Nobody is reading this: Confessions by the Ushers of Aspen
BW: A tremendous weight has been lifted off my chest, like when Atlas shrugged and that giant globe fell off. The pressure of performing in this terrestrial, first-person voice week after week has left my nerves rattled and mind frantically trying to invent metaphors, like a quadriceretops snorting a limp pheromone and a mezcal pelvic chaperone flagellating succinctly for appeasement.
But despite offering in multiple instances to perform outrageous tasks just short of seppuku in exchange for Twitter followers in our last piece, and receiving none other than the one person who already religiously comments on our columns (thank you, Sandy), we’ve arrived at the conclusion that nobody actually reads this.
Since the realization that we’re screaming into the void, we figured we may as well confess our deepest, dankest secrets and secretions. I’m just grateful these things don’t live on the internet forever and potentially shackle us to the only job that’ll accept us in gonzo-ass Aspen. Without saying anything that will result in standing toe to toe with Chris Hansen or Walter Chi, let’s first witness what rustles of the jimmies of Sean Beckwith.
SB: Is not liking when people flaunt their vocabulary to sound smart a confession? No? OK. I guess I can cop to liking a few Iggy Azalea songs, even going as far as to endorse Nikki Minaj. Both are very regrettable considering Cardi B is light years ahead of both. Saying you like her music isn’t even a confession.
I will say, however, Beyonce is a little overrated. She has bangers but let’s not act like she’s got that Etta James voice — which to be fair, very few do. I also think Huey Lewis and the News slaps; just don’t overdo it with “Heart and Soul” because that song sticks in your head like bong resin to a coffee table.
BW: Sean is impressed/jealous of my ability to refrain from using the same word (that’s longer than like five or six words) twice.
Anyway, I hate BOARD GAMES. The only board game I like is freaking CLUE. Once I realized that noting who lets you peek at which information made the game half as easy by proxy of elimination, my world CHANGED. Every other game based on luck SUCKS.
My least favorite game night activity is Cards Against Humanity, wherein I bite my cheeks raw stifling the anger stemmed by humorless people delegating winners based on “It’s Always Sunny” references instead of the wit displayed by the cards. Cards Against Humanity is the “Deadpool” of bored games: suburbanites acting shocked by a couple of sex jokes once every two years instead of listening to their asshole manic/depressive college roomates ramble over the Xbox headset nightly.
Cards Against Humanity is the idiot who yells “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!” every time you make a risque zinger. No shit, Dwayne Shroot, that’s the joke. Stop trying to steal my thunder with a catchphrase that people who are actually funny stopped using 15 years ago. Of course, since “The Office” is such a circlejerk, all the normie millenials in their tucked-in Marshalls button-ups have to fake laugh because every Tinder profile insists you be well-versed in corny television and also just trying to pet your dog. Anthem: “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish.
SB: Not sure how to follow that up. I like … most of those things. I guess I like a good troll. Someone who is so averse to things that are popular that he flatly refuses to participate without a few pails of cynicism strapped to his feet. Most people think, “Hey, why would you like trolls? They’re bitter, sad little people who put down others to make themselves feel better — like David Spade in ‘Tommy Boy.’”
Well Ben is my David Spade. And I’m sure he’s not even getting this analogy because he probably refused to watch the timeless classic because it makes people “laugh.” Don’t worry, Ben, I’ll show you how to make friends.
BW: True; I’ve never seen that movie, mostly because I’ve matured past what I assume is 135 minutes of fa(r)t jokes.
Also, I hate ESCAPE ROOMS. I’ve never actually been to one; what makes me a rage is the people who hold up signs on social media with deprecating phrases like “I’m a virgin” to unwittingly promote the proprietor after they pass/fail. As an adult, I view escape rooms in the same light as laser tag arenas and bowling alleys: Ehh, I don’t really want to get my new shirt all sweaty.
I bet I could make it out of an escape room all by myself, without five other morons shouting about how the code must be the digits shown on the clock. If my strategy doesn’t work I’ll just start punching through the drywall. I’m escaping, god dammit; I refuse to let this turn into a “Pit and the Pendulum” scenario.
My ideal escape room is waking up in an interrogation cell, screaming “LAWYER, LAWYER!” while Officer Miranda tries to coerce me into waiving my right to remain silent. In fact, most of the conversations in my head begin with “Hi, this is Ben again. Can I speak with legal?” so I feel mentally equipped for the task. After all, I know what “pro se” and “sovereign citizen” mean, which qualifies me to put the “dict” in “jurisdiction.”
SB: I confess that I don’t mind yellow and orange Starbursts. People act like they’re the plague of fruit-flavored chews. Have you ever had a fresh Now And Later? I guess I should ask, is there such thing as a fresh Now And Later? Compared with the tropical flavors of Starbursts, yellow and orange are a respite from flavors like star fruit, pina colada, pineapple and the like.
Also in that same vein, I like Taco Bell more than any other Mexican food in Aspen. Give me three hard shell tacos, a chicken quesadilla, a Mountain Dew and a side of heartburn and I’ll happily fork over $12. It’s not like the steamed beef is any worse than the fleeting trays of chicken sandwiches at City Market.
(Also, the opinions expressed by Ben Welch in this column are completely separate from my own.)
BW: I hate GREETING CARDS. My attitude toward birthday cards is the same as YouTube advertisements: I purposefully avert my eyes if there’s nothing in it for me. I don’t care how long you spent looking for the “perfect quote,” grandma; if you didn’t write the inspirational shit yourself, the sentimental value I place on the message hinges exclusively on the amount of money included inside (BTW it’s 2019, Esther, inflation is a thousand times what you lived through in the Great Depression. If you really wanna wow me and buy my love, it’s gonna cost more than $10 annually. I’m an adult with credit cards, and it’s hard to impress someone with unlimited free money on tap).
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