Things I've Learned from Stuff I've Done

A brother's gotta prioritize

2005-11-09T06:56:00.000-08:00

Yeah I know, I've been away for a while. And I'm sorry to those of you who enjoy reading my stories - I bet if you saw me in person, you'd look like this guy in the picture. But hey, I really miss writing the posts! But I'm just too damn busy. I wish I could write more.

But, as of now, I'm taking a temporary leave of absence. Which probably means permanent. I don't anticipate getting any less busy. Probably busier. So I thank everyone for reading, and I hope to be back some day with lots of funny, embarassing, ridiculous, gross, sexy and outrageous stores about things I've learned from stuff I've done. And on a side note, my nuts smell like Cheetos.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

A brother's gotta prioritize.

Hey sweetie, you ain't foolin anyone with that hat

2005-10-10T06:32:00.000-07:00

You think you're pretty smart, don't you? You heard me. I'm talking to you across the bar with your trendy hat trying to cover up that horse face of yours.

Nice try.

That was the dialogue running through my mind on Saturday night. I saw this chick walk past me with one of those trendy hats that women wear to appear sexy and mysterious. It really pisses me off.

Now, she was definitely hot. Great body, long blonde hair, huge boobs, some army pants with a tank top - all good things. But as soon as I saw that hat, I knew there was something wrong.

"Dude, she's wearing the hat to hide something," Mark said.

"You're right. It's like she's trying to be all secretive and shit, but I think there's a reason for it," I replied.

We didn't think much of it. In fact, I specifically chose NOT to give her any attention. Because women who wear hats like that, along with the women who make out with other women in bars with their passive-aggressive-female-look-at-me-look-at-me tactics, are not worth my time. Or my eyes.

Then about an hour later, it all came clear. Mark and I were dancing on the floor. We saw the chick to our left grinding up on this guy who was at least 40, and may or may not have been the main character in a porn I once saw called "Weapons of Ass Destruction 2: Anal-ation."

Given that, it didn't surprise us to see that Barbie had removed her hat (prolly after a few drinks) only to reveal that she was, in fact, over 40. That's right. She was old. And a butterface. She WAS hiding something! We knew it all along. Good from far but far from good.

So, my message to you women out there who wear those ridiculous faux hats, afghan size fat girl shawls, enormous Paris Hilton insect glasses that cover your entire face or any other pseudo-stylish accessory that attempts to make you look sexier, let it go. You're ugly. And that's ok. There's nothing wrong with being ugly. A lot of guys will still find you attractive. But for Christ's sake, keep it real. Don't try to be hot if you're not. Because we can tell. And it turns us off.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Men might be stupid, but we're not dumb.

Sleepwalking is for chumps - try sleep EATING

2005-09-28T07:50:00.000-07:00

Ever get up in the middle of the night to get a snack and fall asleep eating it?

Didn't think so. Okay, then maybe it's just me. Because last nite at like 1 AM, I went downstairs to get some food. (And for the record, I BARELY remember doing this.)

All I know is, at 6:15 this morning, I felt something crawling on my leg and jumped out of bed like a little bitch. I grabbed a soft, flat object and threw it onto the floor. Then I went back to sleep.

A little while later I got into the shower. After I got dressed, I went to make my bed. And that's when I saw it. In the corner of my room was a big fat half eaten tortilla.

What - the - fuck.

It was at that point I realized my foot was stepping on something cold and sticky. I looked down and saw a big slice of turkey stuck to my heel.

A fucking turkey tortilla. And I didn't even finish eating it! I passed out mid-consumption.

Alright. Maybe this is why I shouldn't be posting anymore.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm going to make some lucky woman VERY happy one day.

So I'm a genius

2005-09-21T19:26:00.000-07:00

Quickly, I just wanted to say I took out the chick from Kinkos. And we totally made out.

I hope you're taking notes, kids. Because that's how it's done.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Mario is my hero.

I could teach a class on how pick up chicks

2005-09-12T06:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not saying I'm the best looking guy...
I'm not saying I'm the coolest guy...
I'm not saying I'm the smoothest talking guy...

But when it comes to creatively making a great first impression, I am amazing.

I went to Kinko's to print out some posters on Saturday. The clerk that helped me was extremely cute: bright green eyes, short red hair, thick tortise shell glasses and of course, that purple and black apron. So hot.

As she brough up my file I noticed a colorful band-aid on her hand.

"Nice band-aid you got there," I said.

"Oh, thanks. Yeah it's ok I guess. I'm not a big Star Wars fan, but that's all they had at the place I was volunteering. Now if there would have been a Mario Cart band-aid, that would have been sweet!"

Whoa. Was she serious?

In the words of Butthead, I thought to myself uh, heh heh...I love you.

We chatted for a few minutes about the difference between dorks, nerds and geeks. I gave her my whole manifesto on the subject. I liked her more every minute.

Eventually we finished up and she told me to come back on Sunday to pick up the posters.

As soon as I left Kinko's, I did the same thing any guy would have done in my position: went directly to the grocery store and bought a box of cartoon band-aids.

Sadly they didn't have any Mario Cart. Not surprising. It's not exactly the "hot style" with the kids right now. But they did have Spongebob, Veggie Tales, Garfield and Scoobie Doo.

Hmm. What to choose. Ok, well, she's a cute dorky Nintendo playing movie lover. Probably not a huge Veggie Tales fan. So that's out. And Garfield just doesn't seem to fit. Spongebob is a little too trendy for her. I guess Scoobie Doo is the way to go.

I returned to Kinko's yesterday with the box in my hand. She was there. She grabbed my project file from under the counter. After I ok'd everything I said, "So I was in the grocery store the other day and I just so happened to see these cartoon band-aids. I thought you might like them."

"Oh my God you are so sweet!" she said as she turned BRIGHT RED.

"Well, they didn't have Mario Cart, so I figured Scoobie Doo was the next best alternative. They did have Spongebob however, but you don't seem like someone who'd be a big fan."

"No, I'm not. He doesn't really do it for me."

God I'm good. I mean she was BRIGHT fucking red. So hot.

We ended up talking about movies we liked. Eventually I mentioned the flick Singles, starring Matt Dillon, Bridget Fonda and Campbell Scott. She'd never seen it.

"Get outta here! You never saw Singles? It's like, top ten movies from the 90's!"

I told her to rent it ASAP. And because she claimed to be "very critical on movies," I promised her she'd love it. So then she said, "Well, when I'm done watching it - do you want me to report back to you?"

Yes. The answer is yes.

"Give me a call when it's done and let me know what you thought of it."

"Will do! Here's your receipt. And thanks for the band-aids."

"No problem."

Dude, this is definately going to work.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Don't just listen to girls, pay attention to what they like. Then go buy gifts for under $5 that have some connection with what they like. Works every time.

Fuckin' old people

2005-08-31T06:53:00.000-07:00

So I'm sitting at TGI Friday's with my dad last night. Coincidentally, my grandparents and another couple happened to be leaving the restaurant right as we walked in.

I kissed my grandparents hello. Then my grandmother introduced me to Gladyis and Harry. After no more than 30 seconds, Gladys comes right out and says to the group, "I should set him up with my granddaughter."

"Oh yeah! Great idea."

Listen old lady, you just met me. You don't know shit about me.

"You should call her," she said.

"Well, is she a red head?"

"No, she's blonde. But she's gorgeous."

Sure she is. Every grandmother thinks her 25 year old granddaughter is gorgeous. I mean, what's she gonna say, Well, she's got a fat ass, hairy arms and a moon face, but you two would get along great...?

No way.

"Sorry Gladys, I only date red heads." (Which isn't entirely true, but it's certainly a preference.)

"Well, it doesn't really matter anyway, she's in Spain right now..."

Then why the FUCK would you even say something?! God, it's like old people just HAVE to be matchmakers all the time. Reminds me of when my Aunt and Uncle tried to hook me up with this chick, Sandy, for like 4 years. They kept hyping her up as this smart, funny, charming girl who was, of course, "gorgeous."

Yeah, then I met her in person under duress of my uncle. Gorgeous my ass. She was "cute" at best. The shape of her booty looked like a blind 5 year old trying to draw a hexagon freehand. Although she was nice.

Anyway, Gladys, Harry and my grandparents said to goodbye to my dad and me, but not before Gladys could say, "Well, if you ever change your mind - give me a call."

Sure. Will do.

Fuckin' old people.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

From now on, I'm telling old people that I'm gay.

I discovered a meal between breakfast and brunch

2005-08-30T06:42:00.000-07:00

I woke up last Monday with a horrible pain in my stomach. It was like nothing I'd ever felt before. It wasn't nausea and I didn't have the runs. So, the only thought was: it's gotta be food poisoning.

AGAIN. I've already had it three times this year. So either I have the most unlucky, cursed digestive system in the world; or I have some serious issues with my eating habits.

Turns out, it's the latter.

When one is stricken with food poisoning - or is suspicious thereof - one must localize it. My first thought was Sunday night's dinner. I stopped off at BW3's before heading over to the movie theater. My dinner consisted of:

24 chicken wings (12 hot and 12 spicy garlic)

a large basket of potato wedges with cheese

6 pickles

about 8 diet cokes. DIET cokes.

So maybe it was that.

Or...

Maybe it was Sunday's lunch at the food court in the mall. Panda Express was the choice. I had a "pick two plate," which included:

low mein noodles

kung pao chicken

pepper steack

Not to mention three fortune cookies and, yes, another DIET coke.

So maybe it was that.

Or....

Maybe it was earlier Sunday morning at 1:25 AM when I stopped off at the Shell station to pick up a late night snack after bar hopping. Well, I guess it wasn't so much a late night snack as much as it was a late night shite buffet:

THREE, count 'em THREE, Tobasco flavored slim jims - each of which was at least 14 inches long

a half bag of Dolly Madison chocolate donuts

a liter of DIET Dr. Pepper

a 99 cent bag of Chester Cheetah's finest spicy nacho popcorn

So maybe it was that.

Or...

Maybe it was my late lunch at Ferrato's Pizza on Saturday afternoon, the menu of which was:

a 12 inch thin crust sausage, bacon and pepperoni pizza

a house salad

3 more DIET cokes

So maybe it was that.

Or...

Maybe it was breakfasts 1 and 2, from earlier that morning:

A chocolate muffin the size of my head

A banana

Or...

Maybe it was Friday night's dinner at my cousin's 22nd birthday party:

3 pieces of smoked salmon

ceasar salad

a bag of peanut M & M's

three pieces of lactate free cookie cake

yet again, more DIET coke

So considering that list, I guess I'm not quite sure what caused me to be sick.

All I know is, I spent last week doing ABSOLUTLEY NOTHING. I couldn't eat. I couldn't shit. I tried Ex-Lax and that only cramped me up. I ate almost nothing for 6 days, other than Fiber One, which worked well to "evacuate" all of that shite out of my system.

Strangely, I still feel shitty. I'm supposed to go to the doctor today to see what's up with my stomach. Hope it's nothing serious.

But all medical diagnoses aside, I think I'll take a stab at the root of my recent digestive problems: I have some major issues with my eating habits.

This was brought to my attention when I read an article from O Magazine written by Dr. Phil. I've never read one of his articles before, but I think this one had my name on it. It was about losing weight. And although that's really not my issue right now, he did say something powerful, "Food is the most addictive substance the world has ever known."

Holy shit. That mustachioed putz was right. I have a problem. And it's gotta stop. I can't take it anymore. My body can't take it anymore. I think it's time that, once and for all, I start eating healthy.

Wow, I think I've just had a breakthrough! I think I'll celebrate by going to IHOP for a late breakfast of silver dollar pancakes. And a diet coke.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm going on a hunger strike.

A Tribute to My Favorite Pantries

2005-08-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

I never forget a good pantry. Especially growing up when I'd spend days, nights and even weeks and friends' and family members' houses - we'd always get to the pantry at least once every few hours.

Or maybe I'm just a fat ass whose life is run by food.

Nevertheless, here is a list of the best patries I remember:

Grandma Mimi
She really didn't have a wide variety of foods, but I'll tell ya one thing: there was never a shortage of chocolate licorice. That shit is the fucking CHRON-IC. And I think my brother and I must be the only people in the world who have actually eaten chocolate licorice our whole lives. When we tell our friends about it, they think we're nuts. But we didn't care, because we'd polish off a 2 pound bag of that stuff in 30 minutes. 45 tops.

Grandma Dottie
You never knew what to expect in this pantry because my Grampa was in the wholesale business and he always brought home samples of cookies, candies and potato chips you've never heard of. It was completely random and disorganized. But there were always a few staples that Dottie just had to have: Cheetos, M & M's (both regular and peanut), Cashews and Shredded Wheat Cereal.

Andrew
Andrew's pantry was every 9 year old kid's dream come true. He had every cereal, every sugary snack and Pringle flavor you could imagine. And you could eat whatever you wanted. Seriously, he told me that once. I remember I was sitting around the kitchen, eyeing the pantry when Andrew said, "If you ever want something from the pantry, you can just take it! My mom goes to the store every Friday." No fucking way. You will be my best friend forever.

Robbie
Honestly, his pantry pretty much sucked ass. It smelled like a fiber factory, if that actually exists. But every time I went over there, there never failed to be at least three cans of Spaghetti-o's sitting on the bottom shelf. And we all know those things are the SHIT. Sometimes Robbie would even have the cans sitting out for me when I came over. Now that's a good friend right there.

Roger
When I was in college I used to visit my friend Roger a lot. His pantry had the typical college stuff: condiments, beer, tobasco and lots of Hebrew National Hotdogs. I'd never eaten that type of hotdog before, so I was pleasantly suprised when I ate my first dozen in one night. Yeah, that's how good they are. 12 fucking hot dogs in one night. Man, those were the days.

So those are my favorite pantries. Good times. But now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go drink a Slim Fast shake. Because I am one fat loser.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Food runs my life.

What's your type?

2005-08-10T06:50:00.000-07:00

This is THE big question of dating: What's your type?

Some people say, "blondes," "a guy who likes music," or "a slutty 35 year old divorcee with lots of baggage and milk-drained pancake tits." To each his own, I suppose.

But I think we're too general. We should be more picky. Because if we cast a wide net, we're bound to catch some of the wrong fish. Fish who will have phone sex with you for 2 months, then make you drive 6 hours to see them in the middle of Ohio only to start balling about their rapist alcoholic fathers halfway through oral sex in a freshman dorm on a random Thursday night. Hypothetically, of course.

Anyway, I've been thinking about "my type" a lot lately. You may remember a previous post entitled: I've Discovered the Secret to Dating, in which I explained that "my type" was any woman who showed interest in me first.

While that's a interesting and slightly pathetic way to look at dating, I think it's time I got serious about what I really want. Don't worry, this doesn't mean I'm getting serious about dating! But I think everyone should make a list of the 5-7 characteristics of their ideal mate. For two reasons. First of all, it's great to be able to know exactly what you want. Secondly, this list will help you easily identify warning signs of a person you DON'T want.

This whole concept began last year when I began examining all of my past relationships. After creating something called a "Past Relationship Matrix," I discovered that all the women I'd dated had the following characteristics:

High maintenance

Dorky/nerdy/geeky

Great smiles

Pretty hair

Interestingly enough, the only girl who was NOT high maintenace was the only one I really, really, really loved. And ironically, the one who broke my heart. So it made sense to me that the whole "high maintenance" thing had to go. And that's when I said to myself: dude, I've gotta stop dating the wrong chicks. I need to figure out what kind of girl I REALLY want. In which case, the only solution was to formulate a list of characteristics that, if a woman did not adhere to, she was gone.

IF YOU DON'T HAVE THESE 6 THINGS, PEACE OUT:

1) Great Smile: it really doesn't get better than this. Whether it's from across the room, across the bed or even the knowledge that a woman with a great smile is doing so on the other end of the phone, it just kills me. I'm such a sucker for smiles. I remember this red head I dated a few years back who had a set of lips you park a car on. And she had this curviature to her mouth's corner that strongly resembled Gina Gershon. Ouch!

2) Pretty Hair: some guys are butt guys, some guys are boob guys - I'm a hair guy. Hair is absolutely the first feature I notice before anything. I know it sounds weird, but I love hair. Curly, short, long, red, brown, blonde - whatever. I don't care. As long as the hair is pretty. Now obviously, I have this thing for red heads, so that's always nice. But I'm not going to be that picky. I remember I dated a girl with really long reddish brown curly hair. Holy sweet mother of Jesus, it was the hottest damn thing I ever saw. And boy did it feel great rubbing up and down my neck. Alright I better stop before I get all excited.

3) Low Maintenance: I'm not going to get into a whole rant about the difference between high and low maintenance women. But other than one girl I ever dated, all were high maintenance. And I just can't fucking handle that shit anymore. I just saw you two days ago - YOU DON'T NEED TO CALL ME. And if you even TRY to introduce me to your parents on the SECOND FUCKING DATE, my ass is driving back home.

4) Dork/Nerd/Geek: this is another characteristics I could discuss for hours at a time. But basically, these three classifications are similar, but not congruent. A dork is silly, goofy and has no problem making an idiot of herself. A nerd is book smart and usually carries a pen and paper with her. And a geek knows a lot about random pop culture stuff. And people can be combinations, i.e., dork with nerd rising. But the key is that these woman will most always come out and say, "God I'm such a dork," "I know, I'm a nerd..." and "I'm just a geek like that." Seriously, if a woman ever says that to me, it's over. She's mine. Because after all, we dorks/nerds/geeks gotta stick together.

5) Looks the Same in the Morning: this one is HUGE. Remember that red head with the great lips from #1? Yeah, well, let's just say it took a lot of lipstick to make those lips look so damn good. Not to mention 7 additional layers of foundation, mascara, eye liner, rouge and whatever other shite women cake their faces with. In fact, I recal one morning waking up next to her. When she saw me looking at her, she turned away and said, "Oh no! I'm scary!" Then she ran to the bathroom with her purse. And I was like, "What the fuck?" So, lesson learned: the girl has to look the same in the morning as she does any other time of any day. (Barring eye granola and various red marks) Because there's no worse feeling than waking up next to a woman and thinking to yourself, "Dude, are you the same chick from last night?"

6) Cool: it sounds so simple, but it really isn't. I actually have a post about this from a while ago called What a Man Really Looks for in a Woman. To recap, PICTURE THIS: your roommate is telling you all about this new girl he's seeing. Being the caring, concerned friend that you are, you ask all the important questions such as, "Is she hot?" "Does she have money?" and "Is she hot?" After a few minutes of describing this new girl to you, your roommate gets this huge smile on his face. He's so excited about her, but it's almost like he's having a hard time explaining how great she is!

In which case, you're still not sold on your buddy's new squeeze. Sure, maybe she's hot and has a great job, but you're still thinking to yourself, Yeah...I don't know man. I'm not sure about this chick yet... Eventually, he gets down to the nitty gritty and tells you the most important characteristic about this girl that completely validates his entire argument:

You know, she's just...a really cool girl.

And there it is. That's all you needed to hear. Because in the end, that's what all men REALLY want. EXAMPLE: A few months ago I was really stressed out. I was going through a rough period with my friends, a group of people I ultimately decided to not be friends with because they liked to do cocaine and I didn't. So, once I told Samantha how I'd completely cut off 5 of my closest friends, she sent me a copy of The National Audubon Society's Pocket Guide To North American Waterfowl. Because she knew how much I loved ducks. And she knew that would cheer me up.

When I opened the gift box from Amazon the inside contained a little note that read, "For staying true to yourself, even when it costs you something and for countless other reasons...Your secret admirer." Now THAT'S a cool girl.

So there it is. That's what I want. A cool dork with a great smile and pretty hair who's low-maintenance and looks the same in the morning. I think that's a pretty damn good catch.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

It's a lot easier to know who you DON'T want if you know who you DO want first.

Kindergarten Rules

2005-08-09T06:32:00.000-07:00

I always remember Kindergarten. Here are some of my fondest memories...

Going to "enrichment classes" at noon where we had more fun stuff to do outside of class. I I learned how to tie my shoe. Boy 1985 was a great year.

Sucking all the salt off my pretzels and my teacher would say it was gross and I said, Hey, it's delicious! Back off!.

Raising my hand for questions I didn't know because I just wanted to participate.

Flicking a kid named Matt in the ear and getting in trouble for it, after which my parents got really upset and when we went out for pizza, they yelled at me.

Having a tasting party and eating the first (and last) green olive of my life, which ultimately made me GAG.

Telling Chuck Lasky - who was a big dork - that I didn't want to play because I had "homework to do." Dude, who the hell has homework at 5 years old?

Getting yelled at by my teacher in the MIDDLE OF CLASS to "stop playing with my penis." God damn that was humiliating.

Missing school on February 14th, 1986 (my 6th b-day) because it snowed, and I was pissed because I didn't get to go to school on my b-day, which every kid knows is the best day EVER.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Kindergarten rules.

Hey, Skinemax is better than nothing

2005-08-08T06:34:00.000-07:00

The best part about surfing the channels before you go to bed is trying to guess which movies are B-rated pornos, solely based on their titles. In the past few weeks I've noticed several common words and phrases used by almost all of these Skinemax "adult situations" flicks. Here they are:

Liasons
Passion
Diaries
Desires
Any type of "cove"
Hotel

But those are just the titles. When you actually watch these movies, it's even funnier because they are more entertaining then they are arousing. For example, this weekend I watched Golden Globe nominee "Spiderbabe." I actually Googled the film and here's the blurb from the back of the tape:

"From the team that brought you LORD OF THE STRINGS and CARLITO'S ANGELS comes SPIDERBABE, a racy superhero spoof full of scantily-clad women and outrageous visual effects! Patricia Porker (Misty Mundae) is a shy college girl whose life is changed forever when she is bitten by a genetically-engineered spider and turned into a wall-climbing freak with superhuman strength! Calling herself SpiderBabe, she uses her newfound powers to fight crime in New York City. But it won't be easy--she also has a new arch-nemesis: The Femtilian, a sexy and evil genius hell bent on world domination."

There were two stand-out scenes to this movie. The first was when Spiderbabe and her arch-nemesis, "Femtilian" meet each other in one of those typical dark alley showdowns. After several minutes of exchanging deathly blows back and fourth, they realize that their strengths are evenly matched.

And then they have sex.

You gotta love that.

Then there's a scene when Spiderbabe is hanging upside down from a building (a la Toby Maguire) when handsome college quarterback "Rick" passes by. After revealing to Spiderbabe his true feelings, she decides to reward him by blowing him in the middle of the street - upside down! Now who wouldn't want to seen Kirsten Dunst do THAT?!

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Porn is like pizza: even when it's bad, it's still good.

The Great Lesbian Mystery Revealed

2005-08-05T06:21:00.000-07:00

When you walk through the door of a bar without prior knowledge that it is a LESBIAN BAR, it's one heck of an experience. Especially for a straight man who has never experienced such a thing.

I made the following mental notes:

Lesbians love to dance, both with each other and by themselves.

Lesbians are ALL ABOUT the PDA.

Lesbians sure do a great job with the whole "look like a man" thing. I mean, I couldn't even tell with some of these chicks. At least, I think they were chicks.

Lesbians like beer. Not Cosmopolitans, not Martinis - beer. Hard core fuckin' Busch or PBR.

Lesbians don't like straight men.

And last but not least...

Lesbians are the NOT the same chicks you see in pornos and on Howard Stern. In fact, those chicks aren't even lesbians at all - those chicks are really hot, impossibly slutty, bisexual women who have sex with each other; and they represent an extremely small percentage of the female population.

Now, I only know this fact for one simple reason: I've seen the lesbian reality. It was hard for me to swallow (ba-zing!) but when I was surrounded by 200 REAL lesbians in a two hour period, all of whom were drunk, grinding up against and making out with each other, it was so strange - I wasn't turned on!

I swear to God. I even had a friend check my pants - no movement whatsoever. And you would think that I'd be turned on, but I wasn't because MEN ARE NOT TURNED ON BY LESBIANS, MEN ARE TURNED ON BY STRAIGHT WOMEN WHO THEY THINK ARE LESBIANS.

You see, REAL lesbians have short hair. They wear sports bras underneath wifebeaters to flatten out their chests. They don't wear makeup. They wear men's jeans. They don't have high pitched voices. They wear tennis shoes and boots. In other words, THEY LOOK LIKE MEN.

And there's nothing wrong with that. That's what they want, and I say more power to them!

The only thing that's wrong is men thinking that what they see portrayed as "lesbian sex" is real. It ain't. It's just a typical mass media influeced straight male fantasy. And don't get me wrong: there's nothing that would make me happier than to see Pamela Anderson get railed by Jenna Jamieson's 12 inch purple dildo. But I wouldn't wipe off the television screen thinking to myself, "Wow! That was some hot lesbian action."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Men are morons.

The force is strong with this one

2005-08-04T06:27:00.000-07:00

We needed meat, and we needed it fast. So we cruised over to Ralphie's to pick up some burgers for the Memorial Day BBQ. Because it was crowded, Wade told me to wait in line while he ran over to get some patties.

So I'm standing there and this little kid who couldn't have been more than 4 years old grabbed one of those hot new Star War Light Sabers and pointed it at me.

Dude, was he challenging me?

He had this huge grin on his face like he wanted to play. Oh hell why not.

I walked over to the toy shelf and grabbed another light saber. The little boy held his sword out in front of him, and I did the same. Our eyes met just like Luke and Vader in Empire Strikes Back.

Yoda has taught you well, I said to this kid.

I don't think he caught the reference.

Anyway, we started swinging at each other like two true Jedis. I let him chase me up and down the isle, meanwhile making ridiculous noises with my mouth that sounded nothing like George Lucas's THX sound effects.

We continued to battle past the end caps and out into the main area by the counter. He was winning. I was going down!

I figured I'd let the little kid win seeing how he was 21 years younger than me and it just wouldn't be right to slay him like all of my previous victims whose lives I'd ended. So I did my best "fake fall" and landed on my back, holding my light saber above my head. The little kid started jamming it into my gut as I screamed and winced in pain. He laughed and jumped up and down in victory.

Then I heard one word that almost made me soil myself...

"Caleb!"

Oh crap.

"Get over here right NOW," an angry female voice said.

Caleb Skywalker dropped his weapon and ran over to his mother. I looked up from the floor and saw one pissed off mother glaring at me like I was about to do something dirty and evil to her son with my light saber. She quickly scooted in the other direction. And I was like, Dude, I just made your kid's DAY - maybe you should give him a little more attention!

Meanwhile, Wade returned from around the corner while I was still on the floor and stopped in his tracks.

"The force was strong with that one," I said.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm going to make a great father.

A few rules for preparing, eating and sharing nachos

2005-08-02T06:07:00.000-07:00

I've been a nacho connoisseur since I was 7. It all started at Brunswick Lanes in the 80's when I bowled on a Friday afternoon league. (FYI, I was an amazing roller. But that's not the issue here today...)

The issue is nachos. Nachos are quite possibly the world's most perfect snack. I did some research on the history of this food and discovered the following on Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia:

"Nachos were created in Piedras Negras, Coahuila, Mexico, according to a popular origin story, by Ignacio 'Nacho' Anaya in 1943. The story goes that the wives of American airmen came to his restaurant after the kitchen had closed. Anaya quickly prepared the dish and later added it to his menu. The term 'Nachos' came from what the dish was originally called, 'Nacho's Especiales,' or 'Nacho's Special Dish.' In its traditional form, it is a creation consisting of a quartered tostada topped with a layer refried beans and/or various meats and a layer of shredded cheese."

"Nachos became popular as a concession food after the development of a premade cheese sauce which eased preparation. The cheese sauce can be dispensed on top of the tortilla chips, but it is often simply offered as a dip."

"The first professional sports team to offer nachos in the concession stand was baseball's Texas Rangers. Nachos were cast into the spotlight by Monday Night Football's Howard Cosell. Cosell had purchased some nachos before a game and quickly used the word 'nachos' to describe a spectacular play."

Now that we've got the factual stuff out of the way, let's get down to the nitty gritty: rules for nachos.

RULE 1: There is a good probability that your chip supply will outlast your cheese supply, especially if your plate is served with a side cup of cheese. Take precaution by reducing your per-chip cheese coverage.

RULE 2: If you offer a free nacho to one of your friends and that friend steals the ONE enormous chip with all the cheese and like three peppers, end your friendship with that person.

RULE 3: Never let anyone take your first or last nacho. That's just wrong.

RULE 4: When preparing nachos for company, never use cheddar cheese. Not only does it dissapoint people but it's completely inconsistent with the name of the food. (It ain't called Cheddaros)

RULE 5: Always use your right index finger to scoop up the remaining cheese once your chip supply has diminished. If people at your table think that's gross, end your friendship with those people.

RULE 6: Never try to "fake" your nachos. People (especially kids) will know. The most common example of this ruse is when parents pile chips onto a plate, cover the surface area with 7 slices of Kraft American Cheese, put it in the microwave for 60 seconds and say, "Here's some nachos kids!" Horseshit! your children will say. Those aren't nachos, mom. That's a bunch of fuckin' chips with slices of Kraft over them. You better take your ass to the store with that shit!

RULE 7: When ordering nachos at a restaurant or sporting event, always try to get the extra cheese. Most restaurants will be happy to oblige, either during the prep process or as an additional side order for no charge. On the other hand, many ballparks have become chincy bastards when it comes to the extra cheese cup. Why, I remember when it was only a quarter to get extra cheese! Now it's like, $1.50. Unacceptable. So trust me, if you sweet talk that chick behind the counter, you should be able to get your little cup on the house, no problem.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Nachos aren't a snack - they're a way of life.

Fireworks: The Silent Killer

2005-08-01T06:01:00.000-07:00

Are fireworks illegal?

I only ask because it seems like some areas are stricly against fireworks; while others don't seem to mind. It reminds me of a 4th of July party I attended several years back at Mizzou (Univeristy of Missouri at Columbia.) Alexis had this huge BBQ at her house. Most people brought beer and weed. I brought fireworks. Well, actually it was just one firework - but it was a biggie. One of those boxes of 36 little rockets that took like 3 minutes to completely finish. It was awesome.

So I'm sitting out by the curb at about 2 PM, ready to set this bad boy off. "Everybody check this shit out!" I yelled.

I lit the wick. And when it got close to the base, each of the torpedos began to shoot up into the air with a fizz, smoke and crackle into the Columbia sky. It was beautiful. All 30 of my drunken friends watched and cheered in awe as hundreds of hours of illegal Chinese child labor exploded into the atmosphere.

When the last torpedo was done, everyone clapped. We high fived each other at the site of the best 15 bucks I'd ever spent.

Then about 2 minutes later we saw a fire truck coming down the street.

Oh fuck.

It pulled up right in front of Alexis's curb. The Cheif - dressed in his uniform and all - stepped down from the truck and walked up on the grass.

"Whose house is this?"

Nobody moved.

"I said 'who lives here?'" insisted the Chief.

"Umm...that's me. I'm Alexis. This is my house."

"Well ma'am, are you aware that it's illegal to shoot off fireworks in this district?"

"Uhh...well...we didn't realize..."

"Look, here's the deal. If I see another firework come from this house, it's a $1000 fine. Ok?"

"Ok sir, we understand. Sorry about that."

As the fire truck pulled away, Alexis looked back at me with one of the great death stares I've ever seen.

And I was like, whatever dude, that was fucking awesome.

It really was. I kick ass. Fuck the fire chief!

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm proud to be an American.

Hey, that's just how I roll

2005-07-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

A few minutes before boarding my flight I decided to grab a snack. I walked over to the Pretzel Wagon and ordered a large sesame with cheese sauce.

"$5.15 is your total, sir."

I opened my wallet and noticed that the only bill I had was a hundred. I took it out and asked "Can you break this?"

"Are you crazy?" Shaneequa asked. "I can't break that sir..."

"But that's all I have! Come on...ballers gotta eat too!"

Shaneequa's draw dropped to the cash register. Then the other woman behind her stopped in her tracks and said, "Uh uh...did someone just say 'ballers'?"

"Ok, I'll go get change and come right back."

I walked over to Starbucks and explained my situation. "Yeah, I need 5 twenties please. The people over at The Pretzel Wagon are hatin' because I'm a big baller and they can't handle it."

I returned to Shaneequa and bought my pretzel. It was delicious. But she still had this glare in her eyes...I don't know what her problem was. I mean hey, that's just how I roll.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

It's hard work rollin' in the cheddar - but someone's gotta do it.

That's the LAST time I ask a stripper to make change

2005-07-05T06:02:00.000-07:00

I only had five bucks left and we were ready to get the hell out of the strip club. So I figured, what the hell - I'll just throw all five bucks down and get a nice, long table dance.

The stripper took one look at my five, sached over to me and started dancing. Unfortunately, she wasn't even that cute. And I think I saw some pimples on her ass. So it kind of pissed me off when, after about 15 seconds, she opened her g-string and asked for a tip.

That's all!? I thought.

I gave her a puzzled look and said, "Um...I was expecting a little more than THAT for 5 bucks!"

"Honey, I've done a LOT more for a LOT less," she said.

"Well in that case, do you have change for a five?" I asked.

And I swear to you, I've never seen a more terrifying death stare in my entire life. The stripper looked like she was ready to take off that 5 inch clear glass high heel and stab me in the eye, a la Single White Female.

Realizing the stupidity of such a remark, I did my best to transition from complete and utter objectification and humiliation...to humor.

"Oh I'm just kiddin' baby!" I said with a fake laugh. "Here ya go! Thanks."

Still wearing the death stare on her face, she grabbed my five, walked off stage and began talking to one of the bouncers.

"Dude, I think we should probably go." I said. "I might have pissed off one of the strippers."

So we got the FUCK outta there! (And never went back.)

Until the next weekend.

But at least the next time I brought some ones.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Unless they're totally coked out of their minds, strippers have feelings too.

Why is this dude passed out on my fucking couch?

2005-06-30T06:19:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing about living right uptown from all the bars in a college town: drunk people will abuse your house. In several ways...

First of all, when you're in college, "the world is your toilet." (I think I saw that as a bumper sticker once.) But after long nights of drinking and even longer walks back from the bars, people just LOVED to use my backyard to relieve themselves. Guys AND gals.

Now, the cool thing about my house was the roof. But what SUCKED was that when I moved in, the landlord specifically told me, "Never go out on the roof. You know...for insurance reasons."

Yeah right. Like telling a child not to eat the cookies.

So I'm sitting out on my roof one night. It's about 2 AM and I'm watching my fellow partygoers stumble out of the bars. I see a guy come towards my back yard in a zig-zag fashion. Boy, this dude was wasted. He huddled into the corner, unzipped and broke the seal. But when I looked at his t-shirt, I noticed the logo of a familiar highschool.

Holy shit - that's my friend Jordan! We went to highschool together 4 years ago!

Ha! I guess Jordan forgot that my house was the one whose lawn now spelled out his initials. So, I figured I'd have some fun with him...

"Hey man, nice stream," I complimented.

"What the..." he said as he looked up.

"Hey Jordan, what's up? Did you forget that I lived here?"

"Aw shit man, my bad. I totally forgot this was your house. Sorry."

"No that's cool, pee away! Everyone else does."

Hey, it was a harmless mistake. We all make them. And I forgave Jordan. But a few months later, something happened that wasn't quite as forgivable.

It was about 3:30 AM. I stumbled in through the back door after a long night of bar hopping. When I entered the living room I noticed my front door was wide open.

Hmmm...that's odd. Must've been the wind. Oh well.

I closed the door and headed upstairs. But before I got very far I noticed my roomate was passed out on the couch. So I thought, what the hell - I'm gonna go mess with him...

"Pssst! Kevin? How you feelin' dude?"

No answer.

I walked into the dark room and came closer to my unconcscious friend. It REEKED of Vodka. "Dude, are you alive?" I joked.

But it was no joke. Because when I looked over at his face, I realized that the guy passed out on my couch...was not my roomate Kevin.

What...the...fuck...?

His lifeless hand hung over the edge of the couch, covered in bar stamps. His wrist donned 3 different colored "over 21" bands. And his shirt was stained with, what I assume was a combination of vomit, Popov and Syline Chili.

I tapped him on the shoulder. Psst! Dude! Wake up!

Nothing.

"Hey! HEY! Can you hear me? WAKE UP!" I yelled as I continued to poke him.

The guy didn't move.

Shit.

By that time it was getting close to 4:00 AM. I was tired. And there was a complete stranger who had walked right into my house and passed out on the couch. So I continued to poke at the guy in various places: head, shoulder, chest, arm...but nothing. He still wouldn't wake up!

At that point it started to get kinda funny. Well, I thought, I guess I could just leave a note for this guy. After all, it's not THAT big a deal. And I don't wanna press charges or anything.

I ran upstairs and grabbed a piece of printer paper. I drafted a note which read:

"Dude, you don't live here. Please leave when you wake up. Thanks."

I came back down with a roll of duck tape and the letter. I started fastening it to his shirt when I realized, wait a minute. What the fuck am I doing? This is stupid. I'm not going to bed with this on my conscience.

I ended up calling 911 to report a drunken intruder.

"Yeah, but I'm not trying press charges or anything. Just come over and get this kid outta here please," I told the dispatch.

45 seconds later the cops walked in the front door. The shined their flashlights on the kids face and began yelling at him.

He didn't budge.

Then they started shaking his arm.

He didn't budge.

"Yeah, I think this dude's REALLY wasted. I've been trying to wake him up for 15 minutes."

So the cop took the base of his flashlight and started JAMMING it into the kid's breast bone. Oooh! That's gotta hurt, I thought.

He quickly sat up on the couch, looked around the room with half open eyes and began drunkingly spitting out his personal information to the cops...

"456-44-0011"

"101 East Chestnut"

"August 4th, 1979"

"SIR? Do you know where you are?" the cop asked.

"I'm at Sarah's house. 101 East Chestnut," he mumbled.

"Dude, do I fuckin' look like Sarah?!" I yelled.

He tried to stand up, but the cops held him under his armpits for balance.

"Please get this guy out of my house. Don't press charges or anything, but get rid of him."

"Sorry about this sir," the cop said. "We'll take him home immediately."

As the cops (and the intruder) walked out onto my front porch, I heard one of the officers say, "So your name is Grant Narrin, huh? Well sir, it's time to take you home."

Later that week I did some research on the school's student database. I typed in "Grant Narrin," and nothing came up. I asked around, and nobody had heard of him. The cops also said that he wasn't a student at the university. So I unfortunately NEVER found out who that guy was.

SO...if anyone knows a guy named Grant Narrin, let me know. Because that dude owes me an apology.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Never live down the street from bars.

How to guarantee that every guy thinks you're a bitch

2005-06-28T06:25:00.000-07:00

There's this girl who works out at my gym. She never smiles. EVER. I've been working out there for 2 years, and I swear to God she's never once smiled, talked, laughed or even acknowledged another person in the room.

Now, I know she works at the bank in the same building, which might explain a few things. But still, lots of people from the bank work out there. And they all smile. This girl is impossible.

I wouldn't make such a big deal about this if this chick wasn't SMOKING HOT. Oh yeah. Ree-diculous. And she always wears pink or purple spandex shorts that showcase one of the juciest asses I've ever seen.

But every time I see her and think "Damn she fine," I also think, "Yeah, but she looks like a total bitch." I've even considered approaching her and saying something like, "Hey, I know you work out here all the time, but I've never actually introduced myself. My name's Jack. And by the way, is there something wrong?"

What would happen? Would she be so flattered that someone actually took the time to say hello that she'd fall madly in love with me?

Would she look at me like I'm crazy, not say a word and walk back to her eliptical machine?

Or would she blow me off like every other guy who tries to talk to her?

I don't know. Maybe she's a mute. Maybe she hates her job. Maybe she's really depressed. Or maybe she's like, SUPER shy. But for a woman who's THAT freakin' hot, she ain't scorin' a lot of points in the personality department. And I think it's decreasing her attractiveness by the day.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Looks only go so far.

The Dance Of The Disarming

2005-06-27T06:07:00.000-07:00

It was 10:30 PM and we still hadn't met any girls yet.

"Alright listen to me Tommy," I said. "Here's the plan: we're gonna find the fattest, ugliest chicks in the bar and start talking to them. Then we're taking them onto the dance floor. Then we're...

"What? That's a terrible plan! How will that help us?" he asked.

"Trust me. I've done this before. It'll work."

I started talking with these two girls at the bar. And they really weren't even that fat or ugly. In fact, they were very nice girls. That's usually how it goes: if they can't be hot, they've GOT to have personality!

Anyway, the four of us made our way to the dance floor to start gettin' jiggy. And it's not like we were grinding on them. We were "dancing" inasmuch as we were next to them. So, as we danced the night away with the two "personality" girls, Tommy turned to me and said, "And how is this supposed to work again?"

I then told him about my philosophy, also known as...

The Dance Of The Disarming.

In a dance floor setting, every guy wants one thing: to get a smile from some random girl, start dancing with her, get to know her and ultimately take her home. Unfortunately, all the girls know this fact. That's why they usually dance in pairs or in circles around a pile of purses - because it's safe. Men can't penetrate. And if they really wanted to dance with some dude, it would usually be up to them to make the first move.

Now, in the case of Tommy and me, we'd just walked out onto the dance floor without the traditional "goal oriented look." We weren't dancing next to each other on the prowl for chicks. We didn't look like all the other guys out there. In fact, we were dancing with two not-so-attractive chicks, having a great time, smiling and basically, not focusing on "the one thing."

When you do this, good looking women will NOTICE YOU. They look at the two of you and say, "Hey, Katie. Look at those two guys over there! Wow, they look like fun. And they're just dancing around like they don't care. I bet they're cool dudes, unlike all these other chotch-burgers who keep hitting on us and grabbing our asses. Come on...let's go over there and dance next to them. Those are the kind of guys who wouldn't hurt us. And maybe we can pry them away from those two fat, ugly girls..."

Sure enough, about 15 minutes into our dancing session, these two REALLY cute girls came right up to us. They smiled and waved. Yes! It was working! The Dance Of The Disarming was on like Donkey Kong baby! So we held out our hands to bring them closer. I brought one of them into my grill and introduced myself. Tommy did the same.

Goodbye fat, ugly girls - hello cute girls!

Well done.

Tommy smiled at me as if to say, "Holy shit! That actually worked! I can't believe it!"

Of course, this was only the beginning. It took a lot more than a dancing to make it happen. But Tommy and I worked well as a team. After all, we'd spent a year as roomates doing shit like this all the time - so we knew how to work it.

In the end, Tommy didn't end up diggin' the chick he met, although she was pretty cute. I on the other hand TOTALLY hit it off with the blonde. So, Tommy played Wingman (like a champ) and helped contribute to some SERIOUS booty for yours truly when I ended up at that girl's house for the remainder of the weekend.

All thanks to The Dance Of The Disarming.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Learn the dance, grasshoppers - it works.

To Spank Or Not To Spank

2005-06-23T06:24:00.000-07:00

If you ask me, there's nothing hotter than gettin' it on with some chick and, in the heat of the moment, poppin' her real good in the arse. I used to date a girl in college who was ALL ABOUT getting spanked. And whenever I did it, it immediately took her arousal to the next level.

The thing about spanking is: it's a judgement call. Not everyone's into it. And it's not like you can really discuss it before hand; because if you do, it will lose its spontenaety.

So, spanking is almost like a gamble. You think to yourself, Man she's getting really hot. I wonder - maybe I should spank her! Will she be down? I don't know. I don't want to freak her out or kill the moment, but I think it might be kinda hot.

At this point you have a decision to make: to spank, or not to spank?

Back to that girl from college. We were gettin' hot and heavy one night. She was moaning, kinda drunk and totally into it. So I figured: what the hell. I gotta do it.

So I popped her.

The spank echoed through my apartment like a snare drum.

And she freakin' LOVED it! You'd have though I pressed the "Get Me Closer To Orgasm Button" five times. Holy shit! I can't believe it worked! I gotta try that shit again...

Sssssmack!! I popped her again! Another snare drum.

I felt like the biggest pimp alive. Literally! After all, Pimps are known for their slapping tendencies, according to Easy-E. It was a great day in my life.

A few years later I started dating this girl who was a bit younger than me. I was 23, she was 19. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but I got the sinking feeling she wasn't very sexually adventurous.

Guess there was only one way to find out...

So we were getting into it one night, and once again, the pivotal moment came: to slap or not to slap?

Oh what the hell, I thought. I don't really like this chick that much anyway. Besides, she's got a sweet, sweet can that just BEGS to be spanked.

So I popped her.

And like the obligatory house party scene in a cheesy 80's highschool movie, all I could hear was the ear piercing shriek of a record being scratched.

Because when I spanked that girl, she absolutely STOPPED EVERYTHING.

Oh fuck.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she asked me.

I looked up at her completely stunned. And not even a chainsaw could hack through the awkward silence that followed.

She rolled off of me and turned to the other side.

"Hey come on baby...I was just messin' around with ya!"

"Yeah, whatver. That was dumb. I'm just not into that kind of stuff."

And THERE goes my erection. Fading...fading....GONE!!

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

That Eazy-E was full of shit, man.

Welcome to The Indianapolis Chapter of the United Church of Senegal

2005-06-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

We stood in the lobby of the Holiday Inn waiting for Rob to get dressed. (He always took forever.) The hair had to be perfect. The shirt had to be wrinkle free. Yep, that was Rob. He wasn't going to the post-wedding brunch until everything looked flawless.

I figured I had a few minutes to kill, so I started wandering around the lobby. A faint, yet intriguing voice came from down the hall. It was hard to make out so I walked over to one of the meeting rooms to investigate. When I approached the door I heard an African accented voice bellowing, "...And we will not be brought down by our enemies..."

What the...?

The room was full of Africans of various ages, throwing their hands up into the air, all of whom paid attention to a large man standing at a lecturn.

"We shall not be victims of pain and suffering any longer..."

"Yes!"

"Amen!"

"Halleluja!"

The sign on the door read: "Welcome to The Indianapolis Chapter of the United Church of Senegal."

Hmmm....

"Good morning my friend, come on in!" the cheeky Senegalian said as he handed me a bulletin.

"Oh, um...hi! Thanks..."

I took a seat in the back. Surprisingly, seeing as how I was the only white person among 30 Senegalese churchgoers, not a single person stared at me. Everyone person in that room was completely consumed by their faith, off in his own little world, praising God.

Most were dressed in what I assumed were traditional Senegalese garbs: colorful hats, long robes and beautiful jewelry. I scanned the room and saw families, couples, children, teengaers, even a few elders. But the best part was, everyone was doing something different. One man closed his eyes and listened to the preacher. Another young couple held hands and danced together. An older women sang a gorgeous song in her native tongue. And the guy in front of me yelled "Amen!" and "Yes brother!" to the guy next to him.

God, it was beautiful! Each person expressed his faith in a different way. Nobody cared if anyone was watching them. Nobody cared if they were signing off key. And nobody had a thought running through their minds other than God.

It was the most love I'd ever seen in one room.

The service continued on. After about 10 minutes I figured Rob had finished his primping, so I decided to make my exit. At the back door stood the greeter who had welcomed me in earlier. He stuck out his hand to bid me farewell, but in light of the energy and love in the room, I held out my arms and gave him a hug. He started laughing.

Ha ha! God bless, my friend! he said.

Yeah dude. That's the way church should be.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm moving to Senegal.

What a man really looks for in a woman

2005-06-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

It's time for all of you females out there to finally understand what men REALLY look for in a woman...

It's not huge boobs - although those are fun.
It's not money - although that can buy us nice things.
It's not intelligence - although that does go a long way.

And it's certainly not a desire to have sex all the time - although if a woman had that desire, men would equate that to striking gold.

No, no, no. The one characteristic men absolutely LOVE to see in a women is, ironically, a characteristic men can't define and women can't understand.

It's called coolness.

PICTURE THIS: your roommate is telling you all about this new girl he's seeing. Being the caring, concerned friend that you are, you ask all the important questions such as, "Is she hot?" "Does she have money?" and "Is she hot?"

After a few minutes of describing this new girl to you, your roommate gets this huge smile on his face. He's so excited about her, but it's almost like he's having a hard time explaining how great she is!

In which case, you're still not sold on your buddy's new squeeze. Sure, maybe she's hot and has a great job, but you're still thinking to yourself, Yeah...I don't know man. I'm not sure about this chick yet...

Eventually, he gets down to the nitty gritty and tells you the most important characteristic about this girl that completely validates his entire argument:

You know, she's just...a really cool girl.

And there it is. That's all you needed to hear. Because in the end, that's what all men REALLY want.

Now, at this point, a woman usually says, "What the hell does 'cool' mean?" because she doesn't understand the context of the word. A man, on the other hand, knows exactly what another man means when he says that a woman is "cool." It's like this secret code word that represents an endless continuum of examples which personify a woman's coolness. Let's explore some examples...

Stacey
I met a girl a few nights ago. She told me a story about a guy she dated who didn't bring her flowers because, according to him, "She wouldn't like flowers because she's not a typical girl." That pissed her off. She told me, "Look, I know I like sports and I'm aggressive and everything, but that doesn't mean I don't like flowers. I'm still a girl. But that guy wanted me to be someone I wasn't. And I wasn't about to compromise who I was just for him."

That's a cool girl.

Elena
I used to go out with this girl who was the epitome of coolness. Once she took me to an all night diner after a long night of dancing. When we walked in she said, "Alright, I'll order for us. You'll love the special in this place. It's the greatest breakfast you'll ever have."

Another time I took her to see her favorite comedian, Bill Cosby, at a local casino. When I picked her up, she wore a homemade white t-shirt which read, "I LOVE BILL COSBY."

That's a cool girl.

Lisa
When I was in college I dated a girl named Lisa. I recall two specific cool things she did (although there were plenty more than that.) She once cooked a crab leg dinner for me and several of my friends. When I sat down at the table, she walked up to me and slapped down a bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper next to my plate. (And there are FEW things in the world I love more than Diet Dr. Pepper.)

"Did you buy this just for me?" I said.

"Yeah, well, I know you don't drink beer, so..."

Nice.

Another time she made me a mix CD. Now, as cliche as that sounds, check out what she did: she actually took the time to make a label for the jewel case which read, "Songs You Should Like Because I Say So."

That's a cool girl.

Samantha
The girl I absolutely fell in love with - who, ironically, broke my heart too - was SO cool. A few months ago I was really stressed out. I was going through a rough period with my friends, a group of people I ultimately decided to not be friends with because they liked to do cocaine and I didn't.

So, once I told Samantha how I'd completely cut off 5 of my closest friends, she sent me a copy of The National Audubon Society's Pocket Guide To North American Waterfowl. Because she knew how much I loved ducks. And she knew that would cheer me up.

When I opened the gift box from Amazon the inside contained a little note that read, "For staying true to yourself, even when it costs you something and for countless other reasons...Your secret admirer."

Now THAT'S a cool girl.

Ladies, please advise: it doesn't matter how big your boobs are, how much money you have or how hot you are. Because in the end, as difficult as it is for you to understand, and as difficult as it is for men to articulate, coolness is all that really matters.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Men only want one thing.

What's this chick doing with THAT loser?

2005-06-15T06:13:00.000-07:00

Here's the process men go through when they see a hot girl walking around with a seemingly undeserving guy:

Step 1: QUESTION
Dude, why is that chick holding hands with that loser?

Step 2: DOUBTS
There's no way they're together. She's WAY too hot for him. He's obviously her brother. Or gay.

Step 3: INSULTS
That guy isn't all that special anyway. Look at his hair. What a douchebag! Besides, who the hell still wears Reebok Pumps?

Step 4: IMMEDIATE COMPARISON
I'm totally better than that guy too. Better looking, funnier and taller. I mean, what's he got that I haven't got?

Step 5: FRUSTRATION
Man, this is bullshit. I should go over there right now and say hey sweetheart, if this putz doesn't work out for ya, here's my card... And then I should beat that guy's ass.

Step 6: RESIGNATION
Well I'll be damned. Maybe those two ARE together after all. That lucky son of a bitch...

Step 7: RATIONALIZATION
Dude, I bet he's got money. Or a huge penis. That's the only explanation.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Men have it all figured out.

It's just a movie...it's just a movie...it's just a movie...

2005-06-14T05:49:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen The Mothman Prophecies with Richard Gere?

Don't. It's the last movie that actually gave me nightmares.

A few years ago I worked weekends. I had Wednesday and Thursdays off. So, my typical Tuesday (Friday) night would be to leave work at 6:00, work out till 8:30, order Pad Thai from the restaurant next door and pass out on the couch in front of the TV due to a combination of severe food coma and exhaustion of working at a furniture store whose sole purpose was to exacerbate my back problems.

I rented The Mothman Prophecies, which looked pretty scary. And I was always up for a scary movie. Especially since the last Richard Gere movie I saw - Runaway Bride - was scary as HELL.

The basic premise of this movie, according to www.themothmanlives.com, is...

"Based on true events, 'The Mothman Prophecies' examines a series of inexplicable occurrences through the eyes - and mind - of one man. Richard Gere, Laura Linney, Will Patton and Debra Messing star in this suspense-filled thriller about a man driven to extremes to investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding his wife's death - and how they might be connected to the strange phenomena in a town four hundred miles away."

For the first hour, I enjoyed the movie quite a bit. But halfway through the movie the combination of Pad Thai and a day's worth of lifting furniture caught up with me. By 9:30 I'd started dozing on the couch.

Oh well, I'll finish it tomorrow on my day off, I thought.

Approixmately seven hours later, I jumped out of bed in the middle of the night screaming. Fuuuuuuuuck! The Mothman was trying to kill me! Oh my God oh my God oh my God! I was Richard Gere's character in the movie! Holy SHIT!

It's only a movie...it's only a movie...it's only a movie...

Whoa. Freakiest nightmare I'd ever had in my life.

I turned on the lights. The clock read 4:12 AM. I grabbed some water, rubbed the granola out of my eyes and assessed the situation.

Holy shit...okay...I'm fine. Everything's gonna be fine. It was just a dream, I rationalized with myself.

But I couldn't go back to sleep. There was no fucking way. If I did, The Mothman would TOTALLY kill me. On the other hand, I never actually finished the movie. I never found out what really happened to this mysterious phenomenon.

There was only one thing I could do.

I sat back down on my couch at 4:15 and curled under last night's blanket like a little bitch. I pressed play on the DVD and returned right where I left off...

The movie continued on and ended with one of those dramatic climaxes that makes you say, "Well, it's finally over...OR IS IT?" Enter danger music.

At about 5:00 I got up off the couch. I felt a lot better. But I wasn't about to go back to sleep. I was wide awake by now.

And so, there I sat at 5:00 AM on my day off, unable to go back to bed. There was nothing to do. Nobody to see. And nowhere to go. Thanks a lot, Richard Gere.

There was only ONE place open that early...

McDonald's.

I walked a few blocks down Burnside Road (also known as Portland's Skid Row) as the Oregon rain drizzled down. When I arrived at the door of McDonald's at 5:15, I realized something: I'd never been to McDonald's that early before.

And then I saw something that scared me a hell of a lot more than some second rate, "based on real events" Richard Gere movie: 17 cracked out, meth-head, dirty ass, alcoholic homeless people congregating on the steps of McDonald's like a pack of ravenous wolves. Every one of their glossed over eyes was staring at me.

Um...yeah...maybe I will go back to bed after all.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

It's just a movie...it's just a movie...it's just a movie...

The Dirty 2:30

2005-06-13T05:54:00.000-07:00

It was the best relationship I ever had.

Not best in terms of healthiness; not best in terms of love; not best in terms of mutual affection, but best in terms of "damn that shit was fun!"

I met her at some bar, which pretty much set the precedent for the entire relationship. We hit it off immediately. She had red hair - CURLY red hair. Damn it was hot.

So we talked and danced all night. And when last call came around she whipped out her cell phone and said, "Dude, you're gonna have to give me your number."

I thought that was cool.

So we started hanging out. Nothing too serious, just meeting out with groups of people for drinks on random nights. But I really liked this chick. She was funny, sexy, liked the same movies as I did and acted like a total dork most of the time. Which was great. She was like the female version of ME! (Except that she was an alcoholic.)

Still, we totally wanted each other - you could smell it in the air. And we knew something was bound to happen between us soon.

One night she called me at about 2:30 AM and asked what I was up to. I told her my friends and I were driving to East St. Louis to go to this all-night dance club. She said she would meet us there.

Sweet. Tonight was the night, I thought.

Three hours later, she and I were still dancing at this club! All my friends had bailed. All her friends had bailed. I was hot and sweaty. She was drunk and horny. Talk about a winning combination.

We eventually sat up at the bar and started talking about relationships, which is always a sign that something is gonna happen.

"Guys just don't ask me out on dates. I don't know why."

"Are you serious? Dude, I don't buy that for a second."

"Well YOU haven't!"

"Alright then, why don't we go out right now? It's 5:30 AM. Let me buy you breakfast!" I said.

She started laughing and said, "You're crazy! But ok... let's go."

And like one of those overweight, addictive personality type having, professional gambling losers on Bravo, I had called her bluff.

(That place was dead anyway.)

Twenty minutes later we walked into a joint called Eat Rite, which, based on the name, you can probably guess how it smelled. In the corner was a pin ball machine from the 1950's. I also assumed that was how long the restaurant had been in business. The only customers in the joint were old black men who probably ate there every day before going to work - and none of them so much as turned a head when we walked in.

We sat down at the end of the counter by the window so we could see the sun coming up over The Arch. Damn it was a beatiful site.

She took the liberty of ordering two Slingers for the both of us. I thought that was cool. Then when the waitress brought them over, I thought I was going to puke. I discovered that a Slinger included eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, gravy, tobasco and pretty much every other item on the menu slopped together into what kind of looked like play doh. Dee-licious.

Actually, it was. We both ate every bite.

By the time 7 AM came around, we had to call it a night. Or a day, as it were. I walked her out to her car and said, "Alright, so...we're going out next weekend. Like, a real date. Whaddaya say?"

She responded by kissing me. And even if I had stuck the actual bottle of Jack Daniels into my mouth, it wouldn't have been as potent as the taste on her lips.

And I thought that was cool.

So we started going out. Every weekend. But it wasn't like we had dinner and went for walks in the park. She called me every Friday and Saturday night around 2:30 AM and asked if I wanted to meet up. And of course, I said yes. I'd meet her wherever she was, walk in the door, give her a hug and then she'd say, "Hey, do you wanna go back to my place?"

Yes. Yes I do.

We'd get back to her place a few minutes later. Trying not to wake her two roomates, we'd quietly walk across that creaky hardwood floor to her bedroom. Then she would turn on her 5 disc CD changer and spin the exact same 5 albums every time: Stevie Wonder, Van Morrisson, Jimmy Cliffs, Freedy Johnston and BB King.

And when that first verse came on...

Very superstitious, writing’s on the wall,
Very superstitious, ladders bout’ to fall,
Thirteen month old baby, broke the lookin’ glass
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past...

...we would just get butt ass necked and freaky all night.

And if you've never been with a Swedish alcoholic nymphomaniac before, MAN you're missing out.

Then, somewhere around 4:30 or 5:00 AM every time, she'd pass out. I'd usually be squeezing her ass or something when I'd hear her snoring. At which point I'd fall on top of her flawlessly skinned, naked body in exhaustion, listen to the sounds of BB King in the background, start laughing and say to myself, "God this is fucking GREAT!"

Then 20 minutes later I'd slip out from under her, get dressed and sneak the fuck outta there.

This routine went on for about 4 months. And every minute of it was awesome. However, she ultimately got pissed because our relationship wasn't going anywhere and broke up with me. The ironic thing was, I was TOTALLY thinking about breaking up with her for the same reason! But because I had no balls and just wanted to enjoy the abundance of ass while it lasted, I had no intention of saying anything.

Yeah...nice timing, huh?

So in retrospect, it was definitely one of my fav's. And although I never thought of it in this way, my friend Kelly summarized it best when she referred to her as my "Dirty 2:30."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

God I love being single.

It's times like these when I wonder how stupid I really am

2005-06-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning and trudged directly into the bathroom. It seemed odd that I was so damn tired considering I went to bed at 10:30 PM, but for some reason I could barely open my eyes. I hopped in the shower. For the next seven minutes it felt like I was sleepwalking. In fact, I might have have fallen asleep somewhere between the "lather" and "rinse" phases.

Something was wrong.

When I got out of the shower I realized I hadn't grabbed a towel. Fuck. Hate it when that happens. I walked across the carpet into the hallway, dripping naked. I ended up grabbing one of those reject towels that barely covers my entire ass.

By the time I returned to my room I had the sneaking suspicion that I'd woken up earlier than my alarm. I didn't remember hearing it go off, so I figured it must have been like 4 or 5 AM. When my eyes mustered the stregnth to open I squinted over at my alarm clock.

It read: 12:43.

What?

12:43? Did I oversleep? Did the power go out 43 minutes ago? Was I dreaming? What the hell?!

I walked over to the window and noticed it was still dark.

Well I'll be damned. It's 12:43 AM. I slept for 2 fucking hours, woke up and took a shower! I SLEEP SHOWERED!

So, soaking wet and still naked, like a redwoood chopped down by a lumberjack, like a 2 hour game of Jenga coming to a crashing end, I tumbled down back into bed and passed out within 10 seconds.

Well, at least when I woke up for the SECOND time, my hair was really soft.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

You can never be too clean.

Plastic Vagina Humiliates Curious 9 Year Old

2005-06-09T06:37:00.000-07:00

Every year at summer camp we had to sit through this workshop. Hundreds of students piled into the dining hall and gathered round Dr. Chesney, aka "The Sex Doctor." He preached the importance of safe sex, told us where STD's came from and of course, brought lots of life-size sex props to illustrate his points.

The two best props were:

1) A skin colored, plastic penis that Dr. Chesney used to show the campers how to correctly put on a condom, which, if I remember correctly, was HUGE. Or maybe it just seemed huge because I was 9 years old.

2) A clear plastic vagina, which, in and of itself, was hilarious because at the age of 9, you've never actually seen a vagina before.

The doctor came to the part of the presentation about birth control. He talked about condoms, spermicidal jellies and of course, the sponge. That thing was hilarious. We giggled non-stop throughout the whole demonstration. Especially when he unwrapped a brand new sponge and inserted it into the plastic vagina!

We freakin' lost it.

So, being the inquisitive, young ragamuffin that I was, I asked a question.

"Yes, you in the back with the yellow and pink Umbros," Dr. Chesney said.

"Yeah...um...heh heh...how do you get the sponge out?"

A few people chuckled.

"Oh that's easy. In fact, why don't you come up on stage and I'll show you how to do it!"

Oh fuck.

"Yeah get up there dude, don't be a pussy!" my friends started to yell.

Nice choice of words.

Great. That's what I get for asking a question.

I reluctantly walked through a crowd of hundreds of my fellow campers towards the stage. Everybody - including Dr. Chesney - was cracking up. But not me. I thought I was going to die.

When I got on stage he turned me face out towards the audience. He held up the plastic vagina, inside of which was a prophylactic sponge awaiting my removal. Dr. Chesney announced, "To properly remove the sponge from a woman's vagina, insert your index finger into the opening of the birth canal in a swiping motion like so..."

Jesus Fucking Christ I thought to myself...

"Here...you go ahead," he said as he grabbed my finger.

The crowd hooted and hollered as I closed my eyes, turned my head and dipped my finger into the plastic orifice. I grabbed hold of the sponge and popped it out of the hole. Dr. Chesney held my hand up in the air and said, "And that's how you remove the sponge from a women's vagina. Let's give a big hand to our helper!"

The audience roared with applause. I turned beet red as I held up the sponge in front of hundreds of my fellow campers who, from that moment on, knew that there was no way in hell I was ever going to kiss a girl that summer.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Birth control is overrated anyway.

Lottery Ticket Gift Backfires

2005-06-07T14:31:00.000-07:00

Joe had already ordered dinner from our favorite Chinese place, House of Wong. Also known as "House of It's Just Wong," "House of Wong Way Down A One Way Street," "House of Wongfully Accused," "House of I'm Sorry, You've Got The Wong Number" and "House of Hey That's The Wong Hole You Sexually Inexperienced Moron!"

Anyway, I thought I'd be a nice guy and pick up a few sodies and a pair of scratch off lottery tickets. Those are always fun for a laugh.

I bought two five dollar Keno tickets, which in the world of scratch off lottery is like playing at the 25 dollar blackjack tables. When I sat down next to Joe to eat and watch the game I said, "Hey buddy - look what I got for ya!"

"Sweet! Scratch offs! I love these things. Thanks man."

"No problem. I'm sure we'll win BIG..." I joked.

We both laughed.

After a few minutes of scratching it looked like I wasn't going to win. All I had to show for my five bucks was a white shirt covered in a bunch of crusty, gray scratch 'em shavings. Oh well. Nobody wins these things anyway...

"Dude, I won five bucks!" Joe said.

"Ha! Nice work," I chuffed.

A few seconds later he said, "No, wait, look - I won 10 bucks!"

"You lucky bastard," I joked.

Joe scratched further. "Oh my God...it just went up to $20!"

What?

"Wait a sec...yep! $50 bucks! Wow - I've never won that much on a sratch off!"

That son of a bitch. I went out of my way to buy him a fucking lottery ticket and then he has the nerve to actually WIN 50 bucks? Unbelievable!

We never spoke again.

No, that's actually not true. Joe is one of my best friends and I love him dearly. But if he doesn't give me half of that lottery money within the next 30 days, trouble might find its way to his front door.

No, that's actually not true either. I just have a suspicion he's reading this blog.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Everyone needs a friend like me.

Sushi Restaurant Capitalizes On American Ignorance

2005-06-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

I think those bastards at the sushi place tried to pull a fast one on me. I mean, I know Americans are ignorant and everything, but did they really think I’d fall for it?

Here’s what happened...

I had already been a customer for about 6 months at a place called Mio Sushi. I liked it because the joint was authentic, with real live Japanese people and everything. Also, the location was a 100 year old refurnished house turned sushi bar. Cool, huh?

But one evening while inhaling anywhere between 18 to 24 Eel Rolls, I noticed something interesting behind the bar. Among the four Japanese cooks, five Japanese waiters and two Japanese hostesses, there was one Mexican guy washing dishes.

In any other restaurant, this wouldn’t have struck me as odd. After all, I worked in food service for 5 years and traditionally worked with amigos in the kitchen.

However, if you quickly looked at the one Mexican guy amidst the 11 other Japanese guys, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference!

I swear to God, the people that owned Mio Sushi tried to pass off a Mexican guy as Japanese.

Think about it: he washes the dishes, so you rarely see him. He has dark black hair and tight eyes. He's short. His skin is smooth and hairless. It's the perfect ruse! So, is it possible that the typical, American "they all look the same attitude" was actually embraced by the Japanese for the purposes of deceiving unobservant customers while simultaneously filling a dishwashing position by an unassuming Mexican?

Or was it just a strange coincidence?

I think Mio should add a new item to the menu called "The Deception Roll."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

They don't all look the same.

You Must Fear the Almighty Ramiken

2005-06-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

I used to work at this BBQ place. Every day I'd get home from work smelling like smoke and sauce. My girlfriend hated it, although the fact that she hated how I smelled only made me want to do it more. But other than that, it wasn't a bad gig: free ribs, decent tips and WAY hot hostesses.

One night I was running around on the floor and cleaning tables when the manager came up to me and said, "The DM is coming in today. So be sure to be on the top of your game."

Hey, no problem. I'll show the big cheese who the best busser in this joint is...

Later on that night I was cleaning some dishes off of a table. I loaded up my tray with cups, plates and a few ramikens of cole slaw. And I'm not sure if it was the wetness from the dish rag, the grease from the rib plate or the spicy BBQ sauce all over my fingers, but somehow one of the ramikens slipped out of my hand and fell over the edge of the table.

And here's the thing about ramikens: they don't break. They must be manufactured by some space age polymer plastic incapable of destruction. I watched it fall to the floor like the slow motion death scene of a cheesy action film...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! But it was too late. The plastic ramiken smacked to the tile floor. But it didn't break - it BOUNCED! And with the power of a sling shot, the cole slaw shot out of the ramiken, flew across the aisle and splattered onto the face of a customer.

I froze in my apron.

"Oh my God, sir. Oh I am sooooooo sorry! Here, let me help get that off of you. Here's a dry napkin. Let me just-"

But surprisingly, he started chuckling. I guess he wasn't as pissed off as I thought.

"That's ok buddy," he said, "those ramikens are unbreakable. It's the same way at all of my stores in this district."

District?

Oh fuck.

"You must be Chris, the DM...right?"

"Right...."

"Yeah...Michael said you might be stopping by today."

Well, so much for that job.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Fear the almightly ramiken.

10 Signs You're Definately In California

2005-05-31T06:26:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend hanging out in California. It was a blast. I have various freinds who live in an around the SoCal area, each of whom lives in a distinct part of LA. Throughout the weekend I noticed a handful of people, sights, sounds and smells I'm not used to. And each one of them made me say to myself, "I'm definately in California."

Such examples include:

Went for a run through Venice, only to be choked by the combination of marijuana smoke and spray paint fumes.

Passed at least 10 crazy ass homeless people on the streets who were talking to themselves.

Watched a street performer attempt to remove himself from a straight jacket for tips. (I wonder where he got that jacket!)

Saw former American Idol singer turned slut bag has-been but soon-to-be porn actress, Ryan Star.

LOTS of Asians. Everywhere.

Heard the soothing sounds of car horns and "fuck you!" coming from all sides of the roads.

Sat next to a person at Baja Fresh whose gender was a mystery to me.

Listened to conversation about a movie shoot between a young, enthusiastic Writer and an I'm-so-pretentious-and-cool-that-I-purposely-try-to-look-like-a-homeless-guy Director.

Walked by actor Chris Penn who donned the classic celebrity outfit: Addidas snap pants and a t-shirt.

Ate the most delicious meal in the world at In 'N Out Burger, only to get home and realize that I left my fucking Ipod on the table.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I love LA.

Only my friends would call me at 5 AM to tell me this joke

2005-05-25T05:33:00.000-07:00

My cell phone rang at 5 AM. I wanted to go back to bed, but I have this thing about answering my phone when it rings - even if I'm sleeping. Farmer said, "Hey, did I wake you up?"

No, I always get up at 5 AM you putz.

"Well anyway check out this joke," he said.

What's the worst part about rollerblading?

Telling your dad that you're gay!"

Ha! Now THAT'S a good joke. Maybe waking me up at 5 AM was worth it after all.

Later on that night I was having dinner with my family and I told my Uncle Bruce that same joke. I expected him to get a good laugh out of it, but he actually looked quite pissed off.

"I just bought new rollerblades two weeks ago!"

Woops.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

My Uncle is gay.

Good news! I discovered the secret to dating

2005-05-24T06:47:00.000-07:00

A frequently posed question in the single world is, "What's your type?"

Some people know right off the bat exactly who they're looking for. Some people don't care. Others maintain some consistency in the people they date, while some people refuse to date any girl who isn't 5'8" with huge tits and a tight ass.

I could easily respond to this question with "redheads," "tall chicks" or "a dorky girl who doesn't smoke and has a nice smile." But after years of dating various women from all walks of life, I've recently discovered what my "type" is: any woman who likes me first.

That's all I require. If I learn that a woman is interested in me, thinks I'm cute, wants to go out with me, likes my personality or is slightly attracted to me, I'll take her. I immediately like her by way of reciprocation. And I think this is the most effective way to date. It requires no work, no prospecting, no firing on chicks who could care less and most importantly, no rejection. It's the perfect dating model!

Think about it: when you were 12 years old and your friend came up to you and asked, "Hey...do you like Katie?" what would you always ask back to him?

Well, does she like me?

And if the answer was "yes," you were golden. She was yours. And all you had to do was say to your friend, "Oh yeah...I uh...like her too..."

Why does this dating model work? Well, it's obvious: men are desperate, horny pathetic, lazy slobs who only want one thing; and if they can get that thing without having to do any work, it doesn't matter if some chick is "their type," because men will pretty much fuck anything.

Or maybe that's just me. But I doubt it.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Dating ain't so hard once you figure out the tricks.

Here's why I'll never wear another necklace again

2005-05-23T06:48:00.000-07:00

I wore necklaces religiously for about 7 years. I even had one of those "put your girlfriend's name on a grain of rice" chains. And SHE bought it for me. So I had to wear it. God I hate when women do shit like that.

Anyhoo, when I was about 20 I bought this sweet necklace at a store called The Coyote's Paw. They offered a variety of Southwest and Middle Eastern influened jewelry. The particular chain that caught my eye was a small, metal dagger. (Think Eddie Murphy from the Golden Child.) So I asked the girl behind the counter what it was.

"A purba is a Tibetan Buddhist dagger. It is often used by natives in religious rituals to 'cut the ignorance out of one's life.'"

Sweet. I'll take it. Lord knows I have plenty of that in need of cutting out!

The day I started wearing this purba, two things happened. First of all, people started asking about it all the time. I excitedly told them the interesting fact about my neckalce, to which they either replied with, "Hey that's pretty cool!" or "You are so full of shit."

The second thing that happened was that women who were significantly shorter than me complained that my purba stabbed them in the forehead when we hugged. Which was bad. Upon the suggestion of one girl, I decided to smooth out the point so it would become less lethal.

I stopped off at my Grampa's house to use his belt sander, which was a power tool I'd never used before in my life. So I clearly had no comprehension of how powerful it actually was when I accidentally sanded my necklace down to a nub the size of a thumbtack!

It looked retarded. So much so that I threw it away and returned to the Coyote's Paw to buy the exact same necklace again.

When the same woman behind the counter heard my purba belt sanding story she could only reply with, "Well, so much for cutting out the ignorance, huh?"

Touche, salesman.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm never wearing another necklace again.

Were chicks this hot when I was 16?

2005-05-19T06:09:00.000-07:00

All I'm saying is: either chicks are WAY hotter than they were 10 years ago, or chicks are the same hotness as they were 10 years ago, but only recently have they become super slutbag whores.

I've been pondering this question for the past few years as I've become 1) a pathetically horny 25 year old man who so desperately wants to bag a teenager that I should be arrested, and 2) increasingly surrounded by more of these little stuts than ever before.

I know it makes me sound old, but what the hell are these chicks thinking?! Do they even realize how slutty they look? Go to the mall on Friday night at 6:00 PM. You'll see titties. Asses hanging out of the top of low rider jeans. Thongs popping out. Skirts so short women require TWO haircuts to wear them.

And I love it.

However, in light of my recent exposure to all of these whores, here are my two conclusions.

1) I need to get laid.
2) The teenage women these days are exactly the same hotness as they were in 1995, it's just that now, the style is to dress like a whored out, slutbag ghetto skank, and if she gets raped in the bathroom behind Chic-fil-A, I have no sympathy.

Thanks a lot, Paris Hilton.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm going to make a great father.

Worst Sunday Morning Pancakes Ever

2005-05-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

My dog woke me up at 7:27 AM Sunday morning. I let him outsite and sat on the porch while he trotted around the yard. It was a beautiful morning. Cool, windy, sunny and clear. And I didn't have shit to do until 3 PM. Ah, Sunday mornings...

I came back inside and decided to cook breakfast for a change, as opposed to my usual "eat a raw bagel right out of the bag because I'm too lazy to even toast it." And because it was Sunday, pancakes seemed liked the way to go. I rummaged through the pantry and found a box of mix. I grabbed the additional ingredients I needed and whipped up a tall stack of strawberry flapjacks.

Which reminded me of something: I'm a great cook! Maybe I should do this more often, I thought.

I finished my breakfast and went back upstairs to partake in one of my favorite weekend activities: going back to sleep. I passed out for another few hours and woke up around 11:30.

When I got out of bed I noticed a strange pain in my stomach. Hmmm, this was an odd sensation. Not quite vomitus, but sort of these shooting pains in my abdomen. It began to hurt more and more.

What the hell was this pain? The only explanation could have been the pancakes...but...why?

Then I had a thought: you know, those pancakes were really good and everything but, come to think of it...when was the last time I actually cooked pancakes?

I dunno, maybe when I was in high school or something...seven or eight years ago...

Oh no.

I ran downstairs and grabbed the pancake box out of the pantry. I looked underneath the opening flap and noticed the expiration date:

BEST IF USED BY DECEMBER 31st, 1997.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

From now on, I'm stickin' with bagels.

Tobramycin: The Miracle Drug

2005-05-12T19:09:00.000-07:00

During the middle of my Advertising class one afternoon my eye began to hurt. Not itch. Not annoy me. Hurt. Like, super bad. It was so painful I ran out of class, removed the contact and stuck my head under the sink. Upon closer examination I discovered that the contact itself was the wrong size, when compared with the lens in the other eye.

I immediately threw both of them out and ran over the health center, still with a throbbing right eye. It hurt SO bad I couldn't open the eye! I saw the doctor after a few minutes and told him about the pain. He forced my open - which hurt like a bitch - and told me that I'd suffered a corneal abrasion caused by the enlarged size of my lens. In other words, my eyeball was scratched. Ouch.

He told me the only cure for my ailment was to switch to glasses for a week and continually apply an antibiotic eye drop to help reduce the swelling. And that's when I was formally introduced to my good friend, Tobramycin.

Tobramycin is an “aminoglycoside” antibiotic used to treat infections caused by many different bacteria. Tobramycin is also available in special preparations to treat eye infections, alone and in a combination product.

The doctor administered several drops into my right eye. And like a marine injured in battle who receives a shot of morphine; like a miracle drug only available from the Lord God Himself; my corneal agony immediately disappeared like a fart in the wind. My eye felt like it was melting into my socket as a tiny wave of brief euphoria came over me. It was the most amazing eye drop I'd ever received.

Then, in addition to being stuck in specs for a week or two, the doctor gave me a bottle of Tobramycin to be dropped into my eyes twice a day. And every single day, nothing made me happier than to walk into the bathroom to put those bad boys in my eyes. Oh, sweet merciful Lord, it was beautiful.

Now I just gotta find out where to get some more.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I don't care what D.A.R.E. says - drugs are freakin' great.

Are rabbit heads good luck too?

2005-05-11T06:14:00.000-07:00

At 7:27 AM I was woken up by my mother's screaming voice.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh no! Oh shit!"

I leaped out of bed and ran downstairs only to see my mother standing in the middle of the family room, crying and pointing to something in the middle of the den floor.

And there it was, staring right back at me: a decapitated rabbit head.

Holy shit. It looked like the Playboy Bunny. Perfectly pointed ears, beady little black eyes, gazing right back at me.

"Take this towel and trash bag and clean it up!" my mom said. "Now! And I don't know how the fuck that got into my house, but I need you to get rid of it..."

My first thought was: the dogs. They must have killed a rabbit outside and brought the head inside. But there was no blood, carcass or any sign of struggle for that matter - so we weren't sure.

Then, without actually looking directly at the rabbit head, I scooped it off the ground and dropped it into the bag. I took it out to the garage and threw it on the stairs, awaiting future directions from my mom. Thump, it went as it hit the ground.

Uchh. Sick.

Then I started feeling a little sick too. I crawled back into bed, still with a queasy feeling in my gut.

Later that day I spoke with my mom who'd phoned our local vet. When I asked if one of our dogs had possibly eaten the rabbit she said, "Well, I checked out the two dogs' mouths and didn't see any traces of blood or rabbit remains. Then the vet told me how rare it would be for the dogs to eat the rabbit, considering their breed."

Well, that's a relief.

But my mother also told me that our neighbor had recently spotted coyotes hanging around the street. And they are known to prey on rabbits. AND dogs. So that actually scared my mother even more than the rabbit head itself.

Our final hypothesis made the most sense: the coyotes ate the entire rabbit, sans head, then left the remains on our lawn. At which point, Ginger (our lovable, yet moronic Cocker Spaniel) probably thought the fluffy, greyish rabbit head was a tennis ball and brought it inside to show my mom what a good dog she was.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

A rabbit head isn't as lucky as rabbit foot.

The Only Fight I've Ever Been In

2005-05-06T08:34:00.000-07:00

In 3rd grade we played kickball every day. We thought it was like, the greatest game known to man. Of course this was long before we discovered how to play with our own penises.

Anyhoo, one morning I walked into the gym a little late. The teams had already been selected, so I just strolled over to homeplate to join the batting (kicking) team.

"You can't play on our team! You have to go in the outfield. We already have enough players," said the kid in the on-deck circle.

"But I wanna bat! I'm playing on this team!" I argued.

"You caaaaaan't," Dan said. "You gotta go out there!"

But I wouldn't have it. I wanted to be on the batting team. So, my first instinct was to punch Dan right in the stomach.

He stumbled back and grunted. Then he came right back at me and JACKED me sqaure in the right eye.

I swear to God, I actually saw little stars. Just like the cartoons. But unlike the cartoon characters - who usually shake off pain like it ain't no thang - that punch hurt like a bitch.

So naturally, I started crying...like a bitch.

The teacher eventually broke it up and separated us. As she pulled us apart we had a few choice words with each other. Now, I don't remember exactly what I said to the kid, but you gotta remember - I was in 3rd grade. So I assume that my harmless insult was something only an innocent, 8 year could come up with such as, "You mother is a venereal disease, street walking whore whose wretchid pussy smells like 4 month old mayonnaise!"

That'll learn him real good.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I definately started cussing WAY too young.

The Dead Gay Alumni Ghost

2005-05-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Several years after I graduated highschool, I received a letter from the Alumni Association. The letter directed me to their website, at which I was supposed to submit my whereabouts for the Alumni newsletter and upcoming reunion.

After filling out the slightly annoying application loaded with specific questions about my lifestyle, I got to the bottom of the page. There was a little box in the corner which read, "If the alumnist is deceased, please click here."

That gave me an idea...

I clicked the box and a new window opened. The headline read, "We are sorry for the loss of your friend or family member. Please inform us about the death of the alumnist along with information about your relationship to the individual."

I wrote down that I had died from a terrible disease a few years prior. Also, my relationship to the individual was "His gay lover, Manny."

Click.

Thank you, your alumni information has been submitted. It will appear in the upcoming newsletter. See you at the reunion!

The reunion takes place in 2008. And all I'm saying is, I can't WAIT to see the faces on my former classmates and teachers when my dead, gay ghost walks in the door.

Mu-ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I didn't take highschool seriously then, and I'm sure as hell not taking it seriously now.

Here's Why Censorship is Bullsh*t

2005-05-02T06:37:00.000-07:00

I read an article from the AP about the possibility of cable television censorship. The arguments explained that sex, drugs, violence, cursing and all the other "dangerous elements" seen by our children would ultimately contribute to their deliquencey. That's why the government needs to censor these programs.

Here's why that's a load of SHITE:

Since the age of 9, I've had the Playboy channel. I've probably seen more pornography, more unprotected sex, more promiscutity depicted in films, and more sex on tv than anyone I know.

And yet, I've never even had sex before. I choose to wait unitl marriage.

Since the age of 5, I've played every killing, battle, war and death related video game on Sega, Nintendo, SNES and Playstation. I've laughed my ass off with my friends while watching the gun my character held in his hands blow off the head of another character.

And yet, I've never comitted a single act of violence in my life.

Since the age of 12, I've seen people doing coke, smoking weed, dropping acid, rolling X, pounding beers, sucking back shots and basically, destroying their bodies and lives (and other people's lives) with drugs and alcohol.

And yet, I've never done a single drug, abused alcohol, driven drunk or committed any sort of irresponsible act under the influece of such mind altering substances.

I'm not using these examples to demonstrate that I'm perfect. Far from it. In fact, this isn't even about me. But clearly, tv, video games and other "dangerous elements" have had very little effect on my actions. And why? Because I was raised in a supportive, loving, positive, open and caring family who taught me how to differentiate between right and wrong and not make stupid ass decisions.

The truth is, no matter how many pornos someone watches, no matter how many bad dudes someone kills in 007, and no matter how many times someone's friends pass the bowl in his direction, that person - if raised in that type of positive envioronment - will be smart enough to stay consistent with his values and stand up for he believes.

SO...these bullshit, right-wing, fundamentalist Christian, "pro-family" organizations want to censor cable for various reasons in order to "protect our children." But the truth is, just like every other organization, these groups are scapegoating the media, blaming the problems of our society on an easy target, when in actuality, these groups are completely out of touch with the fact that, yes - it's possible - that people are totally fucked up because that's the way they were raised, not because of the TV they watched.

Stop blaming the TV. It ain't real. Start blaming the family. Because there's a lot of fucked up families out there - and that IS real.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I should run for president.

An Overview of My Limited Cult Experience

2005-04-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

When I was living in Portland a few years ago, I first became exposed to the Cult world. No, I didn't get involved in one. But I WAS propositioned.

So I'm riding the bus back home from work when I start talking to this guy next to me. We begin a discussion about motivational speakers, seminars, Tony Robbins, all that kind of stuff.

"I lead a retreat that has a lot of motivational elements. It's called Landmark Forum. 20 of so attendees spend about a week together, getting to know each other and changing each other's lives. I think you'd like it! Here's my card, give me a call if you'd like to come to our next program."

The guy stepped off the bus and cheerfully waved goodbye to me. Well, he was nice. Maybe I'll check out this program. But something was odd about him. I didn't know what.

"Hey man, don't go to that seminar. It's a cult."

I looked behind me and saw a young guy sitting a few seats back. He had a fisherman's hat and a red beard.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah. I studied that particular cult when I got my masters in Cult Stuides from PSU last year. It's pretty freaky how they lure people in and completely take over their minds."

"No shit!" I said. "Wow. Thanks for telling me, I was totally gonna call that guy."

"Yeah, don't. Throw that card away. Oh, and by the way - I'm Seth."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

Seth and I ended up talking for the rest of the bus ride home and discovered we lived close to each other. We stayed in touch for a while and even hung out a few times.

But thank God he warned me about the cult. That could have been disastrous.

3 years later I met this guy named Doug through a mutual friend. We'd known each other for a while when one day he said, "Do you know what transformational learning is?"

"Hmmm...don't think so. Sounds interesting, what is it?"

"Well, it's this seminar where people learn from various speakers and have breakthroughs. It's free!"

That's all he had to say to me: free. My favorite word.

A few weeks later I met Doug at the Airport Hilton. I walked into the registration room and saw various signs reading Landmark Forum. Hmmm...Landmark Forum. Where have I heard that before?"

No less that 10 minutes later, I heard the speaker say such phrases as:

A global educational enterprise committed to the fundamental principle that people have the possibility of success, fulfillment, and greatness...

You learn by direct personal discovery, and a moment occurs when a new ability is yours...

Uncover and examine the blind spots or context holding you back in your life...

Find out where your current context originated and address it for what it really is...

What the fuck?

About 2 hours into it, one of the speakers started telling us about the actual traning program. You see, this introductory seminar I attended was an informational meeting that encouraged people to sign up for the Landmark Forum Educational Retreat. For which I could have registered for a measly 500 bucks.

Holy shit! The guy on the bus in Portland! It was that same cult!

And that's when I got up and walked the FUCK out of that place.

It takes a lot to make me feel uncomfortable. But when these people started telling me about all the problems I apparently had in my life, different "breakthroughs" I could have, and asked me those ridiculous single-answer questions like, "Do you get home from work at 5:30 and say to yourself, 'I need more than this'?"...I was done.

Nice try folks. But the force is strong with this one.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Never make a check out to an organization called "Landmark Forum."

15 Great Locations to Have Sex

2005-04-28T07:06:00.000-07:00

I used to work with this girl named Tia. She was possibly the most unattractive woman known to man: several chins, loads of back bacon and acne out the wazoo. Interestingly enough, she always talked about sex; which I found odd because I didn't think any guy in his right mind would actually fuck her. Little did I know she had a boyfriend who just LOVED to give it to her hard.

Hey, good for Tia. I was happy somebody was getting laid.

One day we started a discussion about various locations that would be great for having sex. This discussion went on for about a week. It was a lot of fun. Here are some of the locations on the list:

1) The beach
2) Train going across Montana
3) The boss's office
4) Dressing room at Sears
5) Parking lot late at night
6) Parking lot early in the morning
7) Top of a building
8) Elevator
9) The stairs
10) Front porch
11) Back porch
12) My friend Steve's bathroom
13) 30th floor terrace on a hotel in Vegas
14) Springfield
15) A yaght

That's all I seem to remember, but I'm sure there's a lot more.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I am one horny bastard.

Country Clubs are for suckers anyway

2005-04-27T06:15:00.000-07:00

Drew invited me to his country club to play a round of golf. I asked if not being a member would be a problem and he said, "Ehh, we'll figure something out."

When we walked onto the first tee and approached the Marshall, Drew gave the old man his last name and 4 digit membership number. Then he looked at me and asked for my information. Shit. Better think of something quick.

"Scott Jackson - 6441."

Wow, that was easy...

Drew and I started our round. Both of us were hitting the ball well and laughing our heads off the whole time. We played with two older men who looked at me a bit suspiciously. Whatever. This is awesome. They'll never find me out, I thought.

A few holes into the round I saw the Marshall's cart heading our way. Shit! My cover's blown. What was that membership number again?

"Mr. Jackson, we're having trouble with your membership number. You said 6-4-4-1, right?"

In attempt to buy more time I said, "Oh no, actually it's 6-4-1-4. I'm sorry about that."

"Are you a family member, sir?"

"Yes. My father...uh...Alan Jackson, is also a member."

Alan Jackson? The country singer? With that gay ass moustache? Woops.

As the Marshall drove away down the cart path, I knew this round was over. I whispered a few things to Drew as the two other guys wondered what all the commotion was about.

"Go over to that hill by hole #5," Drew whispered. "Hide behind the pine trees. Then I'll be there in a few minutes to pick you up and we'll get the hell out of here!"

I regrettfully told the rest of the foursome that I "had a headache" and needed to excuse myself. I made my way over to the rendezvous point, ducked under a pine tree and sat on the grass with my clubs, waiting. Scared shitless. Hoping I didn't get arrested. Or didn't get Drew's membership revoked.

About 10 miuntes went by and I wondered where Drew was. Then 15 minutes went by. Then 20. What the hell man? I'm dyin' out here!

Eventually I saw his Cherokee Cheif appraoching in the distance. I grabbed my clubs and stood up. He pulled over to the shoulder, opened the trunk and chuckled, "Yes, I have a pick up for Mr. Jackson...?"

Very funny.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Country Clubs are for suckers anyway.

I tell ya what - sometimes those screen doors are hard to see

2005-04-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

God I miss highschool. We didn't care about anything, had lots of fun all the time, never worked hard and make complete asses out of ourselves on a daily basis.

Good times.

One night Camille had a party at her step dad's house - which RULED because he worked for Anheuser Busch and had dozens of tapped kegs lining the garage. Actually it ruled for most people because of the free beer, but I was thinking more in terms of "I can't wait to watch my friends get shithoused tonight!"

Out of all my drunken cohorts, I'd say Ruthie was more wasted than anybody. I watched her stumble around the garage desperately seeking a rail to regain her balance. The song "Date Rape" by Sublime filled the air. How fitting.

A few minutes later Ruthie heard the call of nature and headed inside for the bathroom. Unfortunately she didn't realize the clear plastic screen door was closed, and just CRUSHED her face right into it. You could've heard the clunk over the sound of the music! About 15 people from the inside watched as poor Ruthie fell back in pain/confusion as she regained her balance and embrrassingly opened the door.

As for me, I fuckin' lost it. It was so damn funny I nearly wet myself. And I felt kind of bad laughing at her, but come on. This is the stuff sober people LIVE for. What an idiot she was.

Later on when most of my friends had reached the point of drunkeness in which they were likely to say, "I love you man," karma came back to bite me in the ass. I decided to go inside in search of snacks. As I approached the open doorway, not even thinking about Ruthie's earlier mistake, I unexpectedly smashed my nose into the SPOTLESSLY CLEAN screen door and fell backwards on my ass.

The entire party burst out laughing. I felt sharp, shooting pains in the nose and forehead region. Not to mention I must have been beet red with humiliation! All of my drunken friends started poking fun at me; not only because I'd repeated the same stupid mistake I once ridiculued 2 hours prior, but because I was the only sober person there. And I ran into a fucking screen door. And although my nose wasn't bleeding or broken, I still have a crooked bump on the bridge of it to this day.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Karma's a bitch, man.

Brilliant Graduation Joke Humiliates Unexpecting Sorority Slut

2005-04-22T07:31:00.000-07:00

A common tradition among graduating seniors is to write humorous messages on the tops of their caps to be seen by onlooking freinds and family members in the audience. When I attended my brother's graduation, I saw such phrases as "I need a job," "Hi mom!" and "Gary."

But I knew I could do better than that. By the time my big day came about, I had several phrases in mind.

Clad in my cap, gown, jeans, t-shirt and sandals (hey, I ain't dressin' up for shit) I walked towards the auditorium in an alphabetical single file line. During the Baccaluareatte ceremony, I didn't get to sit with my friends - which sucked. So I got stuck sitting next to this totally slutty sorority chick that had absolutely NO desire to talk to me during the ceremony. Bitch.

Thank God I properly planned ahead and created the greatest graduation cap in the history of my university. It read:

LOSER ----->
That chick had no idea what she was in for.

During the ceremony I just kept laughing. It was so fucking funny. She didn't have a clue. The best part was when she looked over her shoulder to the stands and waved to her family. I looked over and noticed they all had binoculars. Ha! Sucker. Or, loser, as it were.

By the end of the program I had given up trying to maintain conversation with this girl. I mean, you would think she'd at least acknowledge my presence on one of the happiest days of our lives. But no.

So right before we stood up to make our way up to the stage and receive our diplomas, I looked over to her and said, "Hey, congratulations! Oh and by the way, do you like the design on my cap?"

I lowered my head and revealed the top of my cap to her.

"Oh my god, that's SO rude," she said like the true sorority girl she was.

I then approached the stage and won the annual award for The Graduate Who RULES More Than Anyone Else Ever.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Some people just can't take a joke.

The Best (and worst) Teachers I Ever Had

2005-04-20T06:57:00.000-07:00

In my 16 years of schooling, I've certainly had a diverse group of teachers. Some were good, some sucked, some hated me and some are still friends of mine. But all in all, I think these were the people who molded my young mind and encouraged my ever developing maturity - and they deserve recognition. Even the bad ones.

Mrs. Goddard, Kindergarten, 1985
This is as far back as I can go. I remember Mrs. Goddard for two things. First, telling my parents how enthusiastic I was in class. They were so proud. They knew I was special. And not in that short-bus-half-day kind of special. On the other hand, one day she embrrassed the shit out of me by asking me to "stop playing with my penis" during class. That hurt. I'll never forgive her for that one.

Mrs. Edwards, 3rd Grade, 1989
She always encouraged my writing (which, if you are reading this blog, has obviously hit rock bottom.) But she also challenged my creativity. She let me create mazes in my spare time and leave them on her desk to be solved by the end of the week. Apparently they couldn't have been that difficult because she always got to the end. Then again, she was my teacher, and therefore The Smartest Woman Alive.

Mr. Ramming, 9th Grade, 1994
First male teacher I ever had. He was also the soccer coach and a total science nerd. Loved this guy. He also had a cool name: Ramming. Hee hee, I said ramming. Anyway, one day Mr. Ramming got frustrated at how loud the class was and slapped a yard stick down on the desk and scared the holy hell out of 30 freshman. Classic.

Mr. Cradick, 10th Grade, 1995
Let's face it: if your teacher built his own house, had a pet bird named Toe Truck, wore Polo shirts every day that were too tight and had a voice 7 octaves lower that Barry White, you'd just LOVE going to class to make fun of him. The thing was, we loved the guy. But we just HAD to make fun of him. Who the fuck builds their own house?

Prof. Videras, Freshman Year, 1998
Funniest damn thing I ever heard: "Hello class. My name is Julio Videras, and welcome to ECON 101. I am from Spain. My english not so good. Here are class rules. Rule #1: if you skip class, you flunk. Rule #2: my name is Hoo-lee-oh, not Joo-lee-oh. If you call me Joo-lee-oh, you flunk. That is all. Let's begin with Chapter 1.

Prof. Heather Schell, Sophomore Year, 1999
What a fucking fem-nazi, man hating, hairy bush, tree hugging, anal retentive, sarcastic typical English teacher bitter because no man would fuck her WHORE. And that was just the first day. It turns out she was working on her doctorate about Canibalism. Come on. That's just fucking weird.

Prof. Obilade, Senior Year, 2002.
When you have a Friday class, second semester, senior year - you ain't comin to class. But Prof. Obilade, pronounced "oh-buh-lah-dee," made you want to come to class every day. Mainly because he was from Ghana. Heh heh, it's funny because he's different. Anyway, he was incredibly smart, but just didn't quite comprehend standard idioms. Like the one day when the class had to explain to him what "cool" meant. And not the weather. In the end though, he was just so fun to watch because he was wide eyed and curious like a newborn. It was kinda cute, actually.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

God bless our teachers.

Top Five Things That Rule About Living With Your Parents

2005-04-19T07:17:00.000-07:00

It's not all bad. Here's why:

5) Rent - there is none! In fact, the only price I pay is never getting laid. Come to think of it, that never happened when I had my own place.

4) Cleaning - I hate cleaning and I suck at it. Thank God I don't have to do it. I think when I move out, I'm getting my own maid.

3) Food - it's always there. And if it's not, well, I can afford to go out to eat because I ain't got no bills!

2) Rents - my parents really are way cool. Most people couldn't handle living with their folks. We seem to get along well and haven't killed each other. Yet.

1) Money - I'm one broke ass motherfucker. What else am I gonna do?

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

It's hard to complain when you're gettin' free rent.

Top Five Things That Suck About Living With Your Parents

2005-04-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

It's been a little over 2 years living with my parents. Here's what I've discovered to be the biggest disadvantages:

10) Girls - there comes a point in every relationship when my girlfriend says, "Hey, how come we always stay at my place?" This point is called "The End of the Relationship."

9) Business - would you get consulting from someone whose mother chimes in during a conference call?

8) Self-Esteem - notwithstanding any business and personal success, I still live with my parents. That just kills me.

7) Girls - I think I already put this one on the list, but my flacid penis just reminded me to do it again.

6) Friends - it's hard to hang out with people who are talkin' about condos, FSBO, down payments and other big words I don't understand. Fuckers.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I still love my parents and thank them for everything, but MAN does this suck sometimes.

Match.com was full of shit man

2005-04-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

When you sign up on Match.com and take some time to examine various profiles, you gotta figure some of these chicks are totally lying. I mean, I'd like to have faith in the honesty of my fellow Match.com members, but come on. Nobody's gonna say, "Oh, and by the way - my ass is the size of Sacramento. Email me!"

This came to my attention last night at around 11:00 PM. Andy and I were sitting at our table, singing along with the band, havin' a blast. When out of nowhere this girl comes up to me and says, "Hey! We met on Match.com!"

Well I'll be damned. We sure did, I thought. I recognized her face from her profile. What I did NOT recognize...was the rest of her. Apparently on Match.com, you can't see someone's entire body. Or perhaps she gained 50 pounds since putting her picture up on her profile.

So much for finding love online.

Oh who am I kidding, I still took her home. She just left my place 30 minutes ago.

Anyway, from what I've gathered from other Match.com members, this kind of stuff happens all the time. So, just a word to the wise: beware. I'm going back to bed now. My back hurts.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

People on Match.com may be bigger than they actually appear

Sgt. Sober Saves the Day

2005-04-14T06:52:00.000-07:00

The outdoor wedding reception began at 3:00 PM. This meant that somewhere around 8:25 PM, everybody was feelin' pretty good. Some "gooder" than others, namely: The Groomsman - Jared Fleener; and The Father of the Groom - Marvulous Marvin Kouse.

I, of course, played the usual role of Sgt. Sober. And although this position warranted the typical key holding, taxi driving and babysitting I was used to; my amazing powers were called upon by the Maid of Honor.

"Hey, uh...there's a little problem," she said as she lay her hand on my shoulder, "We're out of beer and the band still has an hour to play..."

**THEME MUSIC INTRO***

This sounds like a job for... (dum da da daaaaah)

...Sgt. Sober...!!
"Here are the keys to my car - and my credit card. Would you mind picking up 4 cases of Bud Light at the Shell station down the street?"

The power I felt at that exact moment was orgasmic. 167 mere mortals depended on my super powers to rejuvinate their mid-evening buzz. I had a job to do.

I plopped down into Lindsey's car - which was lovely - and cruised over the the Shell station. After signing the receipt on the dotted line as "NOT LINDSEY" (yes, I actually wrote that) I made my way back to the reception. Now, keep in mind that I have about as much experience purchasing, carrying and drinking beer as the late Pope John Paul II. So I was in for a treat when I had to carry all four cases across the field into the ballroom. For most people that would have been a struggle. But not for me. Now with Sgt. Sober's incredible muscular strength. Thank you, guy who created Creatine.

I made my way to the back of the room and stood among 167 drunken wedding attendees. And like Moses and the Israelites walking through the parted Red Sea, like the cheesy dance sequence at the end of Teen Wolf, everyone moved to the side of the dance floor as their fearless hero made his way up to the bar with 72 cans of delicious Bud Light.

Another crisis averted.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Sober people are your friends.

I knew Danny's jeans were too tight

2005-04-13T07:04:00.000-07:00

When the wedding reception ended, there was only one logical after party location: Taco Bell. Keep in mind; I haven't eaten there in 3 years. Namely because those corporate bastards removed the Chilito from my hometown's menu due to a rumor that the word chilito was a Spanish slang term for "little boy's penis."

Go figure.

But when my friends forced me to make a run for the Border (against my will as the sober driver), I was pleasantly surprised to find my former late night favorite back on the menu. Yessssss!

I sank my teeth into the delicious, horse meat filled Chilito. Oh sweet lord it was heavenly. In fact, it was SO good, I almost forogt where I was. That is, until Danny walked in the door.

"Where'd you go?" I asked.

"I had to get out of that annoying suit," he said clad in his casual linen shirt and jeans.

"Dude...those jeans are awfully tight. Is that how they do it in California, sissy boy?"

We all had a good laugh. Even Danny, who drank more free beer than anyone at the wedding. Then he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and said, "Man...these pockets must have shrunk or something. I can't even fit my hands into them! Here...put your hand in my pocket and feel how shallow it is..."

Reluctantly, I stuck my greasy fingers into his pocket and noticed it was, indeed, extremely tight. Hmmm...

"Maybe my mom shrunk them or something," he wondered.

Then Jocelyn, who curiously examined Danny's pants said, "Hey - where did you get those jeans?"

"These are my Abercrombie jeans. They were in my bag in the trunk."

"Which bag? The black Nike one or the blue Jansport?"

"Uhhh...I dunno. I grabbed my bag. I think..."

"I think those are my jeans!" Jocelyn yelled.

I dropped my Chilito mid-bite. Jocelyn got up from the table, turned Dan around and examined the inside tag.

"Well Dan," she said, "these are definately Abercrombie jeans...SIZE 6!!"

What a drunk bastard.

"Whatever dude," Danny mumbled, "I look good. I'm keepin' it real."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Nothing accentuates a man's ass like a nice, form fitting pair of women's jeans.

Whoever invented the athletic cup should die

2005-04-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

There are two days in my athletic career I'll never forget: the day BEFORE I started wearing a cup...and the day I STARTED wearing a cup.

DAY 1: Saturday, June 11, 1989
Peter and I were playing catch before the game. He stood about 20 feet away from me. Now I don't know what I was thinking, but I must have looked away for a second. Because right as Peter threw me the ball, I turned my head back to our game of catch as the ball crushed right into my testicles.

No cup.

The entire team ran over to my rescue as I fell to ground in pain, clutching the hairless sac that would heretofore never produce any strong sperm. Thanks a lot, Pete.

DAY 2: Sunday, June 12, 1989
The next day after I regained feeling in my nuts, my dad drove us right over to Sports Authority. And although I'd spent several years protesting such an accessory, my black and blue scrotum vetoed the argument. So I got home and dressed for the game, cup and all. What a pain in the ass it was. I felt like an idiot. Not to mention, I think my dad purchased the Shaquille O'Neil Hung Like a Canoe Sized cup, which for my 9 year old ass, didn't exactly fit.

But during the game I still ran out to my usual left field with the cup on, hating every minute of it. And for the next 3 hours, I couldn't go 10 seconds without adjusting either my package, the cup itself, or the ridiculous jock in which it was strapped. Between innings my dad jokingly told me, "Hey...all of the of the parents in the bleachers are noticing your...ahem...adjustment problems. Do you think you can cut that out?!"

I can honestly say I've never been more embarrassed my life. Fuck this cup. I'm not wearing it. I don't care if the ball hits me in the crotch again. So, against my father's good intentions, I removed the cup during the 5th inning and played the remainder of the game without it. Fortunately I didn't get hit this time. Which may have had something to do with my sitting on the bench during the last 3 innings.

A few days later, when the humiliation wore off, my dad called me into the kitchen. He showed me the day's Post which had a picture of my favorite Cardinal outfielder, Tom Brunanski.

"Look closely, son," my dad said with a smile on his face.

And there it was. Right on the front page of the St. Louis Post Dispatch:

A picture of a Cardinal outfielder adjusting his athletic cup.

"See...even the pro's do it," dad said.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

My dad is the greatest.

God I love waitresses

2005-04-05T07:18:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is about waitresses, but I love them all. If I was asked the question "What profession are you most attracted to?" I'd definately say waitresses.

Why? I have no idea. All I remember is that in the last 8-10 years, I've never had a waitress that I wasn't attracted to. Well, that's no exactly true. Some were terribly ugly or fat. But other than that, yes. I love them all.

Let's start with the obvious ones: Hooters. You order a pitcher of beer and they actually come back to the table every few minutes to refill your glass. As if you needed help. And every time they come back, you think they like you more. You think you have a chance. You even think your jokes are funny. But none of that's true. They just want your money. They're just doing their jobs.

But still, I love them all.

I've been trying to figure out why I'm so attracted to waitresses. Here's what I came up with:

Service: these girls are at your beck and call. They do whatever you tell them, whenever you tell them, as often as you tell them. And each time, they still smile as if it really is their pleasure. Perhaps subconsciously I believe they'll come home with me at the end of the meal and all of the attributes I just listed will transfer over to sex.

Outfits: from orange shorts to business shirts and ties to tight black pants to Japanes kimonos, each waitress outfit has its own appeal. Yeah...I'd like to "appeal" those outfits right off those sluts and crush their minimum wage asses in the employee bathroom.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I have a fettish. But I know I'm not the only guy out there who wants to fuck every waitress he's ever had.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

There needs to be a porno called Wild, Wet Waitresses

Why did I always get hurt playing baseball?

2005-04-04T06:43:00.000-07:00

I'm not saying I sucked at baseball. Far from it. In fact, I used to bring the smoke. The high, stinky cheddar. Back in the 80's when none of the kids were tall, batters feared me. Coaches hated me. And catchers loved me.

But despite my pre-adolescent pitching ability, I managed to get hurt in baseball more than anyone I know. The first incident happened in the backyard with my dad. He was hitting pop-up practice to my brother and me. And every once in a while he'd say, "Okay...this is a MAJOR LEAGUE pop-up!" and just crush the ball into the air. I ran across our lawn for the ball, positioned myself under it and held out my glove.

And I don't know if it was the sun or the wind, but the ball whizzed right passed the leather and clunked right into my face. I fell to the ground and screamed in pain, spitting blood all over my stylish aqua blue t-shirt. Dad ran over to pick me up, while my brother just laughed. Fucker.

He carried me back into the house; and although I don't remember much of what happened after that, I do recall seeing a huge, bloody, snotty stain on the back of my dad's shoulder.

After that little incident it was obvious I had no future in professional baseball. Nevertheless I continued to play every year because, well, I was tall. And considering I was fat, slow, unathletic and scared of the ball, being tall was all I really had. And damn it, I was gonna use it.

One summer I was pitching during a tie game against The Dodgers, our arch rivals. Some huge dude was batting and Ken - that fast little bastard - was on third. I threw a few strikes and a few balls, and before I knew it the count was full. Sweat poured from my brow. Legions of raging fans, by which I mean my parents, cheered as I attempted to close out the game.

I threw the vital pitch. It sailed about 17 feet above the catcher's head and clanked into the backstop. Fuck. Pass ball. The runner on third is coming home!

I ran home as fast as my fat, slow, unathletic ass could take me. Ken speeded towards the plate. Andrew pushed the batter out of the way and ran for the ball. By the time I got home the runner was only a few yards away.

"Throw it! He's comin' home!"

Andrew threw it, alright...RIGHT INTO MY FUCKING NOSE from about 5 feet away as hard as he possibly could.

It was the loudest, hardest, most horrifying "clunk" I ever heard. People from the snack bar probably heard it. I tumbled to the ground in pain as Ken passed home to secure the win for the Dodgers. The entire bench came out to my rescue as I cried and screamed like the pussy that I was.

And although I didn't actually break anything, my nose still remains crooked to this day.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

America's favorite pass time my ass.

The Second Semester Shit Off

2005-04-01T07:27:00.000-08:00

Finals week. Second semester. King Library, second floor. I had an entire semester of COM 255 to memorize in one night. I guess that's what I get for never going to class.

I'd been studying for a few hours when I felt the call of the shite. I went into my favorite bathroom and sat down in my favorite stall. It was beautiful: quiet, clean and rarely did ANYONE use it other than me. At least, not to my knowledge.

I sat on the cold seat reading my Campus Life Magazine, awaiting the seal to be broken. But nothing came out.

When all of the sudden someone came into the bathroom. And he sat down in the stall next to me!

Oh no.

It became uncomfortably silent. I tilted closer to the bottom of the stall and noticed his shoes and bunched up pants. Yep, he was definitely about to take a shit. God damn it.

Here's the thing about me and public bathroom shitting: I can't do it when other men are trying to do it. I just can't. I'm not sure why, either. Sometimes I laugh at their fart sounds. Or I cringe at the smell of their poop. But I just can't shit while someone's next to me.

Some call it "Stage Fright," but that usually refers to the urinal where you can actually SEE the man next to you.

But I sat there, completely silent. I no longer felt the urge to shit because I wasn't concentrating on my shit anymore, but rather on the man next to me. I tried to figure out who he was based on his shoes and jeans. Probably some douchebag finance major or something. Whoever he was, he was prohibiting me from shitting.

The weird thing was, I knew HE was thinking the exact same thing because nothing came out of either of our asses! Our mutual discomfort cancelled each other out!

And for the next 15 MINUTES, we just sat there. Complete silence. As if to say to each other, "Dude, I'm not going to shit unless you leave right now." But neither of us would stand down. (Or stand up, as it were)

This fucker wasn't going to beat me. This was MY bathroom. MY stall. I was here first. Get the fuck out! I thought.

Eventually I heard the gratifying sounds of a man's belt buckle and zipper. He was finally leaving! Sweet!

The guy walked out of the bathroom (without flushing) and returned to his studies. Meanwhile, I went on to have a most enjoyable, healthy shit for the next few minutes. And when I walked out of that bathroom and returned to my COM 255 textbook, I knew it was one of the greatest victories of my life.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I shit alone.

I didn't think customers actually did shit like this

2005-03-31T22:28:00.000-08:00

Only in America would this happen:

One night my girlfriend and I were enjoying a meal at Olive Garden (which was lovely.) About halfway through dinner Katie ran to the ladies room. And I was just sittin' there, mindin' my own busines, when out of nowhere some lady crashed into my chair and tumbled to the ground behind my table!

"Oh my God! Are you okay ma'am?" I asked as she grabbed my chair for dear life.

"Arrgggh! My knee!" she whined.

"Did you slip on the floor?"

"Yeah...the floor was all wet - and there's NO wet floor sign either! I want to see the manager!"

Three servers along with the manager came over to help the woman up. She whined and complained, continuing to stress the LACK of a wet floor sign.

A few minutes later after I returned to my endless salad bowl and breadsticks, the woman came to my table.

"Young man, YOU saw me fall. YOU saw that there was no wet floor sign. Can you please give me your name, address and telephone number? I plan on filing a complaint with the restaurant."

What was I going to do, say no?

Sure enough, I gave her the info she requested. She also gave me her business card, which I later threw away.

And then, ONE YEAR LATER...I got a call from this lawyer:

"Hello, I represent Mrs. Linda Rotskoff. Were you present at Olive Garden on the day of June 17th, 1997? Did you witness my client slip and fall? Do you remember seeing any wet floor signs?"

Apparently the woman sued Olive Garden for an ass load of money. She missed several months of work due to a massive knee injury and needed witnesses to verify her claim.

Well...anything I can do to help, right?

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

God bless America.

Top 3 Worst Bosses I Ever Had

2005-03-30T06:24:00.000-08:00

1) Walter: the 71 year old, crotchety owner of the furniture store who, as far as I knew, hated me. He wouldn't make eye contact with me; just stare down at his desk while he barked orders in my face. Nothing made him happy. No openess for suggestions, and certainly he was never wrong.

He also knew my dad and just LOVED to make a mention of that. "Your DAD wouldn't be happy with your sales figures." "You DAD would have wanted you to show up to work on time." "Your DAD wouldn't have liked you sleeping on the leather couch in the middle of the day."

Whatever. Fucking douchebag. He also had this trophy wife, 30 years his junior, who was my other boss. But she was great. No beef with her. Although I wouldn't have MINDED having some beef with her...MY beef. Ha ha!

2) Dave: the ex-marine, smelly ass used-to-work-hourly-until-he-got-a-promotion kind of guy. Totally forgot where he came from. And now he thinks he owns me. Not to mention he has the most one track mind I've ever seen. Sports, sports, sports. That's all he knows. Good luck with that Dave. I hope your wife divorces you.

3) Clyde: I really liked him at first. Then he decided to use the word "fuck" every time he reprimanded me. Now, I'm not opposed to cursing. It's one thing to drop a plate of ribs and yell "fuck me in the goat ass!" But to boss around your subbordinate in front of others while using curse words? Weak.

Korean asshole.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Self-employment is the way to go.

I'm convinced I was a Rastafarian in another lifetime

2005-03-29T06:32:00.000-08:00

I don't smoke weed. Never have - although I have been exposed to plenty of it over the years. I remember once during a road trip to Kansas City, two friends of mine decided to smoke up in the car while I drove. I figured it was harmless, until they told me to lock the windows. Then, ten minutes later I developed a strange headache and eventually stopped off for a mid-morning snack of a half-slab of baby back ribs.

But other than that, my marijuana experience is pretty much zilch. Ironically though, one of the reoccuring dreams I've had for the past 6 years has been about me smoking pot. Go figure.

It started junior year of college when I listened to a lot of Ben Harper. Maybe the song "Burn One Down" seeped into my subconscious and stimulated my desire to light up. Maybe deep down I really want to be a pothead. Or maybe I was a Rastafarian in another lifetime.

Who knows.

But the drug related dreams continued. The weirdest one was a couple of years ago. The scene was my brother and I smoking pot out on our front lawn. And I remember waking up in the middle of the night being really freaked out because I didn't realize it was a dream. I was still in that lucid stage where the line between dream and reality wasn't quite defined.

In which case I actually questioned myself: "Holy shit! Have I smoked pot before? No way. Not me. It can't be possible!"

After a few minutes of deliberation I became fully awake and realized that it was, in fact, a dream. Close call, I thought. Drugs are bad.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go eat an entire bag of Chili Cheese Fritos.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Thanks for nothing, D.A.R.E

That's what I get for hooking up with that drunk chick

2005-03-28T06:00:00.000-08:00

Hooking up usually isn't this easy. But it was New Years.

Mitch somehow convinced these four chicks to come back to our house after the New Year's party. We'd already been talking to them all night, and I'm pretty sure they were wasted. But I guess they'd have to be to hang out with a bunch of douchebags like us.

We cranked up the music, which sadly at the time was probably some crap like "Mambo #5." Everyone was dancin', drinkin', screamin - all the good stuff. Unfortunately none of us were gettin' very far with these girls.

Thank God for Mitch. He took the initiative. It's always important to have a pimp...er...I mean, "leader" in these situations. He took the four girls in the corner for a little pow-wow. Then after a few minutes he broke the huddle and they returned to the party. And I don't know what Mitch said to them, but in the next 30 seconds, something amazing happened.

Sara - the one with leather pants - straight up walked over to me, grabbed my ass and started grinding ALL OVER my shit. This from the same chick who wouldn't even kiss me at midnight. Wondering what the hell was going on, I looked around the room only to see all three of my friends IN THE SAME EXACT SITUATION. Unbelievable! We winked at each other as if to say "Fuck yeah! Is this really happening? Who cares?!"

After a while the old addage came true: "Dancing is the vertical expression of horizontal desire." The four of us took our drunken vixens onto various couches, beds and rooms. I got the couch.

For the next hour or so, everything progressed nicely - that is, until Mitch got completely naked, turned the lights on and decided to run around the basement. Jesus Christ Mitch. Talk about your all time buzz kills.

And that pretty much ended our hook-up escapade.

Little did I know it would come back to bite me in the ass the following summer...

I got a job at this radio station doing promotions. The first day on the job I met Anne, my boss. The two of us drove out to the spot for an evening remote broadcast. In the car we were getting to know each other with questions about family, highschool and the like. When asked where she went to school she said, "I'm quite a bit older than you, but I think my sister was in your class. Her name was Sara."

"Wait...you mean Sara CARSON?"

"Yeah. That's my sister, do you know her?"

"Oh sure - we totally hooked up on New Year's Eve!"

Oh shit...um...did I really just say that?

Then it got really awkward and Anne didn't talk to me for the rest of the summer.

Nice one.

Ultimately it came back to bite me in the ass AGAIN about 2 years ago when I got a job at a local hotel. Guess who worked at the front desk? You got it: Sara Carson. She never talked to me once. Just glared. I assumed her thought waves were something like, "Shit I can't believe I hooked up with YOU!" Oh, and even more upsetting: her boyfriend was my boss.

Nice one.

THINGS LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Syphlis isn't contagious, is it?

Fuck this fucking flu!

2005-03-25T08:48:00.000-08:00

Okay I have the flu and I think the only way to get over it is to vent via my blog. I wouldn't normally do this because, well, nobody cares. Wah wah I have the flu. But I'm too sick to think of any good stories to post. So I will do today's post in the traditional Letterman style.

TOP TEN REASONS THE FLU SUCKS MY HAIRY ASS

10) Every bone, muscle, joint and organ aches.

9) I have so little energy that every time I try to jerk off, I feel faint.

8) Remember in Dumb and Dumber when Harry Dunn drank all the Turbo-Lax? That's what my stomach feels like.

7) My back hurts because I haven't moved in 4 days.

6) The only thing worse than puking is feeling like you have to puke ALL THE TIME.

5) My shits are NEON green. Not kidding. You know Wintergree Extra Gum? That color. Damn I should have taken a picture.

4) I can't eat. I tried Ramen noodles, which ultimately expanded in my stomach. Stupid. Then Golden Grahams, which was also stupid because milk = bad. The only think I'm consuming is Fierce Grape Gatorade, although I'm not sure how "fierce" it really is. But the smell of some of my farts, now that's fierce.

3) I haven't done shit. No work. Cancelled like 5 appointments, one speech and bailed on my client for Saturday's session. God damn it.

2) My favorite pants, a pair of velvet Fubu XXL's, are completely stained with neon green shit because my farts didn't come out in gas form.

1) I've watched an average of 6 hours of TV each day. And if I have to watch Ellen dance around that fucking set one more time, then I am just gonna snap.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

In light of recent suffering, I have officially earned the right to complain whenever I want.

Spandex Clad Jogger Distracts Male Driver, Causes Near Accident

2005-03-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

Here’s what pisses me off about women…

I was driving down the main road in my neighborhood, speed limit: 45. So I’m doin’ like 60. Approaching on left was this chick in all black spandex. As she came closer I realized that she had, what common psychologists call “a sweet, sweet ass.”

The moment we passed I looked back to see the Onion in motion. Oh, merciful Jesus, it was beautiful. It swayed back and forth, exuding a grace not unlike of a bowl of grape Smuckers.

At this point I had reached a top speed of about 62, which was unfortunate because my car was about 20 feet away from smashing into the Cadillac in front of me.

I slammed on the breaks. They actually screeched! I swerved into the top half of the ditch on my right and screamed like a little bitch. The guy in front of me probably looked in his rear view mirror and shit himself! Fortunately, he turned left just in time.

After my car came to a screeching halt I looked back and saw the spandex slut trudging down the path. You fucking bitch! I thought. How dare you dress up in that outfit and run alongside ME on this road!

She will pay.

Okay probably not. I’m an idiot. Damn you, masculinity.

THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I’VE DONE

I hate women, but not as much as I hate men.

Birthday parties make me feel like such a douchebag

2005-03-23T06:23:00.000-08:00

If I were to create a list of Top Ten Situations in Which I Always Feel like a Complete Douchebag, I’d have to put birthday parties somewhere around # 3.

It’s so stupid. You’re sitting at the head of the table while 10-15 of your friends/family are singing that ridiculous song. Everyone’s looking at you. Then comes the point where you need to decide whether or not you’re going to sing “Happy Birthday to ME,” or “Happy Birthday to YOU.” And you feel so dumb!

But check it out: for the first time in 25 years, something happened on my last birthday. Something amazing.

The day before my birthday my dad gave me one of the greatest gifts I’d ever received: a mandolin. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play. And since I’d been playing guitar for 13 years, I knew it’d be easy to pick up. Thanks, Dad!

I was so excited that I brought the mandolin to the dinner table to show everyone. Then, when the dreaded moment of embarrassment came, I had the idea to play the birthday song on the mandolin so everyone could sing along. It was wonderful! I actually SMILED, whereas my normal birthday face would have looked like, “Oh just get on with the song and cut this motherfucker.”

It was the best birthday party I ever had.

Except last year for my 24th when I ended up at Roxy’s at 4 AM and the stripper yanked me up on stage, ripped my pants off and spanked my bare ass in front of 20 people. That was hot.

THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I’VE DONE

Only YOU can prevent bad birthdays.

What NOT to Yell at Professional Football Players

2005-03-22T18:21:00.000-08:00

All teenagers say stupid stuff; but not all teenagers say stupid stuff directly to the face of a 300 pound lineman standing on the sidelines.

I don’t know WHY we thought this was cool. My friends and I each grabbed a program and picked out various names of opposing players and taunted them. The insults ranged from insanely crude to ingeniously creative to mildly juvenile.

Freddy’s pick was a guy named “Stucker.” He was actually 297 to be exact. His arms were the size of telephone poles. And the brilliant insult he came up with sounded a little like this:

“Hey Stucker, I stuck your MOM last night.”

Nice.

Don’t you hate it when it gets incredibly quiet at the exact moment you say something unbelievably embarrassing?

Well, it wouldn’t have been so bad if Stucker, the left tackle for the opposing team, didn’t look back directly at Freddy and completely stare him down. You should have seen the daggers in this player’s eyes. I thought that “yo mama” shit was played out.

Guess not.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Maybe atheletes shouldn't use steroids.

Worst Roomate Ever

2005-03-21T06:23:00.000-08:00

The summer before sophomore year I received a phone call from my soon to be roomate, Adam. We got to know each other and discovered we had a lot in common: he played guitar, wrote songs and hooked up with lots of hot chicks. Okay 2 outta 3 ain't bad.

When the semester started we got along famously. We even started a band called "The Goodfellas," inspired by our mutually favorite movie of the same name. Then somewhere around October I realized that Adam was an arrogant, self-centered, dope peddling, sorry excuse for a guitar player who couldn't sing a lick AND spent every waking hour playing 1990's Kirk Hammit solos on his piece of shit guitar that sounded like a fucking tin can. And that was just the beginning...

Then he started dating Megan, who was a total skank. Not even that cute, either. One night he brought her back to the dorm and seduced her right there in our tiny little room. Meanwhile I had to sit awake and listen to the slobbering sounds of my bunkmate getting blown. Lovely. And it was like, Tuesday or something! But by far the best part was when he blew his load in Megan's mouth, paused for a few seconds and then said, "Thank you."

I fuckin' lost it. I had to bury my face in my pillow to muffle my laughter. Thank you. Yeah...you better show some appreciation if you're lucky enough to find some freshman slut who'll swallow your load.

Anyway, Adam continued to bring many whores back to the room during the rest of the sememster. I, of course, had a girlfriend at the time - which meant that sharing the wealth was out of the question. Damn it.

Then it got worse when Adam started having his little drug parties back in our room, always during the middle of the week. Pot smoked filled the air and may or may not have gotten me accidentally high. And I don't even wanna know what other drugs they were doing. The funny thing was, Adam always offered, which technically was nice, but considering I never did drugs in my life, it was all for show. That pissed me off.

Towards Thanksgiving Adam continued his downward spiral. He began having regular phone calls with his parents about transfering. Transfering? I knew nothing about this. Why didn't Adam tell me anything? All I knew was what I heard in the echo of the bathroom. And eventually he told me that, because of financial reasons, he was transferring back to a college in Maryland so he could live at home and save money.

"That sucks, dude. I'm sorry you have to go," I said.

Meanwhile my inner monologue sounded something like, "Thank you Jesus! This is the greatest day of 1999! Crack open the champagne and celebrate, the King of All Douchebaggery is gone! Woo hooooooo!"

Several weeks later when I returned to my dorm room after a relaxing winter vacation, he was gone. The room was half empty. It no longer smelled like pot and pussy. It was mine...ALL mine! And the only momento of Adam left behind was a letter sitting on his desk from the University Credit Union. Ah hell, he's gone anyway. He'll never know..."

I opened the letter and it read:

Dear Mr. Garett:

We regret to inform you that your scholarship has been revoked due to a unacceptable GPA of 1.4...

Holy shit. That fucker lied to me.

Well, it serves him right. I guess smoking weed 5 nights a week, skipping class, never studying and treating his roomate like shit finally caught up to him.

I never saw him again.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

College rules!

Seriously, what are the odds of this happening?

2005-03-18T06:27:00.000-08:00

I don’t believe in superstitions. Total bullshit. Although there was this one time in college when I seriously thought I was going to die.

I set out on Friday, November 13th to drive downtown for the Days of the New concert. On the way out of my subdivision I paused at the stop sign to change CD’s. When I refocused my eyes on the road the most unbelievable thing happened: a black cat ran right across the road.

No fucking way.

What are the odds? Friday the 13th only happens like 5 times a year; and as far as the cat goes, well that’s just fucking unbelievable.

I tried my best to put the two superstitious coincidences out of my mind and enjoy the show. Which I did. Travis Meeks was amazing that night. He’s definitely one of the only former meth-heads turned pot addicts who can play shirtless to a full auditorium of wasted college students.

On the way out of the show I paused at another stoplight. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 11:58.

Oh fuck. Only two minutes of this day left. I am SO dead.

I pulled out into the street at about 15 miles an hour, driving as slowly as possibly to avoid any chance of car related death. Seriously, I was sweating, shitting and pissing myself at the same time. Okay not really. But the next 120 seconds were unbelievably scary. Fortunately I made it out alive.

But you know what? Fuck that cat, man. I still think superstitions are bullshit.

THINGS I’VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I’VE DONE

There’s no such thing as bad luck…or IS there?

Foot in Mouth Disease, Pt. 2

2005-03-17T06:17:00.000-08:00

I'll tell ya what I loved about 7th grade volleyball: 10 kids played on each side and the boys ALWAYS pushed the girls out of the way to get the ball. Obviously. Those chicks sucked and usually caused a side out anyway. What a great game.

One day this kid named Marty kept hogging the ball. I mean this dude would NOT pass to me.

"Marty! Over here!"

"At the net!"

"Set me up!"

"COME ON!"

I kept yelling and yelling; and for the life of me, Marty would NOT acknowledge my amazing court presence.

After our team lost a point I finally went up to him, poked him in the shoulder and yelled, "Dude, I've been open for the last 6 points! What are you, DEAF?"

At that exact moment, I noticed two hearing aids hooked on both of his ears.

We never spoke again.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

God is going to make my children deaf.

Foot-In-Mouth Disease, Pt. 1

2005-03-16T06:49:00.000-08:00

Last June I was walking to the cafeteria when the new GM of the company walked by. I stopped her and introduced myself. Then I asked, "So, Mrs. Robertson, how was your father's day this weekend?"

"Oh...that's a bad question to ask me..."

"Huh?"

"Yeah...my father passed away last week."

Even if I had a chainsaw, I couldn't have cut through the uncomfortable silence in that stairwell.

Nice fuckin' luck man.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm going to hell.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

2005-03-15T06:13:00.000-08:00

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

A picture is worth a thousand words.

The Continuing Saga of Ridiculous Airport Welcome Signs

2005-03-14T06:23:00.000-08:00

On a recent flight home from Chicago my brother sat next to a man who, after a few minutes of conversation, discovered he knew our entire family!

"I can't believe you're Mark's son!" the man cheered, "I grew up with your dad and your aunt! Spent countless hours at your Grandparents' house on New Salem. And I tell ya what, I absolutely LOVE your family!"

"Thanks. They're pretty great..." my brother replied.

"And your Grampa Frank? Love the guy. Absolutely love him. If you looked up the word 'prince' in the dictionary, you'd see a picture of him."

My brother said this guy almost had tears in his eyes. He was so complimentary towards our family; you'd have thought we saved his life or something. It was almost to the point of ridiculous.

They deplaned and walked toward the baggage claim as Rick continued to tell my brother how wonderful our family was. Then when the two of them approached the top of the escalator, they looked down to see yours truly, holding the following posterboard sign:

"WELCOME STEVE! (SORRY ABOUT THE CRABS)"
As usual I started waving to my brother, shouting his name up the escalator. Rick examined the sign carefully as my brother shook his head in utter humiliation. I, of course, had no idea who Rick was at the time.

When the two of them stepped onto the platform my brother looked pissed. REALLY pissed. This was a shocker to me, as he usually laughs his ass off and eventually punches me in the arm.

"Take that shit down. Jesus man, do you know who this is?" he said pointing to Rick, "This guy is a friend of Dad's!"

"Hey, hi ya doin? Nice to meet you," I smiled.

"Hey dumbass...Rick just spent the last 45 minutes telling me how much he loved our Dad and how our family was the greatest family in the world...and here YOU are with that stupid sign."

"Yeah," Rick laughed, "Your brother told me to expect something like this. I take back everything I said on the plane."

Wow. Talk about your all time backfires.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Somebody's gotta be the black sheep; and it may as well be me.

Parents Just Don't Understand

2005-03-11T06:21:00.000-08:00

I'm not saying my Dad is uncool, but this was just ridiculous. Bobby, Max and I sat down for some chicken wings and NCAA basketball last weekend. Dad was running late, so he showed up sometime during the second half. When he sat down he asked what our waitress's name was, to which I jokingly replied, "Her name's Keisha...oh, there she is! She's coming right over."

I guess my dad didn't catch the humor, because a second later this cute little blonde girl with a tight ass and a cheeky smile stepped up to the table. "Hi can I take your order?" she asked.

Totally nonchalantly my Dad said, "Hi Keisha. Yeah, I'd like a Mic Light bottle and 12 spicy garlic wings."

Bobby, Max and I freakin' LOST IT!! My Dad was totally oblivious.

"Actually, it's KATIE," the waitress said motioning to her nametag, "not Keisha."

He whacked me in the head with the menu as I continued to laugh. Keisha (Katie) walked away. Dad said, "Asshole! Why did you say that?"

But I just kept laughing. It was priceless.

Now...come on. Are parents THAT out of touch?

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

There is no such thing as a white girl named Keisha.

The Greatest Puke of My Life

2005-03-10T19:28:00.000-08:00

Although I originally planned to write about something else today, someone asked if I was going to post a story about my favorite vomiting experience. So here goes. By request...

* * *
How people get addicted to Vicodin, I have no idea. That shit's nasty man. And I know you get a killer high from it and everything, but I've only taken it once. And it was bad. REALLY bad.

At the age of 19 I had my four wisdom teeth pulled, which by the way hurt like a motherfucker. I sat in my bed watching The Price is Right with an ice pack in one hand and wet rag in the other. I was so numb in the face and wacked out on pain killers that I drooled uncontrollably like a lobotomy patient in post opp.

Anyhoo I knew the Vicodin had kicked in right around the Showcase Showdown, namely because Bob Barker started to look attractive to me. Which was really weird. Then I felt a hint of nausea, which in a few short minutes turned into, what doctors commonly refer to as "Holy-shit-he's-gonna-puke-right-now-get-him-the-toilet-stat."

NOTE: Jumping out of bed abruptly while hopped up on Vicodin = terrible idea, because this made the desire to vomit even worse.

Stumbling towards the toilet I fell to the ground and started puking before I could even check to see if the lid cover had been removed, which it was. Thank God! But the worst part was: I puked ALL BLOOD. Straight up, 100% red and black chunky liquid. Fucking nasty, man. And the worst part about it was: my teeth STILL hurt, not to mention looking into the toilet at my own puke actually caused me to puke even more, which led to a 5 minute continuum of non-stop vomiting.

Thanks for nothing, guy who invented Vicodin.

Now that I think about it, I've never really had any great pukes in my life.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Stick with Advil.

The Greatest Burp of My Life

2005-03-09T06:45:00.000-08:00

Junior year we had a Superbowl party at our house for about 30 people. What a pad this was: we had the biggest couch on campus, according to a recent student poll; not to mention a huge white wall on which we broadcast the game. The beer was flowing, the chips were piled high and I sat in my $4 thrift store recliner with a 2-liter of Diet Dr. Pepper and a pizza.

But this wasn't just ANY pizza - this was The Big New Yorker Pizza. A pizza so big it had to be tilted through the door. A pizza so big, I had to skip lunch just to be able to eat my half. I ordered BBQ, bacon and chicken toppings, which did wonders for my breath. (Ah hell, I had a girlfriend, I didn't care.)

Somewhere around halftime, usually the best point during the game to take a break, I felt the Diet Dr. Pepper creepin' up. (Fortunately, I didn't overdose on DDP like that one time...) Anyway, on the way over to the bathroom I felt the disgusting combination of 2 liters of DDP and one half of a Big New Yorker BBQ Bacon Chicken churning and bubbling in my stomach.

And although I originally walked into the bathroom to urinate, something happened when I walked in the door. I stopped in my tracks and felt this enormus gaseous bubble making its way up my chest. Then up my throat. And before I had a chance to open my mouth, a cheesy bacon BBQ peppery carbonated cloud of hot smoke eeked its way out of my lips. The force of the air pried my jaws open and I belted out, from what I remember, about an 8 second belch that smelled so bad it could have scared a buzzard off a compost pile.

I swear to God, I've never smelled anything worse in my life. It was fucking awful. So then, I did the only logical thing I could think of: I grabbed my cell phone, called my Dad and immediately told him the exciting news.

"Thanks for calling. I'm, uh...so PROUD of you buddy," he said, "I'm gonna get back to the game now."

And that was the greatest burp of my life.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I love being a man.

The Greatest Fart of My Life

2005-03-08T06:23:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I thought back to all of the stand-out farts of my life. This was a difficult decision, for what criteria do I use around which to base my rankings? I mean, there's smell, length, pitch, timing, jucieness, volume, even trajectory, depending on what I ate the night before. So, although I had trouble picking the #1 most memorable fart, here are the two tied for first place:

The Bunk Bed Blast
1992. Six grade camp. The four of us lay in our bunk beds, telling secrets and stories as most 12 year olds do. Somewhere around 11:00 PM, I ripped a fart SO urgent; it snuck up on me before I could even announce its arrival. SO powerful, it hurt my sphincter. SO long, I was laughing during the entire seven seconds of flatuation. And SO loud, that it woke up my cabin mate Freddy who sat up in his bunk and said, "Dude, is there some kind of an animal in here or something?

The Columbus Car Clearer
Junior year of college my friends and I went to a concert in Columbus. Prior to the show, Danny took us to his parents' house where his mom cooked her famous quesadillias. (I had no idea they'd be so damn spicy...) Later on that night my stomach began to churn. And even though something needed to be outted, I managed to hold it in during the show. But in the car on the way home there was no avoiding it. So I locked the windows and blasted the Silent But Deadly gas, waiting for the stench to circulate. And in less than three seconds, everyone in the car was coughing, cursing, yelling at me and/or slapped me in the arm. They BEGGED me to open the windows! But I just kept driving and enjoyed the vile beauty that I had created. Eventually they made me pull over on the side of highway 74. And before I even came to a complete stop, each one of my gagging buddies stumbled out of the car gasping for fresh air.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Farts will always be funny.

If this chick was a sex freak who totally wanted me, I must have missed something

2005-03-07T06:46:00.000-08:00

The line outside the bar went around the corner. I guess I didn't realize how popular Fat Tuesday really was. So I sat there on my cell phone, talking to my buddies who were already inside. They told me the club was at capacity, which basically meant I was screwed until people started leaving.

This girl with a nice smile and HUGE boobs stepped in line right behind me. She asked how long I'd been waiting. I told her about 10 minutes. We started talking about the holiday, favorite drinks, bars and the like.

After about 30 minutes of shootin' the shit, I made a decision. "Okay Pam, here's the deal," I proposed, "if we're still standing here at 10:31 - which would make our wait exactly 60 minutes - you and me are goin to another bar. Whaddaya say?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," she said.

Holy shit. I can't believe that line worked.

Eventually we approached 10:31 and stepped out of line. We walked down the street a few blocks to this hole in the wall that wasn't nearly as crowded. As soon as we walked through the door, the tatooed, pierced bouncer smiled and welcomed us in as a tall, blonde drunk woman walked right by us with no shirt on.

I like this place already.

Pam and I sat down and ordered a round. She started telling me about her job as a pharmacutical salesman, which wasn't all that exciting. But somewhere between a discussion about Zoloft and Cialis, the topic of anal sex came up. How this happened, I have no idea.

"Yeah, so I had my first anal sex experience a few weeks back. I didn't like it the first time, but then I got used to it. It's pretty hot."

REALLY.

Not that I'm uncomfortable talking about such topics, but my question is: "Is that something a woman brings up within the first hour of meeting a random guy outside of a bar on Fat Tuesday?"

Pam confused me even further when the conversation took a turn to the topic of masturbation, during which she said, "The weird thing is, when I'm using my vibrator, I always think about two GUYS having sex, one of which is in incredible pain. And I think I do this because my father left my mother at an early age, so it's like, I get turned on thinking about a MAN who's in pain. I guess what I really mean is, I get turned on thinking about my DAD getting fucked in the ass. Isn't that messed up?"

Yes. Yes it is.

Once again...NOT that I have a problem talking to women about masturbation. I'm open if they're open (no pun intended.) But seriously, didn't the development of this conversation seem odd?

At the end of the night Pam offered me a ride home. We pulled up to my apartment at about 2:00 AM. And considering all the stuff she'd told me that night, I figured I could have easily invited her inside and TOTALLY gotten freaky with this sexy bitch. But that's really not my style. Even as perfect as the opportunity seemed, I just couldn't do it.

Pam and I actually ended up becoming good friends for about a year. Pam was great, we hung out a lot. And frankly, I think that was a lot more valuable than one random night of passionate anal sex. But you know...if that chick was a sex freak who totally wanted me, I must have missed something. Oh well. I guess I'll never know if that night could have turned into something deeper. Ha ha...I said "deeper."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Anal sex and parental-fantasy masturbation make for interesting first date topics.

Mother Accuses Seven Year-Old of Cheating at Double Dare Home Game

2005-03-04T06:47:00.000-08:00

My favorite show when I was growing up was Double Dare. I watched it every day. I even had dreams about being a contenstant. And my brother and I used to beg our mom to get us on the show. (As if she had any idea how to do that.)

One day after school our mom surprised us with the Double Dare Home Game! This was, according the two of us, the greatest day of our lives. The kit came complete with Physical Challenge props, question cards and uniforms. I was the blue team, my brother was the red team.

We started playing the first round in our living room. After a few questions and one or two Physical Challenges, the score was tied. Then my mom asked the following question:

"The Statue of Liberty was a gift from which country?"

DING DING!

"France!!" I yelled.

"Oh my God...how did you know that?" my mom asked.

My brother smacked me in the arm. "He looked at the questions ahead of time! He cheated!"

"Did you sneak a peak at the questions before hand? Come on...tell the truth..."

"WHAT?!! I didn't look at anything! I knew that from history class! I didn't cheat, I swear to..."

"Mom! He cheated. That point doesn't count. My turn," my brother said.

I burst into tears and slammed my fist down on the coffee table.

"But...sniff...I didn't cheat! I knew that answer because I studied the hist..."

"Nope. Mom knows you cheated. Sit down and shut up."

"Yeah, just sit down," my mom said. "Stop crying! You'll get another chance to answer when it's your turn again."

Those fuckers. I TOTALLY learned that answer from history class! I swear on my life, I knew the Statue of Liberty came from France!"

But they didn't care. My mom and brother just kept playing the game, ignoring the brilliance of my advanced 7 year old mind.

Some day...those bastards will pay.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Never let anyone discount your intelligence.

Making a fire and drinking beer symoblizes one boy's journey into manhood

2005-03-03T06:31:00.000-08:00

It wasn't supposed to be so damn cold that night. So after the concert when we got back to our tents, we knew our jackets weren't going to cut it. Now, this wouldn't have been that big of a problem, but then again, Trish was in the tent. God I hated that bitch. Especially when she took it upon herself to use ALL of the blankets for her and her boyfriend.

Which left me in the corner of the tent, freezing my balls off. I slept next to Danny with whom I shared one tiny little blanket, roughly the size of a washcloth. And I kid you not, for the next three hours, I just sat there. Shivering. Whining. Complaining. I even asked Katie, who slept two persons down from me, if she wanted to make out. She said no.

Eventually I couldn't take it anymore. There was no possibility of warming up if I stayed in that tent. Somwhere around 5 AM I got up, gave my tentmates my best Cartman-esque "SCREW YOU GUYS" and ran the fuck out of there.

I stumbled around the campsight in the dark, desperately searching for somebody's campfire. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. God damn it! I was dyin' here. So I had no choice: I peed my pants.

No, just kidding. I actually ran into the forest and started collecting firewood. I ripped dead branches off the trees and gathered stumps, logs and hay into a huge pile by the tent. I ran back and forth between the forest and the campsite. Things were starting to warm up now. The sky's pitch black tint slowly melted into a lighter shade of purple as a small bead of sweat dripped from my brow. This was good. I was getting better.

After an hour of wood collecting I finally stood above my huge pile of flammable brush and grabbed the lighter fluid. That's right, lighter fluid. I'll be damned if I was going to do any of that tree hugging kindling shit. I'm settin' this bitch on FIRE.

Dripping wet with flammable goodness, I threw the match into the pit and watched the blaze consume the entire pile. The flame smoked four feet in the air. I stood back and watched the beauty of my manly creation.

The searing heat from the fire warmed my cheekbones and I threw one of my jackets to the ground. I reached into the remains of last night's cooler, snatched a can of beer and I plopped down into the fold-up chair. Looking around, I saw nobody. Everyone was asleep. No sounds filled the air other than the crackle of my fire and the gratifying kuh-chhhhhh of my liquid breakfast.

Sitting there, I realized I was no longer cold. I was no longer pissed. Trish could have been dead for all I cared. It was 7:02 AM. It was just me, the fire and nature. The fall sun came up over the Ohio horizon and I sipped the watered down goodness of my Natty Light.

And never before in my life did I feel more like a man.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Nothing makes you feel more manly than fire and beer.

They call redheads "firery" for a reason

2005-03-02T06:32:00.000-08:00

Greatest thing about working in retail: hitting on customers.

One day this hot little redhead came in to buy a couch. But not just ANY couch, the couch that looked like a big pair of red lips. God that's hot. Although, that probably should have been my first tip off...

When we made our way over to the display, I started feedin' her some of my standard lines, my favorite of which was "You see Marie, if you buy this couch, people can come over to your house and get their asses kissed."

Heyoooo.

She eventually bought the lip couch and matching ottoman. We set up the delivery for Friday morning. She was very grateful for my service. But I didn't want to formally ask her out because our company had a loose policy about dating customers. Key word here: loose.

Marie called the store back on Friday afternoon asking for me. I was all excited, thinking she wanted to hang out, but instead she said, "Yeah, you sent the wrong ottoman! This is leopard print, but I need the lips." And with a sexy, yet dominating undertone she argued, "So...what are you going to do about it?"

That should have been my second tip off...

Being the dedicated service provider that I was, I promised to have it re-delivered that afternoon. But not before I opened the ottoman box and left her a little note:

"Marie, sorry about the inconvenience. Please let me make it up to you by taking you out to dinner."

Sure enough, she called a few hours later to confirm the delivery, AND our date.

SCORE!

Later that weekend we met up for dinner. My boundless romantic genius continued when I brought her the perfect first date gift: a book. Still Life with Woodpecker by Tom Robbins. (A book about the metaphysical truth about redheads.)

I flipped to a page in the book that discussed the specifics of redheads' fireyness. And as luck would have it, Marie started telling me a few stories about how firey SHE was...

"And it's not like Mike and I are together right now, I mean, he's a professional hockey player! I never see the guy. So I'm glad were out tonight..."

"So that's how my criminal record got started. But that asshole deserved a broken arm anyway."

And THAT pretty much did it for me.

By this time I had moved over to the opposite side of the table and carefully placed my hands over my crotch. Whatever you do, DON'T offend this chick.

Then for the rest of the night she told more crazy stories about her firey past. Marie proceeded to get ass-drunk and managed to piss off the entire bar. Including me. Boy, I sure know how to pick 'em.

At the end of the night she apologized for her behavior and said, "I'm sorry, I have kind of a temper and tend to get loud when I drink. But I had a lot of fun with you!"

"Yeah...me too. Look, uh...I'm gonna go, but if you need any other furniture or something, you know where to find me. See ya!"

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Only 4% of American women are TRUE redheads - that's gotta mean something.

Romeo and The Cock Block Sock

2005-03-01T06:43:00.000-08:00

As you may have learned from such previous posts as Just Be Glad I'm Not YOUR Brother and the The Drug Sniffing Dog Was Not Being "Playful," I love to give my brother a hard time. After all, he tortured me for 16 years. And I think a lifetime of passive-agressive, embrassing payback is in order.

Which reminds me of our trip to Cancun. I don't know what it is with my brother and vacations, but he has successful hooked up with some random chick the past 8 trips. Maybe I'm just pissed because I never hook up. On the other hand, he does have crabs.

One afternoon he was standing on our balcony, trying to hit on one of the housekeepers in his best Spanish tongue. You gotta hand it to him - he sure was trying hard. It was cute in that Romeo and Juliet kind of way.

Which gave me an idea.

I jumped out of bed, stripped down to my bare ass and grabbed one of my Hanes athletic socks. Then, unbeknownst to Romeo himself, I walked out on the balcony, put my arm around my brother and in the best gay-latino voice I could do I said, "Que haces Esteban?! A quien es ella?!"

The woman on the grass two floors below gasped and started laughing and pointing. Steve turned around and saw me standing there, naked as the day I was born.

"Jesus Christ! You fucking asshole. What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh it's a beautiful day out here, ain't it?!" I said.

The housekeeper couldn't keep a straight face. I waved to her, and she waved back. Hola! I said. Then she quickly rolled her cart down the hall, avoiding eye contact at all cost.

God I love embrassing my brother.

But you know, the more I think about that story, the more I realize how sad it actually was. You see, I was wearing an ankle sock.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Life sucks when you're hung like a hangnail.

Apparently my Grampa is a heartless bastard

2005-02-28T06:38:00.000-08:00

My Grampa Frank once gave me some great advice: "I felt sorry for the man who had no shoes, until I saw the man who had no feet."

Wow. That's some profound stuff. I think at the age of 16, it certainly put my appreciation of life in perspective.

A few later I was invited onto a cable access show called "The Acoustic Cafe" to play a few of my original songs. So, I thought it would be a good idea to quote my Grampa in a feeble attempt to sound wise beyond my years.

"Tell us about this inspiration behind this song," asked the host.

"Well, I wrote it last year when I saw this homeless man on the street," I said as I plucked a few notes on my guitar. "And it made me appreciate all that I have. Oh, which reminds me of something that my Grampa recently said...he said, I laughed at the man who had no legs until I laughed because he had no feet."

The studio audience fell SILENT. The host squinted at me, nodded his head as if I didn't just make my Grampa sound like a heartless bastard and told me to start playing my next song. I, of course, had no idea how terrible my Storytellers-esque monologue sounded until later that night when my family and I watched the show at dinner.

"Hey Grampa, here's where I quote you!! Listen listen!" I said.

...until I laughed because he had no feet..."

"Frank!" my Grandma exclaimed as she slapped his arm, "Did you really say that horrible thing?"

"Evelyn, I think somebody misquoted me..." he said as he glared in my direction.

"Can I be excused, please?"

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

The camera is the only true bullshit detector.

Back the Impatience Truck Up

2005-02-25T06:22:00.000-08:00

April 4th, 2004: the anniversary of Martin Luther King’s death, the day my friend Drew ran the St. Louis Marathon, and the day I came to the conclusion that Americans are the most impatient people in the WORLD.

After the race I took Drew out for lunch to celebrate his admirable accomplishment. We finished our meal at the mall and headed out to the parking lot. In the empty spot a few spaces down from my car I saw a tattered, ripped up box. God I detest litter.

“One sec Drew; I’ll be right back…”

I walked over to take a closer look. A plastic bag that read Kay-Bee Toys slowly brushed up against my jeans like a suburban tumbleweed. On the pavement lay a credit card receipt and discarded instructions for a toy truck.

I picked up the receipt and noted the date and time of purchase: April 4th, 2004. 11:56 AM.

My watch read 1:41 PM.

Unbelievable. The only thing I detest more than litter is impatience.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Only through a man's trash do we discover his true character.

Rapper doesn't appreciate valet parker's ingenius humor

2005-02-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

The word around the hotel was that Howard Baily III, aka "Chingy," was staying for the night. The rumor quickly circulated among the guest service staff, but when 2 Cadillac Escalades and a white BMW 745 with 22 inch rims and tinted windows pulled into the drive, we knew it was true.

Mr. Bailey got out of the car with his cronies. Or was it a posse? Or an entourage? Who the hell knows. But there were a lot of people. And they just STOOD there. Blockin' the entrance, bumpin' their systems and basically clogging up our entire front drive.

Eventually Chingy asked for some assistance, so I grabbed the bags out of his trunk and placed them on the bell cart. He started to walk inside when I noticed he still had his keys.

"Mr. Bailey, may I have those keys so I can move the car out of the way?"

"Aight," he nodded, "just keep my ride close to the door."

"No problem sir! I'll just park your BMW right thurr."

Dead silence.

Chingy rolled his eyes and chuffed at me as he handed me the keys.

Dude, screw him. That shit was funny!

Punk ass Nelly wannabe motherfucker.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm hilarious.

Just be glad I'm not YOUR brother

2005-02-23T07:34:00.000-08:00

My brother Steve came in from Chicago at the end of last year. I was responsible for picking him up at the airport, so I thought long and hard about possible sign ideas, and finally came up with this one:

CONGRATS ON YOUR ENLARGEMENT STEVE!
I walked into the airport about 20 minutes before the arrival time and assumed the position at the bottom of the escalator. Then I waited.

First, a man and his wife walked by laughing their heads off. That was great. Next, a young boy walking with his parents read the sign and asked, "Mommy, what's an enlargement?" Classic.

Then, two ladies read the sign as they walked by. One of them said, "Engagement, huh?" to which her friend replied, "Tamesha! Oooh girl, read that sign again!"

Tamesha stopped in her tracks and read the sign again - after which she cracked a high pitched laugh and shook her head at me. (She then quickly walked the other way towards the baggage claim.)

After about 5 minutes, a young, gay man and his partner came up to me and asked, "So...what did Steve get enlarged?" as they giggled.

"Well, I don't think it's appropriate to disclose that information. But let's just say his girlfriend is gonna LOVE him tonight!"

The three of us roared!

Then the gay couple stood next to me for another 10 minutes. They continued to ask silly questions about my brother as I jokingly answered. Eventually, I saw my brother at the top of the escalator.

Here we go...

After 25 years, my brother expects stuff like this from me. I didn't even have to say his name, but when he saw the sign he burst with laughter! The other people on the escalator laughed and turned around to see Steve as he held his hands in the air to proudly celebrate his recent "enlargement."

He exited the escalator and gave me a big hug. The gay couple next to me laughed, introduced themselves to Steve and said, "I hope your girlfriend likes the...ahem...changes, Steve!"

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Size really does matter.

The Busboy Blues

2005-02-22T07:28:00.000-08:00

It was the worst summer job I ever had.

But what do you expect? When you're 17 years old, you're not presented with a lot of options. Nor do you possess any expertise or valuable business skills. For these reasons, most kids at that age seek employment in the wonderful world of food service.

During my interview at Applebee's I discovered a few things. First of all, I wasn't old enough to be a waiter or a bartender. I was still a few years shy of the legal serving age. And I couldn't become a cook because I lacked the experience. And I sucked at cooking. In which case the only position left for a guy like me was: a busboy.

Ah...the busboy! The King of Crumbs. The Sultan of Spills. And The Potentate of Clearing Your Plate.

Now, if you've ever been in this profession before, let me preface by saying I feel your pain. Because it's a precarious position. You run around balancing this heavy tray, trying to keep your cool. And it's also s low paying position. Nothing but a few bucks an hour and some crappy tips at the end of the night.

AND...it's disgusting. Let's not forget about that. Now, I'm certain that most people have had their share of disgusting incidents, but I promise you this: there's always someone who's had it worse that you...

The waiter ran up to me in the middle of my shift and said, "Hey, I need your help RIGHT NOW. The lady at table 72 just broke her water and I need you to take care of it."

"No problem Aaron, I'll just grab a broom and a dustpan and I'll clean that glass right up."

"Dude...I don't think you understand. Her WATER BROKE."

"Ohhhhhh shit! Let's call the ambulance and get her off to the hospital!" I panicked as I grabbed for the phone.

"No no, don't worry about that. She just left and went to St. Mary's to deliver the baby."

"Oh. So...what do you need ME to do?"

"Well...I need you to clean up the...um...MESS she left behind."

What?

My heart stopped. I stared at Aaron, wondering if he'd really just said what I thought he said. But before I could utter any part of the phrase "You're outta your fucking mind!" the manager interrupted our conversation and told me to go take care of the "problem."

Because that's what busboys do.

I trudged into the back, grabbed a pair of those yellow dish gloves and a white rag. No way this was happening to me.

I went over to table 72, crouched down and saw that the ENTIRE BOOTH was covered in this...stuff.

Now, I don't have any kids - that I know of. So when I began wiping it up, I realized that it wasn't exactly "water," as the term would suggest. I looked at my white rag. It was soaked through with the woman's placental amniotic fluid, and it began to drip down my arm.

So I RAN into the back, chucked the rag into the trash, ripped off my gloves and began rubbing, scrubbing and washing my hands like I was going into surgery. I got back out into the main dining room and told my manager, "Uh uh...that's it! I'm NOT going over there again."

"Fine," she said, "but there IS one more thing..."

Apparently the mother-to-be, when she ran out of the restaurant in a frenzy, passed over the tiled waiting area and...how do you say this nicely...left a sticky trail of placenta juice all over the floor.

Which meant it was MY responsibility to mop it up.

Because that's what busboys do.

So there I was...17 years old, standing in the middle of Applebee's mopping up a pregnant customer's trail of amniotic fluid. And I knew I could never look at another busboy the same way. I knew I could never walk into another restaurant without sympathizing for those poor kids enduring such horrible conditions.

I truly had The Busboy Blues.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm never having children.

"Cheaters never win" is a bunch of crap

2005-02-21T06:06:00.000-08:00

BOT 155: Field Identification. Best course I ever took. Twice a week the class walked around campus for 3 hours while the instructor pointed out various characteristics, smells, leaf formations and fruits of the thousands of species. Even when it rained, it was an enjoyable class.

Our midterm was scheduled right before Spring Break. It was going to be a toughie. We had 100 different trees in our manual, only 33 of which were going to be on the exam. But nobody knew which 33. This meant we had to memorize ALL of them. What a pain in the ass.

I sat down to study my flashcards at about 9:30 PM the night before. I would have started earlier, but Dawson's Creek was on and the previews said Joey was going to lose her virginity in that episode. Anyway, it took about 40 minutes to write out my flashcards. On the front of each one it said something like, "Edge of the forest, short leaves, little pouches of honey hanging from the stem." On the back I wrote the scientific name and the common name: "Lonicera macciai, aka honeysuckle."

After another hour of this, I realized a few things:

I hated trees. I never wanted to think about another fucking plant again. They can cut the rainforests down for all I care.
There is no way in hell I'm going to memorize this entire list by 10 AM.
According to my calculations, I can get a 62% on this test and STILL get a C in the class. Which was FINE with me.

When you're in college, there comes a point during test prep when you just KNOW you're not going to learn anything new. You either know it or you don't know it. In my case, I didn't know it. This was slighlty disheartening, but I was so annoyed that I just threw all those cards into the trash.

I went to sleep with honeysuckle on my mind. I think that was the only tree I rememebred. Lonicera macciai. Lonicera macciai.

Prior to the test the next morning, I started asking other students if they studied as much as I did.

"Oh hell no man! 100 trees? Mr. Deveres is crazy."
"Dude, I didn't even crack the book."
"Is this calculus class?"

Well, at least I wasn't the only one about to bomb this test. This made me feel better. Misery loves company, I guess. So we headed out into the field and began our exam. Standing next to me was Craig, Mr. Smart Guy. Mr. I Actually Studied. Mr. My Fraternity Is Going To Black Ball Me If I Don't Ace This Class And Bring Up The House GPA Because The Rest Of My Pledge Brothers Are Morons.

He had EVERY answer. Scientific name AND common name. Damn he was good. I quickly memorized the first few answers and copied them onto my sheet. Then the next few. Then some more. This girl behind me started copying MY sheet, which was cool because she was totally hot and probably thought I was smart. Sucker. We pressed on through campus for the rest of the exam as I continued to rob Craig of his hard earned knowledge. At the end of the hour, I had the entire sheet filled.

Awesome.

I turned in the exam only to receive an intense scowl from Craig. What? What'd I do? Hey, as long as the prof didn't see me, I'm all good baby.

The next Tuesday we got our exams back. Various students laughed and shook their heads at the depressing marks they'd received. Mr. Deveres handed me my exam. The red handwriting at the top of the page read 97%.

Holy shit.

"Nice job! Highest grade in the class."

Craig, who sat next to me, looked over at my paper and continued to scowl at me. I noticed his grade: 85%.

Woops.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

It's hard to enjoy getting the highest grade in the class if you get a better mark than the guy you cheated off of.

A few classic pieces of advice...

2005-02-18T06:19:00.000-08:00

A hotel towncar driver once told me his theory about dating women: "18 or 80, blind crippled or crazy - I'll fuck 'em all!"

Bill Cosby played in my hometown last year and went on a 40 minute rant about gambling. He seems to think Keno is the stupidest game alive. "Keno," Cosby said, "is actually the korean word for idiot with paper."

In the 1970's, one of my father's mentors named Nelson Gould told him "When rape is inevitable, you may as well sit back and enjoy it."

Ed Magee, lead singer of the band Ekoostik Hookah, had the following words of advice to say between songs at a concert in Columbus, OH: "I don't need beer to have fun, I just need beer."

Ted, a business colleague of mine, reminded me "Never let your meat loaf."

My college law professor taught a unit about prenups and told the class, "The number one cause of divorce in this country...is marriage."

Mr. Chaput was my highschool golf coach. Right before tee time at the district finals he got the team together in a huddle and said this: "Men, I just found out that a good friend of mine has been diagnosed with testicular cancer. So before you play today, I just want to remind you the importance of examining your balls at all times."

I met some cute writer-chick in a bar who reminded me, "Never apologize for your art."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

See above.

Here's why you should NEVER ask me to pick you up at the airport

2005-02-17T06:28:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I had a great idea to play a joke on my brother. He was coming in town from Chicago for Thanksgiving. I offered to pick him, but due to 911, I was only allowed to wait at the bottom of the escalator.

I made him one of those corny "Welcome Back" signs and waited at the bottom of the escalator. I held up my neon yellow posterboard that read:

WELCOME BACK FROM REHAB STEVE!
I just stood there. No smiling. No looking at people walking by. Just anticipating my brother that I love so much. And by love, I mean love to embarass.

You know when someone walks by you and gives you a stare so intense that you can actually feel their eyes upon you? That was what happened for the next twenty minutes. People walked by shaking their heads, smiling, laughing, even saying hello! I didn't expect this, for my intention was to play a simple joke only to affect my brother.

Responses included:

"You're a good friend to welcome him back!
"Boy, Steve's really gonna love that sign!"
"I hope Steve has a sense of humor!"

One lady even told me I was going to hell for making that sign.

Nevertheless, people were still being friendlier. And Steve wasn't even there yet! Finally, he came to the escalator top and headed toward me. He didn't see me. As he got halfway down, people in front or behind him looked at the sign. He still didn't see me!

So I yelled as loud as I could, "HEY STEVE! WELCOME BACK!"

He looked over at me, and I kid you not, he fell to the ground! I had never seen my brother laugh harder in my life. Then everyone on the escalator looked back at him and started talking to him! He arrived at the bottom while the people from his flight approached him, shook his hand and said, "Congratulations Steve!" "Hey Steve, way to go man!"

And all my brother could do was shake his head and say, "Thanks."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Rehab is for quitters.

Local Hooters proves that intelligence is inversely related to breast size

2005-02-16T06:19:00.000-08:00

I go to Hooters for one reason and one reason only: to eat chicken wings. Oh, and I also enjoy reading the articles in Playboy.

Anyway, I went to my neighborhood Hooters once to watch some baseball. I passed through the double doors when I noticed some colored chalk on the pavement by the entryway. I looked closer at the eye-catching, bubbly writing which read, "Wacky Wensday."

Hmmm, I wonder if the manager realizes that 'Wensday' is spelled incorrectly?"

I went back inside and grabbed the first manager I saw. I escorted him outside to the front of the house and showed him the spelling error. I didn't want to be "that guy telling someone else how to do his job," but I couldn't let such an obvious typo in such an obvious location persist any longer.

I pointed out the spelling error to the manager who, upon further examination of the chalk, turned as red as the chicken wing sauce that caked the corner of my lips.

"I'll be darned - it sure is spelled wrong!"

After a short pause, he looked even closer and said, "Wait a minute - it looks like someone corrected it. Yep...the waitress must have come back to add in the missing letter."

I squatted down to examine the correction, only to see a very tiny "d" edited in right before the "n" in Wednsday.

This meant that it STILL wasn't spelled right!!

"Look I'm sorry for being so anal, but it's spelled W-E-D-N-E-S-D-A-Y, you know, it sounds like wed-ness-day...?

At this point the manager started laughing along with me and said, "Wow...and I thought these waitresses were at least high school graduates! Thanks for telling me sir."

He then promised to have Professor Hooterific, who wrote the original text, to come back outside and re-write it.

Wacky Wednesday? Ha! More like TACKY Wednesday.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Intelligence is inversely related to breast size.

FACT: Chicks dig guys who do stuff like this

2005-02-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

She said she wanted to try sushi. I told her I'd show her the ropes. She said she was interested. Then I realized I forgot to ask for her number.

Shit. She was really cute too.

A few days later I asked Leslie, my friend who had introduced us. She didn't know her number either. Thanks a lot. Some friend YOU are.

But I DID know where Karen worked. Or so I thought. I mean, how many Diabetes Research Centers could one city have? I called the operator of the university hospital asking for my potential date - first name only.

"Oh yeah, blonde Karen? Yeah, she works in 10B."

Sweet.

And then I had a great idea. I went to the local Whole Foods and bought a to-go order of California Rolls. I got home and whipped out the digital camera. Then I took a picture of the sushi rolls, printed it out and pasted the colorful image on the cover of a blank greeting card. And on the inside it said:

"Sushi sometime? Call me."
Sometimes my romantic genius amazes even me.

The next day I drove out there. And after ten minutes of incorrectly entering into three buildings, I finally found the right one. Apparently there are these things called "signs" that actually direct people to their final destinations.

I walked into the clinic and asked the operator where to find Karen's office. She asked me what my business was, and I told her I was just a friend who was "dropping something off." She noticed the card in my hand and glared at me like a terrorist. Dude, it's just a card, I thought. After a few minutes of convincing, she pointed me in the right direction and I started down the hall. I looked around in various rooms but didn't see Karen anywhere. A nurse walked by and I asked, "Excuse me, but is Karen in today?"

"She's in the lab right now. Did you need to see her?"

"Well actually, I'm a friend of hers and I'm just dropping something off."

"I can leave it on her desk if you want," the nurse said.

"Would you? That would be great!"

"This must be another one of Karen's baby shower presents, right?"

What?

"For her new daughter...?"

"Wait...who the HELL are you talking about?"

"Dr. MacMillan, Karen MacMillan...who just had her second baby?"

Son of a bitch.

I lowered my head and apologized to the nurse. I took the elevator down and walked back to my car.

Nice going dumbass.

By the time I got home, by the time I'd given up on one of the few cute girls actually WILLING to go out with me, and by the time I'd already ripped up the card and tossed it into the trash, I received the most ironic email of my life:

I had fun meeting you the other night, and if you'd still like to go out for sushi sometime, I'd love to take you up on your offer.

See ya!
--Karen Perry

Well I'll be damned.

Two weeks later we set a date to go out for sushi. On the day of, I ran into my friend Leslie who was working at a local restaurant.

"I hear you and Karen are going out tonight! I'm glad I could hook you two guys up. You'll have to call me afterwards and tell me how it goes."

"Well in that case, I hope you're still awake at 5 AM when I'm finished with your friend! Just kidding..."

Later that night I met up with Karen at one of my favorite sushi places. She looked great. Love that blonde hair. We sat down, and before I could even begin telling her the ironic story of my romantic pursuit, she said, "So...I hear we're staying out till 5 AM tonight, huh?"

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Never tell women anything.

Some of my favorite bumper stickers...

2005-02-14T06:09:00.000-08:00

I never really got in to bumper stickers, but here are some of the best ones I've seen driving down the highways of life:

ANSWER MY PRAYERS - STEAL THIS CAR

MY PRESIDENT IS CHARLTON HESTON

(WITH A RAINBOW FLAG BACKGROUND) - DITCH THE BITCH, MAKE THE SWITCH

NOT ALL WHO WANDER ARE LOST

KEEP YOUR LAWS OFF MY BODY

NUDER THE STUPID

FUCK EVERYTHING

THE #1 CAUSE OF DIVORCE IS MARRIAGE

IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU'RE NOT THE PRESIDENT

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Every car is entitled to its own opinion.

None of this would have happened if that couch wasn't so damn soft

2005-02-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

Working at a furniture store means two things:

So if you decided to stay out all night on the weekend, you're gonna pay for it.

Around 5:30 PM, I was fightin' it. Couldn't keep my eyes open. I saw the Benchcraft 628 in the far corner. It was the greatest couch known to man. So I'm thinkin'...this late in the day, that far in the corner, nobody's gonna see me.

I took a seat. Then taking a seat turned into lying down. And lying down turned into passing out. A few minutes later I felt someone poking my shoe. I rolled over on the couch and saw a curious customer who asked, "Excuse me, but do you work here?"

After quickly picking the granola out of my eyes, I slurred "Um...yes. Let me just finish checking the uh...price on the Benchcraft 628 and uh...I'll be right with you sir."

Yes my friends, that's how it's done. Dumbass!

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

If you choose to sleep at work, just make sure you DON'T do it right in front of the security camera.

Free donuts are NO match for some nutritious crystal meth

2005-02-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

I used to work at a furniture store in Portland that offered free donuts every weekend. This helped business tremendously. Truthfully, they weren't even that good, but customers love free stuff!

And you know who else loves free stuff? This guy. So I never left work without a box of leftovers. One evening I was crossing the bridge on my way home. I had two boxes of donuts under my arm, most of which were jelly. Delicious. When I arrived at the bus stop I saw an odd looking man approaching me. He looked like the kind of guy who was either homeless, addicted to drugs or both. My money was on both.

By the time he got within reaching distance of me, I knew exactly what his poison was: meth. And you just KNOW meth heads when you see them. They're easily recognizable by: glassed over eyes, awkward dispositions, racing gestures and of course, residence in Portland. That's right! In Portland, speed addicts are about as common as Nike employees. And The Rose City has the second highest meth usage in the country...only trailing Washington, MO by a few hundred addicts! Way to go!

Anyway, the addict scratched one of the cold sores on his mouth and mumbled, "Hey man...you got some spare change for a bite to eat?"

"Actually, I just so happen to have two dozen donuts! Here ya go..."

He quickly backed away and said, "Oh...well, uh...I don't eat sweets."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Apparently beggars CAN be choosers.

I didn't know whether to puke or shit

2005-02-09T11:31:00.000-08:00

It used think it was such a cliche to tell someone at the dinner table, "Hey...I'm eating here!" (As if a disgusting conversation would actually make someone lose his appetite.) Well, thanks to Brian Sweeney, I changed my opinion on that matter.

Andy, Brian and I grabbed some late night food at the local Skyline, Cincinnati's famous chili restaraunt. We ordered our three-ways and began munching on the traditional oyster cracker appetizers. After a few minutes our chili plates arrived and we dug right in. And then for some ungodly reason, Brian decided to tell the following story:

"I never told you about my surgery? Oh man, wait till you hear this one...it's a classic Sweeney moment."

Brian proceeded to tell me one of his favorite childhood stories. Andy laughed and egged him on, being the good brother that he was.

"So then one of the veins in my scrotum wrapped around my left testicle, causing it to swell and inflame. It hurt SO bad. And my nut sack looked like a plum. And the doctor told me that--"

"JESUS CHRIST BRIAN!! Why are you telling me this? I'm trying to eat here!"

"No wait, it gets better. So anyway, I had this surgery performed that drained the blood and excess fluid from my balls. I was out cold, so it didn't hurt. Except for when I woke up, I looked down between my legs and saw the doctor removing this six inch tube from my scrotum. It was so gross! I thought I was going to--"

Oh God.

My fork clinked down onto the chili plate. The table fell silent. I turned completely white and started to get nauseous.

"Dude...are you okay? You don't look so good."

"You fucking asshole," I mumbled. "I swear I'm gonna vomit right now."

"Are you serious?" Andy asked.

I grabbed my water and slowly trailed into the men's room. After locking the door behind me, I walked into the stall and fell to the ground. Holding myself up with the assistance of the silver handcap bar, I inched towards the toilet. I grabbed some TP and cleaned off the surface.

And then my head smacked down on the rim of the bowl.

"Uhhhhgggggg," I moaned. I poured some of my water onto my head. I started taking deep breaths. The smell of a hundred men's assholes filled the air. And all I could think about was Brian's scrotum.

"Uhhhhhgggggg oh my God...." I was going to puke everywhere.

After a few minutes of repeating the above process, I slowly began to feel better. I regained my balance, cleared my vision and sat up a bit. While resting against the tile wall, I finished my water. Then I grabbed my cell phone and called Brian at the table.

"I'll be out in 10 minutes. I fucking hate you. Peace."

Once I felt confident my chili three way was NOT making its comeback, I stood up. I think I'm okay. I'm not going to puke. Thank you Jesus.

But not five seconds after standing up, something churned in my stomach. It sounded like a combination between Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber and Lard Ass in Stand By Me.

Oh God.

And before I could even say "change of underwear," I whipped my belt off, pulled down my pants and boxers and exploded firey diarhea all over the inner wall of the bowl! I started pissing out of my asshole. Both the seat and bowl were covered with my unstoppable shite. This went on for another five minutes.

You know one of those shits you take that actually WEARS YOU OUT after you're done? This was one of those shits. I needed some Pepto and a nap. I was spent.

Once the entire 3 AM bathroom experience was over, I unlocked the bathroom door and wastefully made my way back to Brian and Andy. They were laughing uncontrollably.

"You okay there dude?" Brian giggled.

I plopped down into the chair, took a deep breath and turned to Brian. I slid the remains of my chili three way in front of him.

"Here. You can finish my chili. We're not friends anymore."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Brian Sweeney must die.

Three Ways to Mess with Telemarketers

2005-02-08T06:13:00.000-08:00

Telemarketers crack me up. They're SO scripted and trained, so stuck in their routine and so closely monitored, that anything you say even slightly off-putting will completely screw them up. For example, I recently received a call from a non-profit organization who said the following:

"...and this program will keep kids in little league programs and away from drugs and gangs. Can we count on your support?" asked the lady.

"Actually," I said, "I'm a major proponent of drugs and gangs."

Only a chainsaw could have cut through the awkwardness of the next three seconds.

"Thank you for your time sir."

But I think my love of screwing with these phone people came about in college. I had this professor named Dr. Boyd who said, "Anytime you get a call from a telemarketer, just tell them 'Sorry, but my wife's a librarian.' It works every time! That have NO idea what to say!"

Which reminds me of another incident when a credit card company called and wanted me to confirm the last four digits of my social security number. Yeah right. Do I look that stupid? Well, the thing is, they KEPT CALLING back. Three time a day. So eventually I decided to mess with them:

"Could you please confirm the last four digits of--"

"I'm going to cut your head off," I said.

"Um...yes, sir...but I need the last four digits of your social--"

"I'm going to cut your head off."

"Okay, is this Mr. Gateman?"

"No. Mr. Gateman doesn't live here anymore."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"No. I cut his head off."

"Thank you for your time sir."

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

You can say ANYTHING to telemarketers.

How I Overdosed On Diet Dr. Pepper

2005-02-07T06:04:00.000-08:00

When you're a person who doesn't drink, sometimes you just NEED to consume something. (Or hold something, at least.) When I was a senior in highschool, I started bringing a 2-litre bottle of Diet Coke to parties and drinking it throughout the night. I thought it was kind of funny. People often asked what else was in the bottle, assuming I mixed my 67.6 ounces of soda with something.

"Nope, just soda!" I'd say.

You'd be surprised how easy it is to drink a 2-litre of soda. Don't let the size of the bottle fool you. Because if a can of soda is 12 ounces, that means a 2-litre is about 5.5 cans.

So I'd polish off my big bottle in, say, 4 hours. That became my standard for the next few years. But when I got into college, two things happened. First, I discovered my love for the greatest soda in the history of soda: Diet Dr. Pepper. (NOTE: You may have noticed the trend of diet sodas in my history. But despite what people say about diet soda's taste, or aftertaste, I still think sugarfree was a wise choice considering the volume of consumption.)

Anyway, the second thing that happened was I built up a tolerance. Not unlike someone drinking beer, vodka or whiskey, my standard volume steadily increased over the years. By the time I was 20, I was drinking almost TWO 2-litre bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper in one night.

Again, this SEEMS like a lot. But think about it: 11 cans of soda isn't that much when you consider how easy it is for people to drink a six pack of beer during a baseball game, or even a case of beer during a float trip. I still think the sheer size of the actual bottle alters perception.

Fortunately I never saw any negative side effects of my ridiculous consumption of soda; other than waking up the next day at 3 AM, running to the bathroom holding my bladder and urinating out 135.2 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper - and ultimately falling asleep leaning against the wall over the toilet.

Big deal.

But in 2003, I reached the height of my carbonated habit: THREE 2-litre bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper in one night. I know, I'm not proud of it either. But the delicious, carbonated, peppery delight of my favorite softdrink was SO good, I just couldn't stop. I went from one bottle to the next. I peed all night. I knew where all the best 2-litre bottle prices were in the area. I wouldn't share it with anybody, not even a cute girl who needed a chaser to follow her shot of Absolut.

I had a problem. And I couldn't stop. I was addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper.

Much like any addiction, the possibility of overdose drew closer and closer with every peppery sip. It wasn't until the winter of 2003, while visiting some friends of mine for the weekend, that my world came crashing down. Somewhere at about 4 AM I finished the last of my three 2-litre bottles. By the way, that's exactly 202.8 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper, or 17 cans. My friends commented on my ability to drink so much.

"Boy, you've really come a long way since '01! Glad to see your tolerance is up!" they'd say.

Gee, thanks. I'm so honored. Shit. What the hell am I doing? What have I become?

I laid down on Kelly's couch and cried myself to sleep.

A few hours later I woke up sweating. I was burning up. My head hurt. I sat up on the couch and dropped my head into my hands. Oh God. I have to piss.

I ran to the bathroom as fast as I could, dodging various drunken friends of mine who'd passed out on the floor several hours earlier. When I walked into the bathroom I started to feel tipsy, like the way you feel after rising up from your barstool for the first time during the night. But I still felt hot...like, oddly hot. I quickly pulled off my sweater and walked over the the toilet. While reaching down to unzip my fly, I became extremely light headed. My body uncontrollably stumbled backwards when, all of the sudden, I fell into the corner of the bathroom.

And everything went black.

The only thing I remember was the reverberating THUD of my head against the door. When I came to, I felt someone poking my leg. My eyes slowly opened like a newborn baby, which seems like a fairly appropriate similie considering I was curled up into the fetal position.

"Hey...are you okay? Gateman? Wake up?"

"Huuunnnhh? What? What's...happen..."

"What happened? I heard a really loud thud! You must have hit your head on the door. Are you hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?"

I looked up to see a worried look on Kelly's face. She squeezed my shoulder with her right hand and held up a peace sign with her left.

"Two," I mumbled.

I slowly sat up and straightened my back up against the bathroom door. "I think I...blacked out. I don't really know what happened. I was about to take a piss when, all of the sudden, I must have fallen over. And all I remember is hitting my head against the door."

"That's weird...do you need to go to the emergency room or something?"

"I don't know man, let me just sit here for a minute, get some water and I'll be right out."

I washed my face and chugged a few cups of tapwater. Looking into the mirror I saw a hideous paleness to my complection. Boy did I look like shite. When I got back into the living room, all my friends eagerly awaited my status.

They asked if I was okay. I told them I was going to be fine. But before I took another step, I grabbed my cell phone and called my doctor-friend Laszlo.

"Dude, I just blacked out."

"Are you okay, what happened? Where were you?"

"We partied all night, then I woke up extremely hot, went to take a piss and all I remember was hitting my my head on the bathroom door."

"Wait a minute...were you drinking last night? HOW MUCH DIET DR. PEPPER DID YOU HAVE?" questioned the doctor.

"Uh...I think it was like, three."

"Three litres?"

"No, three bottles."

"SIX LITRES?! Jesus Christ, man. What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea how much caffiene that is? You've experienced extreme dehydration, which caused you to black out. You need to go drink some Gatorade right now. And take some Advil. Then get some rest. And for God's sake, STOP DRINKING SO MUCH FREAKIN' SODA!!"

The ironic thing about this whole incident was that my friends had been absolutely WASTED, but not a single one of them got sick. It was me. The sober guy. Who overdosed on Diet Dr. Pepper.

And I never drank that much soda again.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Even the sober guy can black out.

The Fine Line Between Ecstasy and Hernia

2005-02-04T06:17:00.000-08:00

It's not that my ex-girlfriend was "big." She was like 5'11 with huge boobs and ghetto booty who probably weighed like, 160. But damn she wore that 160 well.

When we dated, I was going through my "I want a woman I can't pick up" phase. Literally. And there's nothing wrong with that. Big girls need love too. But again, I'm not saying she was "big," although the following story doesn't exactly help her situation...

We were messing around in my apartment one night when I told her to ride me on my desk chair. (My favorite position) After a little while I decided it was time to move over to my bed. But in order to maintain the passion and the romance - not to mention my amazing brute strength - I tried to pick her up.

Key word here: try.

I grabbed both cheeks of her ass, dug in my fingernails and began to raise up. Unfortunately my precarious sitting position provided limited leverage. So with all my strength I sat up a few inches above my desk chair. Her eyes filled with surprise, wondering where I was about to take her.

But in the middle of sitting up, something happened. My legs started to buckle. I felt a shooting pain in my lower abdomen. Oh God!

This can't happen. I MUST pick her up. She can't see me wince in pain! Not only will she question my manhood and upper body strength, but she'll become incredibly self-conscious about her "bigness." I must press on!

I had no choice. With all my might, I exerted 150% of my strength. I gripped her sweet, sweet ass even harder. My loins burned with pain AND passion. And I very carefully transitioned from the painful and insulting Arrrggghhhhhh! to the sensual and romantic Oooooohhh!

My legs began to straighten out as I eventually raised up completely! I walked forward a few steps and carried my woman over to the bed. Eventually the pain began to subside, she moaned out "Yessss!" and we fell on top of the matress and drifted off into ecstasy.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

If you're gonna date a big girl, make sure you're on top.

Man Wears Kangol Hat, Attracts Las Vegas Drug Dealers

2005-02-03T09:02:00.000-08:00

If there's one thing Vegas is never short of, it's people trying to sell you drugs. Now, I've been to Vegas a few times before, but the last time I went, it was different. And I think it's because I was wearing my Kangol hat. (The kind Samuel L. Jackson always wears.)

Hey, I didn't think it would make any difference either, but during my trip to Sin City last year, two things happened:

1) I wore my brand new wool Kangol hat, and...
2) I was approached by more drug dealers than ever before in my LIFE!

It was the strangest thing. For example, on our first night in town, my friend Danny and I decided to walk up and down the strip. (The people watching was fantastic.) Throughout the evening we crossed over several bridges on which I noticed various types of people shouting drug code words such "Nuggets," "Doses," "X" and "Blow."

And they were all staring right at me!

Although I've always chosen not to use drugs, I've certainly had my share of exposure to the sales thereof. But not like this. Not this much!

Still, by far the most intrusive and strange offer came from a young kid at the foot of the escalator by the Aladdin. I noticed him standing up against a pole on the sidewalk, minding his own business. To my surprise, he didn't approach me or shout something like "Hey Scott, need some crack?" However, at the exact moment Danny and I passed him by, he quickly sidled up to me, stuck his head in my face and yelled, "CHRONIC CHRONIC CHRNOIC!!"

Feel free to check out the Online Street Slang Drug Dictionary to learn what that means.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

I'm not as cool as Samuel L. Jackson

All Hail the Super Starbust Eating Champion!

2005-02-02T06:02:00.000-08:00

In highschool I used to eat a pack of Starbust every day. It's a wonder I didn't develop diabetes! Still, there's just no candy quite like it.

One day my friend Drew and I began smooshing together different colored pieces. Ever done that before? It's great. Combine a nice red and orange, possibly a pink and a yellow...mmmm.

We eventually got to the point where two Starbust wasn't enough. Then three wasn't enough. Then four. And so on.

So, the only solution to this sugary one-upping problem was: smoosh together an entire package. That's 10 pieces, by the way. Drew and I each unwrapped an entire pack and mushed together all four colors into waxy, colorful hunks the size of a tennis ball.

"Let's race! I bet I can eat this thing faster than you!"

"No way. You're going down," Drew said.

We ran into the bathroom to avoid any possibility of being spied on by the girls in our class. We stood by the sink. I asked Drew if he was ready. He nodded and took his stance.

"Ready...set...GO!"

I jammed the enormous Starbust Sandwich into my mouth. Unable to close my jaw, I bit down as my teeth sunk into this ridiculously huge piece of candy. Drool poured out of my mouth onto the tile floor. Drew took one look at me and started laughing uncontrollably...through his nose. Snorting, clogged breathing and chomping sounds filled the air. God I hope nobody walks in right now.

Drew seemed to be getting more and more comfortable with his piece. I, on the other hand, couldn't breathe. My nose was partly stuffed up and my mouth felt like it was wired shut. I started to choke and cough, so my first instinct was to run into the stall in case I started vomitting.

"Oou an't do tatt tude!!" Drew tried to say. He must have thought I was trying to spit it out. But the drool actually helped to my advantage because it lubricated the Starbust chunk so much so, that it actually began to slide down my throat. Eventually, the entire piece made it into my stomach, although several hunks stuck to my molars.

By the time I got out of the stall, Drew had long since finished. He accused me of cheating, so I tried to tell him I was only taking caution NOT to drool all over myself. He didn't go for it. Nevertheless, I conceded defeat to the almighty Super Starbust Eating Champion.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Highschool was great.

Late night nacho run turns into urination disaster

2005-02-01T06:21:00.000-08:00

There's nothing more satisfying than a delicious late night fix of 7-11 nachos. Around 3 AM we left the bar and, being the sober guy I was, I drove Mitch and Dan's drunken asses to the store. We pulled into the lot when I noticed a cop car parked a few spaces down. So, like a little child, I had to tell Mitch to wait in the car. We didn't need him making a scene. Mitch is known to do that.

Dan and I organized our chips and cheese at the Mr. Nacho station. Over the years, we've developed a specific, artistic way of preparing this dish: a base layer of cheese goes down before the chips are placed in the tray; then the chips are divided into three layers - each of which overflows with the complimentary cheese - and we top it off with a generous portion of jalepenos, which may or may not become the reason we would spend part of the following day on the toilet.

We finished preparing our nutritious breakfasts and walked to the counter. The cop was drinking coffee by the hot dog machine, so I greeted him and took out my wallet. While waiting for my change the cop walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Sir, are you driving tonight?"

"Oh yeah, of course. I'm completely sober. No problems here officer!" I reassured him.

"Well, I'm not so much worried about you. But is that your friend standing at the front door over there?"

We heard the sound of someone banging. Dan and I turned our heads and saw Mitch with his face smooshed against the glass. The cop started laughing and said, "I just wanted to make sure that THAT GUY wasn't driving, because he's peeing in his pants right now!"

Sure enough, we saw a dark blue circle around the crotch of Mitch's pants expanding like a cartoon amoeba from a 3rd grade science video. Urine dripped down his leg and spotted various sections of his pants. He pounded the glass and started yelling "Mitchie likie! Mitchie want wingie!"

Jesus f-ing Christ, dude.

"Here's your change, sir," the cashier laughed.

"Yeah...um...thanks," I said as I grabbed an extra stack of napkins, "Have a good one."

"And be sure to drive safe, gentleman," the cop said.

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

The smell of urine can linger in car upholstry for up to 3-5 days.