when a hippie falls down in a drum-circle-less forest, does anyone give a fuck?

There is always something weird about visiting your parents.  All that latent selfish laziness from the teenage years presents as if it never even had any hiatus. Things I do every day without even thinking about them (washing dishes, cooking food, putting stuff away, running errands) become such a pain in the ass that I totally don’t have time for them because I have serious shit to do here, Mom, and why can’t you just lay off? Sure, that "serious shit" involves watching a midday TiVo’d episode of "Monk" I’ve already seen while chowing down on something called "Tofu Paté" exactly half an hour before dinnertime specifically to spoil my appetite so I don’t have to eat my parents’ bullshit establishment cooking, man (!!!), but what’s it to you? One day back in Eugene and I become Paul Rudd in "Wet Hot American Summer," going "FWAARGH!" and flopping around the room with my eyes in a perpetual roll.

It is fascinating to discover that this even applies when my parents are out of town–I came here to visit them and then they reacted just like any normal person would and beat feet to Tahoe, leaving me with a complicated list of lawn-watering instructions and a fridge full of groceries I didn’t have to pay for. Now after negating my original impulse (PARTY AT MY HOUSE!!! WHOOO!) with the reminder that I have exactly zero friends in Eugene who do not have spouses and children (and nobody fucks up a keg tap faster than a four-year-old; trust me), I had the scary realization that I could spend three days doing nothing but painting my toenails and eating in the TV room (the second activity is fiercely verboten due to the 100,000,000:1 ant/person ratio in Oregon), catching up on my situps, staring at the ceiling wondering why this copy of Der Mann Ohne Eigenschaften won’t read itself, and having a good internal chuckle about why Ayn Rand still sucks after all these years (self-referential WINKY FACE ;)).

Anyway, I’m sure you have all had exactly these feelings recently, as I am universal and not "quirky" to the point of double-annoying. Speaking of double-annoying, I also had a chance to check out this Dane Cook fellow the kids keep talking about, and he has inspired me to go to work for Massengil AND Summer’s Eve simultaneously so that I could revolutionize douche bag technology and REDEFINE the douche bag so that the new SuperDoucheBag could adequately express what a douche bag Dane Cook is. Is this really the current young generation’s Richard Pryor? I mean, I realize my generation and its insufferable hipster comics is a little snobby, but at least David Cross, Patton Oswalt, Brian Posehn and my future manžel Eugene Mirman are funny (the subversive hipsteriness is just an extra added bonus that makes me cooler than you). And this Dane Cook fellow seems nice enough but he just embodies that kind of fratty mediocrity that already dominates all other aspects of culture, and it makes me depressed. And "being depressed" is another item on the list of serious ass shit I have to do that precludes me from being able to help my mother with dinner, so lay the fuck off and get out of my room! God!

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