The Milwaukee Bucks Should Tank the Season

I started a group on facebook to rally like-minded folks to my cause. Following are some rants of mine on the subject. Consider this a continuing blog.

3/15
Firing Terry Stotts is a step in the wrong direction. The Bucks will be hard pressed to find another coach as adept at losing as Stotts, notorious for encouraging reckless activities such as riding motorcycles without helmets, snowboarding during the season, and bathing with toasters. There is a very real possibility the Bucks will rally around this new coach, Krystkowiak (having a Coach K alone sounds impressive), and play inspired ball.

The Bucks should re-hire Stotts forthwith and retain his services until the end of the season. I fear the organization is steering this squad toward meaningless late-season victories. Then again, signing an in-house man was pretty ingenious; it's like hiring coordinators from the Bill Walsh system in football, except the exact opposite.

Later that night, the Bucks went on to defeat the San Antonio Spurs (47-20).

3/17:
Tonight the Bucks have a critical home game against the Charlotte Bobcats in a matchup between bottom-dwellers. The Bobcats currently hold a 0.5 game advantage over the third spot in the lottery. A timely defeat tonight would usher the Bucks closer to the Oden/Durant holy grail.

This is clearly a must-lose game for the Bucks if they are to entertain serious hopes for a #1 or #2 pick in the draft.

May the luck o' the Irish be on their side, and let us all say a prayer (or limerick) that the new coach smell that has the Bucks playing like roses will have worn off by tipoff.

Go BOBCATS!

Later that night the Bucks defeated their rivals 97-91. A two-game winning streak. Great. Desperate times call for desperate measures. (I just made that up.) On orders from General Manager Larris Harris, Coach K takes matters into his own hands to ensure "victory".

3/22:
MILWAUKEE--The Milwaukee Bucks were defeated Wednesday night 104-103 by the L.A. Clippers on a last second buzzer beater. Outscoring the Clippers 32-14 in the fourth quarter, the Bucks slyly slipped on the veil of a comeback with its furious late-game surge prior to calling off the horses just in the nick of time.

"We did a great job coming back," said Bucks All Star snub and star shooting guard, Michael Redd, oddly grinning despite the thematic heartbreaker. "But you've got to look at the first three quarters," he added, winking.

Milwaukee (25-42) has a three-day respite before playing three days out of four--at home against Detroit, and then on the road against Western Conference powerhouses Houston and Dallas.

Bucks officials also announced Wednesday center Andrew Bogut and forward Charlie Villanueva will miss the remainder of the season due to injuries.

Bogut was last seen clutching a toaster in the locker room. G.M Larry Harris has refused comment.

Victory Sealed with a Kiss

After guiding an 83-70 upset over #1 Florida Saturday afternoon, showing off an incredible feat of athleticism, Shan Foster simultaneously chest bumps and passionately open-mouth kisses another member of the victorious Vanderbilt squad, which improved to 18-8.

Some believe the creative ad hoc celebration could very well be the next "Lambeau Leap."

The stunning PDA -- public display of affection -- comes less than a week after ex-NBA great Tim Hardaway told Miami Herald radio host Dan Le Batard, "You know, I hate gay people, so let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don't like it. It shouldn't be in the world or in the United States."

Foster and Derrick Byars, 24 points, led the Commodores in scoring.

After receiving a maelstrom of criticism, Hardaway later clarified his remarks through a press release, "Those comments man, shit, that was my bad. I meant to say that I love gay people. The funny thing is, I am the least racist man I know. Let it be known. Tim Hardaway thinks gays are rad."

The victory marks the sixth time Vanderbilt has defeated a ranked opponent.

Giuliani's Got the 'Big Mo' on His Side

Rudiger William Giuliani, known simply as "Rudy" to friends and beloved masses, or "Snuggle Wuggles" to girlfriend Gina Fraiser, declared on CNN's Larry King Live on Wednesday that he will be running for President in 2008.

"Life is great!" said Time's 2001 Person of the Year, who has since fallen to what he deems a "still respectable" 18th on the list, behind such notables as Singer/Songwriter Nelly Furtado, rap artist Ludacris, and hot baseball agent Scott Boras, who brokered a deal for the purported Japanese gyroball hurler Daisuke Matsuzaka.

"Kobayashi is a greater man than that Mitsubishi bum," the lifelong Yankees fan stated.

After King probed him on the descent, questioning how great life could really be for a man so clearly plummetting down Time's POY list, Giuliani said, "Who cares? I'm rich, I'm in love, and guess what, Lar?"--he affected a Dick Vitale voice--"I'm running for President, baby!"

His face scrunching around a smirk and his voice switching to his notorious Austin Powers, he added, "Yeah! Does that make you randy? Does it?"

The confirmation comes after years of speculation.

After courageously leading New York City in the wake of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, when the former mayor of the Big Apple was often seen at the site of the Two Towers offering support and encouragement to rescue workers and victims, Giuliani's popularity soared to unheralded, "re-fuck-diculous" heights.

A Gallup poll conducted last week indicated sixty-nine percent of Americans believe Giuliani could shave off what remains of his hair, and actually pull it off. At this, Rudy nodded and smiled. "Aw yeah. Sixty-nine!"

He then winked and offered an impromptu wave to an off-camera Mo Vaughn, who shaped his hands into guns, winked, and pulled his thumb-triggers. Giuliani revealed the former Red Sox slugger as his running mate for '08, saying, "I'm willing to cross party lines, Lar."

He added with a whisper, "Plus, it's a hoot hanging around Mo and his posse of ho's."

Short Story -- Just Friends

I wrote this story a year ago. I randomly happened upon it when digging for old stories of mine to peruse. It was well hidden in some poorly titled folder. Brady remembers reading it way back when and gave it the flattering review, "it was good (a little dated now)." You be the judge!

Just Friends
by Me, BT
~1100 words

“Welcome to Fast Food Escape,” said Jerry Foster, once again forgetting the last part of the greeting. Loneliness caused concentration to dim and flicker like a low-battery flashlight. As he jammed a burger in his mouth with one hand and sucked up a steady stream of chocolate milkshake through a straw, Jerry’s mind raced with notions of fancy. More than anything else this world had to offer, he desired the companionship of a warm-blooded human being. The comforting touch of a woman. Or a man. Anybody with a pulse would suffice, though he would prefer to experience the virginity-slaying act with the fairer sex, since that was the more societally acceptable choice.

He felt alienated as it was—like most minorities, he figured.

The customer, a beefy jock wearing a University letter jacket, studied the overhead menu with a vacuous gaze common among the media-brainwashed masses. The man said, “I’ll have,” before drifting off, entranced by the many sundry delicious options from which to choose.

Jerry smiled. Then he felt that upside-down frown turn right-side up as he heard the disconcerting slurping sound beneath his chin suggest he might be forced to abandon his register to refill his shake; he kept a cache of two emergency milkshakes in a mini-refrigerator beneath the counter. At an arm’s length distance, he was loathe to keep a customer waiting. However, as fate would have it, on this particular day, Jerry had already resorted to this measure of desperation twice before, and he had yet to replenish his emergency stash.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Before hearing an affirmative, Jerry dashed spang for the milkshake machine. He grabbed a new cup. Rocking back and forth on his feet from heel to toe, toe to heel, as if riding an invisible surfboard of indecisiveness, he glanced back at the man. Still deciding. Suddenly the strawberry swirl appealed to him. But the chocolate had never let him down. Simple vanilla might be a nice change of pace, too. No, not today. Today he needed his chocolate.

After snatching a cheeseburger, he rushed back to his post.

The man stared dubiously at Jerry as he crumpled the cheeseburger wrapper and hurled it blithely over his shoulder. Jerry took a hearty bite. Washed it down. Then he moaned. A few deep breaths later, he said, “Are you ready to order?”

“You should not be working here,” the man said, his voice a mix of incredulity and admonition.

Jerry slowly removed his lips from the straw. Hoping to change the subject, already feeling the effects of withdrawal, he guessed, “Would you like a quarter-pounder?”

The man, a well-sculpted specimen who likely never had so many as five extra pounds of flab on his frame, crossed his arms, waiting.

All that waiting made Jerry nervous. He returned his lips to the straw.

“See?” the man blurted. “You couldn’t stand there ten seconds without stuffing yourself. Look at you. That gut—it’s immense!”

Jerry said, “I eat because, well, it’s so lonely here. Nobody loves me.”

The employees manning the other two registers briefly glanced at the developing scene. Their eyes scrunched and their brows wrinkled with concern.

“No friends, huh? What, did you eat them all?”

“Stop doing that.” Jerry felt the all too familiar urge inside of him battling to escape. People constantly teased him. He could only take so much before he tore himself apart, shame a monster dwelling deep within that scraped and clawed inside whenever someone poked fun at his weight issue. Okay: weight problem.

“Stop doing what? Listen, tubby: there’s nice and there’s the truth. And the truth is you are one fat fuck. How does the manager let you eat all that food? It must be costing him a fortune!”

Sipping on his milkshake, Jerry turned around, head cast down sulkily.

The manager, overhearing the hubbub, came out from the back. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The entire restaurant focused in on the conversation. Such a hush befell the room that the soft, gasping sobs which Jerry attempted to stifle were carried to the ears of each audience member of the cruel exposé.

“Now you’ve gone and upset him,” the manager said. Jerry felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let this guy bother you, Jer. He’s an idiot.”

“Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’ The man’s a rhino! Am I right or am I right? Fat fuck needs a date with Jenny Craig.”

“Who is Jenny Craig?” Jerry asked, having spun around with a look of innocent curiosity. “Can I meet her? Is she nice? Will Jenny Craig date me?”

The manager slunk to the side, a hand visoring his eyes, his head shaking.

“You’re single? A handsome man like you?”

Jerry perked up. “It is hard to believe, isn’t it?”

A nineteen-year-old co-worker, Jessica Franklin, butted in to his defense. “Just leave him alone, you idiot!” She canted her head, rounded her eyes, and nodded sharply with each subsequent syllable: “Can’t you see that you’re upsetting him?”

“Yeah!” exclaimed a chorus of defenders.

The man with a giant ‘W’ on his red sweatshirt—which Jerry knew to be short for “Wisconsin”—took one determined forward step, leaned in toward Jerry, placed both hands flatly upon the counter, and said contemptuously, “Jenny Craig is a diet program you lardass.” Then, spoken deliberately: “There is not one single woman on this entire planet who would fuck you.”

“Oh shit,” offered a woman’s voice. “There he goes!”

The manager yelled, “Everybody stay calm! Everything will be all right! Don’t panic!"

Jerry felt the familiar twitch again. He looked down, placing a hand on his bulbous gut. The monster’s three-pronged talons ripped away the flesh at the navel. Outpouring innards splashed wetly on the floor as it worked itself free.

The no-longer-inner demon launched itself upon the counter.

The student stood, tottery, before the creature.

It coiled, primed for attack.

The manager sidled up to Jessica. He whispered: “Man, that thing really needs to get laid.”

“Don’t look at me. We’re just friends.”

The Fountainhead

From The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand:

The world of the future. The world I want. A world of obedience and of unity. A world where the thought of each man will not be his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the brain of his neighbor who'll have no thought of his own but an attempt to guess the thought of the next neighbor who'll have no thought--and so on, Peter, around the globe. Since all must agree with all. A world where no man will hold a desire for himself, but will direct all his efforts to satisfy the desires of his neighbor who'll have no desires except to satisfy the desires of the next neighbor who'll have no desires--around the globe, Peter. Since all must serve all. A world in which man will not work for so innocent an incentive as money, but for that headless monster--prestige. The approval of his fellows--their good opinion--the opinion of men who'll be allowed to hold no opinion. An octopus, all tentacles and no brain. Judgment, Peter! Not judgment, but public polls. An average drawn upon zeroes--since no individuality will be permitted. A world with its motor cut off and a single heart, pumped by hand. My hand--and the hands of a few, a very few other men like me. Those who know what makes you tick...

Then, I thought this a tad queer, she proceeds to go on for three pages straight about masturbation. Huh.

I'm Still Alive

A brief update.

I am still alive. Brady has essentially conceded the 15K writing challenge to me. I have about a thousand words to go. I've written at least 250 words every day this new year, and I hope to continue this consistency. After all, persistence is key in life's pursuits.

As I thought to myself: 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.' Feel free to use this in conversations; I just made it up.

Great American Novel

I wrote this in an email earlier today, and I think it's worth sharing.

If ducks could talk, I wonder if, during the breathless moments before a sexual encounter, one would look into the other's eyes and whisper, "Girl, you ruffle my feathers." I have no idea what made me think of that. Maybe I should write an erotic allegory along the lines of Animal Farm, except with more hot, raw sex. Quack, quack!

If there is any interest from a publisher happening to peruse my blog, drop a line and I'll get on it right away!

Happy New Year

15K Writing Challenge: I'm up to 3402 words through day 13.

I'm in Florida, staying at my parents's new home in Fort Myers, through next Saturday, so to all you suckers stuck in the Wisconsin cold: stinks to be you.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to take a bath. Just kidding; a dip in the porch pool is in order.

Go Badgers!

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".)