Cheese Graters Suck

I think that I’ve always been afraid of  cheese graters. Frankly, any rational person should be. A cheese grater’s potential for inflicting fucked up amounts of damage to human flesh far outweighs its utility in the kitchen.

Granted, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably missing something when it comes to cheese grater technique. Taking a new block of cheddar and shredding it with a grater is pretty straightforward, but when I get down to the last quarter of the block, shit gets a little too real. Every downward swipe becomes exponentially more frightening, yet I feel compelled to keep at it due to the voice in my head telling me that I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good ounce of cheese. Swap the voice in my head with that of Tobin Bell and you’ve got yourself a scene right out of a Saw film.

“The key to your shackles is hidden inside that block of cheese.”

Needless to say I now purchase my cheese pre-shredded. It’s well worth the inflated price so that I can sleep at night without having nightmares about losing chunks of my finger tips the next time that I want tacos for dinner. That rule also applies to anything else that one could imagine using a cheese grater for, because no matter what I do  it always turns into some kind of shit show. I tried making hash browns from scratch the other day by grating whole potatoes, but by the time I finished the job the potato shreds had turned purple. Purple.

It occurs to me that if I ever find myself in captivity being tortured for information by some nefarious government, they’re likely going to Google this blog post and whip out the grater. It goes without saying that I’ll sing like a bird, so anyone thinking about sharing the nuclear launch codes with me should consider themselves warned. On the bright side, there would be little need for cheese graters after a nuclear holocaust.


The girl who had my cell phone number before me

A couple years ago when I first moved to Los Angeles I changed my cell phone over to a local number. Long story short, I apparently wasn’t the first person to have owned that number. Meet Asha:

This is a composite sketch that I’ve drawn with MS Paint based upon everything that I’ve learned about her in the past two years. That’s right, after two years I’m still getting calls for this girl.

Let’s go over the facts:

  • Asha is some sort of model (or told people that she was).
  • She drives a BMW that she decided to never make the payments on
  • She likes credit cards as well, but decided not to pay for those either.
  • Asha is lonely (hence the tears). She apparently neglected to tell any of her friends that she changed her cell phone number two years ago.
  • About her friends: When they call, they’re stupid enough to leave a message for her even after hearing my “You’ve reached Ben Mallahan” voicemail blurb.

But why is she naked in the above composite sketch, you ask? Because with all of the “booty call” voicemails and text messages I’ve received for this girl over the years, I doubt that she ever gets much of a chance to wear clothing. You haven’t lived until as a 20-something male you’re woken up at 1:42 AM by a text message that reads “hey grl wat u doin 2nite?”.

I’ve always wanted to respond to those text messages with something like this:

Either reply would suffice

As annoying as the occasional phone calls are, Asha serves as a nice reminder of one of the many reasons why I got the heck out of Los Angeles. A slutty girl who says that she’s a model and drives an expensive car that she can’t afford is one of about 5 different horrible types of people who inhabit that city. Not having to share the same crowded streets or breathe the same smog filled air as they do anymore is a miracle.

Dear Week’s Growth Beard

It's just getting to be too much.

Dear Week’s Growth Beard,

Well, here we are again. Our relationships always end like this. It seems like it was only 5 days ago that everything in the world was right… I didn’t have to wake up and shave, and you made me feel laid back and carefree.

It wasn’t very long after that before we started having problems again. We’re both to blame: you started chafing my neck, and I wasn’t taking you out in public anymore. I knew that I should have ended it sooner. Call me apathetic or lazy if you want to – sometimes it’s just easier to stay in a bad relationship than to stand up and do something about it.

…But now it’s time for me to shave.

It’s not you, it’s me. Being with you is just a constant reminder of my own shortcomings; every time I look in the mirror I’m reminded that I just don’t have what it takes to grow proper facial hair. Maybe it’s bad genes, or maybe we were just never meant to be. Both of us knew that this couldn’t last forever. Truth be told, I’ve never even wanted a beard.

So, this is it. Nothing you can say will change my mind – I’ve already promised myself that from this point forward I’m going to start shaving more regularly. I’m not going to put myself in this position again. I’m 27 years old and I can’t keep repeating this endless cycle with you.

I’m sorry to have lead you on like this. Let’s just try to remember the good times.



P.S. – My wife found out about you. It may take awhile for her to stop looking at me with disgust, but we’re going to try to make it work. I’ve sworn to her that I’m never going to let my facial hair get out of control like that again. Please don’t call me.


(Originally Posted on April 15, 2008)

I present to you BEACH FORT, which is undoubtedly the most bizarre short that I have ever made. I don’t really know how to describe it… much less if anyone should even be permitted to watch it. Read more…