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.