This Is a Book (13 page)
Authors: Demetri Martin
Tags: #Humor, #Form, #General, #American, #Literary Criticism, #Essays, #Jokes & Riddles, #American wit and humor
National Champion at being the ex-boyfriend who is most consistently awkward around his ex-girlfriend and/or anyone who is even a casual acquaintance of hers.
A scholarship awarded to Greek Americans who have done very little for the Greek American community but definitely look Greek American, no matter what outfit they are wearing.
Top 40 people under 40 who live in my apartment building.
The prize awarded to the individual who displays eminently distinguished achievement in continuing to eat Milk Duds even though the ones he’s already eaten are stll firmly lodged in his teeth.
Medal given to the person who is, by far, the least annoying member of his extended family.
Lifetime Achievement Award for Wanting a Lifetime Achievement Award, Despite Having Done Nothing to Earn It.
Best Supporting Actor for an outstanding performance when being shown a friend’s tattoo and acting impressed by it despite actually thinking that it looks terrible.
A fully endowed fellowship that goes to the person who has made an outstanding scholarly contribution to the study of what can be worn at least one more time before putting it into the hamper.
Award given for excellence in judging strangers who are innocently walking by a yogurt shop in an outdoor mall.
Gold medalist in sucking at each and every sport that could make someone popular in high school.
Congressional Medal of Snacking.
A grant for doing research into just what kind of asshole the guy who cut me off in traffic is.
Best Screenplay That Is Still Just in Someone’s Head.
Honorary doctorate for appearing to know more about cool bands than one actually does.
Semifinalist in national competition for overthinking one’s own haircut.
Award for Perfect Attendance on Earth for Whole Life So Far.
Best Actor while eating food served to him at his girlfriend’s parents’ house.
Trophy for special achievement in leaving just enough liquid in the juice container so that the next person who uses it will have to throw it out.
Nobel Prize for Chemistry with Very Cute Women Who Turn Out to Already Have Boyfriends.
Dear Friends,
I’m sorry for the mass e-mail, but I felt it was important that I get in touch with all of you to clear something up. Over the years I have used the term “better than sex” on numerous occasions. In fact, I think I’ve probably used that term even more often than the average person, probably due to my particular circumstances. Anyway, it seems that on many, if not all, of those occasions, I was a bit off-base and didn’t quite understand what I was saying. Let me see if I can explain.
After my recent breakup with Cheryl I was lucky enough to have sex with several other women. And after those very enlightening experiences, I have come to understand just how misguided I was all of those times when I described things as “better than sex.”
First of all, if you didn’t know, Chryl was the first woman I ever had sex with. I was happy to have sex with her, and it was pretty good, as far as I could tell. Of course, I didn’t really have anything to compare it to. And I believe that was where my difficulties with the expression may have started.
When I said to more than a few of you that living in New Jersey was “better than sex” I was not lying. Technically it was, given what I knew at the time. But, after having sex with Tamara and then Roxanne, I can see how that statement was grossly inaccurate, and even ridiculous. I can now confidently say that living in New Jersey is not better than sex. It’s not even in the same ballpark as sex.
Mark, you might remember the time when we were camping and I described the rice cake I was eating as “better than sex.” You looked puzzled and said I was crazy. I told you that
you
were crazy. I was insistent. Well, Mark, I now see your point, and I stand corrected,
very
corrected. I can now say that rice cake (or anything I have ever eaten in my life, for that matter) was not “better than sex” thanks to my experience with Venus. By the way, this also applies to when I described both the bird’s nest we found on our hike and our canoe as “better than sex.” Again, my experiences with Cheryl kind of set the bar a bit low, and I didn’t know what I was saying.When I started to think about it, I realized that there were many things that I inaccurately described as “better than sex” over the years. Some that I can remember include:
Air-conditioning
Finding a good parking spot
New carpeting
Sitting down
An adjustable baseball hat
Not being stuck in traffic
Tim’s one-man show
Using my new scanner
Wheat Thins
Killing a fly that had been bothering me
Not having sex
While each of these was technically “better than sex” at the time, they were really only “better than sex
with Cheryl
.”Some of you may recall my tendency to use the term “worse than sex.” Again, please understand that I did not know any better. Given my experience, it seemed like a good barometer to use. So, for example, when I said, during that 12-day stretch of rain we had last year, “this weather is worse than sex,” I believed I was making a good point.
Similarly, when I described getting the flu, going to the dentist, and having to refinish my basement as all “worse than sex,” I was being truthful.
Of course, now I realize that pretty much everything is worse than sex. I feel silly about even making that sort of comparison. Thankfully, after hving sex with so many wonderful, adventurous, creative, and flexible women (who were not Cheryl), I can see how very, very wrong I was in the past.
I hope that clears things up and that all of you can understand where I was coming from.
And, Cheryl, if you’re reading this, I hope you’re doing well. I’m doing great, though not better than sex.
Years ago, when he was 91, Stan thought he was going to die. Now, approaching 114, he knew it was going to happen. Jet skiing was a bad idea, he thought, as his arms flew off his body.
The detective sniffed the surface of the chair. Just then, a woman walked into the study.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The detective looked at her and replied, “The killer is lactose intolerant.”
Neil aimed and fired. As the duck exploded into tiny bits, the men stared in stunned silence. Then Walt said, “That’s the third decoy you’ve shot today, you idiot.”
When the stripper jumped out of the giant cake, everyone got excited. But then when she jumped into the regular-size cake, everyone got confused.
The shepherd fell asleep again. But who could blame him? He had been counting sheep all day.
Mary Brown was a shy woman, who spoke little and rarely made eye contact with anyone. She lived in a small yellow house at the end of Maple Street, which was where she made her jam and kept her sex slaves.
“New Mexico,” declared Bill. “We’re headed there and we’re never coming back.”
“Oh,” Isabelle replied, her eyes glassy with tears. Then she said, “Bill?”
“Yes?” said Bill, gazing off toward the horizon.
“You’re already in New Mexico.”