It is hard to respect the game when a light up jean jacket is involved.

It is Memorial Day and that can only mean one thing.... I am hanging out in my living room fort hiding from Lee Greenwood.

That's right, we all have our arch nemesis. USA has Celine Dione, Zack Morris had Mr. Belding, Cookie Monster had Vegetables, Inspector Gadget had the Claw and Sloth had Genetics. Mine has always been Lee Greenwood.

I have never once uttered the words "Man I wish we could find a Lee Greenwood concert", yet I have somehow been in the audience at least 25 times. It is as if 25 flash mobs have spontaneously formed around me. He always picks a 3 day weekend (usually July 4th, Memorial Day, or Veteran's Day) and he tricks me into being in public place and then, without out any warning, he appears in his American Flag Jean Jacket and serenades me with how proud he is to be an American. It is as if Lee Greenwood can craft a stage in 3 seconds flat. It is the equivalent to being on Nickelodeon and unknowing saying "I don't know", only Lee Greenwood uses the rhythmic beating of his patriotism as his green slime. He has foiled my plans in Georgia, Florida, Virgina, Boston, Alabama, Washington DC, South Carolina, AND North Carolina. It doesn't matter where I am, what time of day it is, who I am with, or what my level of sobriety is.

It has been 3 years since I last found myself at a Lee Greenwood concert. I do not want to speak too soon, but it is 7pm on another American holiday and I am still peacefully laying in my living room fort and Lee has not shown up yet. I am in no way saying that I think I have defeated my Nemesis, however, I feel like I have won another round. Until next time.....

3rd Grade Is NOT What It Used To Be

Sorry Stanley, we can't party like we are Charlie Sheen

Just when I thought no one wanted to come to NYC and hang out with me anymore, I came home and found Flat Stanley at my door waiting to start his NYC adventure. He came with instructions telling me to "take Stanley around my city while he is visiting and keep a journal of his exciting time". The instructions are quite ridiculous, since I very rarely, if ever, follow the instructions. I have decided to keep a photo journal, since I can not be bothered to write. I already had some great plans come to mind and thought I was going to show him a week he would never forget. Some early ideas:

~ Buying sex toys in the Village
~ Riding the mechanical bull at Johnny Utah's
~ a rousing game of "Poke the bum"
~ "Polar Bear swim" in the fountain at Washington Square Park
~ Drag Show
~ A historic trip to the Chelsea Hotel to see where Sid killed Nancy
~ Riding on the outside of the Subway car
~ Buying some heroin in Tompkins Square (don't judge, HE'S ON VACATION!!)
~ Going through the Phone Booth at Crif Dog (I bet he has never been to a Speakeasy)
~ Spitting off the Empire State Building
~ 5 words: NIGHT - CLUB - SWIM - UP - BAR in Time Square

Those were just the first ideas that came to mind. As I sat down to plan out his trip, I realized that the address to send Stanley off to is a...wait for it.... A CATHOLIC SCHOOL!!!!

Now being a prisoner product of Catholic School myself, I can see this being a vindication against the 13 years that institution robbed me of. I can't control my mind from thinking that maybe Stanley also needs to witness an abortion, attend a Gay marriage (and then covet the spouse), stand outside St. Peter's with a sign reading "Keep your Dogma on a leash"and get herpes from a hooker in the Bronx. However, the kid that sent this to me, also has a mother, and that mother trusted that her son would not be totally corrupted by Stanley's vacation has to show her face at PTA meetings.

Now I need help planning out Stanley's week. If the fun has to stay "Clean", I fear I know nothing about entertaining him. Please help, what would you do in NYC if you were as lame as the Catholic Church?

No silly, the Peep is NOT smoking Meth, he is having babies.

Maybe you haven't heard yet, but soon I will not be able to make cupcakes anymore. I haven't been this sad since NERF took all the fun out of the machine gun, which lets face it, ever since ammo turned to foam, we have all turned into a country of pussies. Kids no longer learn important lessons that can only be learned by a brutal game of Shoot the Freak....or wait, are we a nation of pussies because of the Snookie hair bump... no, no definitely because of NERF, and not because they ruined good American gun play, but because they spell there name in all caps which lead to the cap locks button being put on the keyboard, which led to old people YELLING EVERYTHING THEY TYPE ON FACEBOOK. NERF is probably to blame for Farmville, too. NERF is the devil!

I never thought my Easy Bake Oven would have "specialty parts" but now I have 10 months to collect as many 100-watt light bulbs as possible. (Beavis says: "hee hee, that's what the Meth addict said") My microwave and oven privileges have been removed ever since the Peeps Holocaust of 2008, which is still unfair since I REALLY thought that was how peeps made babies... It was an honest mistake that has ruined my dream of making the world's largest cake, because now I am stuck making only little teeny tiny cupcakes.... but now with this ban of 100 watt bulbs, I get NO cupcakes, not even my little tiny ones. Which is upsetting for 1 major reason: A cupcake's sole purpose in it's little life is to deliver mass amounts of rainbow sprinkles to my mouth. (It is kinda like how broccoli was made to deliver ranch)

Just another thing I am convinced NERF is responsible for.

DON'T FREAK OUT, BUT TOMORROW IS PINSTRIPE SUIT DAY!!!!!!

Old Awesome Me:
~ happy kicking it in my ripped up jeans and converse kicks.
~ not caring if my clothes meet societal standards on what matched since I am expert at tying the outfit together with knee high socks that contained a multitude of colors
~ a refreshing ale in my hand
~ messenger bag (minimal holes)
~ singing and dancing in the street because at least 1 dance party a day was mandatory and should be shared with traffic
~ unable to properly use ipod, since I still sing out loud
~ hilarious, at least in my own head
~ would rather spend $2.00 on Febreeze than $5.50 on laundry


Current Corporate Me:
~ no longer aware of what day of the week it is, since my days have been renamed Blue suit day, Black suit day, Gray suit day, Brown suit day, and Pinstripe Suit day.
~ walking into clothing stores and forcing myself to cry so a nice sales lady will take pity on me and tell me what clothes I need. (and by "forcing" I mean "have a debilitating anxiety attack from shopping and fall fetal position in a store sobbing like a blue haired lady watching Richard Simmons sweat to the oldies)
~ asking random people on the street if my shirt matches my suit, since I now have to care and I have lived 32 years without learning this skill.
~ wearing something called "Trouser socks" everyday (I can't make this crap up)
~ Brushing my hair
~ required to dry cleaning 40% of all my clothes
~ having my sense of humor sucked away faster than my soul


Seeing as though it has only taken 3 weeks to get to this new me, I think I need to start accepting that I will be "I NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS PERSON me". If I have done the math right, by August 23, 2011 this will be an accurate description of me:

I NEVER MEANT TO BE THIS PERSON AND AM TOTALLY EMBARRASSED ABOUT IT me
~ Always holding my No Fat Sugar Free Soy Venti Cold press Chai Latte With a Shot
~ Running home from work to assure I am not late to my pilates class
~ arguing with co-workers that my Coach bag is in fact real
~ Blue Tooth in ear
~ The only meal I know is organic salads
~ Sitting at dinner talking about the stimulating article I read in the New York Times about the stock market
~ looking back at "Old Awesome Me" and saying "That's not funny, that's stupid, why would midgets be funny?"

Moral of the story: I am REALLY good at Crossword puzzles

You ever find yourself in a situation and have no clue how you got there?

Like the time I found myself wearing a tiara and angle wings at the mall trying to buy petrified poo at Spencer's or the time I found myself single-handedly leading a group of 100+ drunks in my version of the Chicken Dance while wearing booty shorts and knee high rainbow socks or the time I woke up in a neighbors apartment at 5pm surrounded by baby dolls that all had bodies painted hot pink and their heads torn off or the time I was at a Bacholrette party in Huntsville, AL with a bunch of girls I barely knew where I proceeded to dress the bride in a toga and took her out for a fancy dinner at Taco Bell. Though these are moments in my life that I have no explanation for, I can accept that they are just quick moments that I was able to sober up and move on from. It has been many moons since I have lived a true "How The Hell Did I Get Here?" moment. I thought these moments had come to an end in my life due to being too old to have fun the fact that finishing my Crossword puzzle before bed is about all the fun I can handle these days, but it seems 2011 is a time of renewed hope in the "How The Hell Did I Get Here?" moments. I just never would have guessed the sick Karma it would entail.

It wasn't long ago that I was sitting at home in my pajamas watching daytime tv while drinking wine and eating popcorn, trying to determine the main demographic for court tv by the style of commercials being shown. (So far I have decided that the main demographic is old black ladies with dentures, diabetes, feminine itch, problems controlling urination and an affinity for yogurt and renting computers so they can sell their gold online.) I was working a job where I was getting spit on by schizophrenics, leading dance parties while wearing my "work Sombrero", not to be confused by my "couch tiara", using words like "asshat"and "douche bag" and making pets out of my office supplies. ie:
I wore comfortable clothing and continued to point and laugh at all the Yuppies on the train wearing suits while I tapped dance every morning just to prove how comfortable my footwear was. I knew EXACTLY how I got to this point.....years of drunken decision making.

You can imagine my horror when I woke up a week ago and proceeded to........ put on a business suit, heeled shoes, took the train to downtown Manhattan, got off at the Wall St. station and proceeded to my corner office at a nonprofit worth $6mil, where I spent the day talking with the CEO because I am directly under her in the chain of command. It took until about 9am for me to look around and question "How The Hell Did I Get Here (and why do my feet hurt so damn bad?".

Apparently, I have turned into a Yuppie over night. I do not have the slightest clue how I got here and something tells me that simply sobering up is not going to help this one. Karma hits with a vengeance. I know I have done some bad things in my life (although, I still hold to the story that I thought it was Hungry Hungry Hippo laying dormant waiting to pounce when I stomped on that sleeping bum). I am what I have feared for my entire life, I am a Young Urban Professional, and now I wear my scarlet letter as a blazer 5 days a week.

Ultimately, I blame Scott Baio. If he hadn't stepped down, I would not have to be in charge.

WWABD? ---What Would Archie Bunker Do?

I would never have learned the word "whitewash" had it not been for Mark Twain. I find it interesting that now I actually have a reason to use this word to describe another one of his novels. Huckleberry Finn, arguably, one of the most influential books of American history is in the process of being whitewashed in the most horrific ways. Dr. Alan Gribben working to republish this book while removing the word "nigger" and "injun" and to replace them with much more PC words like "slave" and "Indian". He claims that "merely making a small change so that English teachers are no longer embarrassed to read out loud in class".

"A small change"..... again, to make sure it sinks in... "a small change". This is like saying the economy has hit a "small speed bump", or the War on Terror is a "small expense", or that losing my virginity to a trucker named Bubba at a truck stop was a "small lapse in judgment". There are quite a few reasons this is equal to desecrating the fabric of our country.

I will start with the fact that it is impossible to learn from history, when you do not teach history. As a country we have, and are still in the process, of making HUGE mistakes. The good that comes out of these mistakes is that we study them, we review where things went wrong and we respond by avoiding making the same mistakes and educating our children on how to not make the same mistakes. Huck Finn would not be the literary piece it is if the language had been toned down. It goes down in history as a Great American Novel because it packed such a huge punch. The language was indicative of the time and the story that was being told. It was published in 1885, a time when this word was VERY prevalent. Reading it in 2011, there is quite a severe reaction to the language used.... THAT IS THE POINT!!!! We should be proud that we cringe reading those words out loud in a classroom. That "cringe" is the feeling of growth as a nation. We have come a long way, not nearly far enough, past the times of slavery, but is not a reason to forget a significant era in American History. Our children should continue learning about this history so they will be inspired to continue the changes that are too slow to happen. You can tell your kids "the stove is hot, don't touch it" but they generally learn this lesson by experiencing the feeling of "HOLY HELL THAT IS HOT". The same concept applies here. They need a chance to experience the feeling they get by learning our history so they can continue the work of the ones that have given their lives to making a change.

Next, I do not see how anyone can make such significant changes to a novel and still have the nerve to publish it with the same authors name on it. Taking the n-word out of Huck Finn is about the same to me as putting the Zombies in Pride and Prejudice. At least they had the sense to not publish under Jane Austen's name. Making these changes will make the story a watered down tale that Mark Twain would not have been a part of.

I wonder if they have thought about what this means for Literature as a whole. Should we make sure that the autobiography of Malcom X gets re-written? Gone with the Wind? To Kill A Mockingbird? Of Mice and Men? Lord of the Flies? This is just off the top of my head, I am sure the list could go on and on.

We are ok with our kids watching South Park, Jersey Shore, Bad Girls, 16 and pregnant, Family Guy, A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila, The Real Housewives of whatever crappy city you choose to be in, but we have a problem when they want to pick up a classic book that will expose them to language used in a context that will open them up to having a conversation about things that have been done wrong in the past and letting them talk about ways things could be done in the future.

It seems we should have learned our lesson by now, that closing our eyes and pretending that problems are not there is exactly what is wrong with the world. By choosing to covering up history because we are embarrassed and don't want to face it, we are doing more damage than good. Books like this, that hit on the core issues of the time they are written have more to teach kids than it has to damage them.

It is the ignorant that glorify our past because they don't know better. Deciding to whitewash classic literature is a decision to raise every generation that comes behind us as ignorant.

- Thanks Toni for pissing me off enough to write this-

....And then I remebered I was in Brooklyn.

My work neighborhood never really has much to offer me in regards to peaceful, scenic atmosphere. I do not get the warm fuzzies of safety walking to and from the train. I work in the Hood where people are aggressive, angry, and suspicious of any outsiders. It is a dirty neighborhood because the people that live here do not seem to care about the environment they live in and will dispose of anything (mostly used condoms and Chinese food) on the sidewalk or in the street. Don't get me wrong, I am sure there are many great people that live in this neighborhood, but lets face it, they live in a shit hole and don't seem to care. It is a neighborhood that the city does not send plows to in the middle of a blizzard, which I am convinced is because they will get their plows jacked. It is the neighborhood that is home to Jay-Z, Mos Def, Spike Lee, and The Notorious B.I.G. Need I say more?

Today I was taking a walk at lunch time, when I was stopped in my tracks by this little girl (about 5 or 6 years old) playing in the snow. I have never had the urge to stop and look at anything here, since Article 2 Paragraph 1 of "The Rules of the Hood Survival" state:

When you are asked a question on the street, the answer is ALWAYS

"I ain't seen nothin"

This rule is a lot easier to follow if you have in fact, not seen anything. So I stood on the corner with my back to nothing but a wall (This is also rule in the bylaws) and looked at how cute this little girl was. She was dressed in a cute little pink snow suit and looked completely content, working alone at building a snowman. She was oozing with childhood innocence and looked as though her parents hadn't messed her up too bad, yet. I stood and watched her as she methodically build her snowman. She seemed to think out ever step and would go back and correct anything she was not happy with. It appeared that she was a perfectionist building herself a perfect new friend. She finally finished and took a step back and appeared to be admiring her work.

It turns out admiring was what she APPEARED to be doing. By the time I could even process what was happening this "cute little girl" charged at the snowman, jumped in way she could land an elbow through the head of the snowman and then proceeded to punch and kick the snowman until he was a sad pile of broken dreams, all while screaming profanity at the snowman. It was like she was single handedly responsible for initiating Frosty into a gang. I realized it was time to get out of there when she spit on the pile of beat up snow. I walked away and pretended I had not seen anything (those are the rules after all) and thought happy thoughts that, no matter how bad the economy gets... I will ALWAYS have clients to work with.

=D vs :D

Me: She used colon D because she wanted to smile real big.
Matt: I like mine bigger. I use equal sign D, but you have to be careful because, depending on the font, it can look like a penis.... just a word of warning.

Welcome to My Wasted Life

Last night I discovered that the last 3.5 years of my life have been pointless. I wish I could say this is the first time that has happened, but there was that 5 years I spent in a horrible town called "The home of the bible thumping Baptists"or maybe it was called Lagrange, GA, it was definitely one of the two. I moved there for college since I assumed college was necessary if I didn't want to end up homeless on skid row, carrying the love child of a tranny hooker named Monique. (it is amazing what Catholic School will have you believing by the time it is over). There were also those 2 years of grad school that I only did because I was told I "would make more money and earn more respect". Too bad that advice came form a guy working with computers, who had little understanding that a M.A. in Social Services paid less than a tranny hooker named Monique makes turning tricks and offers about the same amount of respect. So yes, it seems that there is a certain established cycle here, so it should not shock me to learn that my entire existence in NYC is completely inconsequential, but somehow I find myself shocked and heart broken.

I moved to Manhattan more than 3 years ago with big dreams of doing something great with my life, and by that I mean, I have worked hard to for over 3 years to hail the cash cab. I wanted a red light challenge. I wanted a street shout out. Every time I get into a cab I put on the surprised face, that I have practiced for hours and hours in the mirror, then I look at the roof of the car where the lights are supposed to be going crazy and then I scream "OH MY GOD I CAN NOT BELIEVE I GOT IN THE CASH CAB". Most cab drivers ignore me and ask where I am going, but never once has Ben bailey turned around and welcomed me to Cash Cab. I am aware I may look stupid with my cab routine, but it is my main dream in life and I want to be ready when it is time.

This dream came to an end last night while I was watching TMZ. They were interviewing the only man that was capable of making all my dreams come true, Ben Bailey, and at the end of the segment the gallery of stoners on TMZ started talking about how Cash Cab is set up and they hold auditions for wannabe actors to get on the show. I was smacked with the reality that, once again, I have wasted years of my life working for something that was never going to happen in the first place.

Now not only am I not going to live out my dream but I also can't even watch the show anymore, because the way my life has gone I am totally convinced that it is only a matter of time before Ben pulls over and picks up Monique.

Sky Writing is Hard To Do Wall-To-Wall

I should start by saying, it is not MY guilt that is in question here. It may seem like I live in a glass house, since I will often sit on the couch 10 feet from Matt and start a chat window with him in Facebook (but in my defense the "what do you want for dinner" game gets on my nerves when it is done out loud) and I rarely ever call anyone anymore since I already know how they are since I can stalk them on FB and I may rely on my "friends" to post news stories so I know what is going on in the world and I spend my work day feeling like I am hanging out with old friends since I am constantly on my phone reading status' and I really enjoy the uncomfortable updates that so and so "has changed their relationship status to single" and getting to relish in the fact that I knew it would never work out from the start. So yes, it may seem like I live in a glass house with what I am about to say, and you may be right.

**sidenote**I should stop here and make it clear that I DO NOT think it matters what kind of house you live in, you should not be throwing stones, unless, of course, you are being chased by zombies, are at a Justin Beiber concert, or trying to deter kids from walking on your lawn.**over**

It makes me really sad that people have let FB replace the phone, the singing telegram, personal email, sky writing, blimps, and pigeons posts. Today I got an email, through FB of course, that let me know one of my good friends has been attacked by a body snatcher. (She used the word pregnant, but let's just agree to call it what it is) Don't get me wrong, I appreciate that I get the info before the big FB blast, that is no doubt on its way, right before the black and white photos from the parasitic growth inside her abdomen and the pictures of her naked belly with her defunct belly button, all of which are only meant to act as suspense builders to the day she posts the size of her womanhood for every to see (yes that is right ladies, for all of you that do not know, 'dilation' is actually the size of your woo woo).

I DO feel special that I was given this information before that guy on her friend list that she has not talked to since 5th grade, but I wish society has not instilled in us that all our communication has to be through FB. I am not trying to be high maintenance or anything, but it seems that when saying:

"Hey friend, I am going to the other side of the cold war. it's been nice knowing you",

you should AT LEAST send a singing telegram.

When I said "Everything", I meant salt, garlic and poppy seeds NOT vengeance, wrath and brutality!

It started off like any other morning... waking up 2 minutes before the alarm clock going off and getting pissed off because only old people do that and then spending my extra 2 minutes laying in bed thinking deep thoughts like "How much DNA could you find if you swabbed any street corner in NY?". Everything was familiar about the morning, little did I know there was a coup d'é·tat being planned. That's right, my ninja knives decided that today was the day that the bagel would win the fight. Needless to say, the knives are no longer allowed to hob-knob with the bread items, because they obviously can not be trusted not to start a revolution. The only victim during the uprising was my thumb (my other fingers that got grossed out and maybe the hard woods, any ideas on how to remove blood from wood floors?) I stood with rivers of blood streaming down my arm and grabbed a towel. I, being built of major toughness, continued to get ready for work thinking that I would stop bleeding eventually. About 30 minutes later, my plasma was still seeping out of the towel. I decided I needed help to wrap my finger. The only one that could help was Matt and he was asleep. I know he does not like to startled from sleep, so I went up to the bed and took the towel off and stood there as blood was dripping to the floor and screamed "OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO DIE!!!!!". Once I was convinced he was up, I told him I was joking (he plays it cool but I know he loves these games). He helped me wrap it and I went to work.

It only took me about 5 minutes for work to get mad at me. Which I need to stop here and vent about how unfair this is. We allow clients to enter the building EVERY DAY that smell like 5 sumo wrestlers ate burning tires and then took a dump on them, they drool all over themselves, get their menses all over the chairs (the 3pt word is intentional since this is a classy page and will never again talk about period here), they piss and crap themselves, and when they are not dropping something out of their mouth onto the floor, they are dropping it on you. SO I was a little offended when people at work decided to complain about me dripping blood all over the place. I was sent home to go get stitches.

I went and got my finger super glued, seriously, they super glued it and after 4 hours of constant bleeding, it stopped instantly. If I knew being a doctor involved art supplies I would have totally gone a different direction. Then they gave me my tetanus shot which I only mention because it has the word anus in it which made my arm feel like it was burning from the inside until I went to bed.

So know I am stuck without the use of a thumb for a week. Here is a list of ways you take your thumb for granted:

• taking off pants (leading me to almost pissing my pants)
• typing
• showering
• double fisting my adult beverages
• Smoking meth
• unscrewing to cap on the flask I keep at work
• thumb war
• sing where is thumb-kin
• making a proper fist to punch people in the face
• -and so many more-

But the silver lining: With my bandage, every day gets at least 1 thumb up, and I have changed up my finger prints which I firmly believe may be useful one day.

You Look Like Little Birds Helped You Get Dressed

You may have noticed an absence here lately, and that would be because I have fallen madly in love with a trucker named Bubba I have recently been sucked into a black hole of suckage. I know, I know, you look at my life and say "hey, your life kicks a**, you got 432 multi-color, super bendy straws for you birthday which guarantees that you can use one straw a day and your friend Vodka will be delivered to your liver in the most funky way for the next 1.18 years (unless I decide to share with a guest, which is unlikely because in order to earn the right to one of my bendy straws you pretty much need to give me a midget that is comfortable living in a closet when he is not conducting dance parties and making tasty beverages to go with my bendy straws)".

Anyway, back to the suckage. There has been a whole lot of suckage going on lately, but today I woke up with a new outlook. I decided that I am not going to let the ill mannered boss, or the constant sewage smell at work, or the fact that Richard Simmons is stalking me bring me down anymore. I have tried everything lately. My tiara only offers moments of relief and, on average, I am having to do a 10 second dance party every 1/2 hour, which means last week at work I danced it out for a total of 800 seconds. I try really hard to hide my dancing secret at work, but lately I am running to my office, closing the door and coming out in 10 seconds with sweat on my face. People are starting to talk. Time has come, for me to get serious.


There is a well known fact, to people that know it, that Socks are a great coping skill. I only wear Mary Janes to work, so I have a good view of my socks everyday. Normally I am conservative with my neutral colored stripes that match my outfit, but on days when I need to perk up or when I have a meeting I do not want to be a part of or when I need to divert my inner rage, I will act out. Today I am wearing my rainbow socks, which I have already been told this morning do not match what I am wearing, which I find to be the most ridiculous thing since these socks have every color on them and I know for a fact my sweater matches AT LEAST one of these colors.

Just when I think i am alone in all my behavioral techniques, I get to work and start playing Scrabble doing really important work things, when I look down at my work friends' shoes and notice he is wearing these. I think it is his subtlety that makes us friends.

Porn and Grandparents, Do Not Mix

I was going through the new releases on Netflix..... oh, you didn't know? I will be 32 this weekend and, naturally, this means I start planning my wild weekends no later than Wednesday by pulling out the trusty whirl-E- gig laptop while sucking on my Werther's Original and filling my movie queue on Netflix. Anyway, as I was going through the new releases, I saw Lonesome Dove and was shot back into "Traumatic Memory Zone".

I have watched Lonesome Dove exactly 1 time in my life. I was a kid, about 7 years old, and I was staying at my grandparents house for a bit of the summer. They loved watching boring, crappy movies, in all their Technicolor glory. Staying with the grand'rents would always lead to a boring night where I would lay on the floor in my perfectly constructed blanket fort, built out of fleece and dining room chairs, in front of the TV and watch whatever my grandma would want to watch that night (because no one argued with grams, those were the rules). One night, her selection was a Western/tragedy/romantic flick called Lonesome Dove. It was a miniseries, so on VHS that meant a 2 NIGHT EVENT!!!! I sat and watched this movie with my grams and gramps for 2 nights, almost 6 hours, AND THEN....... there was a scene with a red headed woman where she was not wearing any clothes and there was a man on top of her.......

....and to this day, all I remember about this miniseries is that there is a sex scene with a red headed woman. I was so traumatized by this scene, that I didn't move until the credits rolled because even though I was young, I was smart enough to know that it is a bit awkward to watch porn with your grandparents. I must have amazing defense mechanisms, because I had blocked that memory for 25 years.

Boys Will Do Anything For Cookies.

Matt and I went out for lunch and had a few beers. On the way to the train we see a Blood Drive bus.

Matt: Hey want to go give blood and get all f***ed up?
Me: Will they take our blood if we have been drinking?
Matt: That is the game... we can't tell them that part.
Me: Well I am anemic and they won't take my blood, but do you think they still give free t-shirts, because I would get one for trying and that would totally be worth it.
Matt: We could get free shirts, feel light headed AND get free COOKIES!!

Pregnancy Changes Center of Gravity.... Is That Why Keg Stands are Inappropriate?

I got exactly 31 emails at work today and 17 of them were about parties. Apparently, every single person I work with is quitting, having a baby, getting married, or retiring. This not only means that I will now have to attend 5 parties that I could care less about, but that will be 5 hours of my life I will not get back. It also means that I need to give up between $25 and $50 for "presents" and I also have to make some shitty food dish, that no doubt will end like it did last time, when everyone got all upset that I used special ingredients to make my brownies or when I convinced everyone to drink the Jesus Juice. I have never been able to figure out why people get so uptight about making sure the mother-to-be enjoys the party as much as you do. I am guessing by the baby bump that it is because everyone knows what a slut she can be at a party. I still stand by my argument that I don't think it should be called a "Pot Luck" if none of the dishes are "Lucky".

After sitting here all day being copied on the party planning emails, that I am excepted to weigh in on, I find myself rather angry. I think it is mighty presumptuous of them to think I care about things that make them happy. Ultimately, they are asking me to celebrate someone that is quitting, which I interpret as "I am too good to be here with you guys, I have found better people to spend my day with", why the hell would I waste my special brownies on someone that feels that way. Then the one that really gets me is that everyone feels I need to be excited because you are getting married or having kids. I do not believe in either of these things. They might as well tell me I have to give $5 AND cook for god or Iowa.

Just another reason I hate work and feel like the gods are constantly pointing and laughing at me.

Mrs. Butterworth is Soooooo 2009

"A man's worth can be measured in how many trophies he has won."

I think it was God that said that, but it may have been me, I can't recall right now. It is an important statement for my friend Lucia. She made it public knowledge that she has never won a trophy IN HER ENTIRE LIFE. How is this possible? I have stolen won tons of trophies in my life, most of them my mom sold at a garage sale, along with my Snoopy Sno Cone Maker (which is just another mark on the list "Things I May Never Forgive My Mother For"). Anyway, while all the dirty kids shopping at my moms garage sale were buying up all my trophies, so they could pretend their life was worth something, I saw my self worth going down the toilet. You see Lucia, it was at this point that I was worthless, just like you. This lasted for years, until March of 2010.

I was on a cruise where I had mad skill in a Roulette Tournament and Fred entered my life, fair and square. Fred is my most prized possession.Whenever I get upset or have a bad day , I can come home and talk to Fred. He is incredibly superior to Mrs. Butterworth, who I used to have to rely on before I had Fred, and let's face it, she is a Bitch. I thought I would take this opportunity to make Lucia feel even worse about not having a Fred encourage Lucia to go out and find something she can win.

Meet Fred.

He is always the life of the party. He likes to spin me mad beats to cheer me up or when it is time for a 10 second dance party.

He even gets along with Matt.... here he is helping Matt build a mobile


He helps encourage me to exercise.


He always gives me options when making me a drink.


and he always passes out first so I don't have to feel like the biggest alcoholic at the party.

Lucia, if you can't find something to win at, I would suggest going to a kiddie pageant and kicking the little princess over as they come out and stealing their Fred's. It will be worth it!!!!

Commune, Party of 9, Your Table is Ready.

There are exactly 8 people on this Earth (no more, no less) that I would want hanging out with until I die. (for the rest of you, don't get your panties in a wad, I like you too, just not THAT much) These people are from various phases of life starting in preschool and ending in professional life. Some I have spent tons of time getting to know and some have moved away before that could happen, but not before I could realize that you belong on the short list. The one thing they all have in common is that they live all over the US; far, far away from me. California, Arizona, Washington, Georgia, etc. I am hoping these 8 people know who they are because I am about to propose an offer.

I would like for us to move to the same neighborhood and hang out with one another until we die. It really can be this simple. I would prefer that we all live next door to one another but as long as we can walk to each others house, I will be happy. Now I am not one to be COMPLETELY selfish, so here is what I am offering in return:

I will vow to make Matt grill out Farmer's Market Sausages at least once a week. If you ever get sick I will bring you Toy Story DVD's with Banana Popsicles. If you have a bad day at work, I will invite you over to eat Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls for dinner and even let you help ice them. I will always be there to punch you in the face when you are stupid. I will bring you Justin Bieber CD's and porn and promise not to tell anyone that you asked for them. If you gain weight, not only will I still like you, I will go shopping with you at Old Navy to buy new "fat clothes". If you get too drunk, I will bring you Saltines and Gatorade so you don't die. I promise to initiate 10 second dance parties and not get upset with you, when you do not want to attend. When it rains, I will help you make "water angels" in your front yard. I will come over and hook your house up with a living room fort so you will have a place for alone time. If you ever have a big project to complete, I will let you use my Sharpies. I will bedazzle all of us friendship hats so we will have a clear sense of community. And, lastly, I promise to be your friend until I die.

Are you with me?

Ever Wonder Why There Are Not Bars in Toy Stores?

In my defense, I should start by saying that the world would be a better place if more people had my sense of humor. With that said, I had out of town guests this weekend that were full of awesome ideas. There were a few really great ideas but the best one (as judged by me) included sitting outside at Rockefeller Center in the ice rink area and drinking for the better part of the day. There is something about sitting on an outdoor patio that can make you forget how much you are drinking or how loud you are talking. We sat there long enough for my friend Lucia to request sand in her drinks because she was pretending she was at the beach. We realized that if we were going to make it home we should continue on with our day and leave the bar. This could only mean one thing.... it was time to go to FAO Schwartz. My guests wanted to go to the Muppet Workshop and make muppets of themselves, so off we went.

We arrive at FAO and proceed to the Muppet area where all the 20 something employees are standing there with various puppets. One of them is holding a muppet that looks a little like this....
We were wondering how to get started, so I told Brad he should ask the guy holding the "whore puppet". I was not trying to be rude, I just really thought the puppet looked like a whore. Apparently, the employees are a bit rude, because this is when I realized that the employee was eavesdropping on my conversation and I was corrected that it is not a "whore" it is "a princess". I might have responded by whispering to Brad, "if she is not a whore why is he fisting her". I realize that it would be best for me to go play with the lunchboxes and let my friends build their puppet. I quickly got bored and lonely and went back over the my friends were I realized that all the puppets had whips. I asked if they all came with whips and I was once again corrected and was told they were not whips, but it was the hand control to move the arm. This final correction was when I first noticed "THE LOOK". This may surprise you, but I am pretty familiar with "THE LOOK". It is the type of look that one shoots me to let me know I have possibly crossed over the line that most people find comfort on the other side of. It is the kind of look that says "I have very low tolerance for anyone that wants to make a joke ". It is the type of look that lets me know that this person is working in a toy store not because they need the money, but because they love kids and care about the well being of these kids and I might be a bad influence on them. Ultimately, it is the kind of look that lets me know my time is limited in whatever establishment I am in. That is when I looked around and saw that not only was the guy holding the whore puppet giving "THE LOOK", but so were the other 4 people trying to pimp their puppet. I like to think that we were all just as inappropriate but my 2 friends were actually purchasing a puppet so they got away with their shenanigans. I did not want to ruin the magical moment when "Lucia Puppet" was born so I went away.

Finally, Lucia Puppet was ready and she came out wearing a hippy dress and....YES.... she came with her very own whip.

Moral of the story is when in a toy store, even if a guy has his whole hand up a puppets butt, there is no time when it is ok to use the word "fisting" in a toy store..... and that alcohol makes it easier to deal with all the kids in a toy store. Now I know.

If this isn't the American Dream, than I am not American

I don't know about you, but I am constantly 2 thoughts away from being Steve Slater. I fantasize about exploding and causing a huge scene about every 15 minutes. I constantly have a running stream of cuss words ready to go at a moments notice. I even have a nickname picked out for everyone I work with, should a situation arise that they piss me off. I sit in every meeting visualizing myself standing on top of the table and addressing each person on why I find them to be so stupid. These are things I just THINK about.

My new Hero ACTUALLY went on a PA system, cussed every out (they no doubt deserved it), deployed an emergency slide (who the hell doesn't love a slide), stole some beer (becuase the first thing you want when quitting your job is a cold one) and cruised down to the tarmac at 9.8 meters per second squared and hurried home to his girl where he engaged in celebratory "I just lost my shit and ruined my future" shag. (Of course, that was cut short when the cops showed up).

Mr. Slater picked an interesting time for his display. I had a pretty decent interview yesterday and the reality of potentially walking in and saying "I am fed up with this crap and I am outta here" has become more than a passing a thought.

If I do choose to change jobs, I will be in a position to pull a Slater. I admit, it will not be easy!! We have no glass ceiling at work I can jump through. I work in a basement so rappelling out of my window is not an option. I am not a guy so it is not as easy to spell "I QUIT" in piss on my boss's desk. On top of this, my normal level of "crazy" at work is something the staff has become quite accustom too. I could sit on the floor in the corner and eat Campbell's Cheddar Cheese Soup out of the can and only reply to questions in the voice of Beaker from the muppets and they would not even think twice. I will need to reach to new levels.

I would like officially to go on the record saying..... Thank you Mr. Slater, for throwing the gauntlet down. I ACCEPT your challenge!!