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.

Underground Room

By mattbaker on April 4, 2016 in Story

Written by Jon Baker and Matt Baker (no relation)

In my life, I have met so many unique people. From a world record holding chainsaw juggler, to the inventor of the deep-fried Twinkie, to the man who inspired the song “Spoonman.” I’m not just talking about people who show up on my Facebook and Twitter pages, but people who have actually played a role in my life, people I have been honored to call my friends, the type of people that I would help on the drop of a dime. This is a story about the legend of Jon Baker.

Part 1 – The Jon Con

My old friend Jon Baker (no relation) and I were in a band together called the Interstate Hikers. Not the worst of names for a band, but it certainly illustrates the fact that we had no idea what we were doing. Interstate Hikers? Sounds like a special on 60 Minutes. “Tonight on 60 Minutes: Interstate Hikers—green transportation or a band of homeless vagabonds looking to rob you?” Although our name was not great, it was certainly better then the music we played.

Since the four of us liked drugs, starting a band seemed natural. What we lacked in music ability we made up for in aptitude for conjuring up ways of getting money to spend on drugs. From pooling our lunch allowances and picking up recyclable cans on the roadside to hawking our parents’ stuff, nothing was sacred in our quest for eternal hallucination.

During one such hallucination, it became perfectly clear that we needed to spend less time making money to get high and more time actually getting high. That’s when Jon came up with the idea of a perfect con.

Usually, our ideas for the infamous get-rich-quick scheme involved an old lady, pantyhose and a potato gun, but Jon’s plan had what all of our previous ideas lacked: brains behind it. Here’s how it worked: Jon printed out a pieces of paper with future dates on them. A person would give Jon any amount of money they desired, and they would receive the dated piece of paper with his signature guarantee. If that person presented the signed note to Jon on the date indicated, he would give them four times the amount they originally invested. He called this con the Back of the Alley Banker.

Since we had been stuck in low-end cons that would produce maybe $20 at a time, naturally we were beaming with excitement when Jon showed the band his giant wad of cash. He held it in his hands like it was some sort of a fragile magic lamp; one that would grant him the wish he had always dreamed of. We stood in silence, eyes wide and staring, like it was the first boobs we had ever seen, dreaming of a future filled with hallucinations and enough drugs to kill a small horse. However, Jon ignored his bandmates’ pleading cries to spend the money on beer, drugs and giant crates of Costco muffins; instead, he elected to spend it on something he had always dreamed of doing: building an underground room.

Unbeknownst to me, this plan was 3 years in the waiting. Jon had been charting, drawing schematics, and crafting his plan since he was 14. His mom never gave him permission to build the underground room, and so, at the age of 17, Jon’s defiance level was at an all-time high. With his mom leaving for a month on a work retreat, Jon attempted to seize his dream, which in Latin is called carpe dreamin. If given a month home alone, most 17-year-olds would spend that time watching re-runs of Looney Tunes naked and trying to figure out how to get laid. That is what made Jon so unique; he was to spend the next 4 weeks of freedom digging a giant hole in his mom’s backyard.

We all doubted his bizarre plan, but in the summer of ’99, the construction began. Operations were running as smooth as a sanded-down baby’s bottom, and by the end of the first week, Jon had dug a hole the size of a midget standing on top of a MINI Cooper. Word of his project reached the kids in the neighborhood and they quickly gave him the nickname, “The Ground General.”

At the end of the first week, Jon ran into his first setback. He realized one small detail of his master plan for an underground matrix had been glossed over: where to put the dirt he had unearthed? Not one to panick, he decided to put it where most people would put the dirt from their underground rooms: in between his and his neighbor’s fences. Operations were back on, as Jon began piling mounds of dirt in the empty space between the fences. A second problem quickly arose and that was that the solution to the first problem was not that great. The mound of dirt had begun to cause the fences to bulge like Kirstie Alley eating an Oreo. His neighbors noticed and threatened to call the police if Jon did not do something about it.

Jon was at now at a crossroads. He had nowhere to put the soil, and there was no way he was going to give up on his dream due to some small logistic. So he kept digging. Soon, what looked like two side-by-side models of Mt. Vesuvius were visible over the top of the fence. And still he kept digging. The plan was to tell his mom that the dirt was from some landscaping he had done while she was away. Not the best plan, but knowing Jon, we all knew he would somehow make it work.

Seriously behind schedule, Jon began to work day in and day out, busting his ass to finish the room before his mom got home. With only a week left before her return, the project was only half finished and new problems kept arising; the biggest being that the dirt walls kept caving in, forcing Jon to dig out wheelbarrows full of dirt on a daily basis. Jon was working harder then a Mexican donkey to dig his hole, which far surpassed his careful renderings and had grown to the size of a short yellow school bus. In this gaping hole, with only 2 days until his mom’s inevitable return, Jon began to build the room. Using the money he conned (about $200), he bought the wood and went to work on framing an enclosed box.

The night before his mother was scheduled to return, Jon finished his pièce de résistance, a structure that would change the meaning of the term man cave forever and would cement his name in the neighborhood folklore. Jon deserved it. This was not just your run-of-the-mill underground room. It had everything you would want in a bedroom, let alone an underground bedroom. Jon had dug a trench from the house to his new hideout, which allowed him to run extension cords to power his TV, phone and lights. He threw in a bench, a bookshelf, a futon and a Plexiglas window that looked out into the soil.

From the outside, there was no way to tell there was a room below the surface. Jon had neatly re-laid the original sod. The only way to enter the room was through a flat hatch door that was covered with some dead shrubs. It was like a pot grower’s wet dream. A hideout that would make Anne Frank say, “Why didn’t I think of that?” The only thing that indicated something remotely suspicious were the gargantuan piles of dirt that looked like an unfinished dirt sculpture of Dolly Parton. Surely his mom would buy the landscaping story. Right?

I asked Jon to explain to me what happened when his mom came home and he wrote this:

“At first it was my intention to keep the underground room a secret. That plan briefly worked. When my mom came home, she immediately noticed the comically sized primitive pyramids of dirt that were once the intestines of the underground room. She asked, “Where in the world did all the dirt come from?” I replied, “Well, I’ve been doing some weeding.” For whatever reason she left it at that. However, the next day she brought it up again, pointing out the absurdity in my reply. “Well, Ma,” I said, “Do you really want to know?” “Yes,” she replied, “Ok, follow me,” I said and I led her to where the trap door to the room was. I asked her if she noticed anything strange. “Well, it looks as if you’ve Rototilled the ground or something.” I kicked aside the brush, revealing to her for the first time the door that would lead her into a new understanding of her only child. “Now do you notice anything strange?” This was met by only silence. “Here lift the handle,” I suggested. It wasn’t until 3 days later that she approached me and said, “You know, Jonathan, it’s actually quite impressive what you did. I wish you hadn’t done it behind my back, but I’m impressed.”

Jon lived in the underground room for 3 months, until the winter rains arrived and the room’s only structural flaw was revealed: the flat roof necessitated an interior gutter system to allow the inhabitants to live comfortably. But by then, Jon, now 18, could finally move out without a co-sign on a lease, rendering the underground room’s main purpose obsolete. Water filling the room daily, Jon decided to abandon his baby to live in something more conventional: something above ground.

Jon’s room remained in his mom’s backyard and the contentious dirt piles remained lodged between the two fences. Over the next 2 ½ years, neglected, the underground room accumulated a horror film’s worth of snakes, slugs and spiders, eventually deteriorating into a miniature swimming pool of cess, until the day Jon’s mother unilaterally condemned it. Jon returned and, over a couple of visits, refilled the hole with the same dirt he had dug out so many summers before. Why, I wondered, didn’t he just spend the money on drugs?

When I think about Jon’s room now, I imagine a scene 200 years in the future. I visualize the face of a man as he accidentally digs up this underground fortress. I envision the excitement he will encounter as he uncovers the treasure that will make him rich and give historians of his day crucial information about the people who inhabited the land so many years before. Camera crews arrive, speculating about what could be inside: aliens, a king’s tomb, maybe artifacts of the ’90s. The whole world watches on live TV in anticipation. Then, I picture the disappointment on everyone’s faces as they open the hatch and begin the gridded excavation, only to find an abandoned 9x9x9 room with nothing in it but a High Times magazine and a Plexiglas window looking out into the dirt.

The scene will cause the kind of laugh that happens only years after a joke’s inception, like an Andy Kaufman skit.

Now I understand why Jon didn’t spend the $200 from his con on drugs that would wear off in 300 hours and instead spent it on something he knew would be hilarious for centuries: the underground room

Meeting My sisters in-laws

By mattbaker on February 17, 2016 in Story

With my family, the best damage control is to avoid introducing them to your significant other at all costs. Although, if I were forced to, I would take it very slow and have my partner meet them one at a time. Individually they are all mild-mannered people and tolerable to outsiders, but together it can be deadly. They are a lot like LSD. You take one hit and it can be fun, but when you take the whole sheet, you might be mentally messed up forever. In my world, the success of a relationship is the ability to keep my significant other away from the whole family at once. The same can be said about introducing my family to the future in-laws.

This is the strategy my sister overlooked when she decided to combine family Thanksgiving celebrations. I always believed if you are going to have the parents meet, it should be in a neutral setting. A lot like a breakup, it should always be in the middle of the day at public meeting place. That way, it minimizes the chances of a giant freak-out, and it makes it significantly harder to take hostages. Combining two families Thanksgivings is a terrible idea alone. When you add in the fact that those families have never met one another, it was the combination that might rival the top spot on my list of bad ideas. After four years on top of the list, eating a hot dog at a Chippendale show now had some competition.

The reason this was such a bad proposal is that people act neurotic around holidays. I know my family does. Spend a holiday with my family and you are guaranteed to see someone cry, something large being thrown at another person, or a trip to the hospital. They are very far from white trash, but are extremely close to white recyclables, very middle-class and very dysfunctional. I was envisioning this Thanksgiving in movie format in my mind. The first scene was my family walking into my sister’s future in-laws house all wearing smiles. The next scene is my family walking out of the house in slow motion in Reservoir Dog formation, still smiling, while behind them, the house is engulfed in red and orange flames.

Although, we all knew that my sister’s suggestion was a terrible idea, we also knew why it had to happen. With a wedding fast approaching, and the parents living in separate states, it would be hard to find a time to meet and discuss the details of the wedding. Avoiding the meeting was pointless and that is why I kept my mouth shut. However, I knew that the last Thursday in November, would always be remembered as, “the day that should have never been.” A debacle rivaling only the day JFK was shot and the day Snapple stopped making strawberry/peach.

Luckily for my sister, our two brothers declined the invitation. Their reason they gave was, “the travel was too far.” I knew this was the nice way of saying, “I would rather be water boarded than to show up.” Their decision to pass was probably the best thanksgiving gift my sister could have asked for. It significantly decreased the chances of the house blowing up like a scene out of Die Hard 2, but still the chance existed. Granted, two ingredients of the bomb were missing, but you still had the person my mom refers to as, “the fuse that ignites the whole explosion” which was me! The reason she calls me that is, I will say anything and do anything regardless of the scenario. If I feel it, I say it. I can’t hold anything back. I am like Michael Moore with Turrets Syndrome. The rest of my family has a censor switch that they can turn on and off. I was not made with the same switch. If I did have a switch, its only function would be to adjust my liberalness. It has two settings, the normal liberal setting or the crazy liberal setting. The crazy liberal lever is most often cranked up when I am around conservative people. It seems as if every time I get around “button-downs” I am playing a character in a play and every major liberal trait is magnified for the stage.

When the dreaded week arrived, I fielded calls from everyone in my family asking me to be on my best behavior. Everyone wanted to make sure that the meeting went as smoothly as possible and they knew I held the keys. The desire to make the meeting a success was magnified by the fact that my sister was the first in my family to get married, and probably the last. My parent’s especially cautioned me, because to them, this might be their only shot at having a grandkid within wedlock. To them, my sister was like the Virgin Mary in Star Wars. She was the one who would bring a balanced child to the force. My mom pleaded, “Please don’t ruin this.” I told her and all of my skeptics the same thing, “I promise to do my best not to tarnish the Baker image.” That all changed when I arrived at my sister’s soon to be in-law’s house.

I only needed one minute to realize that I hated our hosts. As we pulled up to their giant house, they raced out of their house to meet us. Their excitement for our visit was so over the top it makes William Shatner’s acting seem quit demure. We were greeted with smiles as big as Ron Jeremy’s mustache, and hugs that almost made me throw up. Not just individual hugs, but they demanded a group hug. My family complied and embraced our hosts. Once we were all awkwardly holding each other, our hosts said, “thank you Lord for bringing these wonderful people to our house.” I wanted to leave, but the night had just begun.

My hatred for them grew as I walked through their house. Everywhere you walked there was some sort of cookie cutter sign to greet you. Signs perfectly placed above the stove and stairs were reminders about the life we should all strive for. “Love your brother and you will be loved.” “A loving family is all you need in the world.” “A house is built by love.” My favorite one was the one right over the toilet that said, “Jesus died for you”, in case you forgot while you were taking a shit. The house possessed everything wrong with America. Fake, Ignorant and trinkets everywhere. Dolls, porcelain animals and hand-sewn girls in bonnets and potholders haunted my every step. I knew one of two things were true as I surveyed the house. These people were either truly a happy family or, they were a family of serial killers secretly plotting to massacre the entire town. Either way, I knew I was going to find out one way or another.

It is eerie to be around people who try so hard to be nice. Their smiles were as awkward as the family portraits peppering the walls. Their questions were as bland and generic as a John Kerry and Jennifer Anniston lovechild. “How was your drive?” “What is the weather like in Seattle?” “ Oh, isn’t this a beautiful day?” These are all questions they tried pulling on me, in hopes of making me feel comfortable in their home. To say the least, their attempts to make me feel comfortable made me feel even more uncomfortable and agitated.

One thing I have learned over the years is the more uncomfortable I am, the more sarcastic I become. I began throwing out some jeering remarks as I strolled through the house. Stuff like, “I love what you have done with the place. It’s very Christian Science Reading Room.” And, “Wow! I have never been inside a Harry and David catalogue.” I have never seen people deflect my sarcasm as well as they did. It seemed like our hosts had been briefed on me prior to my arrival. It was as if they were wearing some sort of invisible condescending proof shield. Nothing I said affected them. They swept my remarks under the rug as they laughed and said, “Oh, you are, a funny man.” They were immune to my comic jabs, and my blood boiled because I knew I had met my match.

My parents were not dealing with our hosts much better. The expressions on my folks face suggested they were as uncomfortable and agitated as I was. However, they did a much better job of hiding it. There were a few moments when I saw my mom having to stop herself from leaping over the counter and slapping the happiness out of them. My mom leaned over to me and said, “Dinner can’t come soon enough.” To speed up the process, I offered to help cook. After they respectfully declined my offer, my eyes met my mom’s gaze. She put a fake gun to her head and shot herself.

After two hours of awkward conversation, we finally sat down for dinner. I was not surprised to find out that everyone had assigned seats. I got the privilege of sitting at the teenager table. I was wedged in-between their two overly behaved teenage daughters, who were a whopping 28 years old combined. I was furious, because I was in the middle of a compliancy sandwich. It was like I was being smothered with a blanket of reverence. I assumed they had assigned me between two kids who have never done anything wrong in hopes of keeping me quiet. I thought to myself, “I will show them.”

When the food came out, a feeling of relief rushed over me. Finally there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I felt like I had been stranded on a desert island and after three years, I was finally being rescued. I was so overwhelmed with excitement that I reached for the potatoes and was immediately stopped by Mama Stepford. She said, “Before we eat, I think everyone should share why you are thankful.” My excitement quickly dissipated as I watched my rescue helicopter fly by my island without seeing me. I was destined for what felt like another three years of insanity.

As I slowly drew back my arm, I snidely said to her, “I am sorry for my reach. I guess it’s a habit, because in my family, we think it is ridiculous to pause and force ourselves to be sentimental for something so absurd.” As the words left my mouth, I thought, this was it. This was the comment that would finally do the damage I had been trying to inflict with my unjustified spiteful assaults. Surely, this blatant insult would wipe the smile off of her face, but I was wrong. She was too good to get derailed from my stupid comments. She just spun right off my quip like a whirling dervish and said, “In our family, it is not ridiculous to be thankful for the life god has given us. Maybe, it would not hurt you to think about how blessed you are to have the life you have.” Her glowing red eyes never straying from mine. I was about to fire back, but my mother had the wherewithal to step in and stop me. She said, “Matthew, today we are here for your sister and it will be a nice change of pace to try something different.” I could sense in her tone that she was pleading with me to not ruin this for my sister anymore than I already had. So I complied, briefly.

My mother and father did their best to play the game of respectfulness. They put their sarcasm aside to try and salvage an image of decency for my family. My Dad did the best job of building back the bridge I was trying to burn by saying, “I am grateful to be able to finally meet our only daughter’s future in-laws. It is a blessing to know that my daughter will be part of such a loving family. I am also grateful to spend this holiday with my son Matt for the first time in 7 years.” He brought down the house. His acting was superb. I could see James Lipton asking my dad, “How did you find the strength to pull off such a daring performance?” It was so good and it should have been the finale of the “what we are grateful for” game, but for some reason I was set to be the last person to speak.

Everyone took their turn at following my dad, but all paled in comparison; until me. I looked around the table, and I could see the in-laws holding their breath. I met my mother’s eyes and I could tell they were soliciting peace, but something caught my eye behind her. My eyes strayed to a sign hanging behind my mothers head that read, “When the Lord speaks the servants listen.” I was suddenly inspired. Forgetting about my mother’s plea to act civil, I stood up to address the table. I knew this was my last stand; my final liberal stronghold and I was determined to go out with a bang. I said, “I would like to thank the Native American’s who gave their lives so that we could have their land. I am grateful that they were gullible, and believed the lies our ancestors told them. Who knows what type of mess our lives would be today, if the natives of this land had not taken the crappy land we designated to them? Today is a day to celebrate the overtaking of a country and the segregation of an entire people. If only we had more days to celebrate the eradication of such an amazing and spiritual culture. Thank you!”

Silence fell over the table. I began to relish in my breakthrough, but was interrupted by my parent’s sudden eruption of laughter. They were laughing because, they also despised this perfect little family and I was showing the spite they were not allowed to show. They were laughing because they knew I was trying to send a message to these folks. I was trying to say I would not stand for your cuteness and your perfect little life.

After my family’s laughter subsided, the host mother said, “Thank you Matt, for your reminder of why we are really here. It is easy to forget the atrocities some of our people committed on the natives of this land. We should never forget what happened and only strive to be better and make sure things like that do not ever happen again. Thank you for your honesty and thank you for being here.” A great play. She was good. As I realized my comments did not affect them, an overwhelming sense of douche bagginess rushed over me. In my attempts to flex my liberal muscle I just made myself look like Kanye West.

As I ate in silence, I wondered to myself if I was really the “free thinker” I made myself out to be. From the moment I walked in their flowered pattern door, I judged them and resented their ability to be nice. I presented myself to them, as they type of person who would throw paint on a fur wearer, light a car on fire and would picket a kids baptism. I tried to make them believe that I was the type of anti-American person they told their children not to associate with. The type of person they told their kids not to get rides home from or take candy from. Every step of the way, my hosts welcomed me, my opinions and absorbed my cutting remarks without batting an eye. They accepted the differences in my beliefs and still welcomed me without judgment. I did not understand how someone could be so nice, so I treated our hosts poorly because I feared what I did not understand.

When the wedding day came, it was my turn to speak and I received a great introduction. My sisters father in-law said, “the next toaster, has a great head on his shoulders and I am grateful for him to be part of this ceremony.” As I grabbed the microphone, I took my parent’s approach and dulled it down, for my sister.

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.

Choose your own Adventures

By mattbaker on December 9, 2014 in Uncategorized

I don’t want to brag, but I have a gift for inventing things. Unlike a lot of inventors thought, I don’t actually like to make things. I am more of an idea man. I like to come up with ideas for inventions and try and get other people to make it and take my cut. My invention idea gift started when I was in the 5^th grade. I was in Mrs. Sage’s class and everyone had to submit something to the school’s invention convention. My mom kept nagging me about coming up with something, but since my lazy tendency’s were already set, I just made the first thing that came to mind. I called it the Mula Holder. It was a pocket inside of a hat that held your money. Simple, yet practical! This idea was so good; one of the teachers called me in to her classroom and tried talking to me about seriously marketing it. Nothing really came of the conversation because ummmmmm I was 10! How does a 10-year-old kid go about marketing something? I told her I would talk to my agent and get back to her. Of course I lost in the invention convention to someone who used a straw to get the green leafy part off of a strawberry. At any rate, I was not surprised when 4 years later Nike came out with a hat with a pocket on the inside (I am convinced that teacher sold it to them.)

Another idea I had was one for a flavor of ice cream. I called it Bake’s Funk Deluxe. It was chocolate ice cream with peanut butter and fudge swirls. I know what you are thinking, “damn, that would be like Cinco de Mayo in my mouth.” I wrote to my favorite Ice Cream makers; Ben and Jerry’s, and told them about my flavor idea. I was surprised when they wrote me back thanking me for my submission and telling me that if enough people requested it they would make it. Not as surprised as I was when 3 years later, they actually made it, and called it something totally different; Peanut Butter Me Up. I got no credit, no residuals, not even a free pint of ice cream for my frozen brainchild.

Today’s Million Dollar Ideas is, (drum roll please) Choose your own adventure movies- Yes, I said it. Remember the books you used to read as a kid? Do you remember how exciting it was to read the same book 100 times and never read the same story. You can apply that same concept to a DVD. Imagine watching your favorite movies and each time it has a different way it could go. Here are a few movies that could dramatically be affected by the choose your own adventure concept:

In Schindlers list you get to choose for the Jews to create a time machine where they go to the future, capture Madonna, and bring her back in time. Then, she seduces Hitler and convinces him to let everyone free.

Or in Star Wars when Luke tells Leah that she is his sister she responds, “let’s do it anyways.” Or maybe you would choose for Leah to hook up with Chewy instead of Hans, and they have hot ewok babies.

Maybe in Forest Gump after all his accomplishments, builds a space ship and flies to another planet and we never have to hear about his over achieving ass again.

Wouldn’t it be cool in The Passion of the Christ, after getting a strange e-mail, Jesus takes a pill and realizes he is really in the matrix.

Or you could get a laugh in Lord of the Rings when you decided after Frodo and Sam destroy the ring and think they are going to die, end up telling each other how much they love each one another and begin to make out. Then Gandalf comes flying in on his eagle yelling, “I knew it.”

I know you might need a minute to take in all the possibilities. What different endings would you choose for your favorite movies? ovies?

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!

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