Bicker Blog

Hello everyone...

Looks like Burman and I are going to be blogging for the world to see.  If you choose to read Burman's posts, I apologize in advance for the poor grammar, rampant misspellings, and the hieroglyphics that resemble Neanderthal cave doodles rather than English.

As you learn more about us, I think you’re going to feel fantastic.  You’ll feel on top of the world.  You’re going to thank your lucky stars… that you’re not me.  It’s a wonder my head hasn’t exploded yet.  All in good time, I suppose.

Living with Burman is about as enjoyable as bashing your face repeatedly into a pile of raccoon feces.  Actually, that would be heavenly compared to my living hell.

Here’s an example:

I love movies.  A night out at the movies is bliss.  Unless your movie date is your special-needs roommate.

Last week, Burman and I went to go see a big summer Hollywood blockbuster.  I’d been stoked to see this movie for a year.  We knew it was going to be crowded at the theatre, so Burman made me buy our tickets ahead of time.

“Woah woah woah,” he stopped me as I was ordering at my computer, “what the hell are you doin’ bro?”

(Why he speaks like Sylvester Stallone’s bastard cousin’s love-child with Robert DeNiro, I’ll never know.  I think Burman’s from Cleveland.)

Anyway, he goes, “Order the child tickets, man!  I’m not paying full price!”
“We’re not children though, Burman.”

“Look, it’ll save us a dollar each – come on!”

So, like I always do, I let Burman talk me into something dumber than upside-down ice-skating.  I’ll tell you about the time he got blade marks on my ceiling later.

Off to the theatre we go, child tickets in hand.  As the line of people streams through the ticket-taker, I know we’re going to be caught.

“Burman this is so stupid.  We’re going to lose our place in line when they catch us.”

“Trust me, bro!”

The three most terrifying words in the English language.

Sure enough, the zit-faced kid who tears our tickets pauses and looks up at us.
“Wait a minute,” he squeaks, “these are child tickets.”

Burman responds (he’s clearly thought up this brilliant response ahead of time):

“Oh, uh… these tickets are for our little cousins.  They’re already in the theatre… we must have swapped tickets accidentally.”

Great, so now Burman and I are liars and family, apparently. Not buying it, the crater-faced kid calls over the manager, who happens to be a 300-pound, seven foot tall, Michael Clark Duncan look-alike.

Burman repeats that our little cousins are in the theatre with our adult tickets, and we mistakenly have their child tickets.

“Well let’s go find your little cousins,” booms the theatre manager.

Now, any logical human being would give up at this point.  This is, after all, only to save two dollars.  But Burman’s not a logical human being – apes are smarter.  So next thing I know we’re being escorted into the theatre to find our non-existent little cousins.

And here’s the craziest part: when we walk in with the colossal, intimidating manager, Burman actually begins searching the crowd.  He scans the audience looking for the kids – and he truly looks confused when he doesn’t immediately see them.  Who, pray tell, did he ever expect to find?  WE DON’T HAVE LITTLE COUSINS!

After his search ends in failure (go figure!), we ultimately have to swap out our tickets and pay the extra money while going through immense humiliation.
The whole experience was incredibly pleasant.  About as enjoyable as eating plywood.

I’m currently accepting applications for a new roommate.  Someone save me.  Please.

Help.