Post-Christmas Post. Post.

15K Writing Challenge Update: 1036 words through day 8. The sad thing is I'm kicking Brady's ass so far. I've actually only written on two days of the challenge, including a solid output of 600 words last night, so it's not as bad as it seems. At this rate, I'll finish the challenge in only 115 days! Sweet fucking Christ that's pathetic. I smell a New Year's Resolution. Why does it smell like semen? Eww.

Since Jim moved out of the condo, I now have a writing room. Now I love the trusty green recliner in my bedroom, but there's something to be said for having a supportive, sturdy chair to sit in while writing. I successfully locked myself in The Writing Room for 45 minutes last night, allowing myself to leave only to retrieve Diet Coke or pee (there was no retrieval of pee, if you were wondering).

You'll notice to your right -- unless you're looking from the other direction, in which case it's one of those crazy mirror scenarios so I can't even begin to guess which way you should look -- the addition of a profile picture. Feel free to use it to help you masturbate. Really, I don't mind.

15K Writing Challenge

Brady and I have entered into yet another writing challenge. The goal is to write 15,000 words. It's a speed contest, and the loser must buy the winner 100 cans of Diet Coke, to be delivered to the winner's front door within two days of the contest's conclusion. Once someone reaches the 15K plateau, the other has a three-day window for catch-upsies.

Day 3: 0 words.

The good thing about this contest is there's no daily requirement. Sure, it might take us five years to finish, but, damn it, we will finish!

I once wrote over 6,500 words in a day. I also wrote 50,000 words, or 1,667 per day, over a period of thirty days. I'm not nearly so prolific these days. I'm not exactly sure why. Boo to me.

Christmas Party

It's 11:30, and you know what that means: It's time for Amtelco's annual Christmas party at the McFarland Park Ponderosa. In other words, it's time to get sloshed before noon! Wee! Well hey, it's noon somewhere, right?

I'm not an alcoholic, I'm just really thirsty.

Story

Feeling happier. While bathing I thought up a new angle for a story I've been working on that I think takes it to a new level. I really hope I can finish this fucker. It's been a while since I've finished a short story. This one has some potential. Then again, I've thought that about other stories of mine I've begun only to feel utter despair the morning after.

Reading Michael Crichton helps. His writing is so...simple. In a good way. It gives me hope. Crichton is one of my favorite authors because of this. Of course there's a load of research behind all his novels that I'd be too lazy to do, but still. Plus, his books read fast, which is always a bonus.

Why the hell am I writing here? I should be writing fiction, damn it. This is a delay tactic.

Off I go. I'm trying to plot out my story using notecards. Plotting usually equals death to the creative process for me, but this notecard thing is a tactic I used back when I wrote my novel-length P.O.S. back in...whenever the fuck it was. A few years back. Just writing out ideas for scenes on notecards. Maybe that'll help me stay organized, which is usually my problem; the task of writing a complex story seems daunting, overwhelming. Perhaps laying down each piece of the puzzle before me on notecards -- which allows me to rearrange, add, remove, etc. -- will act as a remedy for my admitted disorganization.

Anyhoo, off I go for real this time.

Fantasy Football Woes

Feeling sad.

Just lost in the Amtelco league by 0.8 points. I needed the Chicago defense to score a measly six points, which they had done EVERY SINGLE WEEK. Until this week. They scored five.

I am going to bathe with toasters now.

:(

Dear Proton League

Dear Proton Fantasy Football League,

Is he coming down with a cold, or is that coughing I hear the sound of Brett choking his fantasy football season away?

It's the most wonderful time of the year for a three game skid.

Now, to makes matters worse, I'll undoubtedly have my hat handed to me by a team starting half its players. Oh bollix.

This is all I have, people. This league is all I have in life. Please let me make the playoffs. Take pity. I beg of thee. Truly, I do.

Sniffle.

Listen, I don't really care if I make the playoffs, but there's this other guy who none of you know who follows the progress of my team, and, I don't know how to put this so I'll just write it, he's dying. It's IDS. He could go at any moment. His last wish is to see my team make the playoffs and win the fantasy championship this season-- if he can bear to live that long through all the pain and suffering and torment. Last night, I visited him in the hospital.

He curled his forefinger, gesturing me to come closer.

So I did.

His voice was pained and weak, so weak--barely a whisper, like a whistle on the wind--and when I finally nestled my ear just above his mouth, I wondered if he would even have the strength to utter what might amount to his final words.

"Get--"

"Yes?" I said, in a frantic whisper, praying he could clutch upon the purchase of consciousness long enough to speak his mind.

Face ashen, skin alabaster pale (much like my own, except due to sickliness, not Irish heritage), he struggled to say, the words crackling out, "Get off my arm. You're sitting on my arm."

"Oh. Oh! I'm so sorry. Your arm is so waif-thin because of the, you know, IDS, that I couldn't even feel it."

Um, where was I? Oh right. Later, a few hours later, actually (or was this a couple weeks prior? I can't remember), he told me the only purpose left in his life was to see me hoist the Proton league's fantasy football trophy above my head. I didn't have the heart to tell him we don't actually hand out a trophy, but the long and short of it is that my friend, suffering from Imminent Death Syndrome, would truly love to see me win this thing.

I couldn't care less, frankly.

But my friend, oh my friend he cares so much about this trifling league of ours. I think we owe it to him to make his wish come true.

What say you, folks?

Will you make my--err, my friend's--dream come to fruition?

p.s. I think everyone else in the league should pony up the dough for a trophy, too. You know, just for some physical evidence of my glorious triumph. My friend would so very much love to see me hoist a trophy is all...

Monday

It's 10 AM on a Monday and I've been at work for two hours already.

Why would God let this happen?!

Fantasy Football

My Fantasy Football Player of the Week: Stephen Jackson.

Jackson has three 100 yard performances this year so far. In the last three weeks, he has averaged 80 yards on 16 carries per contest (5 ypc). He's added 47 ypg receiving in that span, and he has scored two touchdowns. That amounts to about 16.7 fantasy points per week.

Going against me in two leagues, Stephen Jackson is guaranteed to have a monster performance. Look for 100-150 yards and 2 TDs-- between 22-27 points. It's a virtual lock. Like the Men's Warehouse, I guarantee it.

In fact, you could see the rare 100/100 feat pulled off; yes, he might actually have a hundred yards both rushing and receiving.

Let the games begin.

p.s. Pray for me.

UPDATE: Well, Jackson had 16.5 points--pretty typical, though still pretty good considering his failure to reach the end zone. Enough to cast my playoff hopes in serious doubt in the Proton league, as the Crusaders crushed me. It's the second time Gonzo has gone off against me this year for 20+ points. Bah. But I managed to pull off a lucky victory in my other league, The Fuckups, which I care about more anyway (seeing as I actually drafted my players, not some robot). I also won the day in the Amtelco league, which is sort of bittersweet, as I had second place locked up anyway and I was playing my dad, who will likely be bumped down in the seedings thanks to this week's thrashing. C'est la vie.

It's a Stinker

Last night I hibernated for fourteen hours. Any slumber over half a day should be considered hibernation, or at the very least rejuvenation or revitalization or some other long word that begins with re-. Suffering from a wicked case of insomnia the day prior, I stayed up all night, choosing to begin my Monday workday at 7 AM, returned home after nine hours of surprisingly effective labor, ate five slices of Pizza Hut, and slept. And slept.

I also learned a valuable life lesson: if you're going to revitalize, make sure you don't trap the cat inside the bedroom, or she will shit on your recliner.

In other odor-related news, my car smells of sour milk thanks to another incident on Sunday.

Oh, these modern milk caps...

I have a notoriously poor sense of smell, yet in this instance my typically advantageous olfactory deficiency -- the answer to the crossword clue: "my one superpower?" -- has betrayed me. Now I don't want to make a big stink here, but I might be forced to buy a new car if said noisomeness is not soon abolished.

It was beautiful, but now it's sour
Yes, it's all gone sour
Ah -- ah, ah, ah -- ah
God Jesus, it's all gone sour

-Jesus Christ Superstar

The Week In Summation

It's been a great week, though my thighs, like, positively hate me.

For my birthday, the gang took me out to the brass ring and then the essen haus, purchasing me drinks aplenty all evening. I apparently had eight shots of Goldschlager (and every time I'd turn around Veronica was there with more... and a smile would creep upon my face). Got to hang out with PZ and his attractive entourage, and prior to the Great Imbibition, Special B let me tag along with him to the Badgers bball game. Good times. Fittingly, the night concluded with me double-fisting shots of whiskey delivered unto me, according to Jim, by a "mystery man," which turned out not to be quite so sage (I feel shocked) , as I spent a good portion of the hours betwixt 2-4 AM staring at so many chunks of brown on my condo floor (special thanks and shoutout to Slippy J for making sure I didn't drown in my own vomit!)

As states the old adage: beer before liquor, everything's gonna be all right, right?

I think that's how it goes...

Sufficed to say, I have no recollection of those two shots of whiskey. Sadly, I am no longer the champion drinker I used to be. Which I suppose is a good thing. But drinking prowess isn't a talent one can shine on; nay, as with any art it boils down to practice makes perfect.

Which brings me to Saturday and my cousin's bachelor party. It had been a while since I'd spent an entire day drinking, but, thanks in large part to my preparation earlier in the week--my birthday celebration on Wednesday served as solid practice for the weekend's debauchery--I managed to do just that and end the night relatively sober.

Now this was a bachelor party!

Bart was in town from Minneapolis. It was great to see him and headbang to his most excellent renditions of Jesus Christ Superstar, which, by the way, was the biggest hit on the Party Bus' karaoke machine.

Yes, this might have been the gayest non-gay bachelor celebration ever. Speaking of gay... I've been watching DVDs of this sketch comedy called Stella, which has one of the guys from the Kids in the Hall. Good comedy, that. The big negative is now I'm constantly tempted to start humping anything that moves for its comedic value. Actually, strike the "moving" caveat; earlier this evening, I humped a pool table. The corner pocket, precisely.

Also on the gay front... toward the end of the night on Saturday, one shrimp of a girlyman failed to realize how close he was to spending an evening in the hospital when he bitch-slapped one of my brother's friends and began to fire off rounds of bigoted remarks. I've never thrown a serious punch, but man, if this guy decided to take his slaps to the next level, the runt would've felt the brunt of BT's manpower. To be honest, at one point I nudged my way between the man and my friend, sort of goading on the chump to pick on someone, well, much, much larger than himself, hoping the drunk douche would mess with me--i.e., the wrong man--but seeing himself outnumbered, the man of slight stature tucked his tail between his bumcheeks and flounced off, flailing bigoted insults our way even as the brave Sir Robin ran away.

(You know a guy is a real winner when he calls someone a "fag" and proceeds to slap another man in the face.)

I then spat on the concrete, ripped off my shirt, kissed my biceps, and said, "Welcome to the gun show, ladies," to some nearby spectators who'd gathered to witness the scuffle. We then proceeded, the eight ladies and I, to make love upon a plush carpet of squished squash before a blazing bonfire. Here's to staving off scurvy! Cheers!

It was around this point in the evening I realized the flamboyantly gay giraffe only I could see--the one with the nosy neck and a startling knack for bad touch--was in fact not a real imaginary friend after all, because real imaginary friends don't totally laugh at you when you share your innermost insecurities, and that is EXACTLY what Corey did to me, that bastard of a flamboyantly gay giraffe! Now I hate him!

Oh Corey, if you're reading this, I can't stay mad at you. I wuv you again. Mwa!

That wraps up this blog entry. I left out some yada yada's, unimportant details like strip clubs, private lap dances, and irrefutable evidence of paranormal activity in my pants, but I don't even know what that means and that's neither here nor there, so let us say adieu.

Adieu.

Happy Birthday, Me

I turned the big two-six today.

For the record, I have never videotaped myself having a tea party, and I never will again -- certainly not while wittingly before a camera, wearing a pink dress, speaking in falsetto betwixt sips of Earl Grey for all of the puppet houseguests I'd be (hypothetically) entertaining -- so before you start getting any crazy ideas, I thought I would quash any rumors here and now.

Everyone knows the best tea parties involve full-frontal nudity and enormous wigs, not pink dresses. Duh.

In other news, someone at work bought me a twelve pack of Diet Coke for a present. It might be time to admit I have a problem. Nah, who could possibly go an entire day without quaffing a dozen cans of soda? That's impossible. Ironically, since I transitioned from real pop to the diet variety seven years ago my freshman year of college, I haven't had a single cavity. Go figure. It's like rain on your wedding day, am I right? Or ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife (though I reckon ten thousand spoons, considering their collective power, could cut as effectively as a knife. I mean, ten thousand? That's a lot of spoons, man).

Tonight's plans include Doom III, alcohol, friends, strippers, poetry recitals, and danceoffs. If you would like to partake, and you know my address, feel free to join in on the fun! (Don't bring any eskimos, as they will be provided. Do bring single, sexy ladies.)

Jesus Christ

I'm spending time at my parents' house while they're in Florida for the week. So, last night, I took advantage of the acoustic, capacious bungalow by belting out lyrics to some Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals at the top of my lungs. I could be a star....on broadway.

I have a long history of being overheard singing when I was believed to be alone, infamously serenading myself in the bathtub with some "Circle of Life" action when I was much, much younger.

Anyway, as fortune would have it, no one showed up last evening. (To my knowledge.)

This impromptu session of mellifluence was prompted by a recent viewing of Jesus Christ Superstar, one of the greatest movies of the 2oth century ("One thing I'll say for him, Jesus is cool.").

Thank God I don't have a video camera, or I almost certainly would have taped myself singing. Talk about embarrassing. The tape would've undoubtedly reached the wrong hands, perhaps even slinking its way onto the Internet, and then I'd have lots of 'splaining to do. And should I really have to explain why I enjoy taping myself while singing broadway hits, naked?

No.

(p.s. I even sing into my "microphone".)

Pick of Destiny

Check out this clip from the upcoming Tenacious D movie:

http://www.amazon.com/Tenacious-D-Pick-Destiny/dp/B000IOM1RI/ref=pd_sxp_f_i/002-0069848-2918460

Fantasy Football

Well, turns out Friday the 13th meant bad luck, after all -- in fantasy football. I'm a combined 1-5 in my three leagues over the last two weeks. In the 'home' league, I'm 0-2 over the span; I've lost by a combined 4.05 points. In that league, I'm now 3-4 and a game from being out of the playoffs despite having -- by a large margin -- the most total points in the league. I've lost two games due to players getting injured or unexpectedly not playing. This week I singlehandedly destroyed Greg Jennings by starting him in two leagues.

The results: One catch, one point and, now, one ankle.

I hastily snapped his streak of four straight 8+ point weeks. You're welcome.

Why the fuck is my program taking twenty minutes to compile? Fuck Visual Studio.

No, I shouldn't say that. I'm just projecting. I'm sorry, Visual Studio. I can't stay mad at you.

p.s. I was up till 3:30 in the AM working last night. On fewer than five hours of sleep. It takes me back to mornings during middle school, when I had to wake up at 7 AM every day. Shudder. I'd wake up, take a shower, lay on the cold bathroom tile floor afterwards and think, literally, no hyperbole required, 'Why would God let this happen? Why can I be this tired?'

Friday the 13th

I just checked the date. Yep, it's Friday the 13th. In addition to this bad omen, I'm getting an unsettling vibe when I think about October 13th in general. It's kinda creepy.

Or maybe it's just a vibe about October in general. We have a history.

Skirling winds. Plummeting temperatures. Halloween. Ghosts.

...

I wrote the above earlier this morning. Now it's afternoon, and I'm starting to feel sick. Uh-oh.

John Stamos to Build Nuke, Too

One day after North Korea purportedly detonated its first nuclear weapon, which registered between 500-1000 tons on seismographs, John Stamos has reiterated that he will continue his own nuclear weapons program.

"We are determined to prove John Stamos is a forced to be reckoned with," said the actor/producer/broadway star, a veritable dreamy-eyed triple threat who will play a gay wedding planner for an upcoming A&E original film, Wedding Wars, this fall.

Stamos contends his scientists are nearing completion of the Stamos I. "Time is of the essence," said Stamos. "It's like following the fat kid in the Physical Fitness Test. Our Bomb will look much more impressive juxtaposed to North Korea's."

The blast in North Korea appears to have been weaker, by a magnitude of twenty-five to fifty, than the first tests conducted by the United States and other nuclear powers, leading some to question the succcess, and verity, of the nuclear explosion.

Experts say they would expect readings in the 5-15 kiloton range for a nuclear blast.

A representative from the newest member of the club, Pakistan, scoffed at Kim Jung Il's demonstration of power, saying, "Is that the best he can do? One-half kiloton? Maybe he simply passed gas."

Flatulence has yet to be officially recorded by a seismograph.

A government official of India, however, believes that "[i]f anyone could do it, it's Kim Jung Il. I mean look at the man. I bet he really lets them rip."

India, like Pakistan, became a nuclear power in 1998.

John Stamos is determined to be the next "real" member of the Nuke Fraternity. The former teen idol -- and present heartthrob -- has denied allegations he would use nuclear weapons as a bargaining chip to facilitate the production of new episodes of Full House on Fox.

"It would take a much larger threat than total annihilation," said Pakistan. "Plus, now that the Olsen twins are legal, it would make much more sense on Showtime."

"Or possibly HBO," India offered. "Those girls indeed are hot-hot-hot!"

After an a-la-la-la-la tongue-scream of agreement, Pakistan added, "Why is the one Olsen twin more attractive? I just don't get that."

"I know," agreed India. "It's like, what gives? I thought they were twins."

"Ashley can split my atom any day."

Amid rumors circulating that the Olsen twins are the mastermind scientists behind the John Stamos nuclear weapons program, the smooth-skinned hunk, a hunk of burning love, from Cypress, California, remained tight-lipped. "My scientists will not eat or sleep or star in movies until they are finished creating the nuclear device," Stamos said.

The United States has yet to threaten sanctions against John Stamos.

Russia and China, key veto-wielding members of the UN's Security Council, say they will stand behind the United States in the "Stamos Standoff". Russian defense minister Sergei Ivanov refuted reports that talks had commenced between Russia and the former General Hospital cast member.


"The Russian nation has no interest in John Stamos. We did not get that television show in the Mother Land," said Ivanov of the sitcom Full House, which catapulted Stamos (who played Uncle Jessie, guitarist and motorcycle enthusiast) to stardom in America. He added, "Though I have heard good things."

While the intentions of the 44-year-old Stamos remain unclear, one thing is certain: it seems unlikely he will ever have a hotter wife than ex-supermodel Rebecca Romijn.

The couple divorced in 2005.

Stamos refuses to negotiate with members of the Security Council, instead demanding bilateral talks with Ashton Kutcher, whose datelist of Hollywood Hotties includes Monet Mazur, Ashley Scott, Britney Murphy, and Demi Moore.

John Stamos currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where he kicks himself over and over and over again.

Ne-Yo -- Sexy Love

She makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up
Just one touch
And I errupt like a volcano and cover her with my love

Eww.

Superkitty

While taking scantily-clad photographs of myself, strictly to log my dieting progress, promise, I serendipitously captured my kitty in mid-takeoff. (Since this is a family site, except for the swearing and many, many references to masturbation, I have cropped the kitty, eschewing nudity. )

I wonder what prompted Georgia to flee the scene with alacritous urgency?

Look away; I'm hideous!

The Everlasting Gobstopper

From one of my favorite movies, Almost Famous:

Sweet? Where do you get off? Where do you get sweet? I am dark and mysterious, and I am pissed off! I could be very dangerous to all of you! And you should know that about me... I am the enemy!

The thing about introverts is we don't casually open up to people. Try cracking the shell on this guy. I dare you. Chomp down hard, baby, and I'll wave, grinning, as you rub that cheek of yours, nursing chipped teeth and hard feelings; I am an everlasting gobstopper. But don't take it personally. It's not that I don't try. Oh I've tried. But my ways of opening up are ninja-subtle, which, in hard times, can have its disadvantages.

I never claimed to be a smart introvert--just a talented one.

But it's all worth it if, in the end, it means the complete and utter avoidance of bared insecurity. It was a tough lesson, but a lesson learned nonetheless. Oh look at me, spouting nonsense again. Or am I? Who knows? Well, that's sort of the point.

You don't. You don't know the half of it. I don't care who you are, you don't know the half of it. Maybe a third here, or a quarter there--or some other fraction if it--but if you think you've gained enough inside four-one-one to know the half of it, think again. Actually, it's best not to think on it at all. Go about your lives and give it not another thought. This is not a cry for help.

Those days are over, for now.

Get me liquored up. Shoot my veins with sodium pentothal. Headlock me and dole out nuggies until my skull aches and your knuckles bleed. These methods do not hold the key to this man's vault (unless we're talking about one masterful nuggie giver). No, the vault is forever closed, and, if that pain inside is any indication, I might have mistakenly swallowed the key. So unless you're willing to miniaturize yourself and select a sincerely wise guise -- such as a honeycomb, or a pepperoni -- in order to enter my innards (specifically, my digestive tract) and find that key, count yourself amongst the countless others drifting through the dark fog in which I shroud my feelings.

It's a self-defense thing. Lesson learned, all that.

Not that what I think or feel matters much in the grand scheme of things. I've many negative characteristics--such as pessimism--but conceit is not one of them. Nor do I feel a sense of pride, or accomplishment, for possessing this hard-exterior/heart-of-gold persona; it's more or less what God made me, though relatively recent events in my life have only served to harden this mold He crafted.

Some of you, dear readership, may have an inkling into this madness I'm scribbling on about (if one can scribble on a word processor. Okay, call it e-scribbling). Honestly, I only started this post because I've vowed to keep this blog up-to-date and couldn't think of another topic. It's ironic, since this post doesn't really have a topic. If it does, no one will be able to figure it out. You might have your guesses, and your guesses might hold pieces of the answer. But only pieces. Not even half the pieces.

(Suddenly I'm craving Reese's Pieces. This damn diet will be the end of me.)

I am dark and mysterious. Well, okay: I'm pasty white and mysterious. Whatever. My extreme Caucasity hasn't got--here comes an obscure Mr. Show quote--"shit to do with dick". But anyway, I'm here. Writing this. I've written, including this, over two-thousand words tonight (about 1400 in fiction prose), which is a start, though sometimes it always seems to be the beginning of the end with me.

I am sleepy. I am mysterious.

I am Sasquatch.

I am going...going...gone.

A ten minute post

10:47 AM
I need a new book to read. In the meanwhile, I'm tackling some mysteries from an issue of Queen Ellery, which are so uninspiring that I'm once again starting to become excited about my potential as an author (this feeling ineluctably wanes after the first word or two of a writing session). Speaking of which, I've decided to start writing in at least two mandatory ten-minute sessions a day, the goal being to simply write without letting negativity -- i.e., the logic center of my brain -- get me down, without caring about grammar, shitty dialogue, fancy phrases, unnecessary metaphors, or mindnumbingly dumb plotlines. Last night I executed this plan to perfection. I wrote 170 some odd words in the first session. The second time, I actually wrote for the better part of an hour, which is a nice, anticipated side effect: the likelihood that I'll continue writing past the ten minute barrier. In total, I churned out a solid 1200 words of fiction. Yes, upon re-reading my work this morning I hastily vomited (it was either that or morning sickness, but I don't think I'm preggers), but oh well. I'll probably never publish anything, and no, this website doesn't count, but that doesn't mean I can't improve and, maybe, someday, be able to read my own fiction without retching. Let's face it, if I can't force myself to write for ten minutes, ten lousy minutes I'd otherwise spend staring at ESPN.COM for the hundredth time of the day, then
10:57 AM

Jibber-jabber

I'm in a reading phase. In fact, I've read two books in the past week. It's the first time I've accomplished that feat in quite a while. I've found that reading inspires my creative juices. I lay in the bathtub, read some piece of shit novel, and think, 'I can do this. It's not that hard. This author sucks.' It inspires me to drag my sopping wet ass (literally) over to the seat of my recliner, plop down and plop out some poopy (not literally). After a solid twenty minutes of writing -- if I'm lucky enough to momentarily defeat pessimism and get that far -- after about three-hundred words tippity-typed on the ole word processor, I make the fatal mistake and re-read the two or three paragraphs I've penned thus far.

Then I stop, collaborate, and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention. Something, grabs a hold of me tightly. Flow like a harpoon, daily and nightly. Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights, and I'll glow. To the extreme, I rock the mic like a vandal, light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

Oops, sorry. That's not what happens exactly, but close enough. I do stop, though. The only time I really ever let myself just write without giving into Senor Negativity (that lazy Mexican bastard) was a few years ago when I took a semester off college. I was naive enough to believe I could improve by just writing for three months straight. Okay, I did improve, but being proud of that is like being proud of moving up from the bench to the starting lineup of a single-A farm team...of the Milwaukee Brewers.

All right, enough jibber-jabber for now.

Re: Meldar

I'm not sure why blogspot posted my Mel Gibson article, Meldar, three posts down since I published it today, but check it out if you missed it.

Find that Sobie!

Try to guess which one of the pictured is the most sobererest!

Mercury is Delicious, etc.

For the first time, tonight I considered giving up Ultimate Frisbee. This moment of doubt rose inside me out of my sickened gut on the car ride home after a horrid performance. That's how I feel about golf every time I play -- I loathe my ineptitude in sports (if you can even call golf a sport; it's more like an exercise to prepare the sinful, profane, club-hurling guys like me for an eternity with big Beelzebub in the blazing pits of hell) -- but this is the first time I've had this feeling about Ultimate. Normally I would hit the Dane and drink off my woes, but now that I'm on yet another hopeless quest for abs, I shunned the beer in favor of an ice pack on the knee and, afterwards, some reading in the bathtub.

And only reading. Honest.

I had the dropsies on four or five easy ones. I didn't score; can't remember when that last happened. Defense was all right, I guess, but I make my money catching touchdowns. Oh wait, I don't make money playing 'bee.

And now, with this revelation that I suck, I guess I never will. There goes my last dream, smushed like a lonely rose among weeds.

Point is, I enjoy making catches. I enjoy scoring (who doesn't enjoying scoring?). The dropsies, however, especially the endzone dropsies, haunt me day and night. I remember dropping a hammer from Keith back when the Ass Clowns were the Killer Bs. Over half a decade ago. Or when last I played Fall league, a couple years back, when Bill, in the last game of the season, connecting to me via telepathic manbond, read my endzone cut perfectly and hooked me up with a beautiful outside-in forehand curling between several defenders right into my outstretched hands for a touchdo...ow...ow... down to the ground. Shitsicle! Mr. Santner was there.

Witness!

In any event, horrid play aside, I'm dealing with a case of the Shitty Knees, further compounding matters and adding injury to insult. This leaves me agile on my feet as Falcor, the magical flying dog from the Neverending Story (this is coincidentally the title of my sex life. Err...that's not it; there's a "never" in there somewhere though). I have in mind to work on foot speed this winter betwixt Frisbee seasons, but I'm betting instead I'll star in that blockbuster movie, Couch Wars: Attack of the Lazies. Anyway, I need the pain in the knees to subside before any such endeavor is pursued. I'm a hobbling yoda without the force powers. I'm also not short and green.

Anyhoo, my spirits soared after watching Stephen Colbert interview Ted Danson on the Colbert Report (The pros of eating mercury? Shrug. "It's delicious.") and now I think I'll keep playing Frisbee. Crisis averted.

The funny cures all.

Meldar

[Blogger's Note: Well, this article isn't finished and hasn't been edited, but if I don't publish it now it'll probably remain incomplete, a draft forever.]


Mel Gibson, fresh off a drunk driving incident during which he spouted anti-Semitic remarks and referred to a female arresting officer as "Sugar Tits," appeared on Wednesday at the latest Star Trek convention in Los Angeles, Ca.

"I'm showing off the new 'do," said Gibson, who coined his coiffure The Saddam. "It's going to be the next big thing. It's going to be huge"--his eyes widened--"and everyone will know I started the trend." He added, in a bizzarely robotic tone, "I am Meldar, a humanoid conceived and raised on the pleasure planet Risa IX in the Salacious System."

When asked why he chose to emulate the former dictator's unkempt, fresh-from-the-dirt-hole hairdo, Gibson's response only provoked more questions. "I just love the jolly guy. Always smiling, that one. He's truly an inspiration. To travel around the world giving out all those presents in one night. One night!"

During the drunk driving arrest, Gibson also reportedly threatened one of the police offers with anal sex.

"What's the big deal? I love anal sex. Who doesn't? What is this crazy world coming to when a man gets in trouble for offering--offering, it wasn't a threat--to perform anal sex on another warm-blooded humanoid? People do it all the time. But of course, when Meldar says it, lordy, lordy, the apocalypse is here. Meldar is one of the good guys, who happens to love anal sex."

Gibson's next silver screen attraction, Apocalypto, is due to be released December 8th. After receiving criticism over his portrayal of the Jewish people in the role of Jesus Christ's death in the last movie he directed, Passion of the Christ, Gibson might have chosen to play it safe with his following motion picture. "I'm edgy. Meldar isn't scared of the media's invective. This time I tackled natives!" (Gibson (right) tries to escape from actors hired to play Mayans.) "They didn't handle it as well as I had hoped."

*This article is ficticious. All characters were made up. I don't know where the pictures came from (I think blogspot uploaded them without my permission). Any likeness to real persons is purely coincidental. So don't sue me, Mel! Personally, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies. Freedom!

Calf Implants

Once Frisbee ends, I've decided to make a concerted effort to growing my calves to the size of artichokes. (You might be thinking, 'The size of artichokes? That's ridiculous!' Well, I'll be honest, I don't even really know what artichokes are. So there.)

I've long contended that my genetics precluded my ever obtaining calves an observer could see without possessing eyes with the magnifying power of the hubble telescope times two. More than one person has commented on my calves. Yes, people have actually examined my calves--a stranger even--and commented how small they were. This is how impressively diminutive these "muscles" are.

But this winter, I'm going to prove myself wrong. And if I fail, I'll just get calf implants and pretend I succeeded.

It's Monday!

It's Monday, and you all know what that means: Monday night is just around the corner, which means gallons upon gallons of alcohol consumed out of black jugs marked XXX.

Joking. Actually I'm too into getting in shape to drink large amounts of liquor. I'm pathetic. It's the price I pay for working towards the Ultimate Man Bod (TM).

Today hasn't been too miserable so far, for a Monday. Our weekly software meeting lasted a delicious five minutes. Work's going well despite the fact I'm not presently working. Hey, I'm not some sort of machine who can work eight hours straight, all right? I need a little time to breathe, to blog, so I can return to programming with extra vigor and special sauce.

I think I need to come up with some fun theme for this blog, something that'll leave my audience titillated and aroused, something, more importantly, that will force me to write here more often. Cause my two fans demand it. While generally I try not to give a shit about other people, I've decided to make an exception in this case (or pretend to, at least. Did I just write that? Mental note: Delete this parenthetical aside).

I started writing some fiction last night. Hooray!

OK, gotta work. That's my blurb o' the day.

Quote of the Day

Here's a little quote from an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Counselor Troy is interviewing the girlfriend of an officer who had recently committed suicide.

Something terrible must have happened to him, counselor, because it's not like Dan to take his own life.

Precious.

Now I don't want to get off on a rant here...

Adoring Readers,

It's 4:10 AM. I just wrote my Frisbee captain explaining I wouldn't be able to make our game scheduled for tonight. I realized while writing that I will've missed the Dane (and FREE BEER) both times this week, which hasn't happened in, well, ages.

Quoth the BT:

I can't believe I'm about to miss the Dane and free beer two times in a row. There's a little place I like to call hell. I just scoped it out with my ethereal binocs. It's more frozen than the oh-shit! gaze of a glacier-preserved, Pleistocene caveteen caught by his mom in the act of pretzeling himself into position for autofellatio.

Maybe it's just cause it's 4:10 in the A.M., but that shit cracked me up-- enough to share it with the world. Be sure to check out the wikipedia on giving yourself a hummer. Picture included!

That was the best metaphor ever written.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

Channel 27 News Preview

"Alcohol can be difficult to avoid for UW students on campus, especially for those with drinking problems."

Hmm. You think? Personally, I would have added, "and super-duper especially for those with drinking problems who are in bars with hot, big-breasted sluts offering to take their tops off for anyone willing to suck some sticky sweet yumyum alcoholic shots off the hot, big-breasted sluts' cleavage."

Now that's hard to avoid. Trust me.

Now if you'll excuse me...

It's time to watch some channel 27 news at ten!!

Drinking Problem.

So it's been a month. Don't call it a comeback, I've been here the whole time.

In that month, I've had a lot of time to reflect, a lot of time dream, and a lot of time to drink. I find those three are mutually exclusive. Reflection leads to dreams of a better future; dreaming of that better future leads to further reflection on my pitiful life; this reflection leads to hard liquor. Drinking of course leads to sleep, during which I typically dream. The subsequent hangover causes reflection and dreams to never drink again. But what sort of life would that be?

And so the cycle renews itself. It's a vicious one, that.

I'm basically like Mother Gaia: a self-cleaning mechanism.

Anyway, on to my real drinking problem. I'm not afraid to admit it, either. I have a drinking problem. There. I said it. OK? You happy?

Nosy fucks.

I was up in Minneapolis for my brother Bart's thirtieth birthday the other weekend. Twenty beers, a few arm wrestling matches, a piggyback ride, one winning round and several losing rounds of dice later, I decided to take on my buddy, Glen Livet. Me, Bart, and a few of his buddies were downstairs in the basement, chatting the good chat -- which when you've collectively consumed an entire keg basically boils down to dancing to the footloose theme song (Dirk, I'm looking your way) -- when I sat down, back resting against the front base of the couch. I made some sarcastic remark about how well I could hold my liquor.

Then I threw the contents of the glass in my face.

Not only a smidge of liquid, either.

Drowning in a flash flood of scotch, rolling around the floor like a trained pig*, trying to hold off the uncontrollable spate of laughter causing an inverse avalanche of suds and saliva to rise from the depths within, recognizing the absurdity of what had happened, I realized that, in point of fact, I, my friends, have a drinking problem.

It turns out I can't hold my liquor. Not with my hands, at least.

This has caused me to reflect upon my problem and dream up a solution: the sippy cup. The next time I find myself saturated of sweet inebriation-- can anyone say, Ass Clown EOY Party?-- I'm going to my plan b. And I hope those around me will offer their encouragement. For though spilling profusely on one's self is comedy gold, after the third or fourth time the well runs dry.

That is all.

*Bill Parcells was giving an interview after a preseason practice the other week. After the tenth straight question about Terrell Owens' injury, he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "I'm not gonna stand up here like a trained pig and talk about the same thing over and over again." That, my gentle snowflakes, is officially the worst. simile. ever. And I have had some pretty good doozies in my day.

One of my more enjoyable diversions...

BT is in the news!

"It sends out a very positive message if someone like BT is getting into this business".

Rwrrarrrr!

The Tigers defeated the Indians last night 9-7. I know what you're thinking: who gives a flying WHOOPSIE! Not I. But according to ESPN, "[w]ith a five-run first inning, Detroit became the first team in 115 years to score at least five runs in the first at-bat of three straight games, and the Tigers held on for a 9-7 win over the Cleveland Indians."

Holy WHOOPSIE!

Now, being a Brewers fan, I know I'm unaccustomed to watching great baseball, but five runs in the first inning of three straight games--all in the first at-bat?!

I think Detroit is officially my favorite team now. Hell, I'd WHOOPSIE a brick if Rickie Weeks, the Brewers' leadoff man, tallied a lowly two runs to start a game. Is that so much to ask? And I wouldn't get greedy and ask him to do it three times in a row. Just once. C'mon, Rickie, ya sack of WHOOPSIE. A two-run shot to lead off the game. You WHOOPSIEdamn motherWHOOPSer.

He'd never WHOOPSing do that.

Ergo, the Detroit Tigers are now my favorite baseball team.

Go Tigers!!

p.s. WHOOSPIE you, Brewers. You've broken my heart one too many times. WHOOPSIE!!!!

Self Clown Love

The Ass Clowns convened last night for a little Essen Haus fun. This morning, I awoke with scratches on my shoulder, one of my pasty hands, my face, and chest. And those are just the ones I can see.

Make that a lot of Essen Haus fun.

As you might have guessed, most of these scratches resulted from a hundred pound woman bodyslamming me to the ground. I admit curiosity over the one across my chest. Did I mention my socks, shoes, shirt, and shorts were all downstairs in the livingroom this morning, despite the fact I slept upstairs in my bed? Apparently I just couldn't wait to take it all off and have my way with myself.

(I came at the same time.)

Anyway, on a completely different subject, I swear, please excuse me; it's time to tan some hands!

BT 2.0

Doing well on the pizza strike. I'm too lazy to check how long it's been, but I'm on week two now. Today, endeavoring to branch out with my eating habits, I tried to make Sloppy Joes for the first time since learning the recipe from my sister-in-law, Elin, a couple months ago.

LET'S GET SLOPPY!

Despite what you may think, you can indeed make sloppy joes too sloppy.

That, however, did not stop me from devouring six of them over a two hour span.

Sloppy but delicious.

So much for no pizza improving my diet. Guilty, I ran three miles on the trusty treadmill (which squeaks so loudly I can hear it despite listening to my iPod at full blast with earbuds). Damn it felt nice to exercise with the eye of the tiger again.

BT 2.0 is on the way.

Bigger, faster, blacker, better.

You might be wondering if "blacker" above was an attempt at comedy, but you'd be wrong--dead wrong. Laura chided me for having "pasty" hands at Frisbee yesterday. I must say congratulations, Laura, for taking my self-esteem down a peg or three. Not everyone can have sexy golden hand skin like you. It's my only physical imperfection. Sue me.

Sufficed to say, tomorrow I won't be wearing golf gloves on the links.

Day 2: Pizza Strike

Can I go THIRTY days without having pizza? That is the challenge.

After nearly ordering a pizza from Papa John's this afternoon for no good reason, after nearly adding 3000 calories to my day's intake TWO HOURS BEFORE I was set to have a free dinner at TGI Friday's, I decided enough was enough. (Note: instead of eating, I lifted weights and ran a mile.)

It's a scientific fact: while writing this article, I have already craved a Tombstone.

Frankly, I'll be shocked if I last a week. The only chance I have is opening up this challenge to the public so I'll be humiliated when I fail, probably after three days. Have I mentioned it's day two? But anyway, I figure the threat of humiliation is the only source of motivation powerful enough to give me a shot at this.

As Captain Picard said in Star Trek: First Contact, "The line must be drawn here!"

While the Borg rank slightly higher on the scale of malevolence, pizza is a close second.

Another scientific fact: I have, during the writing of this article, thought of not publishing this article and giving up my challenge. Dead serious.

Ugh. I'm tired. Sleepy time.

Excuse me, I'd like to ass you a few questions

Dick Assman

AWOL

My fans have been itching for more. Unfortunately, I've been too busy dreaming up million dollar ideas. Oh, and also helping my bro, Brady, out with his burgeoning rap career. If anyone knows anything about hand gestures, rhyming, or has the 411 about upcoming rap battles, let Brady know!

I do have several hilarious articles forthcoming, my favorite about Nich Lachey, so keep an eye out, yo! Also, Jim gave me plenty of blogging fodder this evening at the Dane, after a pitcher or three of beer. Stay tuned for a story of a man who nearly accidentally stabbed himself to death, in the face, with a fork. "Oh God, that one got me in the eye!" Based on a true story, y'all. I shit you not.

Peace out, and, as Brady would say, word to your mother.

Obi-cat

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there.

Having just returned from my parents' house, where a 1970 Bordeaux complimented pork and potatoes, and strawberry short cake drenched in whipped cream put the cherry on top of a fine late springtime meal, I am presently relaxing in my recliner, diet coke in reach, ready to blog my butt off.

As I collected my belongings, preparing to leave, I noticed Obi, my old white Himalayan cat, sitting in shadows underneath some cabinets, atop a short stack of magazines and unopened envelopes. In his teens when I purchased my condo back in October '04, Obi was, my parents and I decided, too old to become accustomed to a new home. Besides, at that point she still had PJ, our since deceased collie, to keep her company. Obi and PJ busted the myth that cats and dogs can't get along. He was the yin to her yang. Or something. But now his companion is up in doggy heaven, and tonight, watching him sit there with his these-days-typical grumpy mien, I decided that often times, I feel like an old cat; all I require is the comfort of another willing to lick me when I'm dirty and leave me alone, or maybe rub her soft fur against me, when I'm peevish and disagreeable.

Obi is by no means alone. A month or so ago, my mother bought a 10-week-old white golden retriever. It's from Europe. The golden retrievers from Europe are white. Why don't they just call them white retrievers? But anyway, Einstein is his name, and like the white-haired mad scientist, he is full of energy, humps legs, and poops everywhere. The introduction of Einstein to the family didn't sit well with Obi-cat, who recently confided in me that "Einstein purloins my attention! Now he gets all the dinner scraps. Nobody pets me anymore because of that insufferable dog."

Though he whines ad nauseam that Einstein is the root of all his woes, I believe he simply still misses PJ (Pumpkin Junior, selfishly named after my first doggy, by yours truly, because I was unprepared, unwilling, to completely let go).

Obi used to purr like a Porsche at the first sign of affection. Eyes closed in contentment, mouth intermittently opening to issue forth his hiccup-like pseudo-meow, Obi would ensconce himself in your lap and arch his backside like a wave while petted from head to tail. I noticed within the past couple months that Obi doesn't purr like that anymore, not the way he used to, especially when Einstein or Georgia, my new kitty, are nearby. If he so much as sniffs the scent of one of "those usurpers" (his words, not mine), the purr machine becomes inoperable. At one point, Obi either could not control the urge to purr, to announce his happiness to the world in his utterly annoying, yet endearing way, or he simply chose not to censor his feelings.

How that cat used to hum his satisfaction.

Loss, however, has changed the once affable feline. Sometimes, the effect of loss is a temporary kind of deal. It's eventually accepted as part of life's vicissitudes, and one moves on, once more capable of letting the simple pleasures pick up your spirits, like how Georgia reaps so much enjoyment playing with a plastic bag, or chasing the puppy, or tempting the African Grey parrot, Peanut, who is quite used to being the dominating presence of the household; or the way Einstein sprawls out, belly on floor, limbs splayed in an X, completely exhausted after running full-bore from the bird for twenty minutes; or, of course, tasty cat treats.

Obi doesn't seem to have adjusted just yet. It's sad to see the ubiquitous grumpy face stapled on his face, to hear the silence as you pet him. Sometimes he purrs, but mostly he stays stoic, pensive, maybe melancholy. It's hard to tell. Because cats are lazy, and laziness can easily be misconstrued as discontent.

But like I said, he doesn't purr too often these days. And that's a shame. Why couldn't he have been rendered purrless when he slept in my bed and woke me up at 3 AM every night all those many years ago? We used to enjoy playing Toss the Kitty Across the Room after these dead of night disturbances. What fun we had!

There I stood, belongings in hand, having just bade farewell to my parents. I walked across the kitchen, stepping over a tuckered out Einstein along the way, kissed Obi on the forehead, and petted him head to tail. The old cat nodded, blinked, and started to softly purr. As I continued to show my affection, he purred louder and louder, until finally he reminded me of the young, happy Obi-cat I used to know.

Annoyed by the thunderous purr, I hurled him across the kitchen.

Hearing the panicky rwraaaarr warble through the air, and the eventual thump against the wooden floor, I felt a teardrop meander down my cheek.

Ah, just like the good old days.

OK, it didn't happen exactly like that. But purr he did, if briefly, in acknowledgement of my affection. Despite Einstein's close vicinity. Is this a sign Obi-cat is accepting not only the loss of PJ, but also the undesired presence of the energetic puppy, Einstein? Or did he just happen to smell dinner and hope by purring I would offer up some leftovers? We may never know.

Cause cats don't talk. Well sometimes they do, but my therapist said not to mention things like that to other people.

Oh God, what have I done?!

Scat, cat!

Up at 2 A.M., woken by the need for a little mid-night micturition, teeth of a Norwegian Forest cat chomping on my feet (Georgia, it tickles!), I thought it the natural time for a blog update--though I warn you: I'm groggy and hopped up on meds, so my judgement may be a tad tottery, and it is indeed exceptionally likely everything I write will make not a modicum of sense.

Yes, this is how I write when I've just been ripped from slumber by the need to pee. Can't you just smell it? The petulance?

Anyway, I think Georgia has a urine fetish; I'm concerned about it. I take that back: it's all streams of water she craves, not simply my sweet, yellow nectar. But having a cat with a stream fetish makes urination a trifle adventurous. Imagine the stream, gloriously flowing from tip to toilet. Maybe you don't want to imagine the tip part. But you get the idea. Hey, it was alliteration, I had to go for it. You imagining? Good. Now allow a racing cat, tearing up a stairway, nearly crashing against the linen closet in her cartoonish celerity to simultaneously turn ninety degrees and bolt for the bathroom, to enter the mental picture.

Her feet summon dust puffs of alacrity, roadrunner style, as she veers spang for the holy grail.

She halts before the mighty stream, paws on porcelain, simply gazing with curiosity, or awe, or perhaps curiosity and awe at the same time, as the urinefall splatters on water with its mellifluous siren's plop.

What is this? she ponders, testing my typically deft aiming ability by creeping her nose farther out over the bowl, becoming more target than kitty with each passing moment.

She leaps lithe as a ballerina onto the rim, avoiding the object of her curiosity. How? I don't know. Consider it one life consumed. She stands straddling the bowl momentarily before deciding to tightrope toe along the other side of the toilet.

There, she poises to strike. Ears back, teeth bared, she sallies forth her paw, slapping the stream, at first as if testing its temperature. Then, finding it delightfully tepid, she continues her assault as I struggle to avoid her onslaught without puddling piss on the tile floor. I do the herky-jerky, swaying to and fro, trying to assuage my manhood*, which, long--very long, snakelike, and anaconda thick--appears possessed as it thrashes back and forth. Like an unmanned firehose on full blast, it cannot be controlled.

The cat wins this battle. But the war isn't over yet! Next time I will be more prepared. I'm devising an ambush!

I will have the last meow in this matter!

ANYway, I suppose I should get some shuteye. In short, I woke up to pee and the cat was there. I probably could have just written that instead. Oh yeah, she likes to bat at the water when I take baths, too, but she seems to lose interest when I shove her into the tub.

Cats are outstanding.

Good night, everyone! And good night...holes.

Love,
Brett

*No, that doesn't mean I was masturbating

Golf and Beer

Amtelco has its bi-annual golf outing at 3:30 today. It's nice and tenebrous outside, so maybe it'll get rained out. Nah, that's not my luck. Actually, I hope it doesn't get rained out, because golf is better than work, as I've already admitted. Besides, I had a great deal of fun at the last Amtelco outing I attended during Summer '05. It's amazing how 3-5 beers during the course of nine holes can turn a Mr. Sad Golfer's frown into a freakish Joker's grin. After imbibing a little of the glee sauce, one doesn't mind hacking and slashing quite as much. Making a fool of myself?

Bring it on!

Joy derived from driving the cart is doubled, at least. Fair warning, squirrels!

I hope they have Whiskey this year.

I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

Gulp!

Avian Flu Times Two

It's wretched. Veritably abject.

I have been afflicted since childhood. For fifteen years, I've struggled to overcome. Like alcoholism, and masturbation, it is not merely an addiction; it's a disease. It debilitates ability to reason, causes delusions of grandeur. Like bipolar-affected individuals, those who share my malady suffer extreme highs and lows, reckless (often aggressive) behavior, and abnormally poor judgement. Commingling Turret's Syndrome, Bipolar Disorder, and God only knows what else (or possibly the Devil, but probably no one else, except maybe Jesus, but then again, isn't He God? Would the Holy Spirit know these things?), this disease is the greatest threat to Unites States citizens since the invasion of the British rock group, Coldplay.

Indeed, the Avian Flu has nothing on golf. In fact, scientists have proven golf to be twice as deadly.*

I took up the game of golf for the same reason I originally played hockey and baseball: because my parents made me. Little did I know, what began as a way to structure my time in a meaningful manner would prove to achieve quite the opposite.

I have a great idea, gang: let's spend the next four hours in the pits of hell! Golly, I've been meaning to throw twenty-five bucks down the poopshoot!

Golf is a dreadful, insidious game. More often than not, I hate the damn sport. In a recent round, I completely lost my swing. To lose one's swing, in golf vernacular, means the following: If you were to poll a small group of nearby spectators who happened to for some reason be watching my round of golf, and you asked them if I were 1) a novice golfer, 2) an experienced amateur, or 3) a golf professional, they would respond, collectively, "AAHHHHHHHHHHH! NOOO! THE HUMANITY!!!" as my errant pitching wedge shot, shanked--sprayed straight right off the clubface--struck their skulls in a masterful show of ineptitude.

I vowed to quit. Forever. Despite years of training.

Why?

Ultimately, golf, like life, is utterly pointless. Delving deeper, I decided to quit golf out of a more basic desire: to ensure the survival of those I love (and often, play golf with). I do not wish harm upon my family members, nor even on the stray single who might foolishly wander into a threesome full of Killer Bs (Dad: Bernie; Bro: Brady; Self: Brett). In general, I value life. At the very least, I try my best to avoid committing murders--accidental or otherwise--which is a grave possibility on any given golf shot. Well, probably not on a putt, but is that a chance you are willing to take?

Not me, for golf is Russian roulette with balls.

Alas, the very next day, my boss invited me to play a round of golf. 18 holes, for free, during a workday.

Clearly, I could not turn down a day off work.

Naturally, I expected the worst. When you expect bad things to happen, typically they do. And do they did: I sank a birdie. No, a drive gone askew did not crush a wading duck; rather, I sank a birdie putt. My first birdie of the year. Moreover, I played other holes with uncanny consistency. I miraculously rediscovered my driver swing. Balls arched majestically through the air over 300 yards. Not left. Not right. Not Backwards. Not nowhere. But Straight, 300 yards. Irons met the dimpled surface of my Titleist head-on, imparting perfect spin and trajectory. Putts rolled with near-perfect speed and precision.

I was in the proverbial zone.

The occasional shot still strayed off course, and sure, one or two putts hit an unseen slope and missed the cup by a measly foot or ten, but golf, after all, is a game of mistakes; the goal is to minimize errors as much as possible. Consistency is the key. If I could simply birdie a few more holes per round, I could take aim at the city golf tournament this summer and have a realistic shot at claiming the title! After that, who knows?

To the practice range I went! Oh, this would be fun, getting to fine-tune an improving golf game, one on the verge of blasting past amateur status into the sphere of the elite. Even the worst professionals on the tour make solid dough. According to recent statistics on pgatour.com, the 184th best golfer makes six figures!

Oh, snap!

I plugged a tee into the ground, set a ball atop it, and hit my first drive of the practice session: a beauteous sight to behold! I wondered, gazing around coyly to see if anyone had witnessed my mammoth smash, if I could outdrive Tiger Woods, because that baby really had some hot sauce on it! After tracing the sky with one peerlessly projected golf ball after another, a startling, if breathtaking, panoply of brilliance, I decided to hit the practice putting green to hone the short game.

After ten minutes of hit-or-miss success, I decided the practice green did not suitably mimic the greens of a real golf course. Wasn't this green too sloped? Why else would I be missing three-foot putts? Eh, it's probably because it's impossible to practice putting with the same intensity one feels during the thrill of competition. Besides, putting is easy; no worries!

Once home, I scoured the Internet for sundry golf tips that were sure to dot the final remaining lowercase j's of my emerging excellence. One tidbit, in particular, would surely prove to subtract two or three strokes off my score in a jiffy; how could increasing my driving distance by 30 yards do otherwise? All it entailed was a fairly minor grip change, and the procurement of a new $250 1W ($100 off the retail price! What a deal!)

I emailed my brother, and we agreed to meet at 6:30 AM at Yahara Hills Golf Course. Better to beat the rush. 18 glorious holes, uninterrupted by slow players. Newbs. We'd be done by ten A.M. and have the rest of the day to discuss the round, and what, if anything, we needed to work on yet.

At this point of the story, there are two and only two possible outcomes. One: I have a very good, but infuriatingly imperfect, round of golf, scoring at or near my low score of the year, thus facilitating further delusions of grandeur; two: reality, in the form of slices, shanks, and misread putts, slaps me in the face like a tire iron rapped across my cheek by a crazed victim of road rage (despite the fact that asshole cut me off!). In the former scenario, I would continue golfing until the latter, inexorable outcome occurred. If slapped by the cold tire iron of reality, however, I would vow to forever quit this game I loathe, only to be lured by the siren of the birdie's chirp, or the eagle's squawk, doomed to fall prey once more to expectations smothered with the tasty, addictive dip of naiveté, which might look and taste much like nacho cheese.

The only option for the hacks like myself, and all of you golfing addicts out there (I'm better than 90% of you, so yes, this means you, Mr. Skin-tight Khakis), is to enjoy the game for what it is: hell on earth. Imagine the searing pain of self-immolation. Now pretend Death decides to eschew your appointment to the afterlife in order to delight in your suffering. You are walking down the fairway--your drive, oh by the way, just sailed at least fifty yards over the woods that beset it--where finally you plop down a new ball, take out your pitching wedge, and swing with Herculean force, feeling still the sting of embarrassment from your little "episode" on the tee box in which you hurled your driver one-hundred yards toward a gaggle of geese because "those fucking bastards distracted [you]"; then you gaze down the fairway toward the green only to see a wisp of white flash, transient as a firefly's flicker, in your peripheral vision.

Shank. Out of bounds.

You begin laughing uncontrollably as the frail grip of sanity slackens and the intricate system of failsafes designed by God to prevent descent to madness begins a rapid shutdown sequence, one by one, until only your maniacal cackle, which is all that remains of your humanity, if it can be called that, dies like a sigh into the thick silence of a humid mid-morning air.

It is 9:15 A.M. You are tired, cranky, dispirited. All you want in the entire world is to curl up on your bed and cuddle with the one you love, even if it is just the damn cat, and fall peaceably into the serene respite that is slumber.

You have seven holes to go.

The nightmare continues.

If you are thinking of taking up the game of golf, and you have any choice in the matter, please, heed my warning: like excessive masturbation, golf will chafe the foreskin...of your very soul.

Beware!

*Scientists have not studied the pernicious effects of golf vis-à-vis the Avian Flu. But I'm confident my figures are on the mark. I have pie charts available upon request should further evidence be required.