I'm a Recovering Accountant

I just finished a short humor writing class online through UCLA. It was a great experience....there were a lot of fun, talented writers in my class. Since, I've not written anything for a while on the blog, I'll post my columns back-dating them to when they were written.

I’m a recovering accountant.

I’m embarrassed that it was so easy for me to get caught up in that lifestyle. My English degree and I had no business accounting for anything, but before I knew it I was running around with a pretty rough group of accountants, who seemed hell bent on sucking the funny out of me.

I needed a way out.

My portal to a better life opened one day when a stranger bumped into me while I was standing at the urinals in the office restroom. That urinal bump instantly transformed me into a heavier, uglier version of John Stossel. In addition to the inexplicable desire to grow a creepy mustache, I had a burning urge to crack the urinal code.

At first, I found urinal law to be much more interesting than accounting, but I was completely unprepared for what I was about to uncover. The urinals at my office were in fact dangerously close together. What Jeffrey Wigand was to big tobacco; I was about to be to public toilets.

But, how should I blow the whistle without endangering my life? I emailed the city…the building manager…my lawyer. No one cared. So, I made a humorous video about the subject and posted it on my blog. I didn’t think it was possible that a group of people could take themselves more seriously than accountants…until my urinal video got the attention of two grumpy ladies from Human Resources.

They brought me into a conference room and peppered me with a series rapid-fire questions. “Do you have a website? Do you have a blog? Did you recently post a video on this blog? Did you film that video on company property without permission?” And, my personal favorite, “Matt, at one point in the video, were you in the women’s room?” That’s when I realized they’d actually watched the video.

At the conclusion of the meeting, I was told that I was being placed under formal investigation. Evidently there is not a crime more heinous in the accounting world than attempting to be funny. I was eventually found guilty of conduct unbecoming of an accountant and had my employment terminated. I’m proud to say I’ve been accounting free for eight months and am feeling funnier every day.

Incredibull

It took a bowling commercial to bring me back to the blog.

Back when I used to work I sent an email to my HR contact complaining about being forced to go to a teambuilder at a bowling alley or take a forced vacation day. I'm guessing that was when HR first categorized me as a problem accountant. Nothing like a dumb guy using an email to simulate frantic hand waving/shouting "Look at me! Look at me!" I imagine the email put me in some type of watch program which led to them reading my blog, including this beauty about the bowling alley I didn't want to go to.

That same bowling alley taunted me tonight in one of the most ridiculous commercials I've ever seen. Incredabowl has come up with a new concept called, "The Living Room". They've converted part of the bowling alley to a more upscale environment. The usual uncomfortable chairs have been replaced with furniture you might find in your Grandma's front room.

If you're like me, you might wonder who in the bloody hell would want to sit on poofy couches while bowling. Thankfully the commercial answers that question: "Individuals wanting a little more discretion while bowling". What? I'm not sure I understand that. Is discretion really the word they're looking for? Why would anyone want to be discreet about their bowling? And what does an upscale bowling environment have to do with being discreet?

The copy writer for the ad had to be the same guy who wrote all the ridiculous notes in the lounge like "No coolers or ice chests allowed". He/she said in the TV ad that the Living Room is "the newest in chic bowling in town". Chic bowling? Really? Chic bowling is an oxymoron, yet Incredabowl is purporting themselves to be the "newest" Chic Bowling alley, as if there has been some sort of one upmanship between AMF West and Mission Bowl to become the Chic-est bowling alley in town.

As if they hadn't screwed up the copy enough, they concluded, "There's nothing like it in the state". How right they were.

Hypnosis: Career Suicide

Going through some old work emails...here's another one that needs to be filed in the "was it really the video that got me fired" file. When HR confiscated my computer and scanned every single file, did they really read everything?

Background...Craig H. Wonder had an appointment with a hypnotist, but was being suspiciously vague about the details...like if the hypnotist had any formal training. I pressed him and he responded as follows...

Craig's email: (The hypnotist is) a guy at my work and I won it at a fundraiser auction our company had for cancer research.

My email response: Nothing weird about that at all. A co-worker who has a man crush on you rigging the fundraiser to let you "win" so that he can inspect your junk while you are "out cold". Who needs the date rape drug? Don't be surprised when you show up and you're the only one there. Please bring a friend and a video camera, for your own safety.

Was it a coincidence that Craig quit the band soon after being put under the spell of an office worker/partially accredited hypnotherapist? Oh what I would give to have the video of that encounter.

Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Donald Trump,

Celebrity hobbies are great. The Jolie-Pitts collect miniature humans. Oprah can’t stop starting girl schools in Africa. Al Gore spends every waking hour trying to be the Nelly of politics, convincing hot women like Leonardo DiCaprio that it’s getting Hot in Herre. And you enjoy making fun of big boned lesbians.

Your feud with Rosie O’Donnell reached a new low this week. After Rosie admitted that she suffers from depression, you said, “All she has to do is look in the mirror and she's going to suffer from depression”.

When I’m President, I intend to be a peace broker. So, I thought I'd warm up by fixing your relationship with Rosie. Rosie...is DT really a huge ass or is he just the fifth grader who is so uncomfortable around women that he borrows his dad's hairpiece and is mean to the girl he secretly loves? Don-Don...wake up bro...not liking lesbians is un-American. If you two would quit bickering for a minute, maybe you'd see that you really have a lot in common. You’re both rich, you both never really say anything, but say it loud, and most importantly you both appreciate nice rugs.

Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

American Idol: Top 12, Week 1

American Idol, why do I love thee? Last year’s mix of unique contestants got me hooked and I can’t freaking stop watching this year even though the contestants are so much less interesting. Tuesday night, Simon and Ryan’s “you know how I know you’re gay” jokes were more entertaining than any of the contestants.

My only chance to have enough material to do an Idol blog this year is if Sanjaya keeps advancing. And if he can come up with a new hairstyle every week, he deserves to win. He was sporting a smoking hot Ogilvie Home Perm on Tuesday. His strategy is ingenious. He may not be a great singer, but his sleight of hand/misdirection is amazing. He gets you so focused on his mop that you can’t possibly concentrate on his voice. I would not be one bit surprised if he turns out to be David Blaine. That is the kind of shocking twist that this season needs to increase interest.

Simon’s interest in Haley’s performance was shocking. He has been mocking Haley for weeks, saying last week that he didn’t even remember her name. This week she forgot her words and was ripped by Randy and Paula. But, Simon said he was very impressed with her “presence on stage”. And by “presence” he meant “cleavage”. Chris Sligh would be smart to wear a halter top next week to get Simon back on his side.

Letter to Patrick Swayze

Dear Patrick Swayze,

Tonight at the video store my two-year-old son grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the video he wanted. The title? “Another Gay Movie”. Talking about the man on the cover, who was wearing nothing but a quiche, my boy said, “Brrr”. I was so disappointed…that you weren’t the object of his affection.

I picked him up and frantically ran around the store trying to find “Ghost”. I felt it was important to let him know that he hadn’t seen gay until he’d seen you doing pottery wearing nothing but a mullet. Your masterpiece of cinema was nowhere to be found, so I settled for “Road House 2”. But, you weren’t in it. What the hell?

Your turn as James Dalton (head bouncer of the Double Deuce club) brought in thousands of dollars. Why on earth did you turn the Road House franchise over to Jonathon Schaech? “Road House 2” could have been another “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights”, but instead it went to straight to video.

I beg you not to make the same mistake with “Black Dog”, the greatest trucker movie of all time. Will there ever be a cast as great? You, Randy Travis and Meat Loaf in the same movie…incredible. Trying to do a sequel has proven impossible due to the salary requirements of your A-list co-stars. Craig and I would be glad to fill in at a reduced salary just to be near you. This idea might sound crazy, but remember, “Black Dog” distributor Universal greenlighted a shot-for-shot remake of "Psycho".

Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

P. S. I just listened to your smash hit “She’s Like the Wind” and realized that it’s the perfect soundtrack for this letter if I sing it to you with slightly altered lyrics…

Feel his breath on my face
His body close to me
Can't look in his eyes
He's out of my league
Just a fool to believe I have anything he needs
He's like the wind

I look in the mirror and all I see
Is a young old man with only a dream
Am I just fooling myself
That he'll stop the pain
Living without him I'd go insane

Firestarter

In first grade I was in love with Tracey O. She had long hair…therefore she was hot. So, I did what any normal first grader would do, every night before I went to bed, I prayed that she would start coming to my church.

I’m not sure why I wanted to subject her to my church, because I was not fond of it. In fact, I used to root for one of my family members to get sick, because that meant we all could stay home. But, I vaguely remember there being some kind of directive from our pastor, the esteemed Dr. Alan Combover, to invite others to church. I immediately thought of Tracey, but I couldn’t just ask her to come to church with me out of the blue. I had never talked to her and that seemed like a weird pick up line.

Instead, I prayed for God to deliver a hot little first grader to Christ Church. Much to my surprise, God responded. Tracey’s church caught on fire and her congregation started meeting with ours. It was odd enough that there was a fire at her church. But, the fact that out of all the churches in town, they started meeting with us still seems unbelievable.

You see, our church met in an old folk’s home…nothing like the smell of death to get you in the mood to praise the Lord. Dr. Combover knew his audience…the sermons were geared toward the almost dead. Rather than have their only son literally die of boredom, my parents let me bring a book to read while Combover spoke. One week I brought the phone book…not the interesting phone book. I brought the white pages.

But, church became a lot more appealing when there was a chance that I’d get a glimpse of Tracey on Sunday morning. Our congregation met early, Tracey’s met late and we shared a coffee and donut fellowship time in between services. I literally could not believe my eyes when I walked in and saw Tracey for the first time.

Remember this old Pepsi commercial? That’s what it was like. Tracey was Cindy Crawford, except 10 times hotter. She was eating a donut, instead of drinking a Pepsi. I looked exactly like the kid with his mouth open. And the antique cars in the background of the commercial were reminiscent of the vintage ladies of John Knox Village whose varicose veins were somehow visible through their extra dark panty hose.

It was surreal. God wasn’t the Dude I’d heard about in the bore-the-hell-out-of-you sermons. He was on call to start fires for me so that I could be near the girl of my dreams. If it had been a movie, I would have sauntered up to Tracey and swept her off her feet with a line like, “Hey baby, howsabout I get that powdered sugar off your lips…with my lips.” Instead, I froze up and didn’t say a word.

Today I realized that I’m still that little wiener boy. God answered my prayer to get fired from my accounting job and here I am, still sitting on the sideline like a schoolboy. I need to finish writing my script and stop being the scared little Nancy boy who refused to go after his dream (girl) even though it’s been gift-wrapped and dropped on my doorstep. The DaVinci Code made over $200 million and it wasn’t even that funny. There’s no telling how much more a film would bring in that features me cracking the urinal code. It will no doubt become the Titanic of office men’s room comedies. The problem is, I’m completely out of money.

Dear God,
Please send a benefactor to finance my project.
Thanks,
Matt H. Wonder

If you’re rich and don’t respond, you might want to check your smoke detectors.