What An Adorable Little Lady

I work overnights and on my days off I keep my strange hours, which means I go to bed around 6:30 or 7:00 am every morning.

Jamie gets off work at 11:00 pm and is usually in bed around midnight. Saturday morning, when I decided to go to sleep, I found Jamie draped diagonally across the mattress at such an angle I found it impossible to crawl into bed.

Here's what happened next, and bear in mind that Jamie didn't open her eyes once during this entire interaction:

"Hey, scoot over," I said.

She waves me away with one hand.

"I can't get on the bed, scoot over."

She shakes her head no.

I pat her knee to indicate she needs to scoot over.

"Beat it, geek."

She legitimately said that. She has no memory of it, but it happened. Eventually, she finally scoots over. The dog hops on the bed also, and I start to pet him.

"Stop petting the dog," Jamie says.

"Why?" I ask.

"So that I can get some SLEEP!" Jamie yells.

Well, alright then.

Some Things I've Been Up To, or "What Up, Yo?" Vol. 1: My Years With Def Jam

Blog Part I-- Quick Notes:

A few quickies not worth an entire blog:

1. Why did Aerosmith get to write so many songs about vaginas?

2. Speaking of songs, if Jay does successfully learn to play the guitar, do you think he’ll write many different songs about his penis, or do you think he’ll take the Axl Rose path and strive for years to write one perfect, epic rock ballad about his penis?

3. Once people in this country can finally get gay married can we start work on forcing those little Nazi kids to finally give the Twix rabbit some cereal? I know this isn't a new revelation, but I really do hate those commercials. Though perhaps legalizing pot should take precedence over the Twix rabbit. After all, you'd think legal pot could only help people agree to give rabbits cereal.

4. I just watched the first season of “Life” via a dvd set borrowed from an annoying co-worker (the trading card guy). It focuses on a detective, recently released from twelve years of wrongful incarceration, who solves shamefully easy cases while eating fruit and spouting zen. It’s frighteningly realistic. Some have even commented that it is an almost picture perfect documentary of my life. However, these people ignore a few subtle differences. For instance, I may enjoy fruit, but I certainly haven’t based a character quirk around it, and I am much more interested by Buddhist philosophy than Zen (though the two beliefs do tend to intersect). Also, I’m not a detective. Or rich or handsome or interesting. Other than that, I must say that I do see the similarities.

Blog Part II: My fiancée is cheap. That is, in the “thrifty” sense of the word, not the “trampy” sense.

I will state my case using examples from the past two days only. I’ll start small and get bigger, like my bedroom behavior but in reverse (if you want, I’ll even stay awake and cuddle after):

Yesterday she flat out refused to buy me Fruity Pebbles, because she feels they are exorbitantly priced—not that she said that. She just looked back and forth between me and the price tag saying “Ouch!” and “Geez!” until I said I didn’t want them anymore. Postnote: She then bought a $1.00 donut because she wanted half of it. And I know I can buy my own cereal, but that’s not the point. This is a woman who gets money from scratch tickets and immediately “re-invests” the money into additional, non-winning, scratch tickets.

This one is about two weeks old, but she recently spent an afternoon shopping for a Valentine’s Day card before deciding they were all too expensive and making one with folded typing paper and a black ink pen instead. Though, to be fair, that card was legitimately awesome.

Saturday Jamie decided that she needed to save money and cut the dog’s hair herself. The results were tragic and irreversible:

(It looks much worse in person)

I’ll admit this might be a little unfair. There is a chance Jamie’s not cheap, just insane. To wit:

While I was taking my bi-monthly Sunday night shower, Jamie screamed “Do you love me?” and then fell off of the toilet. She was standing on it in an attempt to dump a glass of cold water on me. I told her that absolutely no part of me would find anything funny about that gag, and she responded with giggling and an excited “I know!”

Yesterday she shouted “come here and let me pet you, you little bitch!” to our dog and then interrupted the movie I was watching to incorrectly sing “You’re the Wind Beneath My Wings” four feet from my face.

And then there's this, which I won't explain. Just know it wouldn't have happened without Jamie's fervent insistence:

Well, you'll have to imagine your own closing line now, because I'm going to go make a sandwich with three different kinds of meat.

MAGIC!! (Not the Card Game)

As you may or may not know, I have possibly the most helpful brother in the entire world. For instance, I recently changed my phone number. My sweet, gentle brother took time out of his day to tell me that it was “the single gayest phone number” he had ever seen. Thanks, brother! He also regularly lets me know that Jesus hates me. It isn’t just pointless criticism, either. He gives me reasons why Jesus hates me (presumably so I can improve myself, although Jay has never said as much). Another theory of mine that I (assume) my brother disagrees with is that I generally trust Magic to fix problems in my life.

You see, I might be dying. I have weird leprosy spots of dying skin littered over my (manly? burlesque?) physique. Sometimes they itch and I feed them lotion, but other than that they spend their time quietly spreading over all of my body. Sometimes one of my eyes gets inexplicably blurry. The specific eye that blurs varies, but it is always just one of them at a time. Which is nice, I suppose. Also, one day I was trimming my mustache and I think my gums started to bleed. I tasted blood. I would’ve investigated further (probably by continuing to stand in front of the mirror and opening my mouth) but I was tired and went to bed instead.

Why don’t I see a doctor, you ask? Well, I’m poor. And if the liberal media has taught me anything, it’s that poor people are refused health care. I mean, I could try, but what’s the point? (As an aside, I’m thinking of having that last sentence tattooed on my forehead, next to a picture of a stick figure shrugging. It’s about as good a summary of my life as anything.)

But fret not, my dear four readers! I have faith I will survive… Through the power of MAGIC. This isn’t a baseless hope. MAGIC has helped me before.

Sometimes it helps me in little ways. Once, back in high school, the TV in my room started smoking and smelled like cap gun pellets. I shut it down for two weeks and when I turned it back on, MAGIC had fixed the problem. That TV lasted me until last year. Another time MAGIC made Creed break up. If more people believed in MAGIC (it’s like Santa Claus, Jesus, and Tinkerbell—it gets more powerful the more you believe in it) than maybe Scott Stapp would’ve been hit by a car instead of just outed as a douche, if he hadn’t been already.

The best example of MAGIC benefiting my life comes from college. Let me tell you a little tale! My freshman year of college was not the most hygienic year of my life. Occasionally I would sniff the day’s underwear before I went to bed to test if it was clean enough to put back in my drawer and wear again. One time I peed down the stairwell. I angered my dorm-mate every Sunday morning because I would use his Foreman to cook one of my favorite meals (chicken with a side of steak or vice versa) while lying down on our futon. I still maintain that this makes sense—that way I got to cook, eat, and nap without having to do anything more strenuous than rolling over.

Probably the least hygienic thing I did, however, was drink Kool-Aid. You see, we didn’t have a dishwasher in our dorm, and I was too lazy to do the dishes anyway. So I just made new Kool-Aid on top of the old Kool-Aid residue and drank straight from the pitcher (no sense in dirtying a glass). I started doing this my first week in college, and by the end of October I had successfully worn down my body’s defenses. I was sick. The hurts to breathe, “did I just cough up really solid mucus or a very runny testicle?” kind of sick.

I was sick enough that time that I actually did go to the doctor. Well, not the doctor, exactly, but the Iowa State Student Health Center. So kind of like a doctor in Mexico. At the end of my visit, during which I spoke to four different “doctors,” I was given a prescription for a bottle of happy pills. Incidentally, the doctor that prescribed the pills was the one who had spoken with me the least. When I filled the prescription, the guy at the pharmacy desk said what you hope to hear when you’re handed a bottle of pills: “One of these will slow you down. Two of these… will really slow you down.”

I took two pills and went to class. Holy shit was I high (legally, mind you) but my throat still hurt like the dickens. So scratch science. At least qualified science. My next step was to self medicate. Saving my super-duper pills for when I was healthy enough to enjoy them, I decided to cure my throat with a concoction of two different cough medicines, some of that spray stuff that numbs your whole mouth, cold pills, Advil (why not?) and Sucrets. Five days passed. I was still breathing thumbtacks. I decided to stop self-medicating, although my head did feel pleasantly lighter than the rest of my body. I switched tactics, by which I mean I quit trying and got outrageously drunk. The next day I awoke with mysterious drunken leg soreness (am I the only one who gets that?) but a clean bill of health. I breathed without pain. I breathed again, just to test it. I stopped breathing, not wanted to be greedy. I started breathing again when I remembered I would die otherwise. It was beautiful. MAGIC had cured me.

Not everyone believes my version of this story. When I told my mom, she said “Well, sometimes all you need is a really good drunk.” I’m sure you’ve all heard the same thing from your mothers countless times. However, I maintain that MAGIC fixed me. And like everything else in life, it's no less magical if it is aided by alcohol.

I just hope the MAGIC happens soon, because I’m really starting to itch.

Engaged!

So I got engaged!

Here's a picture of the happy couple. This was taken on a low-key Tuesday night at home:

Lord, she’s pretty. This is going to be fun.

Here was Jables’ reaction. I’m not sure quite what to make of it.

Overnights! And not the good kind, with pillowfights.

So I work overnights now, at a crappy insurance company (in the event someone important is reading this, they should know that when kids today say “crappy” they mean “awesome”—true story). What I do for a living is as unimportant as ever and the reasons for switching are relatively unimportant (other than the fact my girlfriend works overnights too, and now I can touch her boobs while I’m sleeping). One plus about overnights is that between calls I can write blogs that reveal far too much personal information.

I thoroughly enjoy my new hours. However, there are many mysteries and... I won't say interesting, because that's not true... we'll say socially inept characters to deal with when working overnight shifts. Here is one example of each:

Character: The 38 year old guy (Matt) who is way, way too impressed with his sports card collection. I’m not knocking the guy for liking or collecting sports cards. I’m not interested in it, but then I haven’t time traveled back to elementary school in 1964 and I can afford to buy gum without sharp edges (barely).

What I don’t understand is why this guy flaunts his card collection so much. One day he walked inside my cubicle (shattering my personal bubble) with a small, nondescript cardboard box. He then started to bang said box on the shelves in my cube.

He wants me to ask him what’s inside the box, I thought. Then I didn’t ask him, because he’s annoying and I wanted him to go away.

Matt then attempted to endear himself to me by praising the movie Transformers while denigrating Superbad, one of the best comedies of all time.

Sidebar: When I started to list off some of the 4,000 reasons Transformers is a giant steaming pile of cinematic bullshit, he told me “you just have to accept it for what it is.” Uh, no, I don’t. I like big dumb action movies as much as the next guy, I just don’t like lazy ones where four story alien robots can hide behind trees in the middle of the fucking suburbs, and I don’t like when the normally reliable John Tuturro is so ridiculously terrible he embarrasses the entire movie making industry. Off the top of my head, I can only think of one other performance that bad, which came courtesy of William Hurt in A History of Violence. But at least Billy “Volume = Acting!” Hurt has the excuse of always being worthless.

Sidebar 2: I also understand that I've probably thought about the movie Transformers more than the people who actually made it. But isn't that the problem?

Sidebar 3: I don’t know how to make an actual sidebar appear, so I’m assuming it is acceptable to just say “sidebar” and digress in the middle of a story. You know, kinda how Congress passed that law that says you can just say “stop” and drive straight through stop signs, instead of having to slow down? Washington really got that one right.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So he finally realizes I’m not going to ask him about his cardboard box, so he does a casual back stretch (honestly) and gives me a “Yeeeaahh… These are my trading cards. Probably got about $8000.00 in this box.” Wow. The conversation continued:

Him: “You want to see them?”

Me: “Nope.”

Of course, he opened the box and showed them to me. Including one that had pieces of jersey in the card! Oooh!

I don’t have anything else to add to this story. Sorry. I hope you learned something.


Mystery: Hey America! It’s time to play everyone’s favorite game…

Douche bag or malfunctioning robot?

I play this game every Friday when I work with a guy I’ll call “Carl,” because that’s his name. Now, the first time I met Carl, I thought he was just a dumbass. However, Carl’s behavior the past several Fridays indicates he could be a malfunctioning robot from the future.

Peculiar Behavior #1: Carl’s hair is bleached blond and gelled into a plastic harder than 1970s breast implants.

Debate: I’ll admit this one seems easy at first. I mean, we all know bleached blond hair on a dude is a key indicator of douchery. But what if this hair doesn’t just look like plastic? What if… it is plastic? Maybe the robot overlords of the future couldn’t find a good wig and just made a weave out of the tops of old Ken dolls.

Verdict: Douche bag 1, Robot 0.

Peculiar Behavior #2: Carl wears a very tight leather coat. It might also be a woman’s coat, I can’t tell. There does seem to be tiny air-breast bubbles in the chestal region.

Debate: This one is easy. The harrowing documentary Terminator 2: Judgment Day taught us all that robots from the future love leather coats. Scientists (namely, Jeff) are still working to determine why this love affair exists, but this little piece of evidence certainly furthers my robot theory. Also, we can assume post-apocalyptic robots place little emphasis on gender, which explains why Carl might be wearing a woman’s coat.

Verdict: Tie ballgame!

Peculiar Behavior #3: This isn’t behavior per se, but Carl’s voice sounds like Kermit the Frog, if a drowsy Kermit swallowed a bug while mainlining Quaalude.

Debate: Well, Carl is either a person that gets kicked in the throat a lot or a robot that accidentally wandered into a giant microwave and partially melted his voice chip. Both scenarios are equally plausible, but in this instance I’m leaning toward the latter.

Verdict: Douche bag 1, Robot 2.

Peculiar Behavior #4: Carl beat boxes to himself between calls. One night he used his cell phone to record himself beat boxing and played the recording back several times, giggling.

Debate: This one is tough. I’ve only known one good human being to beat box, and he’s a short Italian with a large penis. He was also going through a rap phase at the time. Carl isn’t short and I assume he doesn’t meet the other qualifications either. This line of logic definitely leads down Douche Bag Lane (the same street Carlos Mencia lives on).

But what if that is how robots communicate? Maybe he wasn’t playing a recording of himself, maybe he was having a conversation on speakerphone and I couldn’t differentiate between the two voices. Like when Jay overhears Asian people talk and he just hears “Ping pong ping pong ping pong.”

Verdict: I was tempted to give Team Douche Bag 200 points, but instead I’ll just tie up this mystery at two points each.


Final Verdict: Can robots be douche bags?


Well, that’s all for to day. I’ll leave you with this week’s installment of…

Things I’ve (honestly) been forced to tell my girlfriend:

1. The “suck it” gesture is not a dance, no matter how much you want it to be.
2. You can’t say “I’ll wash your underwear” in a sexy voice. It doesn’t work.

Profiles in Courage

I figured if Axl Rose can release an album, I can write a blog. I’ll catch you up on my life at a later date, so why don’t you get acquainted with some of the people in my life:

The Who (oh, one other thing-- This blog is essentially for the amusment of those listed, so if you're not listed, you'll be bored. And you're probably a jerk)

My brother Jay, my dad, my mom, my sister Anne, my girlfriend Jamie, and my friend Hampton

Conventional Reasons to Like These People:

Jay: In the past, he was often punctual.

Dad: He’s always up for some drunken Taco Johns. Once when I was little I went with him as he drove for some drunken Taco Johns (you read that right) and he rather vehemently decried one of Jay’s friends for trying to steal all our winter hats. Of course, no one ever actually tried to steal our winter hats.

Mom: She takes care of people. For instance, she sometimes will go get my dad Taco Johns, so he doesn’t drunkenly run over nuns and school children on his way to the drive-thru.

Anne: Sometimes she’s overly sarcastic to other people and more or less leaves you alone.

Jamie: She sleeps 17 hours a day, so if she’s bothering you, you just need to wait her out. You know how some people (douchebags) say they work 25 hour days? Jamie added an extra hour to her day so she could sneak in another nap.

Hampton: You can always silence his calls.

Why I Actually Like These People:

Jay: Last weekend he claimed he calls his wife Kelsey “Red Skittle Vagina Candy.” Her reaction made me think he probably doesn’t call her this.

Dad: Once, at breakfast, my family was having a discussion about what kind of movie biopic would eventually be made about us (because it’s inevitable, right?). My dad said he wanted his movie to be “a poor black boy Lion King” story. He was very excited about this.

Mom: She’s disgusting. She refers to pooping as “brown potty” and has my and Jay’s game of “who can say the grossest thing?” into an art form. Here’s an exchange that took place this weekend:

Jay (Contemplative, then with conviction): I don’t know what I’d say after a blowjob.. Everyone should have a post-fellatio buzzword!

(Laughter, then silence)

Mom: Lord knows I do.

(Everyone vomits quietly)

Anne: She’s a great communicator. For example, if you’re having a conversation she doesn’t approve of, she’ll use her polite voice and say, “change the subject, this is boring,” or “Ugh! I don’t care what you’re talking about!” Then she’ll talk to you for hours about High School Musical.

Jamie: I’m going to answer this by getting you up to date on Jamie’s weekly schedule. Here’s how she actually spends her week:

Monday
Sleep until 5:30 pm
Eat
Workout
Eat
Nap
Eat
Pout

Tuesday
Sleep until 5:30 pm
Eat
Nap
Workout
Eat
Nap
Whine about getting a second dog

Wednesday
Sleep until 6:00 pm
Wake up, then nap
Eat
Make up song, sing it acapella (don’t stop singing, even if Dallas begs)
Tell Dallas you’ll do the dishes

Thursday
Sleep until 6:00 pm
Pout—refuse to smile or enjoy life
Take NO Shotgun—get really hyper
Try to annoy Dallas
Pout when it works
Nap
Workout

Friday
Sleep until 6:30 pm
Take something too seriously, but refuse to admit anger
Get mad at Dallas for asking why you are mad
Give Dallas a pizza cutter?
Make an excuse about why you haven’t done the dishes

Saturday
Sleep
Nap
Sleep

Sunday
Sleep until 5:30 pm
Thank Dallas for doing the dishes

I mean, how could you not love someone like that?

Hampton: He is apathy incarnate. He once ate only peanut butter and Oreo cookies for almost two months, simply because he forgot to eat other things. He lived in an apartment for an entire year without putting sheets on his bed—he thought it was a waste of time because he was planning on moving out someday.

Less Desirable Qualities:

Jay: He’s very very fun again, which makes him much more difficult to mock.

Dad: He’s blindly Republican despite overwhelming evidence the GOP is pure, unadulterated evil. Also, he steadfastly refuses to monetarily support me if I retire when I want/deserve to, in April 2009.

Mom: She’s blindly Republican just because other people are Democrats. Don’t look for the logic there. She felt that Sarah Palin had/has merit as a leader in government. Don’t look for the logic there, either. She waits until lunch or dinner to bring up horrific car accidents or ask us about our bowel movements That last one might have been just for me, though, because I used to only make brown potty once a week. Hey Mom, I’m up to once a day! Hooray for modern science!

Anne: She has cool friends, hip taste in clothes and music, and just entered college. Basically, when God sucked all the youth and fun out of your life, he gave it to people like Anne. You should resent her for this—now you’re stuck with flab and French onion party dip stains on your sweatpants.

Jamie: See List Above

Hampton: Some of my clothes still smell from when he refused to shower freshman year of college. No joke! One particular smelly Sunday I asked him, “Hey Hampty-Hamp, why do you smell as if you were peed on and covered in stink bait and buried in hot, sweaty manure and then spent five years of your life living in the dumpster behind a Vietnamese whorehouse/restaurant?”

Hampton replied, “I showered on Thursday. Like you shower on the weekend.” HE THOUGHT PEOPLE DIDN’T SHOWER ON THE WEEKEND! The hell?



Anyhoo, not a long blog. I’m just getting back in the swing of it, so sorry if it sucked. But don’t worry, I’ll post again when Axl’s robot sentience puts out his next album, recorded in a studio on Mars in the year 2064.

Wowzers!

The other day I received the following voice mail.

“Dallas, you uppity little bitch, this is your brother, I want to know how your god damn job is going, so you better call me when you get this fucking message. Also, update your blog, because it’s ridiculous you haven’t done anything with it since October 29th. Quite frankly, you should be shot in the head and watched die, by millions, on live TV.”

Now, some might say that he was being overly harsh, but I’m not one to rush to judgment. I thought, you know, Jay (that’s my brother) has updated his blog several times since my last update—Maybe I should see what he’s about, before I decide he’s a horse’s ass.

So I reread through several of his blogs, only to discover that yes, he is indeed a horse’s ass. To save you some time, I have summarized the most interesting points of his last several blogs:

1. He hates it when people waste quality glue that could be used for scrapbooking.

2. He’s watched the Godfather part III seven times, but bitches when other people waste a half an hour of his time.

3. He and I apparently once had a conversation about whether actors in softcore pornography are as unloved by their parents as actors in hardcore pornography. My guess is they are hated more, for going about their careers halfassed. Also, the fact this conversation took place is absolutely awesome.

4. He doesn’t think ass rape makes any sense.

5. He hates being yelled at by strangers in bad haircuts. How often could this possibly happen?

6. He assumes that if you use buses and trains as forms of transit, you have failed in your life. Then he bitches about American excess.

7. He thinks the joke about anesthesia isn’t ever funny. He is yet to hear the other, funnier joke about anesthesia.

8. He writes the term “errant cumshots” very casually, as if it is something he says every day.

9. He’s often wrong, very fucking wrong, when it comes to movies. The Green Mile is better than American Beauty? Fuck you, buddy. And sorry Jay, but There Will Be Blood was great. You can’t knock that movie when you actually liked Babel. In fact, you can’t have an opinion on anything when you say you like Babel. The only reason anyone likes Babel is because they are pretentious and simply want to anger reasonable people, who rightfully see that movie as smug bullshit. There Will Be Blood isn’t good—It is GREAT. It doesn’t meander, you just didn’t think hard enough (then again, you are a Michael Bay fan. You’re not really used to thinking).

10. He says he can shape shift into a bat. This makes him “think” he is a vampire.

11. He justifies his sloth by claiming it is preparation for when his soccer team’s plane crashes into the mountains.

Am I worried that Jay will be offended by any of this? No. His ego is great enough that he’ll be happy to read about himself. If anything, he’ll probably just be giggling at his own hilarity.

So anyway, he wanted a blog, here’s a blog. It certainly has been a long time since my last one, and yes, some things have changed—I graduated, I got a job, I lost 20 pounds, blah blah blah. Let’s get to the good stuff, what you really want to read about. That’s right—midget wrestling and chili cookoffs.

I almost saw midget wrestling in Des Moines a couple of weeks ago. I know, I know—how could I pass up such a great opportunity? Here’s how—it was never going to match my expectations for it. I mean, if I’m paying five American dollars to watch midgets wrestle, I expect one hell of a show. I expect the losers to be shot out of t-shirt cannons and taken home by lucky audience members, you know, things of that nature. I figured it probably wouldn’t happen that way, so I decided against going. I think I’m maturing. I’m willing to let my dreams of midget wrestling live instead of accepting a mediocre product. I bet my parents are proud.

As for the chili cookoff… Well, if you haven’t been to one, the time to do so is now. The one I attended was in some Podunk piece of crap Iowa town so small I don’t even remember the name of it, which is awesome in itself. The cookoff actually one several awards, all of which were made up and distributed by me.

The “Best Possible Thing Ever” Award goes to the men’s bathroom door of the bar in which the event was held. The lock was broken and there simply wasn’t a doorknob on the thing, so when I needed to pee I had to find somebody to hold the door shut for me, lest everyone see my dingle dangle.

The “Huh?” Award goes to my girlfriend, the beautiful and illustrious Jamie, who, believing our chili to be too hot, tried to carry the entire pot outside so she could put it in the snow. She still doesn’t understand why this makes no sense.

The “Funniest Possible Thing” Award goes to Jamie’s brother Brad, who decided to steal the first place trophy from the kindly old man who won it. I respect this decision. I mean, obviously us losing was bullshit. The method and strategy utilized to steal the trophy would’ve made James Bond proud. How did he steal the trophy? He grabbed it, ran out of the bar, fell on his ass in the snow, got back up, and put it in his car. Genius.

And finally, the “More Than Just Mildly Disturbing” Award goes to Jamie’s sister Jenna, who managed to make a chili that tasted exactly like licking the top of a piece of Hawaiian pizza. It wasn’t necessarily bad, it was just… off putting.

Also, I lost twenty pounds! I can see my penis again! Turns out it’s very small.

Why I Hate LIfe

Some things will never change. Zelda games will always be good, and Radiohead albums will always be overrated. My brother will always immerse himself in grandiose jackassery, and my girlfriend will always butcher the bejesus out of song lyrics. Examples:

• For reasons too convoluted to explain, my brother has pledged to donate $100 to a charity the first time he fails to see an inter-racial couple in Davenport. Oh, and he calls Davenport "the QC." Jackass.
• For her part, my girlfriend, singing to the dog, actually turned "Eli the Barrow Boy" by the Decemberists into a happy little ditty. For those of you who are uninformed, "Eli the Barrow Boy" is about a poor barrow boy (named Eli. See? It all makes sense) who works himself to death trying to buy a nice dress for his dead love. Then, after his death, his ghost keeps working, but is never able to afford the dress. How did Jamie make this a happy song? By adding some U2-esque "yeah yeah yeah!"'s to the end of it. Anyone who has been watching South Park knows what I'm talking about.
• Oh, and as for the first two-- the new Zelda, "The Phantom Hourglass," fucking rocks. And though I haven't heard the new Radiohead album, I'm sure it is completely overrated because it isn't "the Bends." In case you didn't know, everything by Radiohead other than "the Bends" sucks balls.

As for me, I will forever be bereft of money, I will never poop more than once in a single day (unless I'm sick or I drank waaaaaaay too much the night before) and I will always wait far too long inbetween blog posts. Sorry. But here's the thing. I hate, hate, hate this semester of school. It's miserable. It makes me not want to do anything, because once I'm done with my schoolwork my brain is so bored and underwhelmed that I can barely tell my dog to shut up. In honor of David Letterman, who I never watch anymore because he is up against Stephen Colbert (easily the funniest man in America right now), here are the top ten things that make me hate this semester with a passion:

1. The fact I have three classes in a row of technical communication. I don't get this stuff, and worse, I don't care to know it. It is all very boring, intricate detail work that could sometime help me get a decent paying job in the real world. That gets in the way of my life plan-- to have several rich relatives die and leave me all of their money, then get really loaded every day and assume the world works by magic.
2. No matter how long I rinse my mouth out with Scope, I still can't wash out the aftertaste from this summer, when Spiderman 3 took a dump in my mouth.
3. My hippie douchebag grad class. Here's what we have to do-- write a play about Iowa's environment that stylistically and thematically pays homage to "the Laramie Project" or "Twilight." Those plays were about the brutal murder of a gay man in a small town, and the LA race riots, respectively. Sorry, Iowa doesn't have those things. If you can find me one person as passionate about ethanol as people were about the race riots, well... well, I guess I still wouldn't give a shit. Sorry.
4. The girl in my "Write like a Woman" class (yes, I'm taking a "Write like a Woman" class, fuck you) who talks with the pace and pitch of a squirrel addicted to cocaine. Here is a typical comment from her: "IthinkthisisaSADstory. ButIdon'tknow (giggle giggle). Icouldjustthinkthatbecausemyfamilyisreallyweird. (giggle giggle). MaybeIshouldstopreadingthesestoriesatoneinthemorning (laughs out loud, looks at floor)." Listen girl. I don't give a rat's ass if your family is weird. I don't care if you read the story at 1 o'clock. Grow some balls (or, in this class, ovaries) and just say what you think.
5. I don't have any money to travel. You know, I would like to see America. I really would. I can't, however, because this country is spread out wider than a sorority girl's vagina and the government doesn't believe in cheap public transportation.

You know what? That's enough. In this blog, as in real life, I should probably stop at "sorority girl's vagina." That's a good rule. But just so you don't think I'm a complete whiner, here's five things that I have enjoyed this semester:

1. The illustrious and beautiful Jamie bought me a book of short stories entitled Fabulous Small Jews. And, as a bonus, even though the title was enough, the stories are really good! They're all about old Jewish people living in Chicago. Maybe I like them because I can relate so much.
2. Snapple Fun Facts! Did you know kangaroos and emus can't walk backwards? Amazing!
3. The new Iron and Wine album and the Darjeeling Limited.
4. The fact my new friend Quincy and I are going to start drinking at 11:00 am on Friday.
5. Stovetop Stuffing.

Bonus happy fact! The fact that I'm going to post more often from here on out. No, really. This time is totally different. For realsies.

A Very Short Blog and an Apology (Alternate Title: "My Gaze is an Incredible Laxative")

First, the apology-- Sorry I haven't been back here for so long. Not that I expect anyone gives a rat's ass. During the semester, which begins on Monday (say it with me-- FUCK) I should have a more rigorous schedule as well as more activities to report. I hope to post every couple of weeks, probably while pantsless, drinking beer, and watching football. To help you with that mental image, I'll also be unshowered, coated with a fine layer of grease, and bloated from delicious salty foods. And maybe I'll eat some ice cream so as to be gassy. You're welcome.

Next, the very short blog.

Item # 1

My magnificent girlfriend and I got a new puppy. His name is Jables, as derived from the great Jack Black, and he is flat out kick ass. He is pretty much housebroken (and never really caused us much work in that regard), but he does bite the living shit out of anything we refuse to give him. Not any of his 4,000 toys, but everything else-- cell phones, the hem of my shorts, a spoonful of crank Jamie left out-- is fair game. And, in honor of my brother getting a new job, here are three ways my dog Jables reminds me of my big brother Jay.

1. He may be retarded. Jables is an interesting dog to take on a walk. This is why I often bring a couple of beers with me when I do so. When he gets something in his mouth that he knows he shouldn't have, he hauls ass as quickly ass possible away from me, then snaps back when he reaches the end of the leash. Sometimes he suddenly decides that my leg is the enemy and attempts a leaping tackle. The end result, invariably, is that he smashes into my leg, sits down on the ground, and looks up at me, confused out of his mind. Then he bites my foot. Also, if he's really hyper, he lassos himself and falls over. I infrequently walked my brother Jay when I was a child, so I can't speak to how often he lassoed himself (I do know he went through a lot of helmets). However, Jay did like the Transformers movie, so how smart can he be?
2. If you give him a paper towel, he'll entertain himself for forty minutes. Jables likes to shred it, then chase the little pieces around and poke them with his paw. As for Jay... Some of my favorite childhood memories are of the evenings I sat on my parent's back porch, a cool glass of lemonade in hand, and watched Jay run around giggling and batting a paper towel back and forth in the friscalating dusklight. Bonus points to anyone who immediately knows why "friscalating dusklight" is funny.
3. He likes to stare me in the eyes when he poops. Don't ask me how I know this. Just know that it is far, far less disturbing when my dog does it.

Item # 2

I got a new car! My dad and I went and picked up an absolutely amazing '05 Honda Accord yesterday. While it was sad saying goodbye to my old car, the Flying DUI, after seven exhilarating years, it was nice upgrading to what my dad called Blue Heaven. My dad's thoughts on my old car? "What a horrible piece of shit this is. I can't believe you can live with this thing." Also, it was nice to get on the highway and get up to 65 mph in under three minutes. So thanks Dad. It fucking rules.

Item # 3

Jamie and I were at Hy-Vee the other day when an old man collapsed right by us. We picked him up, obviously, an act that was gross on several accounts, but mainly because I'd describe the old man as a sweaty Skeletor, if Skeletor had a very thin moustache. The old man refused medical attention, but needed me to get a cart for him before he could walk on his own power. He probably died on the highway on the way home, taking several people with him. That's how I'd like to go out. But here is my plea to old people: Don't die at Hy-Vee. Don't even almost die at Hy-Vee. It freaks the rest of us out.

An Addendum To My Last Post

Another reason I'll never be an action hero-- the other day I didn't work out because it was raining outside. Instead, I ate Chinese food and drank beer.

I'm Sorry To Disappoint All of You

Yesterday I watched the original Die Hard and Die Hard: With a Vengence! in preparation for the forthcoming Die Hard 4, and I'm sorry to report that I do not have what it takes to be an action hero. I know this proclamation arouses several thoughts in you, such as...

"What will we do now?"
"He was to be our hero!"
"...Wait, who the fuck is this guy? How did I get on this site? Am I drunk?"
"Look at his picture, what an ugly bastard," and,
"I bet he's gay."

My sexuality aside, I am sorry I won't be your next great action hero. And its not just because I'm paunchy and like to drink-- John Wayne dealt with those issues every day, and he still murdered so many Indians the white man had enough room to build thousands upon thousands of McDonalds. Here are some of my favorite scenes from action movies, starting with the Die Hard films, and why I would be unable to fulfill the role of the hero:

1. In the original Die Hard, John McClane runs around barefoot the entire movie. At one point, the bad guys shoot out windows and he runs, barefoot, over shards of broken glass to safety. My problem is that, having worn socks day in and day out (even to the beach!) for the first twenty-one years of my life, I have baby skin on my feet. Hell, I went to a waterpark with my girlfriend a couple of days ago and am still limping because of a blister on my foot. Walk over broken glass? Fuck you, lady!

2. In Die Hard: With a Vengence! John McClane runs all over town, drives through Central Park, hops down a sewer grate onto a moving subway train, and has a witty comeback for anyone crazy enough to mess with him, all while bitching about a massive hangover. My problem? I'm completely incapable of movement if I have a massive hangover. I usually just eat egg drop soup, lay in bed, and bitch.

3. In Dirty Harry 3, a botched liquor store robbery leads armed gunmen to fire at police and take hostages within the store. Dirty Harry simply drives through the front of the building and shoots the gunmen. My problem? I just got off of high risk insurance, I can't afford to drive through buildings. Also, I'd be slightly concerned an innocent person would be behind the wall I drove through, or that an innocent person would be shot before I'd kill all of the bad guys. Such things do not concern Dirty Harry.

4. In the Bourne movies, Matt Damon frequently fights in close, hand to hand combat. My problem? My martial arts training as a child was shockingly neglected. I don't think I could kill a man even once before he hit the ground, let alone six or seven times. Where the hell were you on that one, parents?

5. Legolas, in the Lord of the Rings movies, stabs an orc in the head with an arrow, then pulls the arrow out and uses it to shoot a second orc. My problem? I'm not an elf. Also, I infrequently come across orcs that need arrowing.

6. In Demolition Man, Sylvester Stallone travels to the future and beats up a whole bunch of poor people who attack a Taco Bell. My problem? While I do hate poor people, I really like potato oles, so I'd be at Taco Johns and miss the whole fight. Not to mention I've never been frozen and thawed out in the future.

7. After a botched memory implant surgery in Total Recall, Arnold Schwartzneane0wmfnoinaoehaowegger travels to Mars, finds a latino chick that kills Sharon Stone, and meets a man with a mutant growing out of his stomach. My problem? I'd take one look at the weird baby mutant, vomit in a corner, and then go back to the bar to find the prostitute with three boobs.

Alas. The world will just have to wait for Jean Claude Van Damme to lay off the coke and save our ass once again.

Anyways, I can't wait for the fourth Die Hard movie! It's sure to be good, because its PG-13 and directed by the guy who did the Underworld movies! (Remember? Vampires fought werewolves? Only they used guns for some reason? You didn't see the Underworld movies? How lucky for you.) Oh, and the sidekick is Justin Long! (You know, the male cheerleading nerd from Dodgeball? Yeah, I had to IMDB him too.) I'm sure the new movie will be able to recreate great repartee such as this between Bruce Willis and Sam Jackson:

John McClane (Bruce Willis): You know how to use a gun?
Zeus (Sam Jackson): No.
McClane: No?
Zeus: Hey, all brothers don't know how to use guns, you racist motherfucker.
McClane: Sue me.

Can't you just picture that scene with Bruce Willis and Justin Long? "Do you know how to use a gun?" "Yes. I used to hunt with my father near the Penobscot River in Maine." "Oh."

Get pumped, people!

P.S.-- I actually think the new Die Hard will be enjoyable, but that's just because God created Bruce Willis to show us everything a proper bad ass should be.

BLOOD!! GORE!! SPENCER, IOWA!! ARGH!!

Pictured are the front and side of my left calf. I'll explain.



































I'm a man who recently became open to trying new things. I say "recently," because my life used to be a fortress of routine. Ages 12-17 were spent playing videogames and masturbating, though not at the same time-- I left that to the Japanese. Ages 18 to the present have been spent inebriated and/or plotting to murder Carlos Mencia. Lately, however, I've been hearing all this garbage about how there is "more to life," how I'm "wasting my youth," and that my parents are "disowning me." I've started branching out in an effort to prove my doubters wrong, so I can grab them by the bow tie and shout, "Hey buddy! I've tried everything, and the best part of life IS the ability to reference every Gob quote from 'Arrested Development!' And take off that bow tie! You look like an asshole!"

Anyhoo, last week I went with my strikingly gorgeous girlfriend Jamie to her hometown of Spencer, Iowa, and during this time I tried two (2!) new things.

Thing 1: I fired a gun! Boom! We shot clay pigeons, which was actually incredibly fun and invigorating. I never thought I'd shoot a gun, and I still would never go hunting because I never want to shoot anything that's alive, because I'm a hippy liberal my father can never feel pride for. But the use of a real gun did arouse a couple of very strong desires in me. First, I wanted to fire the gun in the air and sing the lyrics to Modest Mouse's "Cowboy Dan" ("Well, Cowboy Dan's a major player in the cowboy scene/He goes to the reservation, drinks and gets mean/He drove the desert, fired his rifle in the sky/And says 'God if I have to die you will have to die'"). I mean, how sweet would that be? Second, I wanted the dog from "Duck Hunt" to pop up everytime I missed a clay pigeon and do that cool little shoulder shrug thing. How can a dog shrug? I mean, it makes no sense. Overall-- great fun. Really liked it.

Thing 2: Drove a four-wheeler for the first time. Also, and I guess this is technically a third thing, or at least "Thing 2a," I drove a four-wheeler into a barbed wire fence for the first time. I don't really remember the accident, but I did learn that bleeding profusely is a great ice breaker when meeting a girlfriend's grandparents. Basically I met them, it was awkward, and then they field dressed my wounds while Jamie made fun of me, easing the tension. Remember, gentlemen! If you're nervous about meeting the family, just go to the bathroom and cut yourself like an emo freak. Not only will it, like, totally make you feel alive, you'll also have an hilarious anecdote to tell your therapist for years to come. The accident happened so quickly, I'm not sure how I got the bruise-- I think it was from yanking my leg out of the barbed wire too quickly and whacking it on the four-wheeler, but I'm not sure. Strangely, though, my leg never hurt. Neither did the assortment of other bruises and scrapes scatttered over my body. The worst pain came from my right arm, which was angry I used it to brace myself when we hit the fence, and took great umbrage whenever I tried to make a fist over the next two days. Overall, great fun. Never want to do it again. I don't think I'll even be able to watch a Mountain Dew commercial without suffering 'Nam-esque flashbacks.

However, I did have a great time in Spencer, and it's a very nice small town-- it doesn't have that sense of decay that a lot of small towns in Iowa have. The denizens keep up their hopes and appear to still want to live there, as opposed to some of the people I've driven by in, say, Evansdale, Iowa, who seem anxious for the sweet release of death. Oh, and Jamie showed a sweet and gentle restraint in not making sure the barbed wire finished me off after I crashed her grandparents four-wheeler. God bless her.

Some random Gob quotes, because you deserve them: "Michael, do the right thing here. String the blind woman along so Dad doesn't have to pay his debt to society."

Michael: You know, the feeling that you're feeling is just what many of us call... a "feeling".
Gob: It's not like envy, or even hungry.
Michael: Could it be love?
Gob: I know what an erection feels like, Michael. No, it's the opposite - it's like my heart is getting hard.

"I'm dating this Christian girl right now. She wants me to be honest and reconnect with my son. And I'm trying to get her to renounce God and fuck me, but I just want to prove to her that I'm worth it."

You're welcome.

New Employee Season

So its summer, and in the world of part time jobs that means its new employee season. I have had far too many jobs for how old I am, mainly due to the small issue of my complete and utter indifference towards every place I have worked. I don't like new employee season. It's annoying. Over the past year, I have gradually memorized my current employees' names, genders, and general age group so I can have maintain a brief, forced conversation with them.

For example, let's say I'm at work with Cody, a college male the same age as me. I can walk up to him and casually say, "Hello. What do you think of all those things us youngsters enjoy doing these days? Some of my character traits sure get under the skin of my birth givers, boy howdy! Let us talk about meat and female bosoms and itch ourselves." And if I'm talking to Tina or Mary Jo, college females my age, I will replace that last bit with an attempt to cater to their interests. For example, I will say something like "Yo' biddy. Sup' with vacuums? I bet you be lovin' horses too! Shiiiiit." While part of this easy back and forth comes from the fact I'm flat out great with women, as you probably just deduced, most of it comes from time consuming trial and error practice. Now I'm supposed to have the same level of conversation with complete strangers? I call bullshit.

Take one of our new employees, Heidi. My brain can't seem to come up with a reasonable way to talk to her. Here are some of her actions/comments and my initial reactions to them--

My initial response to meeting Heidi: "You sure wear a lot of make up. How are your illegitimate children?"
My actual response: "Hey."

Heidi: "I'm a horrible morning person. Like, seriously, if you say hello to me in the morning, I'll tell you to fuck off. I'm not even kidding."
My initial response: "I'd sure hate to wake up next to you! ...For so many reasons."
My actual response: "Yeah, that makes sense."

Heidi: "I'm kinda ghetto, so I just wait until I'm a little loose and then get my jiggle on."
My initial response: Uncontrollable giggling.
My actual response: Uncontrollable giggling.

Heidi: "I walked by two black guys the other night and they said 'hey shorty, I got a room a the Comfort Inn. You want to meet me there?'"

Now, I'd like to break format here and discuss a larger issue. We're allowed to use a room at the Comfort Inn as a pick up line now? That is fan-fucking-tastic! I mean, what does that imply? "Hey baby, you look homeless, and/or the type of person who will have sex with a stranger for the opportunity to sleep in a two star hotel. Have I charmed the pants off of you yet?" The best pick up line I ever had was when I went back home for a weekend and could tell women, "Hey, my mom totally lives in this town, so I can get you a ride home whenever you want. Yeahhhhh." Then I run my hands through my hair, lick my upper lip, and wink. I never used this line, because my academic advisor told me it would be a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn't run pick up lines by my advisor. I don't know, I'm not a genius. But I do know that were I not in a relationship with a girl I thoroughly adore, I would drive home and use that line on the first bar cow I found.

Okay. Tangents, huh? Anyways, I hate new employee season. Its always awkward when, two months after they start, the new employees start bossing me around because they are better at the job. I mean, sure I've been there two years, but massive indifference is the gateway trait to incompetance.

How to Work My Apartment Shower

1. Turn on the hot water.
2. Make a sandwich. Call a loved one. Have a good time! It'll be awhile.
3. Check to see if the hot water has turned on. If not, repeat step two. If so, continue to step four.
4. Apply ointment and bandages to all burns.
5. Fiddle (that's a technical term) with both the cold and hot water knobs until the water is a bearable temperature. This is hard to do with bandages covering the burn marks on your hands. Bring a television! It'll ease the boredom.
6. Get into the shower. Watch out for the super slick coating on the shower floor.
7. Fall over.
8. Swear.
9. Check to make sure all vital bodily components are still in place.
10. Get out of shower.
11. Drink beer.

An incredibly brief (really, this time) blog about my Mexican sping break

Behold! The glory of Mexico! Home of the ever-wet, eternally hung to dry clothes, housing built from decaying, graffiti-ed brick, and thousands of Mexican's anxiously awaiting their next nap! Wait a minute. Real Mexico sucks. Its dirty, it smells bad, and there's always the vague possibility of rape waiting behind every corner. Hold on a second...














Behold! The glory of fake Mexico! Home of free drinks, housing built from cheap Mexican labor (to keep the cost down for wealthy American tourists), and thousands of Mexicans waiting to make a joke about tequila and/or sell you ugly trinkets. Fake Mexico rules. Its semi-clean, it smells like meat and booze, and there's always the possibility you might see a frat boy fall into an alcohol induced coma.

Other highlights:

• My illustrious and rather inebriated father's attempt at making a do-rag (how the hell do you spell that?) out of his napkin one night at dinner. He eventually gave up, tied the napkin around his neck, and play-acted a character he called "Tom the Gay Cowboy."
• Ziplining across the trees, despite the fact we were taken to the zipline place in some guy's shitty jeep and my mom thought we were going to get shivved the entire time.
• Parasailing. Up that high, I was really able to appreciate the serene and majestic beauty of all creation and the inner peace that comes from True Understanding. Also, I tried to spit on some jet skiiers but I kept fucking missing.
• The following exchange-- Dad, leafing through the resort catalog: "Oh, look, you can get married here." Mom, opening a beer at 11:00 am: "I've already been married. I never want to do it again."
• The day we swam with dolphins. It legitimately was a very, very cool experience. They were taught to sing and give kisses, and they even swam on their backs while tourists laid on their bellies. Our guide also told us they like to scratch and bite each other during what must be very rough sex. Just like you kinky bastards.

Well, that's all for now. I'm going to start posting much shorter blogs, because then I'll do it more often.

I Suppose It's Time I Got Off My Ass, Huh?

Jesus. I'm lazy. However, due to overwhelming popular request (thanks, Jenny) and so Jamie stops telling me I'm wasting my life, I will resume posting. Because I am back in America (more specifically, Iowa), chances are this will be boring as hell. But what else do you have to do, asshole? Anyways, this one will be fairly short.

End of Europe--

Scotland-- Scotland was very cool. Nice people, amazing food. Also notable for three things.

1. Man Day! I ate large amounts of dead animal, drank whiskey, and smoked a Cuban cigar. If I had fondled a breast and revved an engine, I'd officially be a man. ...Although, truthfully, the unbridled machismo of the day is tempered when I consider my reaction to the whiskey ("It tastes like fire!") and that the meat was salmon. As for the cigar, well... afterwards I drunk dialed and gabbed like a 13-year-old girl after two Bartles and James. I suppose if I had copped a feel it would've been a tranny, and the revved engine would've be attached to a segway. I'm not much of a man.
2. The Scotch Whiskey Museum. Here I bought my brother a bottle of what appears to be pure gasoline. During the tour they show the single greatest video known to man. And by "greatest," of course, I mean "cheesiest." In it, an American tourist with a plaid, tucked in shirt and a massive, Jimmy Olsen-esque camera around his neck visits a Scottish bar. After ordering a drink in the most hamfisted way possible, he turns to the bartender and says (read as if this were delivered by an uber geek, kind of like the Mormon dad from South Park)...

   "(looking lovingly at the glass of scotch) You know, my grandfather used to work for one of your distilleries, and the stories he used to tell-- Whoo! (shakes his head) ... I sure wish there was a way to learn more about Scottish whiskey."

   The bartender's response? "Well, just bring the whiskey to your lips and say the magic words..." and so forth and so on. It was a majestic and beautiful film that left me in tears.
3. Sadly, Scotland is the only country I forgot to pee on. I had opportunities, too! I just plum forgot. Alas. I'll just have to go back.

Manchester-- Went to a supposedly important Manchester United soccer game (who the hell knows if it really was? I don't) against Benfica. I have no interest in soccer, but I found it kind of like baseball-- that is, about as much fun as an enema on TV, yet enjoyable in person. Watching the crowd was a very interesting experience, too. The game was 0-0 , with Manchester dominating, until late in the first half. During this time the crowd was energetic and supportive. After Benfica scored a fluke goal they became pissy and jaded, and when Manchester went up 2-1 they were unbelievably cocky. After the game we stumbled over all the empty bandwagons and had some drinks.

Later, right before coming home, I went back to Manchester with Jamie for a Tenacious D concert. Hot damn was it a good show. I'll spare you boring details, but just know that during the show they were electrocuted to death plugging in a toilet seat guitar, went to hell (JB- "How do we know this is hell? Maybe heaven is all red and fucking hot!"), and formed a band with Satan's son and the souls of Colonel Sanders (chicken brutality) and Charlie Chaplin (he was gay, at least according to the D).

Ireland-- Had a great cabbie who Ireland who abstains from alcohol and tobacco because, when he was 16, his dad sat him down and forced him drink beer and smoke unfiltered cigarettes until he was violently ill. Wants to change the Guinness slogan to "Guinness: You'll Bleed Out Your Arse." That being said, I got really drunk there, because there is nothing else to do and the food/pubs are phenomenal. No real interesting stories, however. Hmph. Sorry.

Anyways, that was Europe. If you're curious, the main difference between Europe and here is that in America, people are dicks. That's all. I'll relate more if I think about it. Sorry for the boring post, but I felt like playing catch up. Look for a post every other week or two, if you care. Peace out peoples.

Rome Is So Crowded It Took Me 3 Days To Pee On It

Preparing to go to Rome--

Prep Day 1: I went to London and checked into my hostel. While there, I was treated to a preview of my time in Rome when seven dark-haired, smoke-skinned Italian women crowded the counter and chatted incoherently with the desk jockey, causing me to wait forty five minutes for my check-in. Later that night I was stuck in a room with a bunch of crazy Spaniards, who promptly conquistadored the room. Because they didn't shut up until after midnight, I had time to think two things-- 1) Spanish people talk way, way too fast, and don't say "queso" "bonita" or "viva!!" nearly as much as you would think, and 2) I was just annoyed by two very different ethnicities in very short succession. Plus I already hate whitey. Where am I to fit in?

Prep Day 2: Went to the airport to pick up the soon to be aged and decrepit Nicole Clement, who turns 23 in December. Later that night I ate the most delicious steak in the world at a Scottish steakhouse (who knew? I thought they ate grass and the weakest of their young) and we went to Les Miserables (in English, "the nino." ...Remember when SNL was funny?). I thought the play was fantastic. The performances were great, the songs were catchy enough to be good but not simple enough to haunt your existance into the next week, and they weren't as encrusted with cheese as modern musicals. I also enjoyed the plot, which is in part about a man who is forced into crime by an immoral and unfair social structure, then unable to redeem himself because of that same class disparity. It really lends creedence to the Tenacious D line "the government totally sucks mother fucker, the government totally sucks." And you wonder why I said I hate whitey.

Also, it needs to be mentioned that we saw perhaps the greatest television show of all time on British television-- "Cirque de Celebrite" (the "e" has one of those French line things over it, but I don't know how to type it). We watched a fat black woman swing from a rope and then shriek like a jet engine made of live howler monkeys. I can't describe the feeling to you. Its too emotional.

Th next morning we took a cab to London City Airport, which is popular amongst business professionals. With my baseball hat, sweaty t-shirt, ketchup stained jeans, and all-natural, unshowered man-musk I fit right in with their kind. However, beneath the professional veneer, the airport was more like the basement of a really fun high school pothead-- the shop was chock full of munchies and porno, and the one girl was playing video games on her laptop to prove she fit in. Call of Duty! After a brisk morning molestation from the security crew, we were off!

Rome: .... is fucking crazy. The whole city actually looks a whole lot like the parts of Mexico I've seen, just much, much older-- the buildings are all fairly old and slightly disheveled (and short, because by law nothing can be built taller than the dome of St. Peters), the streets are narrow and cobbled, and the city design is a chaotic mess. This could be because it has to be built around the ruins of the ancient city, which are everywhere. Whenever we turned a corner we'd see an awesome statue of some old dude we had never heard of, and there are so many ruins the city doesn't even seem to bother to take care of all of them, just the important ones. I like this, because it made me feel as if I were living amongst the history, not visiting a gigantic museum.

But then, that could be less from a design and more because the Italian government appears to do, well... nothing. Nothing at all. The streets are filthy, the buildings are in poor shape, and the traffic is the god damn craziest thing I've ever seen. The vespas (euphamism for scooter, if you ask me) don't legally have to stop at red lights, and the drivers exercise what one guidebook called "logical caution"-- meaning that if they didn't see opposing traffic, they would just go. Complicating things even further was the fact several intersections, even four lane intersections, were completely uncontrolled. Basically, to cross the street, you just go-- and pray the traffic stops. If they do, you keep going, and if they don't, you figure out which way you're going to run like hell so as to avoid the indignity of being slaughtered by an unemployed man on a glorified scooter.

Also, nary a place in that damn city took credit. The Colesseum even demanded exact change! One of the top tourist attractions in the world, and they need exact change. I think this is to help support their thriving pickpocket industry, which makes bus or metro transport an arduous affair. Our one experience in the bus was a crowded mess, surrounded what smelled like b.o. fermented in curry.

However, none of this means I disliked Rome. Far from it, actually-- while London is the only big city I think I could take residence in, Rome is definitely a place I could visit once a year. There's just an incredible amount to see, and, because the city has been around so long, an incredible variety as well. I personally love Greek and Roman history, so I really enjoyed seeing the really touristy sights. I saw way too much to mention here, but I loved the Colesseum because it is incredibly well preserved (same with the Pantheon) and the Roman forum, because there is enough left there to visualize what once was, and the scenery is verdant and full of life.

My other favorite place in Rome was the Piazza Navona, another extremely touristy spot, but one full of local artists peddling their wares and what I found to be excellent cafes. This is also where I realized the Italian people are the best looking people on Earth. Fellas, if your girl ever cheats on you with an Italian man, take it in stride because chances are you'd cheat on her with the same guy. They just look that good. What I don't understand, however, is how all young people in Italy are tall, thin, and charming, whereas every elderly person we saw appeared to be grumpy, fat, and 3 foot 4. How does that happen? Is it genetic, or did everyone in the country suffer a dehabilitating farming accident? Other than Rome and its museums, we saw...

The Vatican City, noun. 1) a clusterfuck. The Vatican City is overcrowded to the point of being a massive clusterfuck. Its impossible to describe the amount of people we saw there. Granted, we went on a Wednesday, when the Pope makes an appearance (he looks much less like a Nazi war criminal in person) but from all accounts it is incredibly busy all the time. The Vatican City Museum felt like a lavishly opulent waiting line for the Sistine Chapel. Though the Sistine Chapel did make it completely worth it, as I thought the room was beautiful and plenty interesting besides. You know in Good Will Hunting, when Robin Williams says "I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that?" Well, what is far more interesting is how it sounds. It sounds like a bunch of Swiss guards yelling "No photo!" every three seconds to fat American tourists who are determined not to listen to them, followed by those same tourists mumbling derogatory comments into their Italian flag t-shirts coated in breadcrumbs and camera straps. Why do people need to take inferior pictures of world famous tourist attractions? Get on the damn internet.

We also saw St. Peter's Basilica, which was great, even though there were dead Popes littered around the church like Snickers wrappers. But, although I know I'm not the most religious God damn person in the world, I really loved the Cathedral. I have to say I like St. Pauls better, but only because its more managable-- St. Peters is over two football fields long and so intricately decorated it would take several hours to take everything in. The amount of frescoes, mosaics, and sculptures in that museum is staggering. My favorite was a sculpture of a young Virgin Mary holding a crucified Jesus that Michelangelo crafted when he was only a 23 year old ninja turtle.

The last night we met an American guy at a bar who was with the FBI and days from retirement. Though I can't remember any of his stories, I do remember he bought me two rounds, and I feel bad he's destined to die. I mean, he's a nice, family oriented FBI agent days from retirement. If movies have taught me anything, he's going to be murdered and then avenged by a tempestuous young newcomer only he could reach. Sounds like one sexy adventure!

(Note: sorry if there are several grammatical or spelling errors in this one, but I don't have time to proofread it)

3 Strange Things I've Seen In Wales

1. In Wales, dogs are not, I repeat, NOT allowed to poop meatballs. That fine is $2000 in American money. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn.

2. A couple of days ago I was forced to endure a tv commercial for men's hair gel. In it, several men were breakdancing in a gymnasium to display how the gel kept their ri-god-damn-diculous hairstyles intact-- and these hairstyles were hideous and nonsensical, the head fashion equivalent of wearing a dress created entirely out of hemorrhoids.

3. And here's my favorite: I was in McDonald's the other day (apparently Welsh food isn't making me fat quickly enough) when a hobo walked in, rooted around in the trash, didn't find whatever magical hobo juice he was looking for, and left. Now, I always take a special interest in hobos because I may very well be one someday, but this one didn't add anything new to the formula. He had an unkempt beard, teeth that looked like worms were about to pop out of them, and the same hobo outfit they all wear (a mixture of pale green and pale beige, the perfect combination to create that special hobo mixture of monotony and despair).

What I didn't notice as I ate my McNuggets was the fact this man also had a crazy glint in his eye, the kind causes sane people to willingly enter a shark cage or buy $3000 rims for their car. How does the crazy glint effect those who are already nutters? Well, as I was walking back to the bus station, I was distracted by a distant rumbling that soon became a monotony and despair colored blur... First I just saw a rickety, hand-crafted, three-wheeled sled with my hobo on top. Then I noticed the dog he had strapped to the front. That's right-- this genius, this beacon of hope and ingenuity in the homeless community has trained his dog to pull him on a sled. Where is he going? And for what purpose? This we may never know.

Also, I haven't posted in awhile because I've been busy with schoolwork (gasp!) and haven't done anything fun, though I did drink a bottle of champagne to celebrate Rumsfeld stepping down. I'm going to Rome for about five days, though, so hopefully I'll get something better than a sledding hobo out of that.

Four Quotes and a Discussion Point

Here's the world's greatest airbrushed painting, as promised. In case you forgot and are too lazy to scroll down (how are you even alive?), it was found in a bar called the Grasshopper in Amsterdam. On with the rest of the post!

1. "The President cares about the poor-- he made a lot of them." --Steven Colbert.
2. According the the Associated Press, in last week's game against the Washington Redskins, Peyton Manning was "bent over awkwardly twice in the first half, losing his helmet and once appearing hurt." Think someone over at AP has a passive-aggressive hatred for ol' Peyton?
3. "I can't help it but I'm a bit bummed out that George from Grey's Anatomy came out of his closet this week wearing all the colors of the rainbow." -- My sweet lil' mother.
4. "I took your profile picture from bullschmitz and saved it to the background on the computer at home, and it bothered everyone so much they eventually resorted to taping a piece of paper over the monitor when they didn't have another window pulled up--it was that frightening to them. Eventually, I was getting angry letters telling me to promptly change the background. It's funny; your picture has the same effect on my parents as I have on the opposite sex."-- My friend Hampton, who I once depantsed in front of the high school cheerleading squad and, on a separate occasion, whipped with a belt until he had scars (to be fair, he told me to. It's a long story).

Also, Hampton met Pauly Shore. How awesome is that? I would much rather meet a formerly famous and/or guilty pleasure celebrity than a quality one, and it's not just because I still watch "Son-in-Law" at least once a year. Think about it-- Sean Penn is talented but he'd be a huge dick, Tom Hanks would leave me totally thunderstruck, and Natalie Portman would probably need to issue a restraining order. Plus, if I met someone like Jason Bateman and hated him it could retroactively ruin Arrested Development for me. Things would go much differently if I met some awesome quasi-celebs. Think about it. I run into Cary Elwes buying panty hose for his next film and he acts like a dick-- I just shout "Robin Hood: Men in Tights" and "the Princess Bride" quotes at him until he runs away crying. If I met Minnie Driver outside a gas station I would just stay calm and firmly say "no" when she asks me for money, and if I met Rick Moranis... well, I'd have met Rick Moranis. I could die happily. Not that any of you read this far in the post, care, or will respond, but at least think about what bad celebrities you want to meet. My number one is Steve Guttenberg.

Finally, if you're bored (and, since you're reading this, I'm sure you are), click on this link and read about how cool Beck is: http://www.rollingstone.com/news/story/12072882/beck_brings_his_goofy_roadshow_to_nyc

Amsterdam In Technicolor! ...Not Really. Just Pictures.

Everyone keeps raving about how informative and beautiful my photo tour of London was, so much like Harold and Kumar, I'm going to Amsterdam for the sequel.

(By the by, this is my second post about Amsterdam-- the first is below, so read that first)

This first picture(I like to call it "Buddha Triumphant!") I found in an absolutely delicious Chinese restaurant. How in the world does this thing not fill you with happiness? I love a any religion where the figurehead is fat, bald, and filled with what appears to be utterly euphoric joy. That's how I hope to be in later life-- mainly because it's probably the most I can hope for.


This place made the most delicious sandwiches in the entire world. I ate there twice. They put hard boiled eggs on their baguettes, and the proprietor was this kindly old man I kind of want to be my new favorite uncle. If you're in Amsterdam, make sure to eat there. I forget where it is, though, so you'll have to go door to door.

You know those assholes who think there's nothing to do in Amsterdam but get high? Well the hell with them. You can also learn about getting high. It's a place of education, dammit. Why else would you hear people having such deep, life-affirming conversations? For instance, several people on our trip came to the conclusion that (affect pothead voice in inner monologue now) "the whole world is a stage, man. It's like we sit here, and we're the audience, and the set changes, and the actors change, but it's all a stage. We're just watching, man." Nothing but the solid education found in Amsterdam could produce such knowledge. That or it was the mushrooms, I dunno.


This is the entirety of the men's restroom in the Old Sailor pub. I mean, all of it-- my ass was up against the door. The second time I visited the restroom the change on the floor was gone. This means, obviously, that someone actually stuck their hand in several people's urine in order to retrieve about five cents Euro. What the hell is wrong with people?


Here's a sign I found outside of the 1-up store. Unfortunately, they didn't sell turtle shells or flower power. The signs outside of the stores were pretty handy, though, as they let everyone know what drugs are sold there-- obviously, this store sold mushrooms. I was a bit confused why places to buy and smoke marijuana were called "coffeeshops," however. I was in several of these and never saw one that had an actual coffee machine. I feel bad for the poor, unsuspecting tourists that walk in there.
"Can I have a mocha latte, please?"
"Sorry, we don't serve coffee here."
"Oh... Well, I guess I'll just get fucked up on hash."