I Am Not Stalking John Stamos
- Posted: Aug 3, 2016 @ 10:05pm
“It’s really not funny anymore,” my wife tells me. “It’s kind of sad.”
“Sad?” I reply, “How is it sad?”
“Because,” her voice is low now, like we’re having this conversation during church service, “you’re stalking John Stamos.”
The object in question was a tweet that I sent to Mr. Stamos. The fifteenth one, to be exact. In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that I created my Twitter account one week ago. It read “@JohnStamos I watched the video for Kokomo in slow motion #KoSloMo #FrameByFramos”. Now, obviously, that alone wouldn’t merit accusations of unlawful activity. So, again, full disclosure, I may have previously invited Sir Stamos to come meet me in New Hampshire for #gyros, later changing it to #paninis when I realized his Greekness (would it be Greekicity?) might make an invitation for #gyros seem #racist. And I might have later lowered the bar to us sharing Frozen Brogurt and fistbumping. And there is a chance that I requested that he wear my Jesse and the Rippers tee shirt and give it back to me so that it smells like him (#DesperatelySeekingStamos). But none of this changes the fact that I am not, nor have I ever been, nor do I plan to ever be, stalking John Stamos.
First off, “stalking” implies a universally recognizable level of creepiness that I just don’t feel like I’ve hit yet. There have been zero requests for locks of his hair, I have not used the expression “If I can’t have you no one can” even once, and I have absolutely not attempted or threatened to cause any harm of any kind upon the people he keeps retweeting while all of my carefully sculpted words go unrecognized. Would I LIKE to abduct and subsequently chain @XxLily84xX to a radiator in an abandoned warehouse? Well, yeah, who wouldn’t? “I’m watching you on an episode of ER capital X capital D” is not a thought that needs to be shared with the entire world. But Lily has nothing to worry about, because that sounds like a lot of effort and I’m far too lazy to put that plan into action. As I write this, I have yet to put pants on today. A guy who puts “get dressed like a real adult” in the “when there’s time” category of his to-do-list is probably not a threat to anyone’s safety besides his own, even if he does instead use that time to tell John Stamos that he loves his bite size cookie snacks (#FamousStamos).
Is it creepy to have a thing for clever wordplay? Is it creepy to want a high five and maybe some tips on what hair products will give you incomparable shine and volume? Is it creepy to feel like you and another man are two kindred spirits destined to have grand adventures and occasionally hold hands just to see how it feels? No, it is not. And if it is, then I’ll be the first to say it: I’m creepy as shit. We might as well call up Hollywood right now and pitch a remake of Blue Velvet where I play Dennis Hopper’s character because I’ll fuck anything that moves… I mean, because that’s how I feel about John Stamos. I don’t know where he lives (currently), I don’t know where he hangs out (currently, thanks a lot Google), I don’t even know what project he’s working on right now besides “refuse to retweet Jay Chanoine no matter how clever the wordplay was, even if he’s found a way to associate me with yoga (#Namastamos) or KFC (#StamosBowl)”. If all of that still equals stalking, your definition of the term is far too liberal and also I’m probably wanted for stalking in three or more states.
Ironically, the closest I’ve ever gotten to a proper stalking would probably be the first few weeks that I knew my wife. There were constant “Whatcha doin’?” text messages, which evolved into conversations that stretched late into the night until she fell asleep, only to be woken the next morning to sleepily reply “goof norning”. There were many times when I’d lean in for a kiss only to be denied and then I was just kinda awkwardly smushing my face against hers in a very bizarre display of “Hey, I like you.” There was even a mix cd that might as well have been titled “OH EM JEE JUST DATE ME I’M PATHETIC”, and none of that seemed to step over the threshold of creepiness. In contrast, Stamos has received zero text messages. I don’t even know what his phone number is (currently). I have never attempted to kiss Stamos, and even if I did the sparks that erupted from our stubble on stubble friction would be more than enough of a clue that I should probably never do that ever again. As far as a mix cd, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I don’t know if Oiko’s Greek yogurt has a jingle, but it would probably end up just being that for about thirty minutes. It’s title would end up being something like “OH EM JEE YOU SURE DO LIKE THAT GREEK YOGURT, NOW INVITING YOU OUT FOR GYROS SEEMS WAY LESS #RACIST”.
So yeah, I did tell a guy that I love his hip hop albums and also the acting that he did in 16 Blocks and Dexter (#StaMosDef), and I also claimed to have heard that he flies people out to a remote island to hunt them like animals (#StamosDangerousGame). And I will continue to tell him those things until I get an electronic notification saying @JohnStamos has retweeted or favorite any one of them (which will then be referred to as #TheDayTheEarthStoodStamos), or a written notification saying John Stamos is creeped the fuck out and will be notified if I ever set foot in the state he resides in (currently). But what’s really important here are the things I HAVEN’T done. Like stabbing, for one. Zero stabs have been made. Or threatening. Or suggesting how well his skin would fit me if I turned it into a suit (#StamosOfTheLambs). Or really anything beyond being kind of annoying and a little bit unstable, though not alarmingly so. And I assure everyone, I will continue to not do all of these things, which puts them in the same category as “put on pants”.