I’ll Tell You Why I’m So Sad

The world has an ironic sense of humor. When I got in the car this morning, what was on the radio but Sheryl-fucking-Crow. Not 8 hours after I was railing on about how much I don’t like her and her stupid music, there she was splitting my eardrums. And holy shit if it wasn’t the same damn song I quoted last night, If It Makes You Happy. I haven’t heard that song in like 8 years, primarily because I’ve been actively avoiding it. When she sings, “If it makes you HAAAPEEEEEEEEE!!!” it sounds like a goat being slaughtered with a dull blade.

Oh, God! It hurts so bad! Oh, the pain! Seriously, man, I accept the fact that I’m a goat and you’re a goat slaughterer and you’re going to slaughter me; I’m fine with that. I accept my fate. But for god’s sake, man, please take two minutes and go sharpen the blade. Please, I promise I won’t go anywhere, I mean, look at me, I’m bleeding everywhere, albeit very, very slowly. Oh, it hurts so bad!

(That last part about the goat is a lot funnier in a Scottish accent. Trust me.)

Day 4 at the house and guess what? I met a neighbor! Now, this wasn’t a case of someone making the autonomous decision to stop by to wish me a sincere welcome to the neighborhood. This was actually just completely incidental. I was taking the trashcan out to the street when Laura, our next door neighbor, was passing by and thankfully I was wearing a shirt (so was she… thankfully). She was kind enough to pull the headphones out of her ears to say hello. She was very nice and smiley as we exchanged the briefest of pleasantries. I was intent on making the most out of my first interaction with a new neighbor but she was intent on going about her business. Granted, she was on her way for a run, which I deduced from the running outfit she was wearing, but the encounter literally lasted 20 seconds. I didn’t even get any of the basic information from her.  “So you’re married? That’s great… And how long have you been in the neighborhood?... Oh, that’s just fantastic… We really like it here too… Well, that would be great, I’ll look forward to it. Movie night sounds like fun… Yeah, that’s a good one. I like Travolta in it, unlike Face/Off… Totally agree – John Woo destroyed that movie… My favorite color? Well, blue I suppose… Now that’s just crazy, yours too?... How silly…  Thank you. Yeah, this is one of my favorite shirts. I just don’t typically wear one… Oh, you’ve noticed?... Well thank you. You know, I cut it myself… Oh yeah, it’s easy, you just have to turn around and use one mirror to look in the other mirror and then just trim up the back. It’s really easy… Oh, really? No, I would never have guessed they were fake, I mean, not in a million years…”

Progress at the house was slow but purposeful today. I spent most of my time rerouting the electrical receptacles and switches. You didn’t know I did electrical work too? Apparently I do.

Tomorrow will be a real treat. I have to start the day by getting into the crawl space under the house. I’m looking forward to it like I’m looking forward to my first home colonoscopy. 

If It Makes You Happy, Then Why the Hell Are You So Sad?

I don’t like Sheryl Crow. I can’t say I hate her because I haven’t met her and I only say that about people I’ve met, but I would say that I have a strong disliking for her and her music. To a certain extent she’s been crowned the preeminent woman of rock even though she’s terrible. There are so many other great female rockers out there (like Melissa Etheridge, Karen O, Meg White… I can’t think of any others right now) that put Crow’s pitiful songs and embarrassingly simple lyrics to shame (“You get down, real low down/You listen to Coltrane, derail your own train/Well who hasn’t been there before?/I come round, around the hard way/Bring you comics in bed, scrape the mold off the bread/And serve you French toast again/Well, ok, I still get stoned/I’m not the kind of girl you’d take home…” That’s embarrassing). I find the only rocking that her songs do is rocking me to sleep, but not a warm, cozy sleep where I’ll dream about ice cream and smoking hot actresses; it’s more like I’m being anesthetized by Dr. Bunsen Honeydew and Beaker is standing next to him with a scalpel in one hand and a corn on the cob in the other and I’m trying to resist but Miss Piggy is holding me down and I can’t move and my eyelids are getting heavy and there’s nothing I can do, I’m just reaching out, searching for anything, maybe an EpiPen of serotonin to jam into my temple to shock me back into reality. 

What does my dislike for Sheryl Crow have to do with anything? It doesn’t. I just heard a song on the radio today and I thought it prudent to make sure no one assumed I was a Sheryl Crow fan.

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Day three at the new house and still no neighbors. I noticed something today though: the neighborhood is very quiet. More than just quiet; it’s dead silent. You know, the type of silent that is painfully broken by the screaming of a table saw ripping through a 4x8 sheet of plywood.

Demo went very well again. No injuries to speak of and I tore the wall out between the dining room and living room. Now it’s wide open and looking like the dog’s bollocks.

The worst part of the day was removing the old tile counter tops. The tiles were antique, white, hexagonal little guys, about ¾” across. It must have taken a month to lay them. That’s nice and all, but they were set in 3” of mortar. No shit. The entire 10’ long counter top had to weigh a thousand pounds. I can’t imagine why they would have used 3”when 2.75 fewer inches would have sufficed. The only way to get it out was to chisel at it with a sledgehammer and a big steel spike. Holy shit I’m tired. I felt like John Henry, driving railroad spikes, except I didn’t die when it was over and I would gladly have lost to the steam engine if it would have saved me the 4 hours of work. As it was, I got it done, though I doubt they’ll be writing any folk songs about me.

John Henry, O, John Henry!

Blood am runnin’ red!

Falls right down with his hammer to the ground,

Says, “I’ve beat him to the bottom but I’m dead

Lawd – Lawd –

I beat him to the bottom but I’m dead." 

Photo: View from the living room through the dining room to the kitchen. No more walls. 

On Belay? Belay on.

Prior to acquiring the house, I took the wife rock climbing last week at a big indoor facility here in town. My logic behind rock climbing was two-fold: 1. I’m naturally good at it; my ancestors were monkeys. 2. Going into my 3^rd month of unemployment, I found myself responding to a simple question every day – what should I do tonight? - with the same answer – I don’t know, Bud, but let’s have a beer until we think of something.

My logic for taking the wife was also two-fold: 1. I legitimately thought it would be something that we could both enjoy together unlike reading, soccer, scoping, or drinking. 2. I went for the first time by myself a few weeks ago. As a prerequisite everyone is required to get belay certified, which consists of a 15 minute training session with one of the staff members so you can learn to prevent your climbing buddy from plummeting to the ground and crushing all the bones in their body like a coffee grinder. My staff instructor was an entirely humorless stoner that hadn’t showered since the last time he peaked Mt. Kilimanjaro, which I’m guessing was never. After I was certified he was like, “ok, now you can go climb with your friends.”

Me: “Oh, well, I actually don’t know anyone here.”

Dimebag Darrel: “You didn’t come with someone else?” he asked incredulously.

Me: “Well, no. I’m new to town and I don’t know anyone.”

Dimebag Darrel: Completely beside himself with disbelief like I’d just told him I accidentally flushed 6 ounces of the purest hashish this side of Mt Rushmore down the toilet, “you’re here by yourself?”

Me: What is this, Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? “Yes.” Final answer.

Dimebag Darrel: Even more surprised than the first two times I told him I was a friendless loser, “well, it’s just that most people come with a friend.”

Me: I’m gathering that, but what was it about me walking in the front door by myself, filling out the release form in front of you by myself, and just going through this one-on-one belay lesson with you by myself, and you by yourself, that suggested I was here with my fucking friends???

Dimebag Darrel: “I don’t know what to tell you…”

Me: I just starred back at him. I don’t know what the fuck to tell you either!

Dimebag Darrel: To one of the other stoned out staffers, “Dude, this guy is here by himself, what should we do?”

Snoop Dogg: “You’re here by yourself???”

Me: YES! FUCK!

So I brought the wife for my second visit and we had a ton of fun doing it, though it was very humbling. First of all, most of the dudes don’t wear shirts. My wife was keen on that observation but it left me feeling a bit modest, even with my own shirtless home remodeling tendencies. Not wearing a shirt while tearing a wall down is purely utilitarian. Not wearing your shirt while climbing a wall is just fucking vain. Secondly, there was a pair of 12 year-olds scampering up and down the climbing walls like they were mountain goats or some shit. Meanwhile I was clinging to the face of the rock for dear life like Tom Cruise in that scene from Mission Impossible. At one point, dangling 20’ off he ground, I actually shouted down to the wife, “I feel like Tom Cruise in that scene from Mission Impossible!”

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Day 2 at the new house and still no neighbors stopping by. I have seen our neighbor from two doors down on several occasions now, and apparently he’s new to the neighborhood as well. He’s a white dude with cornrows and he talks on his cell phone in the front yard like the person on the other end of the call is traveling through a tunnel and having trouble hearing him. He has a very definitive blaccent with a southern drawl so every word seems to have extra syllables, “Yo, may-yan, I’m telling you, I gots a how-ouse, I gots a may-ell box, I gots gray-ass; it’s da she-it!” I give it another 48 hours before we’re getting high together.

Demo went very well today and I was able to get a lot done:

-I removed the wall between the kitchen and dining room, which came with an unbelievable sense of accomplishment. I’m badass.

Photo 1: The "before" picture from inside the kitchen facing the dining room.

Photo 2: The after, from inside the dining room facing the kitchen.

-I sustained my first injury, albeit minor, due to some flying debris. It came with a lesson as well: when the thought occurs to you that you might need band aids at some point, go ahead and act on it rather than waiting until your bleeding. 

Photo 4: Painter's tape and a paper towel. I'm resourceful like a boy scout. 

-I put my hand through a pane of glass. I didn’t sustain an injury to my person thanks to my Task Force work gloves, however my wallet will need a tourniquet as replacing a window wasn’t in the initial budget. 

Our New House is the Dog’s Bollocks

I watched a funny movie the other night, In Bruges, starring Brendan Gleeson, a hilarious Colin Ferrel, and surprisingly hilarious Ralph Fiennes. The plot wasn’t particularly amazing as it was basically just a witty British character flick that hinged entirely on a lot of funny dialogue. The dialogue itself was well written and humorous but I couldn’t help but think that it was much funnier because all the accents were British (Ferrel’s is Irish, but close enough and just as funny), which got me thinking that almost everything is funnier with a British accent. It also made me wonder if Brits think the same thing, that everything they say is funny. I don’t imagine so because I picture all British people being humorless and gloomy on account of the weather and whatnot, but at least what they say is funny to us Americans on account of their British accents. Therefore, I’ll ask that you read the remainder of this post in a British accent to see if it’s any funnier than just an American accent, which is really no accent at all, unless you’re from the south, in which case you have a southern accent, which isn’t very funny just kind of dumb sounding¹. I also think that all Brits swear a lot so don’t be offended; it’s just the way they are.

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All right mates? The wife and I bought a house the other day. I say “the other day” like we was at a focking garage sale this weekend and instead of getting baby clothes and a chair with three legs for 2 pounds, we bought the whole focking house. In fact, we went into contract on a house several weeks ago and just took possession on Friday. Now, I know some of yous is gonna be brassed off about us moving out of the bloody apartment and all, but don’t worry, mates, we’ll still be living here for a few more weeks while I do some good old fashioned renovating on the house. Besides, we need to be here for at least another week for the focking Brixworth Apartment Pool Party next weekend (That’s right, ma, I see you there with the Coors Light in one hand, smoking a jolly fag in the other. Looking good. Hey mates! Can someone turn this Skynyrd up!?! I love this shit!)

To call our new place a “house” is a bit generous; it’s more like a bloody cottage or a bungalow. Actually, at less than 300 square meters (1000 square feet, you focking ignorant Americans!), it’s pretty much just a walk-in cupboard with a cooker and a shitter. But, it’s in a great neighborhood, just about exactly where we want to be, and less than two kilometers from a Home Depot. It doesn’t get any focking better.

So we had the Shady Arse Mutherfocking storage units delivered on Saturday and with the help on one very generous fellow, unloaded both in their entirety. I remember the wife telling me a story once about a prisoner that came to the hospital because he had done something retarded like 2000 squats to the point where his muscles stopped working. I realize now he was probably just training to help move someone into a new focking house once he got out of the pokey. I was so tired Saturday night I contemplated the usefulness of a bedpan in the couch.

So day 1 was moving in and day 2 was demolition. Any renovation worth a shit starts with a healthy dose of demo. In this case, we’re tearing out the walls between the kitchen and dining room and the dining room and living room to make the kind of wide-open floor plan that generally makes architects wet themselves.

That rather buff looking bloke in the photo wielding the sledgehammer is yours truly. I really thought this would turn out more like an action photo but as it is, it looks like I’m just resting me hammer on the focking wall. I probably was. I’ll have to chastise my helper, Alejandro, for not taking a better photo.

You’ll also note my perfectly bronzed and toned upper body in this photograph. I can assure you I didn’t leave my shirt behind simply for the picture; swinging a sledgehammer is bloody hard work in any climate, doubly so in July in the south. It took me all of 24 hours to stop wearing a shirt around my property, which would probably explain why none of our neighbors stopped over with house-warming brownies or crumpet or anything. One couple walking their dog paused to wave and I become painfully aware of my own redneckedness. Then I realized their dog was shitting in my yard and I wished I was standing in just me knickers with me socks and sandals.

The worst part of the demo was tearing up the flooring in the kitchen. The rest of the house has beautifully refinished hardwood floors. The kitchen has layer upon layer of shitty flooring covering up the original hardwood. The top was cheap laminate, followed by two bloody layers or atrocious linoleum, then a centimeter thick sheet of plywood underlay, and lastly another layer of linoleum. The underlay was the worst as it was nailed down in a 10-centimeter square grid across the whole focking floor. My only saving grace was the fact that the bloody Keebler Elves would be cheesed off to be baking their double stuffed E.L. Fudge cookies in such a small space. Regardless, I did the math and a nail every 10 centimeters in a 3x2 meter room is like 2 million nails. No wonder the planet is running out of resources – our grandparents were building houses like bloody space shuttles. I bet each nail was made from a baby seal’s tooth too.

Expect plenty of updates on the progress of the house including the inevitable injuries. I’ll try to keep me shirt on for future photographs.

Cheerio

1. Ok, ok – I’ve never apologized for anything on the blog, but this gross generalization that a southern accent sounds stupid does cross the line and I’m sorry for using it for a cheap laugh. It is funny though, no matter what your nationality.  

PR5 - Episode 2

Warning: Do not read this post if you have not yet seen Wednesday night’s episode and would not like the results spoiled for you.

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Shit! This is the last time I try to predict anything. Wesley got kicked auf AND Suede won the stupid challenge! I’m mad as a hornet right now.

The judging of tonight’s episode was a complete farce from top to bottom (except Natalie Portman. She could wear a bale of hay and I’d call it couture). This challenge had so much promise – they had to use green fabrics: Brilliant! The models got to pick the material out: I smell d-r-a-m-a! But holy crap if I wasn’t let down by every single dress. I felt like I was watching a kindergarten fashion show hosted by the guys in Wham!

Wesley's dress was atrocious, like a Milky Way candy bar wrapper after Tyra Banks had devoured the contents, but it was not the worst dress, at all, and he did not deserve to go home. 

In my expert opinion, Suede’s winning dress and Stella’s runner up were the two worst. First of all, who is Suede to be referring to himself in the third person? “Suede rocked that shit!” You are not a pro-bowl running back, dude. Leave the third person references to someone who rushed for 1200 yards last season. And secondly, no one wears suede anymore, so you may want to step on down to the courthouse to get your name updated to something a little more current, like Botox, or something.

Thirdly, this dress is a complete joke. It looks like I asked my 5 year-old niece what she wanted to be for Halloween and she was like [in mock 5 year-old’s voice] “I want to be a ballerina and a mummy!” WTF???

“Those two things don’t go together, little Abigail. How about you just put on this pumpkin costume like you did last year. Uncle Johnny needs a drink now. Where does daddy keep his booze?”

Stella is positively the bane of existence right now.  First off, they’re called UV rays, model, go out and get some. They’re cheaper than ever. Secondly, this is supposed to be a cocktail dress. I’m sure they serve “cocktails” at the biker bar, but they call it Pabst Blue Ribbon there. This is horrible and of course Michel Kors loved it. “I would totally sell this with my collection at Macy’s.” Exactly… Macy’s. Start selling clothes at a store where I shop, like Old Navy, and then I’ll think about respecting you.

As a final note, I’d like to thank our Project Runway-watching/meals-on-wheels companion. Dinner was positively posh.

Man vs Wild Part III (Cat Sits This One Out)

Here’s the scene: ‘Twas the other night, around 9PM; all through the apartment, nothing was stirring. The cat, nestled all snug on the couch; The wife in the bedroom, and I in the living room; She was studying butt tumors or something, while I was charting the rise, fall, rise again, and eventual termination of the hit MTV show, The Hills.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, there arose the slightest suspicion of movement. Not a moment’s hesitation, I sprang from the couch in a flash to see what was the matter.

The light shone across the kitchen’s linoleum floor, and what to my dumbstruck eyes should appear? A goddamn cockroach the size of a reindeer turd! Moving rapidly, so lively and quick. “Oh shit! Oh hell! Holy shitty hell!”

There across the floor it flew, the prancing and pawing of each disgusting little leg. I grabbed a cup with my hand, then leapt across the floor in a single bound, and slammed the cup over its plump little body, trapping it underneath¹.

Out from the bedroom came the wife in a flash; her eyes – full of fear, and face – bright fucking red! “What the hell is that???” I laughed when I saw her, in spite of myself, but the look in her eye gave me to know that pure dread was on her mind and shit was in her pants.

I slipped a piece of paper under the cup, trapping the roach between my hands, then sprang to the porch and threw it as far as I could. As it flew away, out of my sight, I’m pretty sure it exclaimed, “You got me this time, but I’ll be back. Sleep tight!”

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Two roaches in two weeks! And worse yet, now Sara knows about it. Ugh, I can feel them crawling all over me right now.

This one emerged from the utility closet, the door of which is now sealed from floor to ceiling with duct tape like a biohazard facility. I immediately got on the internet and this is what I found:

1. “Cockroaches leave chemical trails in their feces as well as emitting airborne pheromones for swarming and mating,” What!!!

2. “Other cockroaches will follow these trails to discover sources of food and water, and also discover where other cockroaches are hiding.” Shit!!!

3. “Thus, cockroaches can exhibit emergent behavior, in which group or swarm behavior emerges from a single set of individual interactions.” Fuck!!!

I also found this out from my own empirical studies:

1. Cockroaches are DISGUSTING!

2. Once you encounter a cockroach in your place of residence, it is the ONLY thing you can think about after that… forever.

3. Sara reacts to the sight of a cockroach like I imagine I would react if I answered the door and Freddy Kruger was standing there. We spent the better part of an hour collecting her bowels off the floor and stuffing them back into her abdomen².

The next morning I went down to the rental office to inform the office manager that we could have upwards of 2 million roommates unlawfully inhabiting our apartment. She adopted a fake conciliatory demeanor, “Oh really? That is so unfortunate.” Cut the shit, just get rid of the cockroaches. “That’s also really strange. I haven’t heard about cockroaches in any of the other apartments.” Bullshit! Am I to believe that the only two roaches in Middle Tennessee just happened to convene in my apartment? “How big were they?”

“Big.” Read: Fucking huge!

“Wow, that’s bizarre. Well, the exterminator is here on Friday’s, so I’ll have them stop in to spray.”

What!!! You have a regularly scheduled exterminator and you’re “surprised” by this encounter!!! Dude, you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself! I am presently LIVING WITH COCKROACHES! Make them go away!

Needless to say, since this latest episode the apartment has devolved into a lawless frontier, its inhabitants in a constant vigilant state of fear, armed to the teeth and at the ready for any more unwelcomed intruders. It’s like Dawn of the Dead, only worse.

 

1. This move was easily one of the best I’ve ever made, akin to the full extension save Edwin van der Sar made on Nicolas Anelka’s penalty kick in the 7^th round of the shootout in this past year’s UEFA Champions League title match, giving Manchester United the win over Chelsea. The only difference between that save and my move the other night: I didn’t get wasted at the pub in celebration after I caught the cockroach.

2. The wife would like to respectfully object to the accuracy of this retelling as it paints her in an unflattering light. Perhaps that’s true, but in all honesty, she was screaming like a 6-year old school girl at a Hannah Montana concert and uncontrollably running in place like that scene from Flashdance. 

PR V

One real quick administrative item: You’ll note the new look the blog is sporting. That came as a result of some constructive feedback from one of our apparently older readers, suffering from advanced stages of glaucoma, who was having trouble reading the white text on the black background. Let me know if this is better – the blog exists for you (not really; it pretty much exists because I have too much time on my hands).

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It pains me that this post is coming a week later than it should, but I’m sure you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.

I want to talk briefly about the best show on television: Project Runway.

Now entering its 5^th season on Bravo, this gem of reality entertainment is the pinnacle of the boob tube for me.

For those that don’t know, Project Runway pits 16 of America’s most up-and-coming, promising fashion designers - who are all either flamboyantly gay, eccentrically gay, or closeted gay, and who all share one commonality: they can design the shit out of an evening dress but they can’t dress themselves to save their lives - in ridiculous challenges ranging from designing wrestling outfits to dresses made of candy, all the while trying to convince the judges that they are serious designers with great vision and panache (most of them are terrible), in an effort to make it to the runway at New York’s fashion week and ultimately win. The show is hosted by the always stunning, Heidi Klum; proctored by the unflappable Tim Gunn; and judged by Famed American top designer and all around douchebag, Michael Kors, and Elle Magazine Editor-at-Large and the perpetually bed-headed, Nina Garcia.

Now I know what you’re all thinking, “Dude, you have unquestionable fashion taste; why on earth would you be watching a show like PR, which is quite clearly below you?” I know, I know; but let me explain. I refused to watch seasons 1 through 3, and quite frankly, I’m glad because the talent was subpar and the show was still learning how to walk and didn’t have half the clout it does now, and by ‘clout’ I mean drama queens. However, the wife was ape-shit about it from day one and thanks to the advent of DVR, I essentially watched every single episode simply by osmosis by being in my house.

Things changed for Season 4 when we were all at the in-laws this past Christmas, including both sister-in-laws (heretofore referred to as Walz 2.0 and 3.0, respectively), and 3.0’s boyfriend (heretofore referred to as Wisconsin Jeff). Not surprisingly the entire Walz clan was also ape-shit for Project Runway and somehow convinced Wisconsin Jeff and I to join in on the Walz Family PR4 Fantasy Draft. Not surprisingly it took like 4 hours to hammer out the rules and bylaws amid unyielding debate, vicious hair-pulling and ultimately tears, not unlike the drafting of the Bill of Rights, I assume. In layman’s terms, it boiled down to each of us selecting 2 of the PR contestants that we thought would win it all. Not surprisingly, by introducing a competition and a fantasy sports-like scoring process, Wisconsin Jeff ended up selecting the winner, I selected the runner-up, and the Walz sisters were left wallowing in their own misery and bad taste in fashion.

So needless to say, I was ape-shit for PR4, and especially because my girl, Jillian, sewed her way into my heart and quite nearly won the whole thing, falling short only to the diminutive and outlandishly flamboyant, Christian, who really did deserve it despite the fact that his fierce designs were more suited for a Stanley Kubrick film while Jillian’s had the beauty and practicality that would make anyone look stunning, even the average Brixworth Apartment Complex pool patron.

If you need any further convincing that Project Runway 5 will be the best show on television, here are three more reasons:

1. Heidi Klum: At 35, Klum still has the beauty, grace, and charisma that so often is lacking in her super model peers, including her American Counterpart, Tyra Banks, who gets uglier every time she opens her mouth. In fact, I think her beauty half-life is down to like 3.7 seconds now, so hopefully she’ll just up and disappear before too long.

2. Tim Gunn: The unbelievably regal yet quirky CCO at Liz Claiborne, Gunn adds an unmatched gravitas to the show that lends credibility to even the most ridiculous contestants and contests. He’s like your grandfather if your grandfather were overtly gay.

3. Kelli: She’s from Columbus and already a force to be reckoned with after winning last week’s contest – an absolute mockery of fashion as the contestants had to make something from materials found in a grocery store. What a joke. Jerry rightfully lost for his American Psycho-inspired shower curtain raincoat. Idiot. He would have been better off making a cocktail dress out of Cap’n Crunch. Tim Gunn: “Jerry, this dress is magnificently crunch-atized. Way to make it work.”

We didn’t do the Walz Family PR5 Fantasy Draft this time around, mainly because 3.0 is trekking around Central America collecting monkey poop… seriously. However, that doesn’t mean I have any less vested in this season as the wife and I have entered into our own contest of sorts having both chosen our final 3:

Sara: 1. Kenley, 2. Kelli, 3. Daniel

John: 1. Daniel, 2. Wesley, 3. Kelli

I’m sure you’ll all be watching right along with us.

One further item of note: Blayne and Stella are by far the two worst designers and people for that matter (Stella looks like one of the Ramones after a 72-hour heroin binge while Blayne looks like the offspring of Tommy Lee and Vince Neil after a 72-hour heroin binge with the Ramones), however they’ll both stick around much longer than they should simply because they add drama. Expect someone like Suede or Jerell to go home this week

Auf wiedersehen!

Dazed and Confused

So I had this crazy-ass dream the other night that I was at our house in Dublin, except hardly any of our stuff was there; it was practically empty, and the whole outside was covered in cobwebs, like a haunted house. No sooner had I walked in the door than the new owner was standing in the garage with this douchebag look on his face saying something like [in mock douchebag voice], “I just bought this house, I’m here to look at it.” What? This is my house still!

I was so freaked out that I left and went to a restaurant down the road where everyone I knew was sitting at the bar, including an FBI agent dressed like an Ewok. I used to work with the bartender so she was serving us drinks and food while some dirty-joke-telling magician was walking around. Next thing I knew everyone at the bar was playing flip cup, including the manager and the hostess, who somehow cloned herself into an identical twin, even though there were still people eating in the restaurant. The bartender was serving us beer in footballs and my team won every match. Then a pedophilic turtle showed up without his shell, so we put him on our team and we kept winning until we closed the bar down and the turtle drove home drunk.

I’m telling you, it would have been a crazy-ass dream, except every bit of it was real. Let me explain:

As previously mentioned, I went to Columbus last week to close on our house and move the rest of our stuff out. I pulled up, wearing my driving uniform (shorts and a wife beater), sweating my ass off, and I had to scrape away 4 weeks worth of spider webs off the front door to get in, like it was Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. No sooner had I walked in the door and set my things down than the buyer of my house was standing in my garage, looking like a douchebag. He was like [in mock douchebag voice], “Hi, I just bought your house,” And? “And I’m here for the final inspection.” Jigga what? I didn’t know anything about a final inspection. I just scraped a thousand spiders off the front of the house; I had no idea what the rest of the place looked like. I didn’t even know what to say. Then his bitch-ass girlfriend, wearing a skirt the size of a band aid, and his realtor looking like he’d just juiced up on some HGH arrived, so I was like, screw this, there’s no way I’m going to be here for this, I’m out of here.

So I went to Hoggy’s, a BBQ restaurant down the road where one of my friends works as a bartender a few nights a week and where she has amassed a crowd of my former coworkers who generally gather there on Wednesday nights. I believe Corky’s BBQ is a Nashville equivalent to Hoggy’s.

Shortly after I walked in, my soccer-watching buddy got all freaked out when she recognized, Glenn, who we happened to share a table with at the soccer pub a few months back for the big Man U./Chelsea clash. At the pub, Glenn, and his buddy John (John Glenn… really? That’s too cute), both raging toolbags, were dressed like they’d just come from a Star Wars convention… literally. Glenn had an Ewok on his t-shirt. It turns out Glenn is a goddamn government agent. He was at Hoggy’s the other night interviewing one of my buddies because his roommate is trying to get a job with the FBI. Weird-ass shit, right??? Incidentally, Glenn also plays on my brother’s team¹.

We were all just hanging out, having some food and drinks while I was regaling everyone with humorous anecdotes (there is a large body of evidence suggesting I’m funnier when I’m drunk, which is why I drink all the time). Wednesday also happens to be the night that Steve the Magician works the crowd at Hoggy’s. Again, I’m not making this up. Steve is a thirty-something raging douchebag that drives a green Camaro convertible and he literally does magic tricks all over the restaurant, which illicit the same amazed response from my drunken friends as it does toddlers. Admittedly, the guy is really good but let’s face it, you’re a magician… at a BBQ restaurant… on a Wednesday night… you’re life is terrible. Steve the Magician is also one of the crudest dudes I’ve ever met, specifically when it comes to the underage hostess at the restaurant.

I have no idea at what time, other than to say it was still light out, I stepped outside to talk on the phone to my girlfriend or wife or someone. When I came back in everyone was lining up plastic cups across the bar. I was like, “what the hell is going on here?”

“We’re playing flip cup.”

“No we’re not,” I said, “we’re in a restaurant. There are still families here, eating in the restaurant.”

“No, the manager totally said it was cool.”

“Bullshit he did, we are not playing flip cup.”

But actually, bullshit he didn’t. Apparently someone mentioned something about flip cup out loud and the manager, who is a huge flip cup aficionado, was all about it. So much so that he got the cups out. Then I looked up to see my bartender buddy filling up footballs of beer. Again, not lying. For some as-of-yet unexplained reason, she was able to locate several football shaped pitchers. I can’t go into any more detail than that – it was a football with beer in it.

So there we were, at least 12 of us, lined up around the bar, playing flip cup as naturally as we would be sharing an appetizer of potato skins or something.

My team won the first two matches then lost the third. Not happy about defeat, we cheated or way through the next 12 straight victories. That’s right, we played 15 rounds of flip cup, and it’s also right that we cheated to win. How do you cheat at flip cup, you ask? Simple. When the other team isn’t looking, you just set your cup on the rim and cheer loudly as if you’d done it the right way. I felt bad for cheating for the first round or two, but then I just felt bad that the other team was too stupid to realize it. Socrates actually came up with that philosophy originally – if you’re too dumb to win, you deserve to lose.

This went on so long that the restaurant had cleared out and they had locked the doors, but not before the shell-less turtle came in.

This guy is easily the creepiest looking and acting dude I’ve ever seen. He is a regular at Hoggy’s, but particularly on Wednesday nights when my buddy is working. He works at a jewelry store at the mall, divorced (really?), and a complete pedophile. He said some things that absolutely made my jaw drop; like I’m pretty fucking sure Dateline and Chris Hansen are eavesdropping on this guy’s life. I’m also pretty sure he has body parts in his freezer, like ears or fingers or something. The craziest thing is, he literally looks like a turtle without a shell. His neck is 4 times the length of normal human’s and he has this hump back and bald head like he’s the missing link between man and brontosaurus.

Never ones to discriminate, we asked him to play on our team. He’d never played before (what? Flip cup too mature for you? You prefer pin the tail on the donkey or something?) and he was easily the worst player in the world if not the entire Mesozoic Era. He was all awkward and slow as if he were literally a turtle living outside of the comfort of his shell². Amazing.

With the restaurant locked down and the turtle inside, the manager and several of the servers came out to play, as well as the hostess and her identical twin sister, who materialized from nowhere. When it was all said and done, the turtle ambled off to his car, completely wasted.  And the rest of us played a game of touch football in the parking lot with our new pitchers.

Next to my wedding, it was the weirdest night of my life.

 

1.   1. My brother plays a game with his coworkers that I’ll call The Game of Life (I have no idea what it’s actually called). The game works like this: When you see someone that is either a huge toolbag or douchebag, you want to be the first to say to your buddy, “dude, that guy is on your team,” as in, that guy is on your fictitious team of life, suggesting that you are a lifelong teammate with a royal tool or douchebag. This is a really long explanation of an inside joke that basically boils down to the fact that I just owned my brother on my blog.

2.   2. At this point I’m asking, ney, I’m challenging any of the Wednesday night regulars at Hoggy’s to get a picture of this guy so I can post it on the blog and show the world what this man-tile looks like. 

Errors and Omissions

I really appreciate that some people are reading the blog and some are even taking the time to compliment or point out some lapses in accuracy in the posts. As hard as it is to believe, mistakes do get made so I like to be the first to own up to them. Therefore, I’m going to take a minute to recognize those bold readers out there:

Megan in California wrote in response to Man vs. Wild:

keep them coming-- it's my current favorite past-time!! I do have one correction though -- goosing is a bit more than pinching someone's ass--though the dog seemed to understand the technique quite well. I pulled a more detailed definition for John for later use...

Goose - A verb, which means to grab someone between their butt cheeks and to squeeze, almost with an intent to hurt. The most common way to goose someone is with the fingers and thumb of one hand. The fingers grab from the bottom, and the thumb from the top. Then, in an upwards, and squeezing motion, you goose them.

ex. "He goosed me so hard it bruised my anus!"

Goose - Any action involving poking or prodding of one's buttocks as if you are being snapped at by a goose.

Thanks, Megan. Wow, I clearly had no idea goosing was so violent. I also had no idea until I read the definition that my former supervisor was such an accomplished gooser.

For the benefit of the other readers out there, Megan was an imbedded reporter in Iraq and did an investigative report into the horrible torture that took place at Abu Ghraib.

 

Chastity in Columbus wrote in response to Man vs. Wild:

YOU shit your pants...and I just peed my pants...I'm crying...Great story...to be told at many Thanksgiving gatherings with close loved ones.

Thanks, Chas. Keep on rocking the free world.

 

Elizabeth in Lewis Center wrote in response to On The Road Again:

One thing of mention, unless "Kitty Zanax" is a brand name, I wanted to let you know that the correct spelling for the brand name of alprazolam is "Xanax", so with an "X" not a "Z". I didn't want to cause you any public humiliation by mentioning this directly on your blog, but I felt obligated as your friend and your pharmacist.

Great catch, Elizabeth. I feel no humiliation because I blame my wife for this oversight, as she is my one and only editor – the Harper Lee to my Truman Capote if you will. As a doctor I expect her to know stuff like how to spell the name of a drug. And as my pharmacist, if you could go ahead and write me another script for those Percodillies, I’d appreciate it. My hands are really hurting from all this typing.

 

Steve and Kerry in Westerville wrote in response to Ring of Feces:

“Laying there, trying to go back to sleep, it occurred to me that provided I don’t die, my time over the next few weeks and months until I find actual employment recognized by the IRS will only truly be productive if I team up with the wife to publish a study in the New England Journal of Medicine to prove that the root cause of sleep apnea is the brain making the Kevorkian decision to close off the air passage and risk death rather than allow anymore cat-shit-infested air into the lungs.”



~This is the longest and most hilarious sentence ever written!!

I agree.

 

Charles in Albuquerque Wrote in response to The Laundromat:

Long time reader, first time commenter. I like what you’re doing with the blog but why does it have to be so negative and obscene. Can’t you be just as funny without all the profanity?

Fuck off Charles.

 

Thanks again for reading and commenting. Keep it coming. 

Man vs Cat vs Wild

The issues presently existing between the cat and I have been well documented as of late. The war he had been waging against me seemed to be intensifying to some colossal kitty climax, the magnitude of which I couldn’t even fathom. However, what occurred the other night was way beyond my craziest drug-induced imagination.

Fast Eddie spent the better part of the evening sleeping on the bed as he always does. I was up late, probably reviewing the latest activity on the Asian stock exchange or something, until I was tired enough to go to sleep. As usual, when I got into bed, that was Ed’s signal to get up and start prancing around the apartment meowing at the top of his lungs as if it were a running discourse on his every action, “Meow! I’m eating from my dish now! Meow! I’m surveying the shoes to determine which one I will pee in, but not until tomorrow morning, just before you put it on! Meow! I just busted ass!”

The meowing subsided only when I heard the unmistakable sound of him crawling around behind the television. Normally this wouldn’t matter – he’s a cat, it’s not like he’s an unsupervised child that’s likely to stick its finger in the electrical socket – except that he had a profound propensity for whizzing behind the television at our house in Columbus whenever he was particularly upset. So in light of that, I shot out of bed and turned on the light.

There he was behind the tv, but the look on his face said nothing about a late night whiz session; it said, “back off shithead, I’m on the prowl.” As far as cat’s go, Ed is a pretty proficient hunter, so I assumed he’d located a mosquito, or worst case, a spider. So I sat back and let him do his thing for a short while. He kept coming up empty, though, and he seemed particularly agitated by it all, so for the sake of my beauty sleep I decided to intervene.

The way the apartment is set up we have the tv in the corner, a printer setting on a Rubbermaid bin next to that, and an end table that doubles as our office supply center next to that (this description is all very depressing. I feel like I’m living in a cell at Gitmo that’s sponsored by Office Depot).  So, I went over to the end table to see if I could find his insect.

“Holy fuck! I just shit my pants! There’s a goddamn cockroach the size of my thumb back there!” Oh my god, I’m not kidding. It was huge, and I shit my pants. What the hell do you do in that situation? It’s a fucking cockroach!!!

I turned around to grab a cup (I was going to trap it – what the hell do I know???) and turned back but it was already gone. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit” The only thing worse than a cockroach is a missing cockroach. Holy crap, I was freaking out.

Literally I started pacing the room, not a clue what to do and sweating bullets. I looked in at Sara sleeping soundly and I knew there was no way in hell I as getting back in bed with a cockroach on the loose.

I looked at Ed and he was like, “I told you so, idiot. You should have let me handle this.”

So I decided to grow a pair and go after the piece of shit. I started to remove everything from the end table, one item at time, carefully checking to make sure it wasn’t clinging to the bottom of something. Every 15 seconds I had the creepy crawlies like it was on my back or something. I still do right now as I’m writing this. I emptied the entire end table and found nothing. I mean, it’s a cockroach! It’s sole purpose on earth is survival.

Just as I was sweating my next move, Ed came over and started to crawl behind the end table. At first I was like, “what the hell are you doing! It’s a cockroach! For all I know they bite or some shit! I don’t know!” But he looked at me like, “I got this one,” so I let him go for it and in he went.

“Ahh! There it is! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” It scurried from the end table past the printer and behind he tv. “Holy shit, that thing’s faster than snot on ice! Whatdowedo? Whatdowedo???”

But there was Ed right after him. I reacted quickly too, like a puma, or a mountain lion, racing around to the other side of the tv, and there he was, backed into the corner. Ed held his ground on the right flank, and I held mine on the left, and in that moment, locked in an epic battle with La Cucaracha, Ed and I shared a glance that said it all – I had my buddy back; the Hollywood to my Ice Man; the Shake to my Bake; and there was nothing stopping us from taking that sonofabitch down.

It was beyond my reach, so Ed made a quick move in to scare it from its position. It took two fatal steps to the left and there I was, slamming the surge suppressor onto its godforsaken back, crushing its exoskeleton and painting the wall with cockroach guts.

We both let out a sigh of relief - we had won, and the best part was, we did it together, like Batman and Robin; Spade and Farley; Gerrard and Torres… Ed and I went to bed together that night and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of the thrill of the hunt, and the excitement of the kill.

The next morning I woke up with cat shit on my face.

Actually that’s not true.

--

Let it be known that I have no intention of telling Sara about any of this. Can you imagine how freaked out she’ll be to know we had a cockroach in our apartment??? Normally she edits my posts offline and never gets on the actual blog, so I’m just going to post this without her review. Oh man, I can’t even imagine how freaked out she’ll be. Probably about the same as when she finds my shit-stained underwear in the hamper.