Pretty much every weekend this summer has been a total bust for me, and damnit, it’s not my fault. With a few minor exceptions, the best part of each week finds me IMing or calling everyone I know to see if they’re going to be in town. Typically, the resounding answer is “Oh sorrrrry, I’m going to the Hamptons.”

Well you know what? If you go to the Hamptons on the weekends during the summer, you are now officially lame. Yes, you belong to the elite club of the throngs of people that still think rollin’ on E is cool (or even know what it means). You rent a house with 15 other people and still have to pay 2 grand for the summer just to see some guidos try to hit on girls who are out of their league. Meanwhile, the girls use the guys for free drinks and then go pop some pills and makeout with all the losers dancing to glow-stick music…and we all know how I feel about glowstick “music.”

That being said, I have never actually been to the Hamptons. Why would I go? I’m too cool for it. WAY too cool. What do I do on my weekends during the summer? Well it usually consists of going to Central Park or if it’s a bit rainy, going to the movies. Come night-time I’ll go grab a beer somewhere chill with all the other people who are just too cool for the Hamptons. I also like to eat hot dogs. If I went to the Hamptons I bet I couldn’t even get a hot dog:

Andy: Excuse me, sir?

Guy: Yes?

Andy: I’ll have one hot dog.

Guy: Um…I don’t have any-

Andy: With some mustard

Guy: I don’t have any.

Andy: What?

Guy: I was just saying, I don’t have any hot dogs.

Andy: Why not?

Guy: I’m a lifeguar-

Andy: Well I don’t see you guarding too many lives right now. Go get me a hot dog!

Guy: It’s not my job!

Andy: But I’ll die if I don’t get one, and you have to save me from dying.

Guy: Oh that’s ridiculous, no one dies from not eating a hot dog.

Andy: I haven’t eaten in 18 days. I will die of starvation if I don’t have a hot dog soon.

Guy: Look, you obviously have eaten recently, you have a marinara stain on your shorts. You also don’t look the least bit tired or emaciated.

Andy: Fine, if you don’t make me a hot dog I am going to drown myself. What kind of place is this that doesn’t have hot dogs?

Guy: It’s a beach! I’m sure if you just walked a few hundred yards up to the–

Andy: I am not walking anywhere!

Guy: Well you can’t bother me all day – I have lives to save!

Andy: That’s funny, looking around just now I only see one person who has a need to fear death, and that, my friend, is you.

Guy: Ugh. Now you’re going to kill me if I don’t get you a hot–

*BANG*

Andy: I hate the Hamptons.

Let this be a warning to lifegaurds and Hampton-goers everywhere: ALWAYS carry hot dogs with you. Maybe you can find a way to infuse them with the stuff in glow sticks and just wave those around at your crappy euro-trash dance clubs. I’m sure it’ll impress all the beautiful people.

If you need to find me, I’ll be in Central Park, being too awesome for the likes of you.

Before I get started with this no doubt terrific post, I’d like to apologize to the people who were around when this idea originated. This will seem like old material to them. But since its new to you, anonymous reader, I’m posting it for your sake. Also, I know I’ve covered the subject of my death before, but I didn’t go into any details about the actual funeral.

After discussing various possible mental calamaties indicated by what can only be appropriately titled as “brain pain,” the subject of funerals arose. Typically, talking about funerals is a sad state of affairs, but when you’re drinking Tecate, nothing is a sad state of affairs.* Anyway, it came up that a funeral would be best if hosted as a huge drinking jamboree. Your friends show up, you’re there (albeit unable to make typical party rounds), and everyone just gets blitzed and has a blast.

Naturally, being someone who loves having a good time I concurred with this statement. Then I began thinking about what my funeral would be like all around – who would be there, what they’d talk about, what they’d do – if I were to die tomorrow:

(The scene is only a bit somber and a disco ball and colored lights bask the room making it reminiscent of a senior prom. There are a few kegs setup and the early funeral-comers are taking advantage of it.)

Friend 1: Wow, I can’t believe Andy is dead.
Friend 2: Yeah I know. I also can’t believe the babysitter is dead.
Friend 1: What?
Friend 2: You know, that old movie with Christina Applegate?
Friend 1: Total babe.
Friend 2: Babe-a-licious.
Friend 1: Babester.
Friend 2: Babe-aroni.
Friend 1: So how did she die?
Friend 2: What?
Friend 1: The babysitter, how did she die?
Friend 2: …dude, I JUST said I was referring to that old movie with Christina Applegate.
Friend 1: Man, she’s hot.
Friend 2: Totally.
Friend 1: It’s too bad she died.
Friend 2: …what?
Friend 1: Christina Applegate, it’s too bad she died.
Friend 2: …what is wrong with you?
Friend 1: Oh it’s nothing, I just twisted my ankle. So this party is pretty cool, right?
Friend 2: Yeah it is, there are some SMOKIN’ babes here!**
Friend 1: Definitely. But I was looking over Andy’s will stipulations about how the party should go. And I’m cool with the pin-the-tail on the donkey, and the mandatory drinking games – but did you read the part about body shots?
Friend 2: Yeah, so what?
Friend 1: Did you read it closely?
Friend 2: No, I was pretty far away from it.
Friend 1: …what? No I mean did you notice the part where it stipulates that during body shot time, you have to do a body shot off of the corpse?
Friend 2: Oh God, I think I’m gonna be sick!
Friend 1: I think I’m gonna do it off his arm.
Friend 2: Dude, what are you talking about? He’s dead! I am not doing a body shot off of a dead body.
Friend 1: I would totally do one off of Christina Applegate’s dead body.
Friend 2: That’s gross, I wouldn’t do it off of anyone’s dead body.
Friend 1: What if she wasn’t really dead?
Friend 2: Well then yeah I’d do it, that was a stupid question.
Friend 1: Wasn’t it? Okay well, I’m gonna go do my body shot.
Friend 2: Yeah, might as well get it over with – it’s a good thing we got here first. That way we can pick some real estate that won’t be…more gross than it needs to be.

That’d be my last really great joke (and probably my first and only really great joke too). Of course, no one would think it was funny except for me…and I’d be dead.

*Except for maybe speech patterns and balance.
**Yeah, that’s right.

I was going through my daily perusal of blogs and upon reaching The Daily Dump I saw, perhaps, one of the most outlandish things I’ve ever seen in my life:

Double-threat? The last time I checked and each and every person on this list sucks at everything they do.

Paris Hilton-

Proclaimed Double Threat: Acting(?)/Singing(??)
Actual Double Threat: Being an Idiot/Being a huge bitch

Beyonce Knowles-

Proclaimed Double Threat: Acting/Singing
Actual Double Threat: Jiggling/Wiggling

Hilary Duff –

Proclaimed Double Threat: Acting/Singing
Actual Double Threat: Pooping/Peeing

Jessica Simpson –

Proclaimed Double Threat: Acting/Singing
Actual Double Threat: Left Boob/Right Boob

I originally wrote this on June 12th but it wasn’t going anywhere. So I figured I’d just finish it best I could and post it.
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The death of my grandmother happened suddenly. She was in the hospital and had been throughout the weekend (Memorial Day weekend) and that’s why I went home to visit. But when I left her, spirits were high, her color was good, and she kept asking about when she could get home.

I returned to New York on Monday night and started preparing for my trip to Spain. I was dutifully working on Wednesday when my cell phone rang. Checking the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t some idiot, I picked up the phone. My mom then informed me that my grandma had passed away that afternoon.

A little shocked because she looked good when I left, I gave my condolences after conference calling with my dad and sister and mom and hung up the phone to begin preparing for a stressful next few days of making preparations to get to the funeral in Scranton, PA.

Everything went very smoothly and when Friday night rolled around I found myself at the viewing.

Viewings are pretty creepy. The idea is you get to see the person one last time before they’re buried. In reality what you see is a dead body, hard as a stone and with a facial expression so creepy you’ll pee your pants and shiver and then say “Man that was pee-your-pants-and-shiver creepy!”…and redundant.

I was milling about the parlor talking to relatives I’ve seen recently and ones I haven’t seen so recently when all of a sudden I heard a blood-curdling scream. I didn’t even have to look.

“Fucking zombies.” I said whirling around.

My grandma’s arms, which were resting at her sides just seconds earlier, were now straight in the air as she lay in her coffin. Next thing I know she’s getting up.

I’ve made it my career to hunt down and kill zombies and I don’t know if you seen one before (ahem, you’re welcome!) they are quite scary. And even though typically one zombie doesn’t worry me this zombie was my grandma. Not only that, but I was fully aware there were two more viewings going on in this funeral home that would be chock full of zombies by the time I got around to them.

So here’s the predicament: Kill my undead grandmother, or kill the other zombies first, and then make my way back to grandma.

I’m sure as you all know if a zombie gets its hands on you, you turn into a zombie, and since I didn’t want the rest of my family becoming zombies, I chose to go after grams first.

From underneath my duster* I pulled out my sawed-off shotgun. It’s a pretty sweet little number. I always keep two shells in it should an occasion like this ever arise.

Shrugging I said: “I love you grandma. But you’re a zombie. See you in hell.”

BLAM. Right in her zombie-face. My family members shriek and I know they’ll never forgive me. But when you’re a zombie-hunting vigilante, sometimes you just have to deal with stuff. Stupid, petty, family stuff like “who’s doing the dishes tonight?” or “but I set the table yesterday!” and “I can’t believe you killed the zombie-grandma!”

As I push my family out the front of the funeral home and start backing out, the other zombies are in hot pursuit. Luckily they’re slow zombies. Those fast ones are terrifying…and fast. I catch another pair of zombies in the chin – one wearing a blue leisure suit, the other a purple sunday dress with silver trim. Probably someone’s great Aunt and Uncle at some point. Now? Just two dead zombies dressed up like someone’s great Aunt and Uncle.

I slam the doors behind me as I reload my 12 gauge. Click, click, snap.

The reanimated corpses barge their way through the funeral home doors, splintering them. Then the weirdest thing happened. A funky bass line starts. It is familiar. It is timeless.

The lead zombie, sporting some sort of torn leather jacket/pants combo begins twitching to the beat.

Blast.

He dies and brains go everywhere.

“I will NOT tolerate choreographed dances to Thriller!” My grade-school 1st cousins look disappointed and grossed out. They’ll thank me in a few years when they realize they don’t have a serious case of the munchies…for their siblings.

My family members make it to their vehicles and rush to safety. The streets are desserted.

“Why is there ice cream cake all over the street?” I pose to a nearby undead as I shove the tubes of my sawed-off into his mouth. He moans. I squeeze the trigger. “Wrong answer, you devil’s turd!”

A few more reloads and the zombies are all gone. My gun, still smoking from a hard day’s work, is fire hot. I holster and trudge through the zombie carcasses, being sure to stomp skulls as I come across them, just in case.

I reflect on the choices I have made in life. Well, the choice. To kill zombies. Sure I’m not going to be the most popular or best-smelling guy, but damnit, I save lives and that’s okay by me.

Smiling I walk down the street back to my family, my shoes covered in blood and ice cream cake. I love ice cream cake.

*I always wear a duster.

This post is for all the tourists that like to come to New York. First off I’d like to state that yes, you are a tourist even if:

a) You live in New Jersey “close to the city*”
b) You live on Long Island
c) You come here all the time
d) You think you’re not.
e) Queenies and Brooklynites you get a break on this one – but damnit, I’m watching you.

Alright, let’s get started.

1. You are slow. Even if you think you’re not, trust me you are. People who live in Manhattan walk at warp speed unless they are crippled. Even then they’re probably faster than you.

2. Do NOT hold hands. It doesn’t work. You’re going to have to keep linking and unlinking and that’s just annoying for everyone. If you’d like to show affection for the person you’re walking with, wear a shirt that says “See that slow person behind me? I love him/her.”

3. Do NOT just stop in the middle of the sidewalk. This is akin to slamming on your brakes in the middle of a highway. If you need to stop, pull over and make sure you’re out of everyone’s way.

4. When crossing the street, if the hand is flashing – GO! If the hand has just stopped flashing, you have 5 seconds, GO! If the white man is there, GO! The only reason you shouldn’t cross the street, is if a car is coming – or if you’re dead.

5. Yes, I know the store fronts are pretty, but if you see something you like in a window, just go the hell in the store. Don’t stop to stare in the middle of the sidewalk and tell your baby daddy how nice it is.

6. When you inevitably don’t follow one of these rules, don’t get mad if you get pushed aside, sworn at, or run into. You don’t have the right.

7. Avoid coming to the city if you’re fat – you’re just gonna have to walk a lot anyway. And let’s face it, you didn’t get fat by having a strong love of walking or getting places quickly.

8. If you need help getting somewhere, sure ask – but if you say “excuse me, sir” or something of that nature, we’re going to think you’re a bum or pan-handler. Just say “Where is X?” This is especially true if we are walking by you – your best bet is to ask someone standing still.

9. People standing still do not live in New York.

10. Your child’s welfare does not concern me so keep your kid in the stroller or carry it… and if your tiny dog’s leash gets wrapped around my ankles, I will punt it into traffic.**

*Okay, okay, if you work here you’re probably in the clear…then again, you probably don’t come to the city when you don’t have to anyway.

**I just really hate tiny dogs – even if you’ve lived here your whole life, keep it away from me. No it doesn’t look cute. No it doesn’t need boots. And yes, you need to train the damn thing to walk properly. Even Franklin can walk properly.

I mean, this MUST be some sort of cruel, cruel joke that some asshole from my past is playing on me. I have friends who will testify to the fact that I said this would happen. I AM SO FURIOUS! I HATE YOU CINGULAR!