Archive | Matt Baker

Christmas at the Hospital

By mattbaker on February 18, 2017 in Matt Baker, Story

I hate christmas. For many reasons, but the main reason is that I am an atheist. The idea of celebrating something I think is not real, is as pointless as shutting down school for something like the moon landing. Christmas to me always seemed so fake. It just seemed like pure pageantry. The point of christmas is to remember who Jesus was.. You know the Jesus who would push another person out of line to get the last video camera. Or the Jesus that would spend hundreds of dollars to spoil his kids with stuff they don’t need while people have nothing to eat.. I love reading the story of when Jesus took the fish and turned it into a ’72 plasma screen for his man cave.

My family is one of those “Good Christian Families.” Celebrating the birth of the cute little “white” baby jesus with their kin probably means something special. I never understood why this period of time was more important than any other? Why was it so important for our family to be together at christmas, but not really that important any other time of the year? I mean, we don’t ever talk on the phone.. We don’t ever hang out. The idea that we come together and supposedly love each other for only a few days seems as ridiculous as removing your windshield wipers to avoid getting a parking ticket.

However, for some reason up to the time I was 25 I had only missed one christmas with my parents. Despite the fact I had moved out when I was 17, I had always made the trek back to Oregon to spend christmas with my family. Somehow I was able to muster up some fake enthusiasm so that my family can try and have some sort of an enjoyable holiday. I tried my best to play the part of the loving, caring, non-drinking son. I felt more fake then Joan Rivers face. That’s what they wanted right? For us to play our role in the dramatization of our functional and happy family? It never worked. We are just to dysfunctional. We make the Jackson’s look like the Brady Bunch. Most of the dysfunction lies in the fact that everybody in my family thinks that they are not the one with the problem. Everyone thinks they are void of any responsibility in keeping the dysfunction train moving. On top of that, we are terrible communicators. The only way we talk about stuff is by being passive aggressive. For example, one christmas as a gift I got my parents couples counseling. Another Christmas, I got my father a mug that said, “worlds most emotionally manipulative father.” In return, he got me a framed picture of all my siblings college degrees.

I never really understood how one family can be completely fine socializing any time of the year, yet throw in the ingredient of Christmas and it somehow ruins the whole thing. Like it’s mayonnaise in Guacamole or Juan Pablo on the Bachelor.

After years of expensive state mandated therapeutic research, my therapist and unknowing colleague and I have finally pinpointed the mathematical equation that causes our family meltdowns to occur.

Day 1- Civil. Catching each other up on the years happenings, funny quips and hot cocoa at the end of the night.

Day 2- Mild irritation at each other differences magnified by being locked in our small childhood home and cocoa at the end of the night.

Day 3- Funny quips turn into passive jabs, hurt feelings and cocoa goes cold due to constant arguing.

Day 4- passive jabs turn into full out haymakers. Going for the knockout and as a result a cataclysmic meltdown of some sort.. No cocoa gets made.

So many meltdowns to remember, but I am proud to announce that on VH1’s ’10 greatest family meltdowns of the 20th century’ my family took home two places. At #8 was the great meltdown of ’96. My parents found a High Times magazine in my room that caused me to run away and live in my buddies garage only returning on christmas day for my gifts.

And bringing in the second spot (second to Dina Lohan and company) of course the great meltdown of ‘99 where I counted at least 12 doors slammed, 11 Fuck you’s, 10 don’t yells, 9 praying dads, 8 brothers shoved, 7 long drives, 6 remotes thrown, 5 CRYING MOMS, 4 punched walls, 3 get some air, 2 your adopted and a vacation poorly spent.

Whenever I was home, so many questions would run through my mind about christmas. Like, why is this religious holiday so hard on my family? Is this how jesus would act? Who would jesus argue with? Is christmas latin for kill my family? Is Christianity really a secret ploy by the Illuminatti to ruin families?

After years of holiday cheerlessness, at the age of 25 I finally decided celebrating christmas was not something I valued. I finally realized that ‘not’ being around my family during that time was probably best for the families long term success. So, I told my parents I was not ever coming home again for christmas. I think they had seen the writing on the wall, but I was put in a tough predicament. See, two of my siblings had already beaten me to it by committing to celebrating christmas at their partner’s families house. Without me, that would leave my parents alone with my brother for christmas. I was stuck with a tough decision. Do I ditch out all together and let my folks fend for themselves? Or, do I stick it out one more year and hope that by subtracting two of the ingredients that make up the depressing fruit cake that it might be a easier to digest. That’s when I came up with the brilliant idea (at the time) to transition out of going home for christmas and to spend the holidays with my remaining family somewhere else.

My parents were open to the idea. I don’t know how they wouldn’t be? They were almost being held hostage. Two of their four kids (granted their least favorite) already gone and the third threatening not to come home, if they wanted to have any semblance of a christmas they were forced to join me. They finally agreed and we had to decide on a place. Where would a well traveled 25 year old, a well traveled 29 year old and two kind of well 60 year olds going to enjoy? I wanted to go somewhere like Madagascar, or Mauritius, but since my parents are not as ambitious as myself we had to find a place that we all agreed upon. We needed a place that was westernized, affordable, sunny and yet still different then the overwhelming whiteness of the Northwest. Georgia is sunny and affordable, but still in the US. Alabama is kind of westernized and feels like you are in another country, but they don’t speak much english. The place we finally landed on was good ol’ Puerto Rico (air horn blowing.)

It was certainly not my first choice, but since the three people I was traveling with all wanted to put to use their fluent spanish it was either Puerto Rico or Texas. So I chose Puerto Rico. I don’t speak spanish at all, however I can listen to at least 10 seconds of mariachi music before I turn it off, so kind of.. I have traveled in enough spanish speaking countries to know enough to get by. I know things like “Estas Vaacanado” which means, ‘are you vaccinated.

I was a little nervous about traveling with my parents. I had traveled with my parents a lot when I was a kid. I think the last time I had ever been out of the country with them is when they picked me up from drug rehab in Western Samoa when I was 16. It seemed fine then.. They were the only people who could drive, the only people with money and the only people who could make any sort of informed decision. At 16 my basic thinking process was, let’s get some drugs or some ladies or some drugs that will make me hallucinate some ladies… So 9 years later as an adult I didn’t know what to expect.

The trip could not have started any worse. My parents came up to Seattle to fly out with me and all flights out were delayed for two days. As my brother waited for us in sunny Puerto Rico, I was stuck in a small house with my parents in snowy Seattle. If you have never been stuck in a house for 2 days with my parents, I don’t recommend it. It’s kind of like you are suffocating and just as you are running out of air someone puts a plastic bag over your head and punches you in the throat.

We finally made it to Puerto Rico and I found out very quickly my parent’s and I travel very differently. I travel kind of by the seat of my pants. No real plans, take it day to day and never make any concrete plans. My parents are vastly the opposite. Maybe it’s because they are older.. They are not like Betty White old. They are more like a browning banana that you are sort of on the fence about eating sort of old.. I played by their rules and was happy to let them kind of run the show, until the last night of our trip. We were to fly home at 8:00 am out of San Juan, so my parents pre-booked our hotel. They booked a room at the Howard Johnson at the hospital. As we were trying to find it the sexy british ladies voice on our GPS kept saying, “you have arrived,” but there was no hotel in site, just a hospital. Finally, we all walked into the hospital to ask where the Howard Johnson was and quickly found out the Howard Johnson was located inside the actual hospital. They had 10 rooms for people who had to stay overnight with their loved ones and somehow in someway my parents managed to book on of them. I didn’t blame my parents, I blame Howard Johnson. Shame on you HOJO.. You could be HOJO “In the hospital.” Something a little more clear that my mom can easily understand.

So, here we were checking into the hospital. The receptionist for the hotel was the same as the receptionist for the hospital. So naturally, two young guys walking in with two older people she assumed we were checking them in. She asked in english, “what are your symptoms? Who is your insurance provider?” When she finally understood that we had prepaid for a room there and were going to stay for the night, she lowered her head and shook it in disbelief just as any foreigner does when they have an interaction with an american does.

So, we checked in and began to bring out stuff in. To people who didn’t know, it looked like the whities were moving in for a back yard barbecue. We were coming in caring a cooler full of food, because if someone is gonna die, it’s not gonna because the did not have enough coleslaw or sprite. Our room was great. The doors were extremely wide so that, wheel chairs could come and go which was great because my parents overpacked and their suitcases were huge. We tried to lay low, as we knew that everyone staying in the other 9 rooms probably weren’t is as good of spirits as us. The key word above is ‘tried.’ Since we had spent so much time trying to find the “Howard Johnson in the Hospital,” it was late and my parents were tired. They did not want to make the trek out to a restaurant, so we decided to eat at the hospital cafeteria.. Let me tell you, if you haven’t already you got to try it, because there is nothing like eating mashed potatoes and soup while doctors and sick people give you the stink eye. I imagined them looking at us as some sort of scam artists.. Like we go and stay at senior homes because the first month is free. Or we are the University of Phoenix. As one of the doctors came in and saw four sunburned gringo’s eating in the cafeteria he laughed and said out loud in english “must have used Expedia.”

The trip really opened my eyes to a lot of things. First, it is so awesome to spend christmas in a sunny place. I would rather be snorkeling in ’70 water on christmas day then drinking cocoa and watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ because you are snowed in. I also realized that even though dysfunctional they have quirks that really make me laugh. Somehow I actually missed the bickering. I missed the family meltdowns. On the trip I did manage to make my mom cry and have my dad try an intervene with prayer, but it was just not the same without the whole gang. It is kind of like watching watching the daily show with Craig Kilborn, just not right.

I noticed that I focused so much on my families differences then the similarities. In my siblings I would only see the different personalities, the different ideas, the different politics and claim that the only thing we had in common is that we all exited the same vagina. I would always point out to people how much different I was then my family. So quick to try and separate myself from them. I realized that those are the things that made my family unique. We aren’t all the same. That is what really made my family great. Through all the fights, tears and slammed door, there is something to be said about people who know your origins. Something to be said about people who know where you come from, what you have been through and know how to push your buttons. Even though I am an atheist and my the rest of my family are god worshipers, I always knew that my family knew me in a way that no one else could really know me. Even though, I would never go home for Christmas again, Puerto Rico made me appreciate my family in a way I never thought I would. Appreciate them for being weird and dysfunctional. It made me want to be part of the family again.

Prank backfiring on me

By mattbaker on December 10, 2015 in Matt Baker, Story

To this day I still struggle with authority, but not nearly as much as when I was growing up. My friend Marcus, and I would always get in trouble. We were mischievous youth. We would do whatever we could to get in trouble. We were like the real life, non-redneck, bike riding, and English-speaking version of The Dukes of Hazard. Once we lit a string of fireworks off on a friend’s porch at 2 in the morning. We thought it was hilarious until our friend came to school the next day telling us the crazy story of what had happened at his house the night before. He explained that someone lit fireworks off on his porch, and the gunshot sounds the fireworks made, triggered a war flashback for his dad. His father ended up jumping through a window as he dove for cover. His dad was ok, but we never told our friend who had lit the fireworks.

Naturally, like most of the people you grow up with, over time you loose touch. I had not seen Marcus in about 3 years, or one grateful dead guitar solo. Thanks to the addictive powers of Facebook, I knew he still lived in our hometown, and I was shocked to find out that his occupation was a police officer. I nearly shissed myself (shit and piss at the same time,) but thought it might be a joke; so I e-mailed Marcus. As I was sending the message the same thought kept running through my mind, “There is no way Marcus would become a cop.” That is like the Pope coming out and saying, “Ha, Ha suckers, I’m an atheist.” Or Tom Cruise coming out and saying he was straight; it would confuse the masses, as much as the success of Keanu Reaves does. I guess what I am saying is there is no way that he could have become a cop. This is a man who had a conviction for disestablishmentarianism. This was my accomplice in all of my childhood troubles, and here he was going against everything we hated. He was flip flopping more than a democratic fish out of water.

I waited in anticipation for his response. Sure enough, there sitting in my inbox was his written confession with the title “I am a cop.” It was sad to witness the end to what was truly one of the best masterminds of juvenile delinquency ever. This was the man who provided the bike in the great baseball card heist of 1991. The same man who was the brains behind the stealth operation to rob our school store of all their candy. This was a dark day in the history of mislead youth. He didn’t really say why he became a cop in his e-mail, all he said was that he was trying to right his wrongs and make a difference. I mean, I totally understand. I am not one for breaking the law anymore either. Outside of getting caught masturbating by the Chinese government and having two warrants for my arrest in different states, I haven’t had problems with the law in a long time. I e-mailed him back, wishing him all the best and said to give me a break if he ever had to arrest me. He responded with one sentence that made me smile, “I always got your back.” Note: That statement is the premise for my reasoning of the events below.

It was August of 2008, and I traveled home for a few days to see my new godson. Usually when I am home, I have to borrow a car or have people chauffeur me around like I am Mrs. Daisy. This trip; being in August, I did not want to burden anyone, so I borrowed my friend’s bike to get myself around town. It had been 2 years since my life changing facebook moment with my old friend Marcus. We had not really talked over those 2 years and I had not planned to call him when I was in town. I knew he was doing well from his facebook status updates. He would post stuff like; “Arrested two transients today.” Or, “Man, I love giving tickets to Jaywalkers.”My first night home, I went out drinking with my friends till about two in the morning. I was pretty tipsy and had to ride my bike 25 minutes home. I don’t know if you have ever ridden a bike drunk, but second only to not calling your ex’s, it has got to be the hardest thing to do intoxicated. I am convinced it should be part of the drunk driving test. You get pulled over in your car and instead of running you through a bunch of ridiculous tests, they just hand you a bike and say, “Here try and stay on this.” As I was unintentionally slalom skiing the lanes of the empty roads on my bike, I passed an empty parking lot with two police cars just hanging out in it. Seeing the cops, I decided it was a good time to see if one of them was my old friend Marcus. I didn’t think about calling him or stopping by his house; which is a block from mine, I just decided to ride my drunken ass right up to the cops and see if it was my friend. It was probably the stupidest thing I had done since I paid $50 to see the Barenaked Ladies; not knowing they were a band.

I approached the cars and once I got close to them I gracefully jumped off my bike. I was so graceful; I would make Madonna falling off stage look like a ballerina move in the Nutcracker. I don’t know if you have ever approached a cop car at two in the morning, but they don’t respond so well. They are not used to it. They are used to people bolting at the very site of them, so at the site of me coming, they leaped out of their car. They jumped out of their seats like I was approaching them with a platter of maple bars with bacon on them. I haven’t seen dodging like that since I watched the Republican Presidential Debate. At any rate, I was disappointed to see neither of them were Marcus. I explained to them, the reason I came over and asked if they knew him? They laughed and said that he was a good friend. They told me he was actually working the same shift that night. They asked if I wanted to call him to say hi. It took a good 5 seconds for that information to reach my dehydrated brain, and while I was processing the question the bad idea section of my brain continued to function at levels never seen before. I said, “actually you guys want to play a joke on him?” They lit up like they just won jeopardy and the prize was a lifetime supply of hippies to hassle. They were excited at the notion of playing a prank on their good friend.

We started brainstorming about different ideas to prank him. They were so into the idea of coming up with an elaborate plan, they completely didn’t notice I was hammered. Anyone in his or her right mind would have known my drunkenness just off of my brainstorming suggestions. One idea was to rob a taco bell drive thru and call it in to Marcus. Another, I wanted to take the cop car for a spin, causing a high speed police chase and when they caught me, I would say, “Ha, ha, Marcus! I got you.” My ideas were so ridiculous; I was shocked when I came up with the one we were eventually going to use. I said we should call Marcus on the radio, and say, “ we just arrested a man named Matt Baker for public indecency (nudity) and he claims he knows you.” The two cops were convinced that it would work.

So the call went in to Marcus’s car, and I listened in on the radio. They told him exactly what we had scripted 3 minutes earlier. All you could hear is silence and then Marcus yelled out, “Alright! I will be right there.” The click of the radio went off and the three of us erupted into a fit of laughter, which quickly subsided because we realized we needed to make the prank even more extreme. 5,6,7 minutes went by, all of which were filled with the three us coming up with ways to dupe Marcus even more. Being more drunk than a frat guy at a football game, I did not hesitate when they proposed to handcuff me and throw me in the back of the car. So there I was, handcuffed, in the back seat, when a cop car; lights blaring, came crashing into the parking lot like every Starsky and Hutch episode I had ever seen. Out jumped Marcus, and I almost lost it right there. Maybe it was the fact I am a performer, or I was so drunk I couldn’t spell my own name right (Matt,) but at the sight of Marcus I took it upon myself to add to the realness of the prank; and started flipping out. I started squirming, kicking the doors and freaking out like I was Michael Richards performing at the Apollo. The two officers could barely keep themselves from laughing. They looked like every Jimmy Fallon skit ever on SNL. They were on the verge of loosing it at the panicked look on Marcus’s face. Marcus walks directly up to the door opens it and asks, “Matt, are you alright?” I started to yell at him about the injustice of my arrest and started throwing out words that sober I don’t even know there meanings; let a lone drunk. Things that I thought sounded good at the time. I yelled, “Your friends are egotistical narcissists. They are capitalist Marxist bastards. They are the reason for all the problems in our society.”

Marcus responded, “I am glad you are alright. Let me take care of this.” He walked calmly over to his fellow officers, and asked, “what happened?” The officer (Officer Davis) told him the story about me riding my bike naked and drunk down the street. He started taking artistic liberties, and explained how I was belligerent, and tried head butting him. He had a conviction in his voice that would have made Bill Clinton blush. It was so believable I was almost convinced it was a true story. Marcus was falling for it too. It was like we were professional actors and we had been practicing this moment for months. We were nailing it, even Jesus would say, “now that’s how you nail something.” As they were talking I noticed that Marcus had left the door open. When I saw the door open, my creative juices started flowing. The prank was going so well; I decided to keep it going and kicked the door wide open. I started running, hands still tied behind my back and all I hear behind me is Marcus yelling, “Matt don’t, Matt stop!” I heard the other cops yell, “Tackle him.” I looked back and there was Marcus, right behind me. He grabbed me by the shoulders and stopped me. He looked me in the eye and said, “Matt, you are making this worse for yourself.”He walked me back to the car and I almost forgot this was a prank until the other two cops just burst into laughter. They were howling like dogs in heat and Marcus had a look on his face that MasterCard would call, “Priceless.” Once I started laughing, Marcus knew it was a joke and started laughing like he had just done a month load of whippets. I yelled, “We got you” and he pushed me over like he was Elaine from Seinfeld.

Every time the laughter would start to die down, it would just start back up again. We laughed for a good 5 minutes. After our stomachs and throats had settled one of the officers un-cuffed me, while the other was busy radioing the other cops on the force to tell them the story. Marcus threw my bike in the trunk of his car and gave me a ride home. We did some catching up on the drive home and he made me promise I would not do something like that again. We parted ways with a hug and I thought that might be the last time I would see him for a while. I was wrong, because the next night, there was a knock on my parent’s door. I almost shissed myself again, when I saw it was the police chief himself. I was speechless, while he explained to me that Marcus and the other two officers had been suspended for playing such a prank. He explained that he needed me to come down to the station and prepare a statement. I obliged and followed him downtown. The whole time I was driving, I was kicking myself for being a drunken idiot. I never intended for those guys to get in trouble. Once I got down to the station, they took me into a little room. They had me write a description of what happened and made me fill out 5 pages of questions pertaining to the “Incident.” After about 90 minutes I finally reached the final question, which read, “Thank you for your time Mr. Baker. It is frustrating when people waste your time for no good reason. That is why we hope you won’t do it again! Payback rocks. Your friend, Marcus.”

I walked out of the room and saw the police chief, his secretary, the two officers and Marcus just standing there laughing at the look on my face. So, as you read this doesn’t it make you feel good that your tax dollars are going towards such wonderful pranks.

Parrots aren’t as cool as they seem.

By mattbaker on December 9, 2015 in Matt Baker, Story

In theory, parrots rock! When I think of parrots as pets, I imagine them less as a pet and more like a poorly educated drunk buddy. The similarities are uncanny. They both kind of just hang around, piece together funny sentences and constantly eat all your food. For me, I dream about all the cool tricks I could teach them. If I had a parrot, I would teach it amazing card tricks and cool phrases like, “Oh baby, come and pet me” or “liquor before beer never fear.” Parrots can learn all sorts of cool things. I had a friend who taught his bird to play dead when he shot it with an imaginary gun. I saw a guy street performing in San Francisco, who taught his parrot to take $5 bills from people’s hands. Although, when someone would hold a $1 bill out, he would take it and say: “Cheapo, Cheapo.” I even heard a story about a couple, whose parrot would always say, “Oh John, give it to me baby. That’s how I like it.” Finally, the husband figured out “John” was the name of the man his wife was cheating on him with, and the Parrot was just repeating what he heard.

My roommate’s ex-girlfriend has a parrot named Ralphie; that she would bring over to the house. Ralphie was probably the meanest parrot I have ever met. If Oscar the Grouch were a parrot: Ralphie would kill him. At first he was cool, because he was shy about being in a new environment. However, once he felt comfortable in the house, and around us, his true feathers came out. Here is three reasons why someone needs to have a serious talk with this bird.
#1- He wasn’t one of those parrots that you could just let chill on your shoulder and make you feel like a Pirate or Shipwreck from GI-Joe, Ralphie was a Punk. The reason being, whoever’s shoulder he was on, he would constantly shit all over. If he wasn’t treating them like a star of a German Fetish Film, he usually was trying to maliciously bite their ear off like he’s some sort of well spoken Mike Tyson. I guess Parrots can shit where they eat.

#2 – Any time you are quite, he is quite. Anytime you are trying to have a conversation in his presence, he starts crying like he’s Gwyneth Paltrow listening to Coldplay. It’s a type of cry that makes having a baby on a plane sound like ocean waves.

#3- His wings were clipped, but that did not stop him from flying around the house 10 feet at a time. He looked like a Wright Brothers experiment gone wrong. Often times he would fly right at your face, like he was purposely trying to freak you out. I would be in the kitchen minding my own business, and all of a sudden here comes a bird suicide bombing my face.

His owner, my roommates ex-girlfriend; was so overly protective of him. That made the whole situation worse. She was more concerned about his well being then the well being of the people who lived in the house. I once said to her: “Hey, if I accidentally hit him, while he is flying at my face, with a baseball bat, it’s not my fault.” She flipped out like every person ever on the show Hardcore Pawn. I mean, I know parrots have gained national attention with their Hollywood breakthrough movies. Movies like Paulie, and The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, but that is no reason for Ralphie to be such a ego driven douche. I think it is safe to say, I was not fond of the bird, but that was all about to change.

One night, I came home to my house; which we had only lived in a month, and there was no one home. It was probably midnight, all the lights were off, and I headed up the stairs to my room. As I am walking up the stairs I hear this faint voice that says, “Hello?” The voice was so eerie, and unexpected, it made me jump like I was Dominique Wilkins getting punked. Not only did I jump, but I also let out a little girl shriek that would have made Hitchcock wet himself. I ran out of the house; like my girlfriend’s husband just came home, and stood in the street trying to gather myself, and process what I just heard. After gathering myself, I slowly walked in the door, and heard something upstairs moving around. I walked slowly up the stairs with my only protection being a pen, out of my pocket; because everyone knows, the pen is mightier than the sword. While I was headed upstairs, I thought I was going to see something out of Paranormal Activity, but instead I saw Ralphie: sitting in his cage, at the top of the stairs, laughing hysterically at the spot in the front of my pants. The site of the little green bird, made me burst into laughter, marveling at my own ridiculousness.

Ever since that night, I began to like Ralphie. I made an effort to turn a blind eye to his annoying habits, and selfish activities. I began to like him for who he was: a shitting, ear eating, pompous parrot who has a great sense of humor. So, three cheers for Ralphie; (as long as he doesn’t come over again.)

A teenagers love note (with my commentary)

By mattbaker on November 9, 2015 in Matt Baker

So, I was performing at a performing arts center in a small town in Arizona. The theatre was located inside a high school. When I was unloading my stuff, I found a love note on the ground. I thought it was very finn, but I wanted to share with you this amazing love note, with some of my commentary. Enjoi!

Letter #1 Gonna be a lot more where this came from

Dear Hayley,

Hey beautiful. Solid start. So we have almost been dating for a week now! I think that is a Tanzanite anniversary. You are a very amazing girl. I know this is very corny, but Jacob and Carry from church do this and they have been together a long time. Two weeks in fact. I think that me and you will last for a long time:) I do too. Well, I hope we can get married! Whoa. Settle down champ. This is only letter #1. Save that for at least #3. You don’t have anywhere to go after that. My parents really like you a lot and so does my sister. And we all know how much of a bitch she is. Yesterday she was telling my mom she liked you more then any of my past relationships. And there have been a lot. My mom said she really likes you and your family so she was happy that we were dating. Damn. One week and the families have already met. This kid moves quick. I really like bracelet you got me “Hers.” Whoa. Red flag #1 dude. She’s a little possessive. It’s awesome. So is her reading your e-mails when your not around. I know you hate when I buy you stuff, but that’s how I show I like you. Well then stop buying her edible underwear. Don’t you know she can’t eat gluten. Not a good sign. Been together a week and she already developed a disliking for your gifts. Although it is A little creepy that buying her stuff is how you show her you like someone. Almost like, the only way I can show you I care is by cutting myself. I have never got any girl anything. Not even an orgasm. Frowny face. So your kinda special. Because I spend my lunch money on shit you don’t like. I starve for you. Haha 😛 I hope that’s not weird. That’s why I wrote Haha. So the things we talked about that we needed to fix, I’m working on it. Haha 🙂 Red flag #2. Been together a week and she is already giving you stuff to work on. Get out. But I am not promising anything. AKA- I still am going to sleep with hookers. Just kidding. I mean if you thought that was funny then I do too. I am always going to try and make you happy. This kid learns early. I hope you liked your birthday gift 🙂 I thought it was established she didn’t. But I can promise that next time for x-mas will be 1,000 times better. Damn straight girl. I’m gonna get a job, maybe sell my x-box and get you the finest Justin Bieber poster money can buy. I know you like my glasses, but I don’t. Well I guess they are growing on me 🙂 No. They look stupid. I also wanted to tell you that I like your glasses and especially your braces 🙂 That might be the first time that has EVER been said. I like your braces. The way the food get’s caught in them really brings out the color of your eyes. Your gonna have super straight teeth. After braces, they are not going to be attracted to teeth of the same sex. I really want to try a bible challenge with you so we can focus on god because without him we are nothing. Bible challenge? Is that christian dirty talk? I am gonna take you into my room and I am going to whisper john 3:16 in your ear till your body can’t take anymore. We should really go to Africa on a mission. I think we would have fun together. I mean, what a great way to celebrate our love, by converting some natives to Christianity. So, I know this is kinda weird, uh oh if I asked you to marry me after high school would you? Sounds like you just did. And another question, would have stopped before the first one how many kids do you want and what names. Red flag #3. If she knows how many kids she wants and their names, she is bat shit crazy. Get out. Alright, well write me back please 🙂 Umm. Yeah. About that. Your amazing 🙂

Sincerely,

Your Boyfriend High five-ing my buddies now.

Donating Sperm

By mattbaker on January 30, 2015 in Matt Baker, Story

I had just finished a show at a theatre in Canada. As I was loading my gear out, I had asked the stage manager if they could lend me a hand. She said, “I’ll tell the Foster kids to do it.” I was taken back for a moment and said, “you know, you don’t have to call them that. They have names.” The women without missing a beat replied, “You are right. They do have a name. Their last name is Foster.” Oh snap. Drop the mic…. All I could think is would she call them that if their dad’s name was Jerry. Or if their last name had been Stephen and Tiffany Black.

Not more then 2 days later I had a conversation with my buddy about his sperm. You know, normal guy talk. He had just been diagnosed with leukemia and him and his wife had been trying to have a second child for a while. They came to the conclusion that if anything were to happen to him, that she would still have a second kid. So, they ended up freezing some of his sperm. Not in an ice cube tray like most of us would do, but at a sperm freezing lab. They actually paid $75 a month to keep h spermtray is gooey seed in a cryogenic lab surrounded by other potential future confused kids. I was shocked. Not that they would do that, but that it cost $75 a month. Holy shit. That’s a lot of money. I mean do you even know what sort of community it is living in? Who are the neighbors? I guess for that sort of money I would think it would be in some sort of gated community at the least. I would love to see the price plans for this place. For $75 we will hold your love juice. For an extra $25 a month we will take it out on a walk twice a week. And for a extra $50 a month we will read it a bed time story every night. They say that reading to the kid in the womb makes it smarter, think of how much smarter they would be if you read to them while they were still sperm. That’s why I have friends who read to their balls every night.

At any rate, these two occurrences got me wondering if I ever wanted kids? If so, in what capacity? Foster kids? Adopt? Convince a women to like me long enough to raise a child? It didn’t take long to realize that I did not want kids. I think most people have kids out of fear. Fear there won’t be anyone to take care of them when they are older. Fear, that his or her existence won’t be remembered by anyone. Fear that they won’t be loved. Have a kid and if you are somewhat of a decent parent all three of those things are taken care. Either that or they just really want to name something, so they create an object they have the right to name. Like their little patent.

For me, my fear was the idea of not passing on my families name. My father is an only child and my two older brothers are far from ever persuading a women to let them put their penis inside of them, so I might be the last great hope of the Baker name carrying on. After weighing my options, I decided that there was a way to potentially solve the continue lineage/now wanting to have a child and ruin my whole life problem, and that was to donate sperm. What a brilliant idea. There are many people out there who can’t have kids for a myriad of reasons, and maybe we could all win. They could have a mini Matt Baker, my family lineage wouldn’t be lost and I don’t have to ever burden the responsibility of raising a child and go on with my easy care free life.

I was all in. I started doing research on donating sperm and found a place that I can’t say for legal reasons, but let’s just say it rhymes with Meattle perm bank… I found out that they pay you $60 every time you make a deposit. $60! What? They are going to pay me to do something I have paid to do in the past. Is this heaven? I was sitting on the golden ticket (no pun intended). I probably have $900 sitting in my trash right now. Seriously folks, why donate plasma when you can make money for doing a thing you do all day anyway?

On the site you can view other donors profiles that are in your category, AKA the competition. Under white, 5’8, athletic, 30 was quite a few profiles. Things next to their names said, “Neurosurgeon,” “Astro Physicist” and “Chemist.” Those careers sounded just as made up as comedy stunt man. In my life I had never felt like the odds were against me. I felt like the 5th member of the Jamaican bobsled team. When you can have doctors and astronauts as your donor, who would ever want a self employed comedian, who dropped out of high school? I could not let that deter me.. How many of them have been on national TV? How many of them played hackysack professionally? How many of them have 37 youtube followers? Which one of those guys did texasninjathief889 call, “Yo. Mad funny Yo”? Me, that’s who! That’s something right? I know there is someone out there that want’s their kid to be creative, funny and awkward all in a good way. Someone out there is going to want to roll the dice in the mystery gene pool game. So I signed myself up.

I was amazed at how many questions there was about education. Things like, “What was your SAT score?” “What was the highest level of education you completed?” This line of questioning spelled big problems for me. I never graduated high school, instead electing to become a comedian and make more money at the age of 18 in one year then my father. Seemed like the Beattle Firm Tank did not care about success and hard work. They just wanted to make sure your DNA got all the credits necessary to graduate college.

After I submitted my online application, It did not take long to get a reply. “Mr. Baker thank you for your interest in becoming a sperm donor. We have set up an appointment for you to visit the clinic and make a deposit on Monday at noon. Please bring photo identification. Please do not consume alcohol for at least 12 hours prior and most importantly please refrain from ejaculation for 2 days before your visit.” Two days? What are we communist? That takes out my whole Saturday? WTF? Now I was seriously regretting this whole thing. Couldn’t we do this as an on-call thing? Like, “Hello. This is Matt Baker. It’s been two days since I have ejaculated and I would like to now. Can I come in?” Seems like you would have a lot more success that way. Who plans their life around “not cumming?” I had to talk myself into it. Ok, Matt. Settle down. You can make this work. If not for you and the $60 you will be rolling in, but for the good of your future and the kid you’ll never know. You can do this.

Monday rolled around and I was really nervous. I had never been to a job interview before and this one was to see if I would get paid to masturbate into a cup. My dream job. I did not want to screw this up. I laid out my finest clothes, I even wore my best hoodie. I only pull that out for the real nice stuff like Craiglist random encounter dates. I typed the directions into my GPS and was on my way. I always tell people, “Buy the expensive GPS”, because I did not and I am constantly being taken to the wrong stop. Usually I know right away that the Safeway is not the New Mexico performing arts Center, but it took me awhile to figure out that the sperm bank was not located where my GPS took me which was a Motel 6. For a second I actually thought, “Oh. They say ‘suite 257,’ but that must mean room 257.” Luckily I double checked the GPS on my phone and found out it was next door. Glad I did, can you imagine me going up and knocking on the door of room 257. “Hello. I am here to give you my sperm.” That might be a little weird, but then again I am not a romantic.

I finally arrived at the bank and was greeted by nobody. I literally stood at the welcome desk for 10 minutes debating on how to notify someone of my presence. Do I walk around and start looking in the open rooms? There was no ding bell, which is smart. Don’t want guys ringing it furiously, “Someone is waiting to cum here.” I decided on the clearing the throat technique and it worked. Out walked a ridiculously hot women who was also the secretary. Obviously this is by design right? You don’t hire the hottest person you have ever seen to greet people at a Chuck E. Cheese. You hire them to greet dudes who are about to whack it for money. Why would I expect anything else? This is the #1 sperm pimp in the Seattle area. They know what they are doing.

She gave me the rundown of the operation, how it was all going to take place like we were mapping out an elaborate strategy to rob Fort Knox. She handed me a cup and I said stupidly, “Oh man. I have to fill this whole thing?” She sighed and disappointingly said, “Umm. No. Just one donation is enough.” Then we stood there in silence for what felt like 3 years, before she said, “You can go now.” I scurried down the hallway to one of the rooms she directed me to and opened the door.

I was half expecting a glorious sex room with velvet curtains, vibrating beds and pictures of a shirtless 2pac, but instead I found a plastic Ikea chair, a sink and a plasma screen TV. Left a little something to be desired. I would think if you are coercing men to extract their future kin, you might do it with something that resembles more of a sex den instead of a room at a mental hospital. That’s just me though. I had the tough choice of trying to decide where to play the crotch Yahtzee. Do I sit in this chair, where surely a million bare asses have sat on? Or, on the ground, where who knows how many lost souls were waiting to greet my ass on their tiled grave. I laid some paper towels down to protect my butt which is probably the sanitary equivalent of cleaning dirt of your face with spit.

I got naked and started to search through the menu of porn. I had never seen so much porn in my life. This was like the library of congress of porn. They had everything. Trannies, Interacial, Animals, they even had interracial tranny animals. No matter what I decided on, I just couldn’t seem to get in the mental mindset of an arousing experience. I thought about going and asking the nurse for help. Not in the sexual form, just in helping me set the environment of how I normally climax. All I would need her to do is pound on the door and yell, “It sounds like your not doing your homework.” I did not think that was an option, so I did my best to inject myself into a porno featuring two women and a man. I think in French it is pronounced, “Awesome.” It was working, almost too well. I had to pace myself. I did not want to give the girl at the desk the wrong idea. Finally, after 3-4 minutes (not bragging) I could feel it coming. That’s when I had to start thinking about how the hell I was getting it into the cup. I don’t know if you paid attention in 7th grade health class, but most erect penis’s I would venture to say go straight up, pointing towards the heavens. I don’t know if you have ever seen a jar either, but those require you to deposit things into it by pointing down. I am sure the Teattle Squirm Shank is aware of this. Why didn’t they give us a ketchup bottle designed for catching the liquid love. I was at a crossroads of epic proportions. I did the only thing I could think of doing, planking the chair and hope for the best. A lot like Eminem, this was my one shot (no pun intended). I am not sure if I missed, they would ever have me back. The mess it would leave let alone the knowledge that the persons goods you are trying to sell can’t even deposit something into a cup at point blank range.

Finally the moment came and through my pure bliss, slight shaking and temporary blindness I was able to get it all into the cup. Part of me wished there was a call button that I could ring and someone would come in and hold me. However, there was not. I went to public school, so I did not know if my sexual mustard needed to be rushed to the lab like it was some sort of kidney that only survived on ice for 12 hours. I quickly dressed, dried my tears and walked out. I was half expecting a congratulatory celebration from all the people in the bank with balloons and saying funny things in a helium induced voice like, “Worlds best dad” and “You da man.” Maybe a cookie a biscuit, or to punch my punch card, but there was not a soul to be found. I walked around and found the box I was to deposit my goods into, which I thought was ironic, and went on my way.

After you do something like this, it is a very awkward thing. I enjoy doing things that make people a little uncomfortable when they hear about it. I went for coffee and the woman asked, “So did you do anything fun today?” “Well, I am glad you asked” I responded. “Nothing big. Just finished donating some sperm.” It was weird to tell a total stranger that minutes before meeting them I had just ejaculated into a cup. I figured this might be the only chance I ever get, so why not marvel in it’s gloriousness. People seemed to be creeped out, but fascinated like I was a two headed calf that tap danced. I loved it. I had some fondness for my experience. After a few alcoholic drinks I got a little nostalgic and found myself debating on drunk dialing the Sperm Bank, just to see what they were up to. Luckily I invented this and it saved me from imminent rejection.

I checked my e-mail hourly awaiting a response. I imagined e-mail titles like, “Congratulations! Your sperm is the shit.” Or, “Increase your sperm size by 3 inches.” Or, “Matt Baker, you have the best coolest sperm in the world.” Nothing. Three days went by and I started questioning what was going on. Was this some elaborate identity theft operation? Go ahead. Steal my identity, probably would improve my credit. Finally, the e-mail came in entitled, “Your Sperm Bank Test Results.” I opened it like I was a virgin opening a condom for the first time and it read;

“Thank you for submitting a sperm sample for analysis. Your sample did not meet our strict quality criteria. The sample you provided is below normal sperm quality according to the WHO (World Health Organization) parameters for “Normal Sperm Quality”. The WHO parameters for normal sperm quality indicate that you must have greater than or equal to 20 million cells/ml. Your sperm sample had an average of 12.5 million cells/ml.”

I was stunned. I could see my future kids disappearing in $60 increments. First off, what is “Normal Sperm Quality.” Who wants their sperm to be normal? Of course mine aren’t normal. They are awesome. Second, 20 million cells/ml? That is strong enough to impregnate the microscope alone. Who wants a sample so densely packed with sperm it looks like a clown car? Mine are few and far between so that my sperm can roam. They should be more expensive like some sort of “Free Range Sperm.” Alas, they did not want me. I felt a variety of emotions.

I felt rejected, like the girl I really liked rejected my offer to impregnate them. I had quickly become like the Alabama Cavefish seriously endangered. I had never felt so close to a sneezing panda in my life. Although, in the aftermath of this earth shattering news that my sperm would not make it to see themselves grow hands I dealt with the trauma by talking about it with strangers. Barista’s would ask, “Anything interesting going on with you?” Uh, yeah! “I just found out that my sperm count is really low.” The looks on their confused and disgusted faces was enough to help me get through it. All I know is that when life hands you lemons, you make strangers uncomfortable. I hope this can be an inspiration to people out there. In this case I was handed information that my goods don’t swim that well. I could let that hold me back, but I refuse. Maybe it’s just my personality, but folks I am not going to let it stop me. I am going to keep masturbating till the day I die. Take that Lame-attle Germ Bank.

Spooning Bed

By mattbaker on December 9, 2014 in Matt Baker

Like most children born in the south you can trace the beginnings of this Million Dollar Idea to something that happened at an Applebee’s. Everyone loves to spoon in bed. Weather it’s your boyfriend, or girlfriend or some random person you thought was good looking at the bar the night before; spooning is for everyone. The one downfall to spooning is, that there is nowhere to put your arm that is not being utilized in the spoon. For centuries people have been trying to solve the curse to the free arm. I have seen National Geographic specials on the subject. A whole obtuse angle of the pentagon was dedicated to the matter. There are only 4 ways to put your free arm when you are the big spoon.

#1-You can put the arm up over you, but in one hour time you loose all feeling due to lack of blood flow.

#2-Put the arm behind you, but the American Society for Shoulder and Elbow Therapists list it as the #1 cause of shoulder tightness. Also, the National Committee for Sleep Research credits it as the main source for daily fatigue from disturbed sleep.

#3-Put the arm under the other person, however it wakes the person up if you move whatsoever.

#4- Curl it up and rest your head on it like a pillow. Although the using your arm as a pillow is the leading cause to nightmares according to the International Board of Dream Experiments.

So my cure for this growing global epidemic is something I call the Spooning Bed. It is a bed that has a sleeve built into it. The sleeve allows you to slide your free arm into and prevents you from feeling discomfort of the scenarios mentioned above. Not only will this improve your quality of sleep it will also improve the quality of your love life. My imaginary team of scientists, and false fact finders has determined that people using these beds divorce probability percentage will drop from 50% to 49.5%.

Unlike the sham wow this thing practically sells itself. It’s a bed, it’s a spoon it’s a spooning bed! You love spooning, but you hate losing blood flow in your arm; the spooning bed solves all of that. It works when your sleeping when you are napping you can pretty much spoon your troubles away. People who buy this are yelling spooning bed EVERYTIME. For only $499, this thing will virtually fly off the shelf. Come on guys you are going to spend $100 a month on flowers every month anyways. You are throwing your money away like Charles Barkley at a strip club.

Here is a testimonial from a spooning bed customer, “The spooning bed is better than sex.”

I don’t know what you are waiting for. Ladies, spoon with your partner all night. Movies, books, sleeping will never be the same.

Crappy Kid Names

By mattbaker on December 9, 2014 in Matt Baker

Recently, I have noticed a trend of really sucky kid names. I will meet kids with unusual names, which make me look at the parents like, “Seriously? You pretentious piece of trash! Out of all the names in the world, you chose the name “Simple” for your child.” People are getting carried away with the fact they get to name something. I find the more liberated we get as a culture; the more the names become absurd. Whatever happened to the classic names; like Ann, Beth, Rick, George, Lawrence, Maureen, and Gwendolyn? They might be old, but they are names that when they introduce themselves, people do not look at them like they are insulting their gullibility. I mean, who does not want to name something? I know it’s exciting, but don’t ruin your child’s life in attempt to make other parents think you are cool. Just because you named your kid, “Lennon” does not make you any less douchier then you were before. I am not trying to say you shouldn’t name your kid something unique; just give them a “normal” unique name. One that when your kid has to introduce themselves in front of the class, it does not scream, “My parents are fucking idiots!” I have plenty of friends with kick-ass unique names. Names like Landen, Lara, Daphne, Trillium, and Rex are all names that when you hear them don’t make you want to punch them in the face.

Here is a top 10 of the most horrible names that I have encountered. Note: these are names of people I have actually met. I have left off the notoriously bad names that egotistical celebrities ruin their kid’s lives. Like: Penn Jillette naming his kid “Moxie Crimefighter,” Arthur Ashe naming his kid “Camera,” and the worst David Carradine naming his kid “Free.”

If your name is on the list, I am sorry. Don’t be mad at me; be mad at your parents. If your child’s name is on the list, you brought this upon yourself:

#1 – Abeni (It’s only strange because he is a rich white guy, and “Abeni” is an African name meaning, “we asked for her and we got her.”

#2- Unique (pushing the pretentious boundary)

#3- Amelie (long after the movie, and they aren’t French. Good luck getting the kids at American public schools to pronounce that right. They’ll just pronounce her name “You’ll never have friends.”)

#4- Rammel (This guy was actually related to the Desert Fox, but you don’t want to name your kid after a famous Nazi general)

#5- Ann (When her last name is Teek. 5th graders had a field day with that. Not only is it a bad name, but geez Ann fucking Teek has to wait a century to live up to her name. )

#6- Sari (Pronounced “Sorry.” Can you imagine that conversation in school? The teacher asks, “What is your name?” Girl answers, “Sorry.” Teacher responds, “you didn’t do anything wrong. What is your name?” Girl answers again, “Sorry.” I could go on for hours, but I will spare you.)

#7- Casablanca (From a family who is not Moroccan, nor have they ever been to Morocco. She did eventually shorten it to Casa, which is a little better, but still on my list.)

#8- Sickurous (Sorry if you are reading this, but honestly your name is Sickurous)

#9- Spif (I think his parents were high when they did this, and just couldn’t spell)

#10- Lucky (He was born with one arm. How lucky can he be?)

What sucks about the whole naming thing is, the kid has no say in the matter. The parents just name them something they read on a bathroom wall, and the kid has to deal with it. The only option the kid has in the naming process is to change it when they are old enough. Why would you do that to your kid? I hear parents say “Oh, they can change it when they get older.” Even if they did get to change their name to something they wanted, they still have to start from scratch. It’s extremely difficult for someone who has gone by the same name for 18 years to have to start over. I mean, really? Who wants to have that conversation?

Friend: “Hey Osanka!”

Name Changer: “Umm. My name is not Osanka anymore, its John.”

Friend: “Ha, ha, ha. You are hilarious. Come on Osanka let’s go play halo!”

Name Changer: “My name is John now. I changed it yesterday.”

Friend: “Ha, Ha, and I’m Brad Pitt let’s go!”

Not only is it hard for the person changing their name, it’s even harder for everyone else to get used to calling them a different name. Imagine calling something a different name from the one you have been calling it your whole life. Let’s say McDonalds changed their name. They just come out, and say at a press conference “hey, don’t call us McDonalds anymore. Call us The Burger Temple.” Most likely you would laugh, give them the finger, and never eat there again (I didn’t need the name change for that.) Or maybe, you just might never call them the Burger Temple, because nothing other than the name has changed. They still have the big yellow arches, the creepy clown out front that entices kids to sit on his lap, and food that makes you so fat even the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance say’s, “damn, you are fat.” The name change affects everyone.

Here are some things to think about when naming your kid:

Can kids make fun of it?

Does it sound forced? Like a name you have to swallow out of embarrassment before you say it. “Um, my name is (swallow) Moonswan”

How do people react to it? Do people look blankly at you when you say it? Do they have to say, “is that short for something” or have to ask again “What is it?”

Is it hard to spell? No one says to me, “How do you spell Matt?” However, if they did, I would say, “with a silent x.”

Make sure to spell is right. Don’t spell Jessica, Jezzikkah or Destiny, Dezteeney

What is your last name? If your last name is Lincoln don’t name your kid Abe.

Is it the name of something else like a car (Lexus) or a plant (Sage) or a pizza (Margarita)

To ensure kids don’t get horrible names, I am proposing that we create a government ran Department of Names (or DON). All children’s names have to be submitted and approved by DON. If there was a department of names, my friend Ann Teek would have been Susy Teek and she would have lived a heckle free life. You would not believe the jokes my friend Tom Cruise has had to go through all his life. People calling him crazy, a closeted homosexual. I could not imagine what people who aren’t famous that have his same name has to go through. The naming department is here to protect your kids from your horrible decisions. However, if you really want a bad name, we will force you to name all your kids equally as bad names. This is our daughter Amelie and her sister The girl with the dragon tattoo.

The moral of this whole rant is; as exciting as it is to name a child, don’t name it something they are going to resent you for the rest of their life. If you are going to name a kid something like Tigger, do us all a favor and don’t reproduce. Get a dog!

Missing my Cruise Ship

By mattbaker on May 22, 2014 in Matt Baker, Story

A lot of times missing a flight is completely of one’s control. It’s out of your power if your connecting flight was late, the people on the moving sidewalk were standing in your way, or the person in front of you happens to be the color that the terrorist alert was set to. I once missed a flight because the security guard had to check what exactly I was packing in my pants; which was 228.6 mm of heat. So many times you are not to blame for missing your transportation. I wish I shared that sentiment when I missed my cruise ship. The reason I could not share it is because it is incredibly hard to miss a cruise ship. Nothing was preventing me from missing my ship; I plainly lost track of time.

I imagine most people, when pulling up in their taxi to see their ship sailing away without them, would freak out like a cocaine-less Andy Dick. Instead, my reaction was to burst into laughter. I guess I responded that way because I had not fully realized that I was just abandoned. I kept waiting for the cruise director to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Surprise!” Like it was some joke they played on a passenger every trip. Like, I won a prize for being the most un-organized person on the ship. Of course there was no tap, but there was a prize. The prize was one night of freedom from my 2,000 all white, all old, and mostly fat cruising counterparts. Of course I say that in a pro; old-fat-white person way (can’t upset the fan base.) I relished in the idea of a night free of constant picture taking and loud boisterous arguments on if that was a whale or just a shadow. “What do you think cast the shadow?” One man said, not realizing how dumb of a statement that was. You get a lot of those dumb statements on a cruise ship. I heard one women refer to the natives of Alaska as, “Alaskamo’s.” My favorite is what her husband called them. I believe the term was, “Snow Mexicans.”

This is not the way I would choose to get freedom from my fellow cruisers. Much like the Iraqi’s, freedom was being forced upon me. However, I do enjoy the idea of being stranded, because it forces me to have to accomplish a mission. I imagined getting back on the boat and having a news conference to explain what happened, with a banner behind me that said, “A Mission Accomplished.” Then after the conference, everyone says, “I think the boat was better without that guy.” This newfound independence made me feel like I was watching a Laura Croft movie; at first it sounds great, but after, you wonder what the hell you were thinking.

So my fate was decided. I was stay in Juneau for the night. As I still stood at the dock admiring my own stupidity, I thought about all the other times I had been abandoned. There was the time my mom abandoned me at a K-mart. Not in the literal sense, I just felt like she was abandoning good mothering when she actually took me to a K-mart. Or the time when I was 13, my oldest brother Kevin abandoned me at the Salt Lake City Airport. I wanted a cigarette and he said, “If you go and smoke I am leaving without you.” When I ignored his threat and went to smoke he just disappeared with my ticket. I got the last laugh, when I went to security and had them announce over the airport PA, “Kevin Baker, we have found your brother please report to airport security.” So to say the least, I had been groomed for the occasion.

Here are three things to do if you are ever stranded:

Step One: Figure out when you can leave, and do it!

Step Two: Find a place to stay, and rent it!

Step Three: Find a bar and Get drunk. However, make sure that does not cause you to forget about step one.

Step one was no problem. For $119 I was on the first flight to Skagway; where the cruise ship was stopping next. I don’t want to say the particular cruise line, but let’s just say it rhymes with Borewegian. Step two was a little harder. I had to walk around the town in search for an available hotel. It was really interesting seeing the town after all the cruise ships had left. All the characters came out. I kept waiting to see Sarah Palin and Todd stumble out of a bar and invite me over for a game of name that country. To my disappointment there were no celebrity sightings, and it saddened me that I had not seen any of these infamous Alaskamo’s.

I checked a few hotels and none were cheaper than $150. I have money, but I find something fundamentally wrong with paying so much money for a bed. For some people it makes sense. They need comfort and a sense of security, to be able to get a decent nights rest. As for me, all I need is a blanket. I can pretty much sleep anywhere. To save money in London, I took the subway to the airport every night, and slept at the baggage claim. In Maui, instead of the hostels, I simply slept on the beach. I can sleep pretty much anywhere. Along with identifying celebrity voices, and seeing midgets at far distances, it is one of my X-men abilities. Shelling out $150 for a place to lay my head for a few hours, even Jean Grey would laugh at. I needed to find something cheaper. So, I asked a guy who was trying to sell me a lighter for a dollar, if there was a hostel in town? He didn’t say a word and just pointed up the hill.

Up the hill I went. As I was walking, I passed a house that a woman had just walked out of. She was holding a Yoga mat and dressed like she was headed to work out. Our eyes met and she commented on my Descendents t-shirt. She said, “nice shirt. The Descendant’s are like the best punk band ever.” I laughed and awkwardly said, “They are one of them.” Without hearing a word I said, she walked right by me brushing my right shoulder. In a very demanding voice she said, “My name’s Laurie, walk me to yoga.” I stood there absorbing the strange request. As I was sorting out the randomness of this occurrence, she continued to walk up the hill. Without stopping she shouted, “Come on man. I am not trying to fuck you. I have a boyfriend. Hurry up, let’s go.” Her tone made it seem like I was inconveniencing her with my lack of sudden action. Whatever it was, it worked, because I moved like I was Kristie Alley chasing a Snickers bar. However, it was less of me accompanying her, as it was more of, me awkwardly following her as she raced ahead. Even though she held a distance of five body lengths, she still managed to make conversation. She told me about her bar-tending job and her love for punk music. Fortunately the awkwardness was cut short, when we reached her yoga studio. I asked, “Is this it?” Surprisingly out of breath considering we had only walked two blocks. Ignoring my words and more luckily my sarcasm, she went on to invite me to her house later. “Stop by anytime. You can go there now and hang if you want. My boyfriend is there, but don’t worry he is cool.” She said as she disappeared into the yoga studio. As I walked away, I wondered all sorts of things about my new friend Laurie. I wondered; does she just not like walking alone? Does she do this to every person she passes on her way to yoga? Does she just wait in her window waiting for someone to walk by? I knew my questions would go unanswered and I continued on my quest for the holy hostel. I continued to walk up the hill until the street came to a dead end. I stopped and asked a guy who was trying to sell me a barbecue skewer for $3.77 and he pointed (with the skewer) down this little path that led through some trees. I followed the path, which led me to a large house. It had a large porch in the front where a gutter punk couple was sitting.

Sam and Jeanie were from Denver, and welcomed me to the hostel. They took to me instantly, because I was wearing a Descendents t-shirt. Never before had this shirt gotten me so much attention. Was there some sort of Alaska-Descendents connection? We chatted on the porch for a while. They had only been in Juneau for 3 days and were giving me the 3 worthwhile spots to see in my 14 hours of furlough. They were staying here for the summer to find work and enjoy the 24 hours of sunshine. They told me about there horrid experience of sailing to Juneau from Seattle. They took a boat that transported vehicles to Alaska for people who were relocating there. 6 days of shaky seas and the disdain for their trip, made me decide not to tell them about the giant cruise ship I sailed in on. I didn’t want to ruin the first people I had met who weren’t selling me something or asking me to walk them somewhere. Finally someone who liked me for the clothes I wore.

The hostel was even cheaper than I was expecting. When the lady at the counter told me that it was $10, I stared at her in awkward silence like it was the first time I saw a women’s breasts. After getting the brief introduction to the hostel I realized why is was so cheap. To cut down on the cost of paying employees, everyone staying at the hostel had to leave from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. On top of the 9 hours you were not allowed to be there, you had to be back by 12 a.m. Or you were locked out. Not that being locked out in the warm sun is really that bad? They say that from June 21 to Dec 21^st Alaska loses 5 minutes of sunlight a day. So in reality Alaskan’s loose 5 minutes of happiness a day. Not only did they dictate the hours you could be there, they also had the guests do all the chores. My allotted task was to vacuum the stairs and mop the dining room.

In my book there is only one downfall about hostels, it is the people who do weird things in there sleep. You are always rolling the dice when you are sharing a room with 4-8 people. Sometimes, you get people who snore; some who talk in there sleep, and once in the middle of the night I even heard people having sex. I love waking up to sex, but only when I am having it. I don’t want to hear the sound of a hand slapping water unless I am the one slapping. My roommate for the evening was Rustam from Kyrgyzstan. Rustam was an extremely nice guy, who would soon be added to my list of people I would never share a room with again. I actually really liked him, until about 6:30 a.m. That was the time he decided to set his alarm for. I don’t get people who set their alarm an hour before they want to get up. I have no problem with people who get up early. Or, people who are making noise as they leave, but I do have a problem for someone hitting there snooze 8 times when they are sharing a room with strangers.

The main problem is not how many times he hit the snooze; it was how long the alarm lasted before he hit it. The alarm was not loud enough to wake him up, but was loud enough to wake up me, and the people in the room down the hall. Also, the alarm sound he chose was the most annoying thing I have heard since the first time I heard Celine Dion’s voice. I can deal with birds chirping or, a cool song, but his alarm made the sound of babies crying sound like ocean waves. It was one of those alarms that the longer it went, the louder it got. Before Rustam hit the snooze, the alarm would be going off for a good minute (which in official sleep time is the equivalent of 32 minutes.) Not only did it begin to get loud, after 30 seconds it added a voice saying something in some strange language. I imagined it was Kyrgyz and the voice was saying, “Get the fuck up you inconsiderate asshole.” Finally I sat up and in my politest voice said, “Hey dude, you got to turn that fucking thing off. Fuck…” He obliged, but not in the way I was hoping. I assumed after an hour of hitting the snooze button, and waking me up every 5 minutes, he would turn the alarm off. Instead he switched the alarm to what he thought was a more pleasant wake up call, a rooster crowing. The moment I heard the first cockadoodldoo I jumped from my bed and headed across the room. My intention was to take his phone and throwing it out the cracked window. Instead, Rustam rolled out of bed and apologized for waking me. Since I was standing there in my underwear looking as pissed as if I was Tom Cruise finding out scientology was just a ploy to get my money. I accepted his apology and went back to bed.

My sleep did not last long, because again I was woken up prematurely. This time however, it was the lady who checked me in inflicting the punishment. As she was shaking me she said, “Mr. Baker, you have not done your chores yet and you have to get out by 9.” I rolled my eyes and told her I would get right on it, which I did. I got out of bed, got my things together and when the lady wasn’t looking, slipped out the door and got right on getting the fuck out of there. I caught the first cab I saw, and instructed him to head to the airport. When we arrived at the Juneau International Airport, I had to ask the driver if this was the right place. I had to check because we were sitting in front of a building no bigger than a Radio Shack, and there were no planes in site. There was a long strip of land that resembled what an abstract artist might paint as a runway, but nothing that would hint to future archeologist that planes actually landed there.

The inside of the airport didn’t inspire much hope in me either. I felt like I was on the set of Wings, which ironically was the name of my airline. I walked up to the counter and told them I had a reservation and they handed me a ticket. No asking for a name, no looking at ID, no asking if my bag had hazardous material, I guess they just give ticket to anyone who claims they made a reservation. The security was just as lackadaisical as the check in. Apparently, metal detector technology has not made it’s way to Alaska yet. To be honest it was quite nice to not have to take my shoes off and put everything in a baggie. When I heard you were not allowed to bring 3 oz of liquid on a plane, I wondered what next? I thought, let’s just hope the terrorist’s don’t figure out a way to make urine dangerous. The frustrating thing about security screening is that every airport is different. There is no unified system to what they allow and don’t allow. For example, The Seattle airport allows me to have shaving cream, but when I go through Spokane; an airport the size of my middle nut, they freak out like I am secretly plotting to lather up the plane and shave it. Another time in Lisbon, they pulled my bag aside because I had some liquid that exceeded the amount allowed. When they opened the bag and found my axe body spray, they laughed and let me go. It was strange, like I was secretly shooting a commercial for axe. Regardless, of if other people were bringing on bombs that would crash and kill everyone on the plane it was nice for once to not have to throw out my toiletries.

When the flight was ready, the counter lady went around; from memory, and got all the passengers who were flying to Skagway. All 9 of us huddled up around the grey bearded pilot, like he was going to give us some sort of strategy we needed to stick to if we all wanted to survive. No real strategic maneuvers, all he said was, “Alright, we got a full flight. Be careful walking out on the runway there are a lot of holes and I don’t want you to twist an ankle.” I laughed out loud because he reminded of me of Santa Clause preparing his reindeer for the tough flight. We all got on the plane, and I was the last to board. As I was about to get on, Santa say’s to me, “I like you. I want you to be my co-pilot.” Shocked; I replied, “Really?” The thought flashed through my head of having to land the plane on a glacier because someone took out the pilot with their nail clippers. The same ones that normally get confiscated because of metal detectors. I was excited. When I got on the plane, I realized that the only seat available was the one sitting next to the pilot. Even though Santa was being nice in making me think I would actually assist him in the flight, I did not let that stop me from thinking I was the Neo of this flights matrix.

I have flown on a lot of small planes. I think this was the first plane I had been on where you can flick the pilot’s ear from the back seat. The co-pilot’s seat was comfy. So comfy, I fell right asleep when my ass hit it. Finally a sleep not interrupted from annoying alarms that make you want to punch nuns, or people shaking you trying to get you to do some mundane choir. I awoke to the sound of wheels hitting the gravel that paved the Skagway airport. My eyes opened to see my cruise ship sitting there, beckoning to me to come aboard. It was a nice way to wake up. Even though I had been gone less than 24 hours, I kind of missed the little things on the cruise you take for granted; like the drink holders next to the urinals and the people on carts driving around while drinking Franzia. The moment I walked on the ship I was greeted in the elevator by two middle aged folks who took the elevator up one floor and it made me glad to be back.

Flavored Envelopes

By mattbaker on March 21, 2014 in Matt Baker, Story

There is no doubt that technology today is astounding. Everyday, inventors, scientist and laid-off Microsoft employees create new ways to make our lives easier and more efficient. From mobile phones that are computers, to retail DNA tests that can tell you what type of career you child is most likely to have (mine is a projected Snake Milker,) whatever it is there is no dispute that the fountain of technologic advancement flows endlessly.

Although, every time I hear a announcement of a new item that seemingly does everything we ever imagined, I always look around my house and see everyday objects that have not been upgraded since there creation. It seems as if we skim over the necessities and go right for the amenities. I find it a little troublesome that we are so focused on creating and enhancing only specific parts of our life. Mankind can send robots to mars, using only a pong joystick to have them roll around gathering samples, but I have to still wipe my own ass with a piece of tissue. Come on NASA, why can’t I use a pong joystick to control a robot that will wipe my ass? Every time I look at my phone I am reminded of how our technologic focus is put on the wrong things. How can I watch a soccer game being broadcast live from India, while I am camping 150 miles from the closest town in Montana, but we can’t figure out a new way to cut our fingernails? Where is the phone that also is a fingernail clipper? Why is there no app for that?

The best example of technology not addressing the things that really matter is Coors Light. Coors Light came out with something they call a cold activated can. It is a can that changes color depending on if the beer is cold or not. Coors spent millions of dollars developing the hyper color of cans, because they knew how much time it would save people. Instead of wasting valuable seconds checking the cans temperature with their hand, people can now use that time to focus on things that really matter like watching NASCAR, polishing guns and cutting the sleeves off their flannel shirts. Coors spent millions of dollars developing something that did not need improving instead of spending that money on something that really does need improvement, making there beer not taste like dirty dog piss.

My cousin Alberta Einstein once said, “Sometimes by taking a step back you allow yourself to take two forward.” As a society we have such a desire to just keep moving forward by upgrading things that don’t really need upgrading. We are afraid to take that one step back. When I hear an announcement about a new invention, I don’t want to hear about a faster phone or a computer chip that makes you skinnier, I want to hear about improvements to things like: pencils, dishes, combs, flossing and of course the mother of all things that needs to be brought up to date and the inspiration for today’s million dollar idea; envelopes.

For close to a century people have been forced to expose their tongues to the disgusting taste of bitter dry adhesive just to seal their envelope. This acidy flavor has caused many fictional characters to die and is the second most common phobia related to licking, only behind frozen flagpoles. Everybody loves getting mail, but many factitioners credit the taste of the back of the envelope for the decline in today’s mail correspondence.

Some have tried to solve this never-ending problem. Creating things like self-adhesive envelopes and specialty sponges, but fitness experts has found that the tongues of people using these techniques are often malnourished due to being under worked. We also question how sponge worthy envelopes really are.

This social dilemma is what we at Matt Baker Comedy are dedicated to confronting head on. When no other inventors wanted to tackle such a social and terrible problem, we have no fear. We have invented something that is simple, yet needed. Today we bring to you Flavored Envelopes.

Tired of tasting that bland sticky shit on the back of envelopes? Rather play; find the lint in Mama June’s belly button with your tongue? Don’t worry; you don’t have to anymore, not with flavored envelopes. No more gagging when you have to send a bill, no more cringing when you have to send a simple letter. Flavored Envelopes will turn the disgusting process of licking the envelope, into an enjoyable one. With an assortment of flavors that include your favorites like Vanilla, Strawberry, Pina Colada make it so, when you lick you don’t get sick.

A life with delicious flavored envelopes in it; is a life worth licking. With a flavored envelope in your hand you are standing one step closer to a life filled with peace, unicorns and people who don’t say, “dude.” No more expensive self-adhesive envelopes, no more dirty sponges and ozone polluting tape, with Flavored Envelopes just lick it and stick it.

Buy your Flavored envelopes today and be a part of the revolution that will bring down this evil regime called e-mail. If you call in the next 365 days we will throw in a sheet of our LSD flavored stamps. * Be sure to look in stores for our newest flavor, Angelina Jolie; it’s just like kissing Brad Pitt.

* Note: We at Matt Baker Comedy are not responsible for any hallucinations caused by the LSD flavored stamps. This includes, but is not limited to streaking, gnawing on your arm, thinking you are Jimi Hendrix in a past life, fighting imaginary ninja’s and flying.

Jamie Lee Curtis can’t improv

By mattbaker on December 10, 2013 in Matt Baker, Story

Often times I perform at events where my performance is scheduled right after a celebrity. I don’t know why I would ever following someone famous, but you would be surprised on how often it happens. It usually goes like this, “Thanks for those moving words Mr. Obama. You are truly an inspiration to the world, and we are honored you came and shared with us today. Up next, let’s give a loud round of applause, to comedian and stunt man Matt Baker.” There is something fundamentally wrong with following somebody who is significantly more famous then me. I chalk it up to the old vaudeville days, when they would use an awful act to follow the headliner. The reason they did this is to clear out the theatre to get it ready for the next show. At any rate having a person no one has ever heard of, follow a guy who was the first black president of the United States, has got to be as dumb of a move as the time I ate a hot dog at a Chippendale show.

Being a performer you come across a lot of show producers who really have no idea what is going on. It might be the stress of managing such a large event (or the blow they are doing all through it,) but a lot of the times they just have no idea how to correctly put on a show. The worst comes out when there is a celebrity involved. I once got kicked out of my dressing room because David Hasslehoff had to take a dump in my toilet. When I was allowed back in my own dressing room, it smelled like a person holding on to a mediocre career. It sickens me to watch the show people be bent over by celebrities like Leonardo DiCaprio in Basketball diaries. I understand if it is someone who actually makes a difference like the Dali Lama, but making sure Tom Arnold has 250 brown M&M’s and a glass of unicorn tears is going a little to far. They treat it like if they don’t, they can never get a low level D celebrity at their event again.

Following them is one thing I can manage, but sometimes the producer wants me to do some sort of funny interaction with the celebrity to keep the show moving. For some reason this happens a lot! Like Dan Marino’s 16 years of playing football is really going to pay off when he is forced to improv for 5 minutes with a comedian. I can just see the idea going through the producer’s ecstasy riddled head, “Oh, you think Dan Marino is a great football player, just wait until he tries to make you laugh unrehearsed with this unknown comic.” It is stupid to ask someone who has done one thing their whole life and expect them to have success at something totally different. “Oh, your good at quantum mechanics, we are going to have you break-dance.” I mean, sometimes it works, but most of the time it doesn’t. It is unfair to ask a comedian to stray from his act to make people laugh, but imagine someone who has never done any improv in there life doing it; it can go south in a hurry.

There is no more of a perfect example of people not being able to interact then the time I was asked to improv with Jaimie Lee Curtis. She was speaking at an event and I was scheduled to follow her. I thought it would be ok since she is an actress, and backstage she was really funny. So when I got on stage with her, I jokingly said, “Jamie, I don’t know who does your makeup, but they did a great job because I didn’t even notice your adams apple.” Jamie; instead of improving with me, just stormed off stage. Maybe it was what I said, but any person with improv training would have come back with a number of witty retorts like, “The same make up person that made your career invisible.” Or, “you sure noticed it last night when you were rubbing it.” Jamie instead decided to walk off stage and leave me hanging dry on stage. I thought it was funny and so did the crowd, but the show producer didn’t; and that is all that matters. Moral of the story is, if you are ever on stage with Jamie Lee Curtis, don’t bring up that she is a man.

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