Coconut King

I was just refereeing a U11 House League soccer game. Boys and girls. Last game of the season. There was a tiny red-faced girl with a ponytail named Emma who was running all over the place. Absolute engine. With maybe 20 minutes left in the game, she scored. EXCEPT—

HOW TO BECOME A REGULAR IN A BAR, by me, a man pictured with the drink named after me at my local. You don't have to thank me. You’re most welcome.

After I shit the bed with my dad in it in Hong Kong*, my bowels were never quite right and got progressively worse. My calamitous movements became legend. At one friend’s house, there was a sign in the bathroom. PEOPLE WHO CAN’T TAKE DUMPS HERE: CHRIS.

Seems like a good time to remind everyone that @TheAtlantic's fact checkers once challenged my belief that Lorne Michaels was eating snow peas during a meeting and later verified that he was, in fact, eating edamame. They are extremely thorough.

It’s 2006. Esquire had just named its Best Bar in America: Nye’s Polonaise Room (RIP) in Minneapolis. I was asked to spend three days at Nye’s, drinking from open till close, and write about my experience. I have had worse assignments. But I don’t like drinking alone.

Guys, I'm sad about everything. Please know I hope things are soon different. But I'm going to do what I always do to stay sane: write, hang with my kids, pick up litter, be a little too handsome for most people to accept, and try to make you laugh on Twitter. I hope that's okay.

It's 2006. I'm working at Esquire, assigned to write about George Clooney. He invites me to his house. Now, understand something: Celebrities never invite you to their house. Except for George Clooney, apparently. The house! Amazing.

Remember when I said proms suck? I went to prom with Kyla. I had a massive crush on her; she treated me the way you treat a three-legged dog: with kindness masking pity. Kyla completed the friend zone she had built around me by suggesting we go on a double date.

In 1984, my family embarked on an epic road trip across America. My parents, my brother, my sister, and me—and my brother’s best friend for good measure—in a Country Squire station wagon with fake-wood panelling. I was 10 and about to see my dad cry for the first time.