Tag Archives: Savickas

Confession: I’m dying…

26 Jan

Recently I haven’t been feeling well, so I decided to see what an expert had to say about my symptoms. Today I was hit with some very bad news, I’m terminally ill.

According to the search results I obtained from Googling my symptoms, I could be dying from at least 10 different illnesses. I was surprised to find out from Wikipedia that all of the diseases I’m suffering from are incredibly rare, some of them have never even been diagnosed in the U.S.- just my luck.

I decided to seek out a second opinion, so I Googled Web MD and then searched my symptoms there, only to find out my first diagnosis was completely accurate; I’m dying.

I’ve always thought it would be difficult to find out you are terminally ill, but usually there is one disease you are fighting and the doctors have a plan to alleviate your suffering. In my case, it’s not that easy. Some of my diseases have never even affected a man before; others haven’t been diagnosed in decades or are routinely found in only animals. There is no cure, and since I forgot to bookmark the Wikipedia pages for each disease, I already forgot at least seven of the illnesses I’m dying from.

My only hope now is that NBC will do a mini-series on my heroic struggle, battling at least 10 different terminal illnesses (that number will probably increase by the time I’m done reading through all of my search results). I hope they get someone fantastic to play me, like Neil Patrick Harris, or get Justin Timberlake and make it into a musical.

This news is obviously upsetting, but it really makes me think about what’s important- search engine results. Before I go and draft my will— deciding who will get my most cherished possessions, like my iPhone and my Jesus bobble-head doll— I’m going to work on redefining my symptoms for Google and see if it will re-diagnose me with something non-life threatening; like a sinus headache, which is what I thought I had to begin with.

– Daniel Savickas

Confession: I wear Gap boxers with Santa on them…

15 Jan

We’ve all heard the expression, “Daddy’s little girl,” and everyone knows atleast one Dad who simply does not want to see his daughter turn into a young woman. The reason for this is simple, dads were once young men and long before that they were boys; in the middle lies the teenage years, and all dads know what they were like as teenage boys and more importantly, what they wanted from teenage girls. So dads keep their daughters on a tight leash and try to intimidate their daughter’s boyfriends, hoping and praying that their daughters will walk entirely unnoticed throughout their teenage years.

I’ve begun to realize that although mothers don’t go through the exact same experience, they do go through something similar with their sons. Now, most mothers aren’t worried about their sons falling prey to some smooth talking high school girl, but they do go through a stage in their parenting where they want to turn their sons into a “Mama’s boy.”

While mothers are less likely to try and intimidate their son’s girlfriends by showing them their gun collection or telling them, “I have a shovel and big back yard, I don’t think anyone would notice you’re missing,” I think they have a much more passive aggressive way of trying to accomplish the same thing.

I think mothers can, and will do little things to sabotage their son’s love lives in order to keep women away from their sons and keep their sons close to home. The reason for my hypothesis is simple: flannel boxers from the Gap.

The boxers aren’t even really flannel, in fact, they’re 100 percent cotton, but they feel as hot as flannel without any of the flexibility.

Now, I used to think that my mother was just a thrifty shopper for buying Christmas themed boxers in the spring and sending me a box full of them, but recently I’ve begun to question her motives.

Think about it, what woman in here right mind is going to date a grown man wearing navy blued boxers with little snowmen sporting Santa Clause hats? Continue reading

Confession: TGIF

8 Jan

I’ve always hated the saying TGIF and I’m not sure why. If I could establish a clear relationship between the abbreviation and the run of Friday night televisions shows it represented while I was in elementary and middle school, I’m sure I’d have fonder feelings towards it.

I mean, come on. Who didn’t love themselves some Urkel? For me, Urkel represented one thing, and one thing only- pure comedic genius. And who could forget Full House? The first time I headed into San Francisco I lowered the top on my Jeep and imagined I was Danny Tanner cruising across the Golden Gate Bridge in a red convertible with Uncle Jessie and Uncle Joey. CUT. IT. OUT! Of course the first time I drove across the bridge, as well as the second and third, it was so foggy I could barely see. I thought to myself, “Danny Tanner lied to me!”

Now days I don’t really associate Friday nights with quality television broadcasting. I guess if I associate it with anything I associate Fridays with the freedoms Saturday mornings provide. Friday means I don’t have to wake up early the following morning and if I want I can go out, stay up late and do whatever I want for as late as I want. But I usually don’t, the older I get the more likely I am to stay in on Friday nights, go to bed early and think back to a time where Friday nights meant ordering pizza, drinking massive amounts of pop and hanging out with my homeboys Urkel, Danny Tanner an Uncle Jessie.

– Daniel Savickas

Confession: My ass is literally worried about airport security. And Charlie Sheen…

6 Jan

I’m getting on a plane to head to Vegas in a month and all I can do is think about is a recent news article I read. In Saudi Arabia a member of Al Qaeda smuggled a bomb up his ass in attempt to kill Prince Mohammed Bin Nayef, head of Saudi Arabia’s counter terrorism operations, in his palace. The report was alarming to me, since, according to the broadcaster, the bomber “avoided detection by two sets of airport security, including metal detectors and palace security” before gaining access to the palace. Apparently, the technology that is necessary to check for bombs being stored in ones anal cavity does not exist yet. The article maintains that Al Qaeda lifted the technology, ie. cramming things up your ass, from drug smugglers- yet another reason we should end the war on drugs, in my humble opinion.

The saddest part about this story, to me, is that even if this suicide bomber was greeted by Allah, and a handful of virgins, he did not mutter the only phrase that would’ve made this a tolerable or worthy act. “Rectum, I damn near killed ‘em!”

And this was the case, because although this asshole (no pun intended) managed to cram a bomb up his butt, he literally only blew up his own ass. The bomb was apparently detonated by a text message, and although security officials have no clue what the text said, I believe it was something like this: “OMG! I still can’t believe you shoved a bomb up your ass, you’re so gay! JK! Good luck, and know that we think you’re the bomb! No homo. L8.”

The Prince was mildly injured in the explosion, but the real story is, what’s next for airport security? Then on Christmas day, after asking myself that question, another man smuggled an explosive material onto a plane underneath his taint.

After the shoe bomber people had to start walking through airport security wearing socks or barefoot, while their shoes were x-rayed. Then there was the liquid bomber, the people that were going to mix liquids together to blow a plane out of the air. This resulted in people having to pack Barbie sized portions of shampoo, toothpaste and any other remotely liquid looking substance. Now we’ve had two bombers with explosive materials up or stored directly near their ass. What’s it going to take to clear airport security now?

Continue reading

Confession: I miss smoking

9 Dec

I’ve often wondered what it is that keeps me from writing a novel or a collection of short stories. Inevitably it’s A.D.D. or my sheer lack of motivation, but I prefer to pretend it’s something much deeper than that, perhaps something I can simply acquire by going to the store, or better yet, buy it on-line from Zappos. I’ve seen plenty of movies involving accomplished authors, and as I began to look back at these characters for clues of what makes someone a published, successful, writer, a trait emerged. At first it wasn’t easy to see, but after awhile it was as clear as day and it hit me like a brick – all great writers are smokers.

I remember back in college when it seemed like all I did was write words on paper and I smoked then. Why did I ever quit? David Sedaris quit, but when he smoked it provided him with plenty of content, and when he did finally quit, he wrote half of a book about his journey to become smoke-free.

I remember my first cigarette clearly. Nine months shy of my 18th birthday, I bummed a Marlboro Red off of a friend. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever felt cooler than the first time I lit up that cigarette, except maybe the first time I lit up in front of a girl who smoked. I’d pretended to smoke thousands of times before, but somehow the awful taste of tobacco just made me feel so much cooler than all of those times I’d lit a fake cigarette made out of marshmallow, or simply held my fingers up to my mouth in a thin horizontal V.

I wasn’t too graceful with my first cig, but my years of pretending and watching R-rated movies had given me some clue of how to properly flick the ash from the end of my phallic torch. The awesomeness I’d felt with my first few drags quickly turned into what can only be described as flu-like symptoms. Before I knew it, I’d ditched the cowboy-killer into a 20-oz bottle of Cherry Coke and jumped in the nearby lake to cool off. Cold sweats seemed to plague every inch of my body. Although I didn’t throw-up, I came close; and yet this was not the last time I smoked. Continue reading