The Origin of Daniel Sennis

In my last entry, I discussed the new movie, Social Suicide which explains part of this blog's beginnings. But there is another tale that needs to be told about this blog. One filled with Media Moguls, amazing super powers, pizza sauce and a girl by the name of Ivana Betterman.

It started with a book. The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging,which I found in the bargain bin at my local bookstore and thought, though I had absolutely no interest in blogging...$3...what a steal!

That night, I was so excited--I read most of the three page introduction before carelessly throwing the book in the trash. I knew I had to find out more about blogging, and how I could use it to distract myself from the important things in life.

First, I tried sending Ms. Huffington an e-vite to my upcoming Charlie's Angels themed Birthday party, but no such luck.

Then fortune intervened. I heard that Ms. Huffington was going to be attending one of those mean-spirited rich people bring-an-idiot parties at the end of the week. I knew that if I could get close enough to one of the party guests, I would surely get an invite.

The first time I got a chance to talk to Arianna was when she was handing me out first prize at the end of the night. I took the opportunity to tell Ms. Huffington how much I desired to be a blogger just like her. She laughed for a while.

“Oh, you’re serious.”

She then looked at me pityingly. Then she bit me. She took my hand and bit it as hard as she could.

“Ow!” I screamed. “What was that for?”

“You’ll see, Daniel Sennis.”

“My name isn’t Daniel Sennis!" I shouted as I ran crying out the door, trophy in hand.

That night, I wasn’t feeling very well.

“What’s the matter?” asked my girlfriend.

"Ever since Arianna Huffington bit me as hard as she could at the Idiot Party, I haven't been feeling very good. I'm going to lie down.”

Lying on the couch, I was bombarded with images of blogger dashboards, Google image searches, templates, RSS feeds, Arianna Huffington going in for the bite.

"What's happening to me?" I screamed.

Then my Huffington bite glowed red and I heard Arianna’s accented voice:

"It's time, Daniel Sennis. Blog your huge blogger butt off. Huffington out."

The blog came naturally due to new-found powers: enhanced word play ability (needed for the obligatory play-on-words blog title); super touch typing speed (over 35 wpm); and most importantly, Super Human self-importance.

The next day, my girlfriend, Ivana Betterman, asked me why I wasn't at work. My hair was disheveled and I had pizza sauce all over my face.

"I'm a blogger now. This is my work."

"Yeah, well, tell me how that works out for you. 

"You're leaving me?"

"Yes, you have shown me that I really need to figure out who Betterman is."

The next day Buster, the disabled Orangutan moved in, and the rest is movie history.

Aaron Dorkin to Direct Movie About My Blog!

Excited to announce that the critically acclaimed filmmaker Aaron Dorkin will be making a movie of the controversial founding of this blog entitled Social Suicide. Starring Jesse Ears'n'berg, the movie chronicles the legal battle between an emotionally unstable nutty bar-addicted blogger (me) and my roommate at Disney University, Buster, a mentally disabled Orangutan -- who claims I stole his idea for the blog.  Tensions rise, as Buster and I enter Judge Judy's court to fight over the blog's considerable investment money -- $100 dollars raised on Kickstarter from a mysterious donor named "Love Dad." I won't give too much away, besides that someone goes home with a ton of bananas.*  Not only is Social Suicide a legal drama of the high caliber of such Oscar worthy films as Legally Blonde 2  and Liar Liar, it is also a chronicle of a historic website that forever revolutionized social relations.** Don't miss Social Suicide. Hannukah 2015.

       Buster the mentally disabled Orangutan, played by Jimmy the Orangutan*** in Social Suicide


*Spoiler alert. It isn't Buster.
**After the site's founding, people have pretty much given up on the belief that learning about other people is worthwhile and have begun isolating themselves socially.
*** Jimmy, who is not a mentally disabled Orangutan himself, is up for an academy award for his ingenius portrayal of a mentally disabled primate .

The Curse of Ken Rizzo

The wallet lay atop a shelf in the bedroom closet. Wyler and his wife Lola were nearly done cleaning out their apartment; Wyler was making sure the couple hadn’t missed anything from the bedroom when he found the chestnut bifold. What the? He opened it, and facing him was a photo ID of Ken Rizzo, the former tenant of their soon-to-be former apartment.

 "Check this out,” Wyler shouted to Lola.
  Weird,” Lola said, upon seeing the mysterious object.
“Think we should try to get it back to him.”
 “It’s been a year and a half, I don’t think he needs it.”
“Hey, I need a new wallet!”
 "Take it!”

Wyler tossed the licence, credit cards, and Auto Zone reward card into the garbage. The garbage started ablaze, but Wyler was too busy rejoicing in his luck to notice. He sashayed around the living room, wallet raised like a flag in his right hand. "Look at me, with my new wallet! See how fancy!" .

"Wow, you're really fancy," his wife said. "Why don't you get your fancy ass back to work, seeing as how we're trying to move."

"Right."

Behind Wyler, back in the unnoticed roaring garbage can flame, an image of a young man bearing a devilish smile appeared just for a moment and then disappeared.

Wyler and his wife hadn’t known anything about Ken Rizzo, really, besides that he didn’t tell the former landlords when things were broken and was reputed to be heavily into dark magic.

The day after their move to the new apartment, Wyler and his wife pulled up to a Dunkin Donuts drive through window.

"That will be 12. 66," the cashier announced. Wyler handed over his debit card, more than ready to shove a double chocolate doughnut down his gullet.
"This card only has six dollars left on it," said the cashier.
 "What?  There must be some mistake."
"Maybe you’re cursed,"the cashier offered.
"Maybe you are!" Wyler screamed before squealing out of the parking lot, dismayed and donutless. As he drove, he heard a mysterious cackle.

"Did you hear that? Wyler asked his wife.
"Hear what?"
"The mysterious cackle"
"I thought that was you."
"Why would I cackle mysteriously?"
"I don't know why you do the things you do. It was probably just the wind. You're hearing things because you're in double chocolate doughnut withdrawal."

The day after the doughnut incident, Wyler, his wife, and their 15-month-old  became sick.
"Ugg," said Wyler
"Ugg." exclaimed Wyler's wife.
"Da da?" exclaimed the baby, sickly.
 I feel awful
 Me too.
 Bah!

 Wyler called  Dr. Ben Mahlprekteson.

“Doc, I’m real sick like Yeah. Yeah. No, I don’t think I’m cursed. Yeah, I know the dark arts are nothing to  mess with, but, OK, OK. I will. Bye.”

“Says it’s a cold.”

That evening the broke, sickly couple attempted to do a load of laundry in their new washing machine.

"I can't wait to use this new machine!" Lola exclaimed.

 Wyler and Lola were reading in the bedroom (Wyler,"The Monkey's Paw"; Lola, So Your Husband is an Idiot) when they heard gushing in the kitchen.Gush gush gush. 

"That can’t be good," Wyler said.

Wyler rushed to the kitchen and almost slipped on the wet floor; "Shut off the washer," came the cry of a distressed Lola from the bedroom. Within minutes, the entire kitchen floor was flooded.

The next day the plumber came to check out the situation.

"Nothing wrong here. Seems to me like this is just an old-fashioned wallet-based curse"

"Ken Rizzo! Wyler and his wife shouted at once!"

"Yup. Sounds like Rizzo Alright."

"Wait, you know Ken Rizzo?"

"Sure I do. He was my apprentice, before he became You Know Whose apprentice.

"The Baker's?" Wyler inquired. The plumber took a hard look at Wyler.

"Let me tell you, you better deal with this, or it's going to get worse."

"Worse than not getting to eat my doughnut?" Wyler asked.

"Well, how would you like your Netflix service interrupted."

"For how long?"

"A week."

  Wyler gasped; his wife fainted. The baby cried.

"The curse could do that?" Wyler said when he regained his composure.

"The curse will do that if you don't find a counter spell, and soon."

"How the hell are we going to do that?"

"Not my problem. Hey, do you think it's alright that I parked in front of that Wiccan shop next door?

The plumber left, and Wyler was left to ponder what to do.

"Oh, what are we gonna do?" Wyler moaned, crashing down on the couch. He heard the apartment door shut.

"Lola?"

Ten minutes later, the apartment door opened and Lola came into he living room.

"Ook," said the baby, pointing to a book in Lola's hand.

"Here you go, stupid." Lola handed Wyler a book.

"What is that?"

"Book of spells."

"Where did you find this?

"Spells R Us. Next door. Got a good price for it too: half off with the purchase of any Voodoo doll."

:"Huh." Wyler flipped through the book. "Trances, Vampire bites. Volkswagen engine trouble--here, Wallets, spell removal from, 33.

"To get rid of a wallet curse, gather the following ingredients: hot sauce, a ski vest, a dirty sock, a clean sock,  a sock that is mostly clean but just a little bit dirty; a mystery novel (but nothing by Agatha Christie), your most recent bank statement, and two forms of ID." Wyler gathered the items. "Now, stir these items together and chant the following words out loud three times. Ok, here I go." Wyler stirred the ingredients and began chanting.

Spiders, Snakes, Toads and Trump,
Lift this curse from off my hump.
Screw your curse, Ken Rizzo, you dog
I banish your lousy curse to a nearby bog!

A howl came from Ken Rizzo's wallet. "Leave the wallet be, or else!" came the previously cackling disembodied voice."

"Or else what?.

"'Or else' obviously implies something bad, so...something bad!" the wallet responded, testily.

"Oh," said Wyler.

"Keep going, you schmuck." Lola shouted.

Wyler repeated the chant.

"You stop that right now," the wallet chided.

Wyler was not deterred. He said the chant one last time. "--To a bog!"

"Oy Vey!" screamed the wallet Yidishly.

"Quick, check Netflix." Wyler yelled. Lola clicked the Netflix button on their Roku.

"Still works!"

"Thank God!

Two hours later,Wyler was searching for a missing piece of double chocolate doughnut under the couch cushion of the couch the couple had inherited from the previous apartment renters

"Hey, check this out. He held up a pair of worn, ragged boxers for Lola to inspect. "I could use a new pair!"


The End

I Really Could Care Less About Susan, Lynette, Bree and Gabby

Me, interested in Desperate Housewives? Ha! Can you imagine?  Ridiculous! My wife watches it, and I'm like, oh, God, not this crap again! I'm going to sit here and read my serious book on politics and not pay any mind to the ridiculousness on the screen. Like I really care what's going on on Wisteria Lane with Susan, Mike, Carlos, Gabby, Bree and Lynette. Like I care whether Edie's new husband, Dave, manages to kill Mike for revenge for the accidental death of his family, or whether the revelation that Gabby's daughter was switched at birth will destroy Gabby. That is of absolutely no value to me, a serious intellectual person with much better things to do with his time than laugh as Susan takes a job as a naughty webcam cleaning lady. If I ask my wife questions about who the young man holding Lynnette hostage is or what happened to Orson, the guy who steals for revenge, it is simply to be a supportive husband who shows interest in his wife's interests. As for me personally, I'm not in the least bit concerned whether the pharmacist will poison Bree's husband, or whether Tom's past with Vanessa Williams' character Renee will destroy Tom's family. If you happen to catch me staring at the TV for long periods of time while my wife is watching this inanity, it isn't because I am at all interested in the success or failure of Tom's new pizza business or Carlos's affair with Gabby while Carlos is with Edie... it is merely me being a really, really, really supportive husband. In fact, I better go be supportive right now and see what's happening with Renee moving in across the street from Lynette--just so the wife has someone to talk to about it, of course. Geez, imagine, me actually caring about a stupid soap opera like Desperate Housewives. That's about as absurd as saying that Mike and Susan weren't meant to be together.

It's Time to Pursue a Career in Not Working

This summer was educational. I learned a lot about myself, my likes and dislikes. It turns out, I do not care for working. I do like doing whatever I want whenever I want.

I learned this the hard way. I started out working at a summer camp. There I could only do a few things I wanted to do (play sports and have children entertain me) but I also - most absurdly - was obligated to stay there all day and be responsive to the children's needs. Ooooo, pay attention to me! Oooooo, give me a snack! Ooooooo, let me out of this cage! God, go away, already! What a drag. If this is what work is, than I want no part of it. I'd love to play a game of kickball and then hear an 8-year-old sing Adele's "Rumor Has It" at the camp talent show, but right afterward, I want to peel out of the parking lot in the Camry and do whatever I want whenever I want.

Next I worked at the race track at Saratoga. I had mornings off. This taught me a valuable lesson: I like mornings free and all other times free, too. I could read, journal, take a walk - whatever I wanted. Then 11 ocklock rolled around, and I had to go to work, and it was STUPID. I didn't like one single un-leisure-like minute of it. I'd be sitting there trying to read my book, when some jerk would come up and rudely interrupt me just so he could bet on a race. Do you not see the book in my hand and the look of utter adolescent-styled contempt on my face? I could hardly get any reading done at all there, so what was the point of even being there? And, as with the summer camp, I couldn't leave for several hours. If I wanted to go to a prison camp, I'd travel back in time and piss off a soviet official in Stalin's Russia.* Historical reference burn!

So, what to do with this information? Clearly, I need to stop working immediately and start spending time doing whatever the heck I feel like doing. I'm not sure why this didn't occur to me before. I have to blame my parents and the schools for never encouraging me to pursue a career as an aristrocratic loafer. How could they have possibly believed I would want to do work for a living? Didn't they know that I would much perfer to spend my time playing kickball with friends and taking long, rambling walks while having all of my financial needs covered by my massive inheritence? It's irresponsible of them, frankly, allowing me to take on all of this responsibility. Thankfully, I came to this counclusion before I foolishly worked another day in my life. I've finally found my true calling: someone who does nothing. It feels good. I can't wait to get started!

As a Man of Leisure, I will look something like this:



So beautiful!


*Wow, what kind of jerk compares his First World job to a prison camp? Obscene!

We are the Mighty Blue Hens?

I would like to talk sports a moment, so I can prove that, though I'm not a Real Man myself, I know what a Real Man would talk about.

More specifically, I would like to talk about sports team names, because I'm a bit confused about the whole naming process. For instance, I was driving my car tonight, as I do from time to time, and in front of me was a car with some Deleware University's name and team name bordering the license plate. What was the team name for this college? The Blue Hens. First off, call me a make-believe animal hater, but what's a hen doing being blue? Second of all, aren't sports team names supposed to be intimidating. Lions, Trojans, Coffee Shop Baristas. I mean, I'm sure a hen could scratch you up pretty good, but I don't know if I could take my coach seriously when he said, "Ok, hens, let's go get these Grizzly Bears!" "But, sir, no offense, but if I'm a hen, I'm not going to fight a Grizzly Bear. That's ridiculous. Maybe there are some field mice we could play? Some rabbits?"

Don't makes me lay an imaginary blue egg on yo' ass, biatch!

In Minneapolis, where we lived for a year, there were the "Golden Gophers," whose fans could be found in restaurants and shops in "Dinkyown". Perhaps there was a mixup between the college and a local daycare center? The toddlers were then acidentally christened the Pythons, who played, much to their parents' dismay, in The Snake Pit.

The other big topic with team names, of course, is cultural sensitivity, particularly when it concerns Native Americans. More specifically, maybe you shouldn't wipe out and dislocate an entire people and then use racist images of them to support your White European Ass entertainment. Of course one remedy, besides stopping the appropriation of Native American culture for White Fun and Profit would be to create equally offensive names of teams based on white stereotypes. For instance, we could have teams like The Nerdy White Guys with a mascot who is thin, pale, pimply, wears suspenders and glasses and carries around a calculator. Or we could have the Genocidal Maniacs, with an image of Christopher Columbus with horns, pitchfork, tail and gold coins in his eyes.

Anyway, I have to go catch the, uh, game....with that team, who I'm always rooting for and talking about with all of my many masculine male companions while we drink some economically friendly liquor in can form without, of course, using glasses.