UPDATED: Well, this oughta do wonders for my OCD

Well, this oughta do wonders for my OCD
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In the spring of 1994, I was approaching the end of my sophomore year at Salem State College in Salem, Massachusetts, where I was… [read the rest]

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If you’re a ginormous asshole who regularly demonstrates a total disregard for your co-workers, this post is for you

So that I.T. job I’ve been wasting away at for almost four years now? Well, I still haven’t figured out how to leverage my writing skills in a way that’ll get me the fuck outta there … but I have figured out how to have a little fun with those skills in the meantime. And so, instead of limiting the recipients of my latest masterpieces to the adult-sized toddlers with whom I work, I figured I’d share these two missives with all of you as well. You’re welcome! (Of course, it’s beyond depressing that I work in a place where the following emails are even necessary — particularly the second one —but sending them to every single person in the corporate office felt good.)

To: Home Office
From: Jon
Subject: Office Etiquette 101

Dear Everyone:

If, after obtaining a paper towel from the rack over the kitchen sink, the dispenser looks like this:
… you have officially used the last paper towel. The one glued to the roll doesn’t count. There’s a new roll under the sink. (I know this because I’ve replaced it for the offending party/parties twice in as many weeks.)
Stay tuned for next week’s lesson, in which we tell the fellas about the latest development in toilet-seat technology: Hinges! (Sneak preview: They allow you to tilt the seat up before peeing all over the place!)

Thank you,

Home Office Etiquette Officer

I had hoped that my little passive-aggressive zinger at the end there would allow me to kill two birds with one stone … but I soon realized that the kind of douchebag who regularly pisses all over the workplace toilet seats isn’t the type of person who knows how to take a passive-aggressive hint … which is why, a couple of weeks later, I felt compelled to address the issue head-on.

To: Home Office
From: Jon
Subject: Office Etiquette 102 – Men’s-Only Edition


I apologize for the intrusion, but this is a daily, maddeningly obnoxious, easily avoidable occurrence that I no longer can tolerate: Please stop urinating on the toilet seats. Really. The bathroom is equipped with two perfectly good urinals … but if you’re the shy type and you just can’t bring yourself to use them like a big boy, then you simply must stop splashing your urine all over the toilet seats every single time you use the bathroom. Here’s how:

How To Not Splash Your Urine All Over The Toilet Seat: A Tutorial

Step 1a:


Step 1b:


TA-DAH!! That’s all there is to it! You can even leave the seat up when you’re done! Believe me, those of us who regularly and repeatedly are forced to clean up your liquid human waste every time we have need of a bathroom stall would much rather deal with the inconvenience of lowering the seat.

Thank you in advance for your immediate and total compliance with this outrageously reasonable request.

Home Office Etiquette Officer

If I ever figure out how to make a living writing wise-ass emails and blog posts, I can assure you that I won’t miss my current gig.

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I’ve narrowly cheated death yet again

Re-posting this oldie-but-goodie in anticipation of an epic follow-up that will see my hypochondria reach new heights. And with any luck, I’ll write it before the sun burns out and we all freeze to death.

My tombstone

There are many downsides to being a hypochondriac … but it does have its benefits. Take yesterday, for example.

Yesterday, I headed to my doctor’s office for the third time in about two weeks … which, for me, is unfuckingprecedented, since my immune system is basically on par with Wolverine’s. And yet, despite my mutant healing powers, I’ve had a persistent cough for, like, a month now.

During my first doctor’s visit, he prescribed an albuterol inhaler and a codeine-based cough suppressant. After a week, the inhaler had accomplished roughly jack shit, and I’m pretty sure I was downing the cough medicine only because the idea of legally ingesting an opiate before bed each night seemed appealing.

In addition to my ongoing cough and blossoming drug habit, I then developed a reddish, dime-sized, welt-like thing on my face, just slightly below and to the right of my nose … which, really, is exactly where you want to develop a reddish, dime-sized, welt-like thing, because at least then it’s not very noticeable.

I literally watched this thing spontaneously appear on my face while washing up after doing some work on our porch, and I tried to convince myself that perhaps I’d been bitten by a spider while tending to that chore … but being bitten on the face by a spider seems like the kind of thing a guy would notice while it was happening, so I wasn’t fully buying my own theory.

Last Thursday, still coughing and sporting my attractive face welt, I returned to the doctor, who subsequently prescribed an antibiotic for the cough and a topical ointment for the face welt, about which he said: “I don’t know what the hell that is.”

Four days into my antibiotic-and-topical-ointment regimen, not only was I was still coughing like a barking seal and sporting my ever-snazzy face welt, but also I was experiencing a chronic headache and some general sensitivity and discomfort on most of the right side of my face, head, neck, throat and right ear. Clearly, it was time to do what any respectable, modern-day hypochondriac does to diagnose what ails him: check the Internet.

A brief Google search later, I reached the conclusion I always reach when I use the Internet to diagnose an unexplained ailment: I had cancer. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, to be exact.

Certain that my children soon would be fatherless and my wife a widow, I decided I should at least let the doctor confirm my imminent death before getting my affairs in order. Thus, I called his office Monday evening, scheduled an appointment for yesterday morning, and spent the interim upsetting myself with thoughts of leaving my kids behind at such a young age, and of not seeing them grow into adulthood.

And I wish I was kidding, believe me … because I know that some people — “the sane,” you might call them — can’t imagine being so unbelievably fucked in the head …. but I am absolutely terrified of disease and death and my own mortality in general … to the point that it is a full-blown phobia. (This dovetails nicely with my hypochondria, which causes me to immediately assume anything more serious than a brief head cold is terminal.)

As I got out of my car and headed into the medical building for my appointment yesterday morning, I heard someone yell “Dead man walking!” Probably it was me who yelled it, but still … not a good sign either way.

“You don’t have non-Hodgkins lymphoma,” my doctor lied while examining me. “The discomfort you’re having is only on one side of your head?”


“Is your scalp sensitive right here?” he asked while touching a newly sensitive region of scalp on the top-right side of my head.

“Yes,” I replied, impressed that he had predicted that … so much so that I was willing to entertain the possibility he might not be lying about the you-don’t-have-cancer thing after all.

“I know what you have now,” he said. I assumed his next words would be “Terminal [something].” I was wrong. Go figure.

“You have shingles.”

Shingles? Motherfucking shingles? Who the fuck gets shingles? Isn’t shingles something people got in the 1600s after spending a month in a cargo hold while crossing the Atlantic? Or maybe that was scurvy. Either way, I’m pretty sure you have to be a special kind of basket case to contract shingles in 2014.

But anyway … on the one hand, I was all, “Boo! Shingles!” … but, on the other hand, I was all, “Yay! Totally not cancer!”

And so, “Yay! Shingles!” I said.

“You’re probably the first patient I’ve heard say ‘Yay! Shingles!'” replied my doc, who clearly has no idea just how deep my neuroses run.

“So I don’t need chemotherapy?”

“No. I mean, I could give you chemotherapy, but it won’t do anything beneficial for you.”

I decided to skip the unnecessary chemo and instead received a prescription for Valacyclovir HCL 1, which comes in the form of an enormous, blue pill roughly the size of a whitewater raft. With any luck, it will clear up this shingles thing in the next week or two. I hope. Because my fucking head is killing me … which bums me out until I remind myself that I don’t have terminal cancer.

Which brings us to: You non-hypochondriacs are missing out on the incredible flood of headache-minimizing relief you could be feeling every time you learn that you don’t have terminal cancer. And, yes, you might argue that the burden of needlessly worrying that you’re about to die a horrible and premature death offsets the benefits of subsequently finding out you’re OK … but that’s only because you don’t know how great it feels to experience the illusion of getting a second chance at life!

In related news: It’s exhausting to be me.

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And then I bought a spaceship!

And then I bought a spaceship!
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In the midst of all this madness, I realized I was a 44-year-old man driving an econo-car that I bought when I was 29. … [read the rest]

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I’m basically replacing Howard Stern … except for the “replacing Howard Stern” part.


Testing, testing … one, two … mic check … is this thing on? It is? OK, good.


Listen, you might find this hard to believe, but things went so well for me at Howard Stern’s Birthday Bash that Howard himself gave me a job. In fact, he said he’s grooming me to take over the show after he retires. My first move? Fire Benjy.

Of course, the reason you might find that hard to believe is that it’s, well, total bullshit. Completely made up. Nothing more than a figment of my imagination. HOWEVER … I did get to appear on one of Howard’s SiriusXM channels the night before his Birthday Bash. Granted, not quite as exciting as landing a multi-million-dollar radio gig, but still … a way-cool adventure that made my trip to NYC that much more awesome.

Here’s how it all went down.

After I won tickets to the Birthday Bash, Mutt — the dude who runs SternFanNetwork.com and hosts the “Super Fan Roundtable” radio program on SiriusXM’s “Howard 101” channel — pretty much begged me to appear on his Birthday Bash Eve show … and by “pretty much begged me,” I mean “had no idea who I was, but was kind enough to invite me up after I relentlessly hounded him like an annoying douche.” Same thing.

And so it was that I boarded a train to Manhattan a day earlier than originally expected, checked into my swank digs at the Cassa hotel, and headed over to the SiriusXM studios, a sprawling complex located on the 36th floor of the McGraw-Hill Building in Midtown.


They forgot to put up the “…welcomes Daddy Scratches!” banner. An innocent and deeply regretted oversight on their part, I’m sure.

Shortly after my arrival, I met my fellow panelists and our gracious host:


From left to right: Zachary (a.k.a. winner of the Most Beautiful Penis Contest … a 2013 “Howard Stern Show” segment that I’m happy to say I didn’t witness); moi; Drew; the previously mentioned Mutt; Joseph Mooski (proprietor of SuperFanWorld.com); Erin; Jesse from San Diego; and Dan, who is from Boston, has two kids and is mental about Howard Stern and Van Halen. Hmmmm. That sounds familiar…

Before hitting the air live for “Super Fan Roundtable,” we all went into a studio and took turns voicing intros that may be used during replays of classic “Howard Stern Show” segments … so if someday you hear “Jon from Philly” introducing a segment during which former “Stern Show” sidekick Artie Lange talks about snorting cocaine through a prosthetic pig snout while stopped at a traffic light wearing a half-man/half-pig costume? That’ll be me.

Once we finished with that, it was showtime … and, clearly sensing that I was radio gold, Mutt hit me up first.


We professional radio types often keep one ear free from the “cans” (« that’s radio lingo right there) so we can hear sounds in the studio that aren’t captured by the microphone. It’s a tricky concept that I don’t expect you civilians to fully understand, but don’t feel bad; as you may recall, I had a tiny bit of college-radio experience back in the early ’90s, so, you know … I’m kind of an expert.

Upon Mutt’s prompting, I regaled the surely captivated audience with my fascinating tale of how I almost won tickets to Howard’s Birthday Bash … and then how I actually won tickets to Howard’s Birthday Bash. There was heartache. There was triumph. Tears followed by joyful laughter. It was some of the most riveting radio in the history of broadcasting. Which was impressive, since I spoke for all of about a minute and a half.


Stern Show Trivia: That dude in the black shirt and glasses? Producer/board operator Al Ragone. You’re welcome.

The thing is, it was a larger-than-usual panel and a shorter-than-usual episode, and the agenda was packed tight with coverage of the impending Birthday Bash — none of which was a surprise, as Mutt had advised us well in advance that the modified format would mean very little airtime for each of us. I could not have cared less; I was happy just to be there and to have such a unique experience.

My son texted me the following critique while I was still in the studio:

Zan calls me out for dropping F-bombs.

In my defense, I didn’t know my wife was going to let the kids listen. Imagine my surprise. And then imagine my horror when I thought they might still be listening during another panelist’s graphic description of a sexual act. (They weren’t … thank GAWD … which was a relief, because I’m pretty sure I don’t want my kids learning about sex from anything having to do with Ronnie the Limo Driver‘s deviant behavior. I’ll spare you the details … and you should thank me profusely for doing so.)

After the show, we took advantage of our surroundings for some unique photo ops.


I’ve been telling people I got my picture taken with Howard. This counts, right?


The cover of my forthcoming book, “When Wrinkles Attack: What to do when your 44-year-old face looks 80.” But I’m not Photoshopping it. Because I don’t care. Nope, doesn’t bother me at all. Clearly. You what? You think I’m “obsessing”? I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you? Just because I keep talking about it and can’t seem to let it go doesn’t mean I’m … OK, I’ll stop now.

When they finally pushed us out of the building, all of us who were spending the night in New York grabbed a couple beers … but I kept it mellow and turned in early so I could rest up for the next night’s festivities — which, as previously reported, were epic. But getting to visit the SiriusXM studios and appearing on “Super Fan Roundtable” the night before? That made the trip exponentially more special and memorable than it otherwise would have been.

Hopefully, Mutt will have me up again sometime … and then I’ll land that multi-million-dollar contract. No doubt about it.

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