Damn. The Man.

Okay, so it was my fault AT&T shut off my internet. I’m willing to at least accept culpability for not paying the bill. Or, for not having the money to pay it. I guess that is my fault. Mostly. The thing is, I paid the bill eventually. I still didn’t really have the money for the bill plus late fees and ‘you’re-a-piece-of-shit’ surcharges, but it had been a painful two days with my internet held ransom – I mean, no facebook in bed? What the fuck. I’m not a caveman. So I paid the amount, and was eagerly awaiting the return of mornings with Perez and Huff Post as I was on hold with my fifth incompetent operator, two and a half hours deep into the labyrinthine quagmire that is their customer service line. So many things had gone wrong with this call that I was more well -versed in their operating system than the people who worked there.

"AT & T."

“Hi. So, my internet got shut off, and I paid the bill, and I just need –“

“What’s your social security number?”

“I just gave it to the other girl.” Really? Every temp working the call center in Battle Creek needs my social and mother’s maiden name? I’m just supposed to be okay with that? But fine. I give it to her.

“Anyway, I need my internet back on, and apparently you guys switched internet types over the two days that mine was shut off, so your new internet isn’t compatible with my old modem, so I need a new modem, and the only way to do that is to buy it in a bundle with my phone, but my work order has already been submitted with the phone and internet separate, so I just need you to cancel those orders and submit it as a bundle.” See? I knew my shit. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, though. I just wanted to get on with my day. I had other stuff to put off doing.
“Oh. I see. Yeah. It looks like you need to pay the fee.”
“No. I already paid the fee. I –“
“There’s a new fee. Hold on. Let me transfer you to the fee department.”

And that - was when I lost it. I was the customer. Uh, The Customer of ‘The Customer is always right’ fame? I didn’t have to put up with this! I could easily pack my bags and head over to Time Warner. I’m sure they would treat me…well, probably a little worse. I’d actually had Time Warner before, and they were at least as bad as AT & T. In fact, I recalled one incident wherein I spent five hours explaining to them that I never lived at an address where they accused me of having a past due bill. When I asked for information about what I could only assume was a fraudulent account, they said they couldn’t release anything because I had just told them it wasn’t my account. Why is dealing with these people such a goddamn M.C. Escher painting?!

Ugh. So, no, I couldn’t switch companies. I would just have to hunker down with AT & T, who’s cornered the market by being imperceptibly less horrendous than their competition. Because choosing a company to patronize in this country is like being forced to choose a husband in a White Power bar. Ultimately, you have to chug a stiff drink and just go with the one with the most teeth.

I’m not even sure I get to choose who I give my money to at all. I need AT &T, T-Mobile, and B of A much more than they will ever need me. My life without internet, cell phone, a place to deposit my checks, is an inconvenient uphill shit show. Their lives without me? Exactly the same. They could lose me, or thousands of me’s, tens of thousands of me’s and their bottom line would be effectively unchanged. So what am I supposed to do when I’m thwarted, abused, and extorted by them? Threaten to take my often past due balance elsewhere? Hold up my three figure bank balance like a floozy past her prime, and shake it in B of A’s face as I leave, taunting ‘You could have had aaaaaaall this!’ They would laugh. They would chuckle like the villains they are and remind themselves that they own entire countries.

Even the White Power bar isn’t that cocky. He has to hope there’s another girl with low self esteem waiting to be demeaned by him. I mean, there usually is, but still.

And this is why everywhere sucks. Because they can. Because the fundamental principle behind a free market - that entities who have to compete for consumer dollars will naturally have to keep their prices reasonable and their service decent – is null and void, and bull shit. Because inherent in that principle is the idea that the company relies on the consumer, and I for one am way too addicted to convenience, technology, and coffee on every corner for it to be reasonably construed that I am the one calling the shots. I’m not. I’m at peace with it. I get it. I lose, they win. Again. So if anyone needs me this week, I’ll be spending most of it with AT &T, phone to my ear, hands around my ankles, which, let’s face it, is the best way to welcome home the internet.

Who's The Boss?

"Never put off until tomorrow what you could do the day after tomorrow just as well." - Mark Twain
"I was supposed to write a blog based on this quote three weeks ago." - Me

I have a hard time getting out of bed sometimes. Every morning. And the problem is not my cavernous studio, nor my deaf ear, nor my love for PBR on a Wednesday. Rather, it is the interloping sea gull of an alarm that comes squawking into my subconscious, a vicious reminder of everything that seems futile about the day that lies ahead of me - an insipid attack on my delicious sleep, one that I feel I must defend myself against with the help of an adorable little button who goes by the name 'Snooze.'
MAH MAH MAH SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY.
Snooze!
Five minutes of bliss, then -
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND SAME SHIT MEANS OPEN FINAL DRAFT WRITE A SENTENCE STARE AT THE WALL PICK A SCAB WONDER IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN.
Snooze! Snooze!
Oh. Thank God. Five more delicious min--
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND WONDERING IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN MEANS GETTING DEPRESSED AND MAKING YOURSELF FEEL BETTER BY GOING TO THE STORE WHICH MEANS BUYING PUDDING CHIPS AND SALSA BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHOP LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT.
Snooze! For the love of Pete! Snooze! Damn it! Who's the asshole that set this thing anyway?!
That asshole is, of course, me.
Because I'm self employed (or unemployed, for those of you who live outside of Los Angeles) which means that everyday I work for a boss who is so critical and micromanaging that I constantly feel compelled to defy her by slacking off behind her back.
She's such a stress case. She acts like the work we do is ridiculously important, and is always on my ass about why I haven't finished a project on time. She's borderline abusive - calls me lazy, unproductive, slow, and I just want to tell her "Lady, calm down. This isn't the E.R. We're writing jokes about the Kardashians here."
And nothing I ever do is good enough. Every premise I write is met with an eye roll, every set we listen to with groans of displeasure.
Frankly, I'm sick of her shit, and I've started doing something about it.
This juvenile work we do is comically close to her heart, so I sabotage it every chance I get. Pilot idea she's been dying to outline? Punchline she needs to streamline? I replace these stimulating, gratifying projects with the most mundane activities imaginable. Entire afternoons are spent tweezing toe hairs or looking for Hypercolor shirts on ebay as she stews over why we haven't heard back from that Lit Agent.
Just like most bosses, she's better at giving orders than executing them. Half the time she's barking demands at me, I find her 'brainstorming' on Facebook or 'taking a five' to jerk off. It's laughable that she even considers herself a real writer.
I know it sounds like I'm in a terrible work environment, but she's not awful 100% of the time.
She understands that I am a 'non-traditional worker' and can actually be pretty accommodating. She'll let me get 'a little high' sometimes in the morning, if I promise it will help with my writing, and our office dress code is simply 'pantsless casual.'
We have far fewer of those annoying midday work birthday parties than most folks. You'll only see a sheet cake around these parts a couple times a year: once, when it's her birthday, and her family sends one, and once when we have our annual 'Congratulations, Tess. You've Tricked Yourself Out of Being Successful, So Eat Up!' party -- which is actually pretty fun, because there's always lots of booze at that one.

Notes from a Butthead

I wish I could quit non-smoking.

I know I have it in me. I’ve done it before. There was a whole two-year spell in college where I was doing really well. I was focused then, committed. I would go days without skipping a cigarette – sometimes even hours. I’m not saying this was easy – far from it, actually. This was college, after all, and I was as broke as I was into Amnesty International. However, I was not going to let my financial status break my will. I took a part time job where I got paid in cash, and every night after work, I would head to 7-11 and spend my earnings on something I could feel good about: a nice fresh box of Camel Lights. Sure, I could have squandered my money on something ridiculous, like food or shampoo, but like I said, I was committed.

And my discipline paid off.

That was the healthiest I have ever been. Socially. I would walk into groups of strangers – a smoldering scum stick my ticket to butting into a conversation on emo music or experimental film. Any time I felt an awkward silence at bars or parties, I would gracefully excuse myself to go outside and join my brethren addicts – sucking down carbon dioxide in sub zero weather to avoid the uncomfortable conversation inside. I forged many a lasting friendship on balconies, in alleys, near stoops, reveling in the delightful crackle of laughter and chronic bronchitis.

Like many people, I started non-smoking socially. More and more of my friends started experimenting with breathing correctly, and I found myself joining them inside while ‘my people’ behaved like responsible smokers and religiously puffed away at their American Spirits (the cigarette of choice for smokers who cannot quit and thus punish themselves with a lifetime of foul tasting smokes.) I avoided the judgmental gaze of my smoking friends when I turned down a post-drink puff, telling everyone that ‘This was just a phase. Just something I do when I want to let loose and not hack up a lung.’

But then I stopped buying my own pack. Soon, I was non-smoking everywhere: the car, my apartment, even at bars, once my carbon monoxide wonderlands. It’s true what they say, too. A non-smoker is tough to be around. You constantly reek of smugness, and you cough up moral superiority everywhere you go. I know it’s a dirty habit and that it’s not good for me - I know it makes me unattractive to rock stars and former drug addicts, and I am constantly aware of the amazing conversations that are being held over ashed cigarettes and flicked Bics all across this great nation. Now, when I’m at a show or a party I have nothing to break the ice but my own awkward giggle and perhaps an anecdote about how my car battery died last week – and let’s face it, that’s just not lady like.

Every once in a while if I’ve had a really bad day or a really stiff drink, I’ll overcome my craving to not fill my mouth with the taste of exhaust and old asphalt, and bum one, but sure enough, I’ll break and put it out before I’ve finished the job. I just don’t think I can quit non-smoking. I don’t have that kind of will power.

A Lady Blog Ga!

Guys, I don't have bad taste in music...all the time. I listen to college radio, I know what Jack White's latest side project is, I've been to The Echo.

I also play 'Bad Romance' and 'Womanizer' daily. Five times.

Because all the burned CD's, suggestions from friends, and time spent in Los Feliz will not change the fact that I am a gay man trapped in a woman's body, and I panic for a bitch. I friend of mine recently described himself as having a gay boner for Barbara Streisand, and while Babs doesn't quite make me put a metaphorical notebook in front of my pants, I know what he's talking about - when a bitch is so awestrickingly awesome that the very thought of her elicits a reverent rush of enthusiasm so intense that it's almost sexual, but it isn't, but it is, but it isn't.

My inner gay is straight for Lady Gaga.

The facts are these:

1. While most artists spend years rising to stardom, Lady Gaga showed up at our doorsteps pre-packaged as a super star. One minute, the world was existing as we know it, and the next, a platinum blonde piece of performance art was taking the world by storm.

2. Old girl knows how to hide a problem area. Namely, her face. Forget X-Tina reminding us that 'I am beautiful,' Lady Gaga has inspired the millions in this country who have a face for radio by making it socially acceptable to hit the town with all or most of one's face obscured. Ladies, have an Adrian Brody nose? Next time you're going to a party, slap a giant light up sparkly star on your face, and call it a night.

3. Let me begin by saying that I acknowledge how disgusting, obnoxious, and well-trod upon the word is, but bottom line, everything she does is un-be-fucking-lievably fierce. Everything. She bats a hundred. If she's existing, she's unzipping a faceless dress to accept an award by 'thanking God and the Gays,' writhing on stage lamenting that what she 'hates more than money is the truth,' or otherwise making us all glad that we live in a time when such a hot, fierce bitch exists, while simultaneously reminding us that we are not said bitch.

And now onto my other wife, my 'starter wife,' if you will.

I think we can all agree that Britney Spears is the first time that white trash has become famous and stayed exactly as trashy as she always was. Having such a public specimen gave middle America a chance to see what white trash was really about - it's not all sunshine and PBR. True 'country' means bare foot trips to the Chevron, public spats with your significant other, and melodramatic cries for help in the form of pill binges, manic shopping sprees, or head shavings. Also, they really like Doritos and frappucinos.

Because Britney offered such a fascinating glimpse into this other world, we became maniacally obsessed with her, and sicked a running-of- the- bulls style gaggle of paparazzi on the girl, sacrificing a human life so that everyone would have something good to read while we got our nails did.

We all know how that shit show ended - with an all bets off, piece de resistance known as the Circus Tour, wherein the Britney we all love - fake tanned, hair extensions, and sequined bra and panties that are a smidge too small, came flying from the ceiling of convention centers across the country, appointed herself the ringleader of the circus that her life had become, and reminded the world that 'It's Britney, Bitch!'

I was lucky enough to see her at the Staples center, and the second she hit the stage, whip in hand, two thousand girls in the audience lost it, and never got it back... not when she did 'Piece of Me' writhing around in the gilded cage we'd all created for her, not when she hopped around to 'Baby One More Time' and busted out original choreography, not when she lip synched 'Every Time' while suspended from the ceiling on a giant glitter umbrella.

And yes, I knew she was going to lip synch. Anyone who points out that she does not really sing is completely missing the point. You don't see her because of her voice. We all know 'Britney's voice' is a computer somewhere in Sherman Oaks. You see Britney because you want to see the bitch pretend to dance, whip her dancer boys as she makes them do push ups, and maybe, just maybe catch an earful of her complaining off stage that her 'pussy is hanging out.'

The best thing about Britney is that the worse she gets, the better she gets. The more trite, slutty, and ignorant she becomes, the more unique, untouchable, and brilliant she is. She is still legitimately hot in any of her several lingerie ensembles, but we all know what a treat it is to catch a glimpse of overalls, glasses, and no make up Britney.

There's no wrong way to spot a Britney.

And so, next time you get in my car, and Kiis FM is blasting, before you bash my taste in music, remind yourself that I can't help myself. It's who I am. I was born this way. I am biologically predisposed to panic for a bitch.

My Resume 'The Deleted Scenes'

Hey guys, what do you think of this res/cover letter?

xoT

Dear Sir or Madam:

Thank you for looking at my resume.

Below, please find my other resume. 'My resume, the deleted scenes,’ if you will. I look forward to your thoughts.

TESS BARKER

Shitty Job Resume

WORK EXPERIENCE

Waitress on and off for some time

(Multiple Establishments Existing in Varying Degrees of Squalor)

-learned to discriminate against old people, people with children, and various minorities.

-utilized various tools to steal fries off customer’s plate before delivery to table.

-became acutely aware that tips should be 20% unless something is seriously wrong. Trust me on this.

-developed an excellent tolerance to cockroaches, germs, and sexual harassment

Senior Citizen’s Aerobics Teacher two years. i know.

(An Adult School. The Kind That Have Pamphlets at the Library)

-piloted aerobics program based on absolutely no knowledge of aerobics.

-attended various “class parties” that were thrown by students in the middle of a weekday afternoon in the back yards of Beverly Hills estates, wherein belly dancing and potlucking would ensue.

- attempted to improvise hour long chair aerobics routine, and quit after five minutes.

Retail Associate short periods of insanity

(Multiple Retail Establishments at Outlet and Otherwise Heinous Malls)

-donned a variety of humiliating stickers, basketball jersey’s, and mannish visors, all of which served to increase sense of shame by 52% in one year alone.

-developed intense hatred for weekends, holidays, and any other time intended for fun.

-abused employee discount in the name of ‘pay back,’

Temp (intentionally and unintentionally)

(Buildings That Required Key Cards and had Free Coffee)

-mastered fake ‘professional voice’ for incoming calls

-solidified understanding and appreciation of Mike Judge’s “Office Space”

-used ‘that one responsible looking button up’ and extra perfume to cover up late night antics and give impression of a functioning adult.

-expanded useless knowledge by ten fold, via the internet

-mastered watching of clock count down starting at 4:53 daily

Regular Substitute Teacher too long

(Yep. 90210)

--read all sections of newspaper whilst students texted and talked loudly about blow jobs in the back of the room.

-relearned long division, and remembered how good Dorritos are at ten a.m.

-regularly referred to as ‘the shit,’ ‘my favorite,’ and ‘you blaze it, huh?’ by students

Odd Jobs moments of intense despair

(Locations of Ill Repute)

-exercised wide range of skills including: ‘background work’ on UPN comedy, contributing to focus groups, babysitting, selling books online, fliering door knobs, event planning, P.A.ing, putting up signs for AIDS Walk, legal assisting, reviewing spiritual books, and attempting unsuccessfully to be hired on by the Census (despite receiving perfect score on standardized test), and ghost writing essays

SKILLS

Faking minor surgeries to call out sick, Limited ability to tolerate general population, Limited ability to feign enthusiasm for patronizing corporate mottos, Well thought out stories upon abrupt resignations

*References not available. Thank you for understanding.

Fridays by the Swamp with Deafie

My plane lands in the Florence, South Carolina airport. Or, rather, my “plane” lands in the Florence, South Carolina “airport.” I had taken one of those puddle hoppers that are, I suppose, the closest thing we’ll ever get to a real live Magic School Bus. You know - the type of deal, where instead of saying, “Flight attendants prepare for take off,” the pilot announces over the intercom, “Brian, have a seat.” These Greyhounds with wings always scare the Bejesus out of me, as their stability depends largely on whether there is a breeze, crosswind, or swarm of gnats.

Just landing feels like a real accomplishment, so my spirits are high when I touch down. Until my writing partner calls. He’s delayed five hours. Now, I am great at killing time in airports. I can spend an hour trying to justify buying the newest US Weekly - ‘It’s a Britney one!’, have a glass of wine and a quesadilla because it’s not nine a.m. where I’m from, and silently judge people based on what they’re reading - Dr. Phil in hardcover? That’s simply unforgivable.

So, there has to be something here to keep me occupied. I scan the room (yes, the room) and find: five rocking chairs, a stack of Clarendon County coupon books, and a snack bar comprised of three bolognae sandwiches circling sadly around in a vending machine. Looks like I have five hours to take in not so sunny Florence. I approach the TSA officer who sits with his feet propped up on a rocking chair. “Hi. My friend’s flight is delayed, and I have a lot of time to kill. Is there somewhere around here I can walk to?”

He looks at me for a few moments. “Walk to?”

“Yeah. I have a while, so...”

“Closest restaurant’s a mile away. So...no.”

“A mile I can do. Which dire--”

He calls over his buddy the luggage searcher, “This girl wants to walk. To the restaurant.” They both have a nice belly laugh at my expense. Baggage Checker shakes his head, “They’ll think she’s one of those girls,” One of what girls? A local cheerleader? Can I still pass for high school? “Those girls?” I inquire playfully. TSA guy nods humorlessly, “A lady of the night.” It’s noon. I’m wearing a flannel.

“Oh. Well, I live in L.A. I think I’ll take my chances.”

I head toward the exit, and they both bid me farewell with a look clearly means “Pity.”

“I hope you have a knife,” says the TSA guy. Who just saw me walk off a plane.

I hit the streets, and right of the bat, I am disappointed to see that I won’t be rubbing elbows with any local harlottes. There is no one on the frontage road. It’s actually quite peaceful. I trudge along, taking in the swamp on my right and the charming hum of puttering Chevy mufflers to my left. Just before I arrive at the restaurant - I do see something that may spell trouble - a giant lighted arrow with the word ‘Klassy’ spelled out in flashing bulbs, resting all lonesome like in the soil. How am I going to walk past this without succumbing to the urge to steal it? I remind myself that I won’t get to eat lunch for a while if I go to jail, and carry on to Nick’s Diner: specializing in down home cooking and Thai food.

I open the door. Every fork in the place stops scraping. Twenty white guys of varying levels of obesity stare at me. “Hi. I..uh..table for one.” A teenaged waitress with a sweet smile and a fierce tramp stamp seats me. The old fat whities gradually resume their conversation, but stop every few seconds to watch me do bizarre things like take out my notebook and look over the menu. I’m tempted to try something off the Thai portion of the menu, but am steered the other way when I notice that one of the options is ‘Pad Thai with Liver and Onions.’ So, grilled cheese it is, and I sit back and let the smell of smoking butter and frying cigarettes whet my appetite.

An old gentleman one table over is the first to break the ice. “Where you from?”

“Who, me? California.”

He nods kindly, “I can’t hear you.”

“California.”

“I’m hard of hearing.”

“I’m from California!” The place goes silent once again. Deafie chuckles, “Sweet girl.”

By the time I’m done with my sandwich, the place is empty, save me, Deafie, and the waitress. It’s by no means my idea of a good time in here, but my only other option is the rocking chairs at the airport room, so I decide to stick it out as long as I can tolerate listening to the waitress express her love for cheese, grits, and sleeping. I tell her I’ve never had grits, and Deafie responds with another chuckle, “Happy Thanksgiving.” All three of us could easily just be supporting characters in one of the others’ dreams.

When old girl starts telling Deafie about how she’s too smart to get pregnant, I know it’s time to head out. I ask for the check, and Deafie becomes very adamant about giving me a ride back to the airport. I almost accept his offer, except that by this point, I’m not sure his ears are the only thing on his head that don’t work correctly. He continues to insist and, I find myself clutching my vital organs protectively and yelling “Really! I’m fine!” I run out the door so fast, all I can hear as it closes is, “Sweet girl.”

On my way back, I find a grocery store, and leap at the opportunity to waste a little more time. I’m in the wine aisle trying to decide if it’s easier to walk a mile with four bottles or two magnums, when a grocer walks up to me smiling. I wave back, timidly. He continues smiling for so long, I’m convinced he thinks I’m someone else. Finally, he announces proudly, “I saw you walking.”

“Thank you?”

On my walk back to the airport, I enjoy a smattering of horn honks and tapped brakes from fellows making their way down the highway. This must be what it feels like to be famous: garnering attention from even the most mundane activities. I may be walking alongside a cricket infested swamp, lugging bags of wine, Cheez-its, and peanut butter, but I can’t help but feel down right ‘Klassy.‘ They love me here, they really love me. Either that, or “Sweet girl,” and “I saw you walking,” are just a Southern gentleman’s way of asking, “Excuse me ma’am, but are you a lady of the night?”

A Little Life Lesson

It's five-o-five p.m. and I've barely finished work. I have exactly the right amount of time to drop off some Fed Exes, run home, throw on a dress and some make up, sit in traffic, and get to my downtown show on time (ish).

I fling on my lap top, scoop up the envelopes, and haul ass out of my boss's backhouse-turned office. I fly toward the Volvo - and directly into a yellow police line.

Goddamnit.

A grisly crime? On Miracle Mile? Couldn't they wait until after rush hour? I find the police that came with this line and demand answers.

"Hi! My car is on the other side of this line, and I really need to get home. Is there anyway you can just let me slip by? I have a show tonight, and I still have to straighten my hair."

I wink and shift my Fed Exes flirtatiously. He crosses his arms and nods his head 'no' with that shit-out-of- luck smile they must teach you in cop school.

"Sorry. It's a potential bomb,"

For the love of -- a potential bomb?! Potential bomb just means some idiot kid thought it would be funny to prank call the police from a pay phone. I know because I was friends with those idiots growing up.

(*Side note to the friend who shall remain nameless because I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on terrorists threats -- Thanks again for calling in that bomb threat to Camarillo High in Spring of '99. On behalf of all of us, thanks for jeopardizing your right to live as a free man so that none of us would have to, like, go to Chemistry that morning.)

What am I going to do now? I have to get to my Volvo. I turn away from the cop and power walk in the opposite direction.

Two blocks down, three blocks up, and one block over (the LA equivalent of running a marathon), I end up at another intersection with another cop, and another piece of police tape standing between me and my car.

I flag down cop number two. "Hi! Look, I know there's a 'bomb threat,' but -"

"Why are you putting quotes around 'bomb threat', ma'am? Do you hear that beeping?This thing is real."

"But - "

I stop and listen just to humor him. Sure enough, there is a persistent beepbeepbeep in the background.

"Really? That's from a bomb? Like, for real?"

"For real. Now, I don't want to blow up, and I certainly don't want you to blow up, so I'm afraid I can't let you past this line,"

Oh my God. I'm going to have to walk all the way around to the other side of the intersection. It is now five-forty-five. My timeline is officially shot. I hurry up the street. My lap top beats repetitively against the side of my leg. I'm sweating all over the damn Fed Exes. And the beepbeepbeep reminds me that I might die a fiery death this evening.

I finally get to the other side. The sun is setting. It is now six fifteen. There's nothing I can do now but wait and/or explode. I call my cohost and tell her I'm going to be late/and or blown to smithereens, and I resign myself to sitting on the curb and waiting for this catastrophe to finish already.

Suddenly, a giant truck marked BOMB SQUAD pulls up. It is as tall as a house and is made out of the same material as Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator costume.

Its back door opens. A ramp unfurls, and out rolls none other than an actual legitimate robot.

A cute one. We're talking like a Wall-E or an R2D2 situation.

The little guy wheels his way down the ramp and up to the front door of the bomb house. His skinny robot arms grow longer, and he picks up the bomb! Just when I think I couldn't be more worried about his little robot safety, a trap door opens on his stomach, and he throws the bomb into it. The door closes. The beepbeepbepping stops. The entire neighborhood rumbles in the sunset as the bomb detonates inside the robot.

And that's that. Seriously. I really saw this.

I tell you all about it because I learned a valuable lesson that day:

Sometimes, you may come across obstacles in life that seem frustrating, but don't allow yourself to freak out. Sit back and relax - maybe, just maybe, you're about to see a bomb exploding inside a robot.