have “dark side” splayed across the ass, except due to recent weight gain half the world gets lost in his crack leaving just “da ride.” He then proceeds to open the microwave releasing an explosion of smoke and charred cookie remains. The next thing I know, the fire alarms are going off and my 12 year-old ginger brother is screaming like a seven year-old Japanese girl while running around in a gas mask (where he got it, I have no clue). Once the panic level dropped below that equal to being actively mauled by a bear, my mother spent the evening masking the burnt smell with apple mango-tango Febreze until Hollister would have been a respiratory escape. But surprisingly, as the mango tango slowly asphyxiated me, nostalgia followed closely behind…or maybe that was just the nausea. Home sweet home.