Huge F-ing Dilemma - The Second Part.

The First Part is Here.

Okay folks,

I have been appropriately chastised for not timely posting what happened with the poop situation. By all means, if you want to join in chastising me, feel free to leave me a comment, e-mail or instant message me throughout the work day. I like it. A whole hell of a lot. However, in an effort to avoid further rebuke I am here at 11:30 at night writing a story about a girl that poops in others’ houses and freely deposits the paper with which she wipes her anus in my trash can.

Before we begin - you should know two things. First, I fell asleep watching Studio 60 a bit ago and woke back up, so I am a little tired and a bit out of it. Second, I am drinking a nice warm cup of coffee while listening to August and Everything After, the Counting Crows debut album from 1994. At this very moment Rain King is playing. I don’t know what 1994 was for you, but for me it was a pretty fucking fantastic year. I was 18 and starting college, and August and Everything After, along with Pearl Jam’s Vs., were the soundtrack to that year.

"What is the fucking point?" you ask. Well, there is none. I just wanted to let you know what I am doing at this moment. It is helping us bond, and become best friends forever (BFF). Now we can e-mail each other about our hopes and dreams. We can intimately discuss who you have a crush on, or whether George should be with Callie. When you are lonely late at night you can call me and we can discuss whether Ingrid Bergman should have gotten on that plane or stayed with Humphrey Bogart. I am pouring my heart out here people. Show a little appreciation.

Without further ado, here is how the evening went down:

Near 7:00 o’clock on Friday evening, Jason, Susan and Jamie show up at my place. Prior to their arrival your hero surreptitiously removed the trash can from the bathroom. Let me set the scene a little. My house is a little large for me. At last count it is a 3000 square feet, four bedroom, 2 and a half bath, recently constructed suburban home. (Note: the size of my house has nothing to do with the story, I just wanted to make you New York City folks a little envious.) Anyway, my living room is downstairs. If you go down the hallway a bit from the living room I have a half bathroom, which guests tend to use. There are no cabinets within the half bath, only a commode (I like that word) and a sink. Further down the hallway is the door to my bedroom. If you go through my bedroom, another door leads to my bathroom. Inside my bathroom is another commode, and this one is enclosed in a small little room. I call it the pee room.

So the plan was to watch a couple of episodes of Extras, and drink like mad cows. About a half hour into the evening Jamie decides she has to go. So I try to keep my eye on the bathroom door so I can enter as soon as she leaves. I try to hang just outside of the door because I was a little overzealous and obsessed with what was happening in there. I would estimate she was in there the normal time it takes a girl to expel urine from her body. However, there was no flush. The door opened and out she came.

I gave her a little nod, and then went in like I was waiting for the bathroom. The water in the toilet was calm, and didn’t look as if it was in a post-flush refill. The sink was dry, so I know no hand washing occurred. The point is, she didn’t go. I did a little look around to make sure there was nothing stashed anywhere, but there was not. I don’t know what there is to do in a bathroom besides piss and shit, but maybe she was doing some girl-thing in there. I don’t know. But I know she didn’t urinate.

Okay, now lets fast forward to Garrett at five beers later. I saw Jamie go down the hallway to the bathroom a few times, but at those particular moments in time, I did not care about what she was doing with her vagina-wiping paper. My only thought was to consume more alcoholic beverage. Which I did with abandon and vigor.

To make a long story short, I had sex with Jamie. It was amazing, and a little magical. I cannot even describe it as “sex.” It was “making love.” I love her with a passion that I cannot describe in words.

Are you fucking kidding me? I did not have sex with the poop girl. I did discover something though, after my little friends were gone.

As soon as they left I went down through my bedroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and through my bathroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and into the Pee Room (which was closed before, but - well it was still closed). As I stood there and urinated in a drunken stupor I looked down at the trash can to discover several wadded, balls of urine-soaked toilet paper. “Well, fuck me!” I believe were my exact words.

She fucking switched bathrooms on me. I am astounded. Dumbfounded, you might say.

So that is it. This girl so feels the need to deposit her excrement wiping substances into something other than the toilet that she has to change bathrooms to find one with a trash can. I no longer think it has to do with being a farm-girl or with plumbing in any way. I think she must have some kind of weird psychological ailment or sick fetish. Maybe it is like when animals mark their territory, and if I went to her apartment I would see a Shrine to Garrett. She comes to my house so she can deposit pee to mark my house as hers, and every night she writes in her pink diary, "I am one step closer to becoming Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid."

So what do you think of that?

This Is Me Stalling

I promise to provide a semi-lucid post today regarding Friday's poop-girl antics. I started writing it last night, but just could not finish it because I got tired. (That should read: I couldn't find any good porn on the internet so I had to turn to my much-loved stock of Blair from The Facts of Life photos, and subsequently fell asleep dreaming of Blair's flowing golden hair.)

In the mean time, I give to you The Funniest Thing to Ever Be in a Movie:

Lunch Plans

I want to eat at a little Greek diner downtown, but I don't know the best way to pronounce 'Gyro.'

I polled the office, and received four different proposed pronunciations. The ordering pressure is too great. Maybe I'll just get a slice of pizza.

In other news, I invited Jason, Susan and Jamie over on Friday night. I am going to remove the trashcan from the bathroom, and see how things go down. "Go down" was a little pun there. Get it?

In related news, I think Jason's Susan thinks I have a thing for Jamie now because I specifically invited Jamie over. I couldn't tell Jason the plan because he might tell Susan. You can't trust men when it comes to keeping secrets from their girlfriend/wife. Women have a way of getting secrets out of you. They have secret super powers (I suspect the secret super powers have something to do with the vagina). Women are all like Wonder Woman and her Lasso of Truth. (Except it is more like the Vagina of Truth). Whatever. I'll end now because the post is getting exponentially more stupid by the word.

My Coffee

I am not really a scientist like some of you, but I think it may be a bad sign that my coffee ate through my Styrofoam cup and leaked all over my desk.

From this occurrence, I have logically reached the only two possible reasons for what has happened. One, someone is trying to kill me by poisoning my coffee. This is a very real possibility. I just added up the number of people who might want to see me dead. I stopped counting at number 9, and I wasn't even through co-workers and on to ex-girlfriends yet.

The second possibility is that someone is trying to slowly drive me insane by poking very small needle holes in the bottom of my coffee cup while I am not paying attention. This would obviously involve a very elaborate scheme of distracting me while accomplices turn my cup into a sieve. Normally, I would not consider this a realistic possibility, but I have done it to someone before. (On a side note: the results of that prank were fantastic. The prankee eventually began using two cups stacked together - then when that didn't work, he quit drinking coffee altogether because he was convinced the coffee was eating holes in his stomach. On a second side note: I felt bad that he spent over $1500 in medical bills to have his insides scanned and checked out. On a third side note: It is good to get your insides scanned from time to time - so I probably did him a favor. He should thank me - if he ever found out what I did).

Of course, there is always the possibility that they make the coffee really, really strong and really, really hot up here, and I am killing myself by drinking it. But that would just be kind of ridiculous.

Another Not Funny, Boring Post About Work.

1. “That is the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

2. “Did you even read the article?”

3. “It sounds like you need to research this a little before you talk to anyone about it.”

4. “Next time, think things through before you come in to my office and talk to me.”

5. “What the fuck are you even talking about? You are not even making sense.”

6. “You are staring at me like you are confused. Do you need to go to your office and think about what I said, and then come back so we can finish talking?”

7. “We don’t pay you to write memos, we pay to you analyze a subject and give us your opinion.”

8. “This memo includes way too much detail. The CEO doesn’t want to read this much. Shorten your memo to be a summary of the subject.”

9. “Did you even read your own memo before you brought it in to me?”

These are all things that were said to me in a five minute meeting I had with my boss this morning. Last Thursday, I was asked to provide a memo to him on a particular topic. I spent exactly 31.7 hours researching the subject matter and then drafting a 12 page memorandum on the subject. The memo was broken down into 4 subparts, and 2 of those subparts had 2 sub-subparts each. At the end of my memo, I provided a page and a half of opinion regarding the course of action the company should follow given what my research revealed.

I dropped the memo in my boss’ office at 10:00 a.m. this morning. At 10:15 he called me in to discuss it. I guess he is fast to be able to read the 12 pages and analyze them so quickly.

Now I am back in my office with the daunting task of interpreting what my boss said to me and converting that into a actual changes to the memo. Given the fact that the memo was exactly what he asked me to do in the first place, and two other people from my office read it last night and characterized it as “excellent.” I am not sure where to go from here.

Since I couldn’t respond to the torrent of profanities coming towards me from my boss, and did not want to risk my job by pointing out what an idiot he is - I will provide my replies for your reading pleasure. (And yes I realize that blogs bitching about work are really dull - and a little stupid. I am probably 10 minutes away from being fired. Fuck it.)

Refer to the numbering system at the top of this post:

1. I am sorry you feel that way. My idea is pretty much the only option the company has, unless it wants to get sued for millions. The research is clear.

2. Yes, asshole. If you would read page three of the memo, I spent three paragraphs discussing the article and providing my thoughts about why it does not apply. I am sorry that your cursory review of both the article and my memo do not reconcile with your non-researched “gut” feeling about the proper course to take.

3. Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? That is what the 12 page memo is. My fucking research. How clearer can it be? The first fucking sentence of the memo says, “my research reveals. . .”

4. Think things through? I spent four days thinking about this. I worked for 8 hours on Sunday thinking about this. Your telling me to think about things makes me want to jab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

5. I am talking about everything that is on page 5. I am talking about what the law is. Have you heard of a statute? It is sometimes referred to as a “law.” These “laws” control what the members of our society can and cannot do. Sometimes, if companies break the law, they can get sued. Lawsuits are things companies don’t like. They cost money. Stop rambling about this nonsense and fucking listen to what I am saying. Read the fucking memo.

6. This is not a confused look. I am wondering how quickly I can get over your desk to stab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

7. Jesus Christ. That is what a memo is. My research and opinions in written form. Would you rather I had a dramatic reading of my research at 3:00 in the West Auditorium. Maybe I could find a drummer and trumpet player, and recite my research in the form of a beat poet like Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer.

8. Those things on the bookshelf in the library. That is the subject matter. The memo is the summary of what is in those books. Now you want a summary of the summary. How about I draw it in crayon.

9. Well considering the fact that I wrote it - typed it myself even - yes I read the memo that I wrote. Then I had two other people in the office read it and let me know of any mistakes or gaps in my logic. Then I ran Grammatik and Spell Checker. Then last night I proof read it three times. Did you notice something specific or were you being an asshole just for the fucking fun of it?

The sad part about all of this - It is just another day in the office. That is actually part of my job description. Another of my bosses told me once: “We pay you a lot of money to take shit from us.” So there you have it.

Disclaimer: None of this really happened. Any similarities between this story and actual events is purely coincidental. I don’t even have a boss. My name is not Garrett. I have never had a meeting with anyone. I don’t even know how to use the computer. What is this “memo” of which you speak? If anyone in my place of employment finds this, it is obviously a libelous attempt to sabotage my job by one of my co-workers. Probably Jim. That fucker.

A Story

I logged in this evening because I had a fantastic idea to write about something enormously embarrassing, yet funny, that happened to me once. After my last post, I have become acutely aware that you all perversely enjoy mocking my humiliation and pain. In fact, you are all perfectly okay with the notion of aiding my neurosis by further insinuating traits of gayness. So thanks for all that. I also realized that you are all homophobic, but that is a post for another day.

I finished the first paragraph of said post when I realized that said post was a horrific mistake. Why should I further humiliate myself with a story about “alleged” sexual inadequacy, public ridicule, and failed revenge? However, I need to write something tonight. I hurt my back yesterday afternoon and I have a terrific buzz caused by a mixture of Rolling Rock and Lortab. This combination of substances has given me the motivation to move from my couch to the computer, and begin to type. Of course, I can't see the letters because they all blur together, and so far I have only spelled 12 words in the last two paragraphs correctly. That is what the fucking spell checker is for - drunk, drugged morons who type fast and use words they don't understand, much less know how to spell.

Perhaps rather than write about my own humiliation I should write about the humiliation of others. There I have it. The most embarrassing thing to have occurred to someone close to me, in my presence.

In 1993 I dated a girl named Shelley. This was a fairly serious high-school type relationship. The kind where you feel certain that you will stay with this person for ever, and you don’t understand why your parents are so nonchalant about the seriousness of your feelings for this person. In retrospect, most of these feelings were caused by your overwhelming desire to have sex on a regular basis, and in a way that didn't involve the use of gymnast-like positions in your girlfriend's Ford Festiva. Well Shelley, being in a serious high-school type relationship, wanted to meet all of my family and attend important family events, such as holidays, weddings and funerals.

In 1993 Easter fell on April 11. For the entirety of my life my family spent Easter Sunday with my Grandmother in a very small town (technically not even a town, but a “community”) in west Texas. For the entirety of my life my Grandmother attended a very small Baptist church in her community. I believe the average attendance at this church was less than 30 people. I believe the average age of the church members was 68. So it was a very big deal when my moderately large family attended church with my Grandmother. It was an especially big deal on April 11, 1993 when Shelley attended church with us.

At small Baptist churches, the end of the service is punctuated by an “invitation.” Following the invitation the church pastor asks a member to lead the congregation in prayer. During the prayer the pastor goes to the back of the room so that he can shake each person’s hand on his way out. Such was the scene when Shelley was exiting the church. The sanctuary to the church exited straight outside where there was a small covered porch-type area. There were five steps down on to the grass in front of the church. Shelley and I were one of the first 10 people out of the door. This is when Shelley began to fall down the steps. Shelley was wearing, as girls were known to do in 1993, a flowery sun dress thing. As she fell she tried to brace/stop her fall. She ended facing up, and falling backward down the steps. When she hit the grass, her legs were spread eagle, her dress was above her hips, and 20 people were behind me gasping at what was happening. When the 20 people crowded in to help/stare they were treated to a lovely view of Shelley’s white, silk, g-string undergarment with little red hearts all over it. This vision was further enhanced by the fact that Shelley was on her back at the bottom of the stairs, with her feet near the top of the stairs.

On the drive home, Shelley cried.

I know - it is a really, really fucking sad story. But what can I say - I am kind of a bad person, and this story makes me chuckle at least 6 times a year when I think about it.

This was, in my opinion, the most humiliating thing I have ever seen. 20 senior citizens staring at your silk-clad goods staring back at them as they exit a sermon about the resurrection of their savior. That is some comedy right there. I like to wonder about how many men got in trouble with their personal lord and savior about the impure thoughts they had about a 17 year old Shelley and her silky underpanties that day. I would guess about 65%. Shelley was pretty hot. The percentage would be greater, but the other 35% didn't have vision good enough to see what happened.

Something Weird Happened to Me at Work on Friday.

Something weird happened to me at work on Friday. (Don’t you just love it when the title of the post is the same as the first sentence? It meas: “This guy is not fucking around - something weird really did happen to him on Friday, and, by God, I had better listen up!” Only you should know that the weird thing was not REALLY that weird, just moderately weird, and this story is not that good.) I had a meeting in the next building over from mine. So at 3 o’clock I take a little stroll on over. The waiting area is fairly large with two couches, a coffee table and two chairs. There are magazines strewn about the end tables and such. There is also a large desk with a receptionist sitting behind it. The receptionist is very hot. This, my little friends, is where things get weird.

I announce myself and the subject of my meeting to the hot receptionist. I am terrible at describing how someone looks, but because I love you and want you to be happy, I will give it a shot. She was about 5'6 or so, with short dark hair. Her hair was not so short as to be the spikey/lesbian kind of hair, nor was it long enough to be called shoulder length or anything similar. When she looked down at her keyboard, it hung about her face, but it seemed to magically stay far away enough from her face that it did not necessitate her brushing it back constantly. That's it - she had magic hair. Short, dark, magic hair. She was wearing a black shirt and black skirt. The shirt, however, was very low cut to reveal a significant amount of cleavage. This little detail made me ever so happy. I would describe her look as a 50s’ retro hipster look. With her skirt, she wore bright red heels. After I announced myself to her, she dialed the appropriate person and asked if I would like to have a seat. I did like to have a seat. So I sat.

Upon sitting, the hot receptionist comes over to where I was sitting, ostensibly for the purpose of straightening the magazines. She says something about the weather, I respond with a joke. She asks if I like working for my company. She tells me she is going to school at night to be a court reporter. I tell her I know a court reporter and she likes her job very much. She asks where I went to school. She sits down on the chair adjacent to my couch. Things are going very well for our hero (me). Then she tells me that she was “hoping to go to a movie tonight.” I take this as my cue, and think of how best to ask her out. Her next statement was: “Hey, you’ve probably seen it already, what did you think of that movie ‘Brokeback Mountain?' It is on cable tonight."

I was already thinking of what breakfast I was going to make her the next morning. I was mentally taking inventory of prophylactics in my home. I was already trying to decide which boxer shorts are my “sexiest.” I had already sized her up to see what sexual positions she might be interested in. (Just and aside - I determined that a 25 year-old hipster would be interested in the majority of sexual positions that I could accomplish - and would likely teach me three more). She then asked me what my thoughts were on the most well-known gay movie of all time. She also added, “hey, you’ve probably seen it already.” I can only assume that she assumed that I am a gay person.

I, of course, realize that not everyone who watched Brokeback Mountain is gay. However, I cannot imagine a circumstance where a single girl would ask a single straight man about Brokeback Mountain. Unless I saw it on HBO when would I have seen Brokeback Mountain? It is not really much of a "date movie." I couldn't go and see it with another guy. (As another aside - I did watch it on HBO and thought it to be an okay movie - except for the part where the one gay cowboy spits into his hand and, presumably, wipes it on his gay cowboy penis before giving it to the other gay cowboy. That part just made me a little queasy.)

So I am not sure what happened there. However, I did spend the rest of the afternoon asking co-workers, “Do I seem gay to you?” or “Do I have a gay-vibe” or “Do you think these shoes are ‘gay shoes?’”

I don’t really have a problem with someone thinking I am gay, with two exceptions:

1) If women I think are hot think I am gay, this is not a good situation for getting me some action.
2) If some women think I am gay, then surely some gay men must also think I am gay, and no gay man has ever asked me out (or even for some gay roadside bathroom sex). Is there some reason I am not attractive to gay men? That kind of pisses me off.

I have no ending for this post. I told her I had not seen the movie. She went back to her desk. I couldn't concentrate the entire meeting because I was thinking about this situation. My co-workers think I am strange (or stranger than they already thought) because I asked them about potential gayness all day.

Huge F-ing Dilemma

I’ve got a big-time dilemma on my hands here, and what would a blog be without seeking advice from readers. Just so you can stay up on the game, here is the format we’ll follow. First, I will give a little bit of background story to set the stage and illustrate the mood and feel of the story. Second, I will hit you with the big scenario which lead to the big-time dilemma. (Should “big-time” be hyphenated? I don’t know but I bet Lover and Fighter will tell me!) Then I will present the dilemma to you and pose a question regarding said dilemma. Finally, I will close the post with further witty observations, more questions, and general confusion. All of this will be highlighted with a consistent lack of cognizable writing style and punctuated by a general lack of skill. On second thought, maybe I should not have revealed the secret code. All I need is tens of hundreds of copy cat bloggers out there seeking to capitalize on my success. Well, what’s done is done. Here we go:

Last week I invited my friend Jason over to my place to have some drinks (*editor’s note: please take notice that Jason is not his real name, but his name does begin with a ‘J’ - just because I’m creative like that). This invitation went down like this:

1. I replied to an e-mail Jason had sent with a “if you want, drop by Friday night we’ll have some beer and shoot pool.”

2. Jason replied, “Sounds good. Let me check with Susan to make sure we are not doing anything.”

Okay, allow me interject here. This is not what this post it about, and it really has nothing to do with anything, but let me offer some advice to others out there. When you tell a friend that you have to check with your wife or girlfriend before you do something it makes you look like a pussy. That’s just the truth. I understand completely that you have to check. Everyone in the known western world has to check with their significant other before making plans on a Friday night. But for God’s sake just lie about it. Say anything but that. If he had told me he has to cancel his scrotum wax I would have had more respect for him. He could have said he needed to move his pedicure appointment and he would have looked less pussyish. Just some friendly advice on how to not look like a completely whipped slave to the vagina - from your neighborhood blogger.

Back to the invitation:

3. Jason replies two days later with, “Is it cool with you if Susan comes?” Whatever. There is nothing more I can add to the point of how sad he is. I’m fine with it. Bring as many people as you want, I don’t care. I reply, “sure.”

4. Jason replies three hours later with, “Susan wants to know if her best friend, Jamie, can come with us.”

5. What the fuck? I thought this was two guys getting together and drinking, watching some football, and shooting some pool. However, I am a smart MF, and I know that I cannot say, “dude, I thought it was going to just be the two of us. Now I am hurt and confused by your lack of consideration.” So instead I say, “Great, sounds good.”

Now, here is where things get weird. Friday afternoon Jason comes to my desk and says, sort of sheepishly, “Susan wanted me to tell you to make sure you have trash bags in your bathroom trash cans.”

I stare at him blankly for several seconds, and he begins to explain. He tells me that he didn’t want to bring it up, but Susan told him he had to tell me. He tells me that it is not Susan or he that wants the trash bags, but he is concerned about Jamie. I say, “Jamie wants trash bags?” He then tells me that Susan does this every time Jamie comes over because - and here it is - she doesn’t flush toilet paper.

I lean back in my chair.

I put my hands behind my head.

We stare at each other for seconds.

“What do you mean,” I ask. “What does she do with it?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

“She puts it in the trash can?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

He tells me that Jamie has done this since Susan has known her, and that Jaime never flushes. She just wads her toilet paper and places it in the trash can.

I ask, “Wait, are you telling me that she does this when she takes a shit?”

“Yes.”

I am disgusted. Taken aback. Shocked. Who does this? How can this be?

As soon as I got home I went into the bathroom and put a trash bag in the trash can. So Friday night comes, and Jamie, Susan and Jason come over. We drink until all hours of the night. We have a great time. We shoot pool. We do some X and have an orgy. (Well not that last part). I have forgotten about the weird toilet paper thing. Jamie, Susan and Jason leave. The next morning, horror ensues.

I went to the guest bathroom. There, sitting on top of the lined trash can was a piece of wadded toilet paper with some shit, wiped directly from Jamie’s ass, peaking from the inside of the wad. Of course, I disposed of this while wearing rubber gloves.

I need your help with this one. What should I make of this? Is this normal behavior? Do other people do this? Have you ever met anyone else that does this? Have you ever heard a similar story? What the fuck?

As a side note - does a normal person go to another’s house for the evening and take a shit? I know women are all weird and different, but do you take shits wherever you go? Just because you are sitting down doesn’t mean you have to drop some kids off at the pool does it? Do you just sit down and think, “oopsy, I have a little poo, better get that out of there.” Because, let me tell you, I don’t shit anywhere but home and my favorite stall at work. There are some exceptions of course, but drinking at a friend’s house is not one of them.

The bad part is, they said they wanted to do this again soon. Do I say something? I don’t want to dispose of shitty toilet paper again. I am in fear.

Things you may want to know to answer these questions: 1) Jamie is a country girl, but moved to New York City at 19 and lived there for 6 years. 2) Jamie appears normal in every respect. 3) Jason tells me that she does this even when there is not a trash bag. 4) I asked around at work, and no one has heard of such a thing. But, then again, I only asked two guys and both wanted to know if she was hot and single, and why I didn’t “hit that.”

So there you have it. Comment please.

Just So You Know. . .

It is quite possible that there is not one single person on the entire planet more masculine than me. Well, it is possible that a half-shaven soldier standing in a desert in Iraq, holding an automatic weapon, smoking a cigarette is a little more manly. Also, a fireman, that just saved an entire family from a burning building, and responds to the frantic mother, "I'm just doing my job ma'am." That guy, I can't compete. The cowboy who spent all day ranching (or whatever modern-day cowboys do) and comes in for the night telling how he just helped birth a calf. That guy is a bad-ass. Whatever, you get the point. I am more manly than most, and for one reason. Allow me to elaborate:

Last night I went to get a beer. I have a second refrigerator in my garage. It is not one of those puny, dorm room sized, refrigerators. It is a regular, big ass, refrigerator. In the freezer, I keep only ice, chilled beer mugs, and liquor. In the regular refrigerator part I keep beer. I have every different kind I like. So, I went to get a beer about 7:30 pm. (I'm telling you the time to give you a sense of mood and setting - I am a great story teller - what can I say) I got a Corona out, and reached for the bottle cap opener that I keep on top of the fridge. It had somehow gone missing.

I want you all to know that a lesser man would have panicked in such a situation. However, I kept my cool. I went to my make-shift tool bench and pulled out a pair of needle nose pliers. I grabbed hold of that bottle cap, and ripped it from the bottle with a pair of pliers. At that moment I became a complete man. I found the bottle opener this morning, but think I am going to keep opening my beer bottles with the pliers. Now, all I have to do is get a girl to observe the opening, and I'll be set. Because that is the kind of thing that turns women on - beer and tools.

Working

It is 11:32 on Sunday night, and I am working. What is the world coming to? This isn't my life. What have I done to deserve this?

In happier news: I just created a Playlist I called "Uncle Tupelo and Its Progeny". It contains 236 tracks of Uncle Tupelo, Jeff Tweedy, Jay Farrar, Wilco , Son Volt and Loose Fur.

Remember the book that begins: "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the surface of the waters." I think that Chapter ends: "Then God looked over all he had made, and he saw that it was very good! And evening passed and morning came, marking the sixth day." My Playlist is about like that. Upon its completion I looked at my iPod and said, "This is good! Look at what I have created!" I know I didn't actually write the lyrics, or compose any music, or do anything creative, but I did organize some songs that I like into a neat list so I can play them in an order that pleases me.

Three things:

1) If you don't know who those bands/artists are, go look them up and then you can be cool too.

2) I know that screwing around with my iPod and blogging is not really working. So, I am procrastinating. Screw you for judging me.

3) Did that sentence in the Bible begin with the word 'and'? Am I missing something? I thought that was a no-no. You would think a book like the Bible could get the grammar correct. I blame those Gutenberg people.

Okay people. Remember - it is not about who you are on the outside. It is about who you are on the inside.

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND!

As you can tell from the many, many, many comments below, people have missed me and have been begging for me to write. I have been getting, literally, hundreds of e-mails and comments from people asking when I am going to post again. When New York Times reporter, David E. Sanger, texted me saying, “Dude, WTF?” I knew I needed to get off my ass and do something. Well folks, let me just say that “I am sorry.” I have let you down. I know you are disappointed in me, but really you should just get used to the feeling. I let people down all the time. More often that not really. Eight months ago when I asked my friends, family and ex-lovers to use one word to describe me, I most often got “unsatisfactory” (especially in the ex-lover department). I also got “douchebag,” “fuck face,” “tool” and “cunt.” Although I got to point out to my dear sister that “fuck face” is two words, and I had to sternly tell my grandfather I never, ever condone the use of the “C word.”

My sabbatical (by the numbers - as they say in the industry)
17th - the last time I had a post
26th (of September) - the last time I had a post that was any good.
10 - number of days I have taken off work since the 17th.
9 - number of days I spent off work doing nothing but watching daytime TV and porn.
28 (give or take a couple) - number of times I have masturbated since the 17th.
4 - number of times I masturbated looking at Britney’s bald box.
6 - number of pounds I have gained (apparently masturbation does not burn that many calories).
4 - number of large pizzas delivered to my house.
1 - days at work since the return form my vacation that I have spent actually doing work.
5 - number of days at work since the return from my vacation that I looked really busy at work (including today).
4 - number of women I flirted with at the video store/grocery store.
4 - number of women that looked at me like I was Charles Manson when I flirted with them at the video store/grocery store.

There you have it. What I Did with My Time Off . . . by Garrett Reid. (Forward by Garrett Reid).

Here is the deal (my excuse). I took two weeks off of work. The week of Thanksgiving and the following week. I came back to work this week. I didn’t tell you that I was going to be gone, well, because I am lazy and I forgot to. I didn’t blog while I was off work because I am lazy and I was on vacation. About day four I decided I needed to write something. After that much time away I thought I should write something really good and really funny. However, I couldn’t think of anything really good and really funny. So I didn’t write. Time continued to pass and I still kept thinking the post had to be bigger and better since even more time had passed. Then guilt started to set in. I didn’t read my blog e-mail. I didn’t look at site meter. I didn’t really read anyone else’s blogs. All because I felt guilt when I did so.

See how much I love you. I felt as if I was betraying you, and so I turned my back on you. That is true fucking love. I loved you so much that I ignored you. You should appreciate that. You should love me more. You should send me nude photos as a result of how much I love you.

As you can see, I eventually gave up on the idea that this post should be really funny and awesome. I opted instead for - just write a bunch of stuff and tell people they should love you.

Maybe I should try and do better. However, in my defense, naked breast pictures would have really motivated me. So this is really all your fault.

Welcome Freaky Porn People!

If you have found my blog because of a search for “midget penis” or “porn” or “midget porn” or “ass peeing pics” or “porn vagina” or “Kristi Yamaguchi” - Welcome! It is great to have you. My blog hits have doubled the last few days because of a certain post I wrote regarding midgets and their penises. If you are here because you are looking for pictures of pornography, midgets, vaginas, or Yamaguchi’s then you might be slightly disappointed at first. However, I want you to know that you can stay if you like, take a look around, read some stupid thing I wrote and then tell me about your life in a very detailed e-mail.

Seriously, within 15 minutes of posting the midget penis post the hits started coming. What is up with that? They just kept flooding in by the twos and threes. I appreciate that there are many people out there looking for porn on their home computer so they can easily masturbate to the fetish of their choice, but I don’t really understand whey they would actually click on my blog. My suspicion is that there is a guy out there looking for some hot “ass peeing pics” (whatever that may be), and is sitting as his bedroom computer, boxers around ankles, lube at the ready. He begins his search for “ass peeing pics” and then sees This Blog is Not Funny. “Hmm,” he says to himself, “very interesting.” He clicks on in and starts reading about the stupid drivel I write about. He quickly realizes this is not the blog of an "ass pee-er" and goes someplace else.

One more thing, If you are the 15-20 people who have clicked here by searching Blogger for “porn” you need to narrow your search, my friend. Who searches the internets for “porn?” Isn’t that a little generic. What kind of porn? Lesbian porn? Gay porn? Bondage porn? Monkey porn? American-Indian Transvestite Porn? You need some specifics, buddy.

I’ve written “porn” so many times now it is starting to not look like a word. Porn. Porn. IS it a real word? Porn. Hmm. Very interesting.

I promise I will try and write about something better later. I suck, I know. God help me. How about this, everyone that is reading this - e-mail me and tell me about yourself. Not in the “where you work” and “whether you leave your bedroom blinds slightly open,” but more like in the “I like bunny rabbits and singing in the shower” way. We’ll converse. I’ll write something embarrassing about myself, you’ll tell me it is “okay” and not to be embarrassed. We’ll bond. We’ll become life long pen pals that never meet, until one cold day in autumn when you will find me outside your Upper West Side apartment with some flowers and my Golden Retriever at my side. You’ll say “I wanted it to you be you,” and I’ll say “Don't cry, Shopgirl. Don't cry.” Then we’ll walk through the park, happily whistling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

Is there anyone out there NOT creeped out right now?

Midget Porn

I spent a good portion of last night looking at midget porn. (I’m not exactly clear on the correct terminology. It might be “little person porn”, or “dwarf porn.” While this distinction might matter to some, I don’t think it matters to the three foot tall girl doing a gang bang in an abandoned warehouse). Some of you (but not all) may be inquiring of yourself at this very moment, "Why is Garrett, whom we have come to know, love and trust to be a decent, respectable, God-fearing member of the human race looking at something so degrading as web sites with titles such as "Bang A Midget" and "Midget Sex Mania"? Well, it is all in the name of science my dear friends.

You see, I watch a little show that I love with all of my heart entitled Nip/Tuck. If you don’t watch it, turn to FX right now and catch a glimpse because it is awesome. For my female readers, there is at least one bare male ass in every episode. Basically the show features two wealthy doctors who have a lot of sex and engage in a tremendous amount of immoral behavior. I know - right up my alley. Anyway, this season Dr. McNamara’s wife, Julia, begins having an affair with the male dwarf-nanny, Marlowe (I know, I know - there really couldn’t be a better name for a dwarf-nanny!) So this lead to a discussion with a co-worker. I now pose this question to you in the hopes of finally reaching a rational conclusion: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis?

I posed that question to my co-worker. The ensuing, sometimes confrontational, conversation went like this (for ease of reading I will use letters to symbolize who is speaking. "M" will represent me (because I am too fucking lazy to type the "e") and "F" will represent my friend - I would use his real name, but he is a lawyer and God knows he will probably sue me:

M: Can a relationship between a regular-sized woman and a midget/dwarf man ever be fully satisfying to the woman because of the midget/dwarf sized penis? (I know we already covered this- fuck off and keep quiet during the conversation)

F: Are you serious?

M: Uh, yeah. Midget man equals midget penis.

F: You are an idiot.

M: What are you talking about?

F: Midgets have normal sized penises.

M: Shut the fuck up. That is impossible, they would hang to their little midget knees.

F: Trust me, dude, midgets do not have "midget sized penises" (said with derision in his voice)

M: It just stands to reason, is all I am saying. If a 6 foot tall man has 6 inch penis, then 3 foot tall man must have 3 inch penis. That’s just basic logic and math skills. Third Grade man. Editor’s note: The numbers used herein are for example only. I have a penis much, much bigger than 6 inches. Just ask your mom. Zing!

F: Why do I even talk to you? (Looks at me in disgust and turns and walks away)

As soon as I got home from work I started looking me up some midget porn. This has led me to the following conclusions:

Conclusions:

1) Man midgets are vastly underused in porn. I looked at many websites and I saw the same man midget on every site. There is only one man-midget in porn. This means that if you are a midget and into doing many, many girls on camera, then there is a potential market for you.

2) 99.5 percent of all midget porn sites are pictures/videos of girl-midgets getting fucked by some big-penised guy. I have a theory that these sites are popular because regular joes would like to have the intercourse with a midget to make them feel like they have huge, giant-sized penises.

3) Although most midget porn sites are straight sex (regular guy/girl midget), there exists every other possible variety: a) full-sized girl/girl midget, b) girl midget peeing on guy, c) dominatrix midget, d) midget girl on midget girl, e) mature midgets.

4) I was not able to ascertain the penis size of the average dwarf/midget. The one midget I saw had a regular sized penis. However, in regular guy porn they use the guy with the biggest penis, usually at least 8-10 inches. Therefore, it stands to reason that they would use the midget with the biggest penis, so maybe the rest have small penises. I decided it was not a very scientific endeavor to seek to determine the penis size of the adult male midget by looking at porn.

5) There is not an article on Wikipedia addressing midget penises. Could someone look into that.

6) I felt like an idiot going to medical websites and typing into the search engine: “Dwarf penis size”

Okay that’s it. I don’t know the answer. I really wanted to come into work this morning with some medical literature and hard core midget-porn printouts to support my arguments. Does anyone out there know the answer? Can anyone help?

Write me if you are:

1) actually a midget/dwarf and are still reading this post after being so obviously offended by my insensitivities.

2) a girl and have had sex with a midget.

3) a guy and have had sex with a midget (yes I did look for gay midget sites - none).

4) know a man midget and are willing to ask him the length and girth of his midget member.

5) just like to talk about sex in general and don’t mind if you immediately become the subject of my masturbation fantasies.

Lets get those e-mails going. I need an answer by lunch. Keep the faith and walk the walk.

Oh Baby, Baby

For those lucky few citizens who read the last post, thank you for your many thoughts and prayers. After I wrote that post, the Coors sightings stopped. I think they figured out that I was on to them, and ceased their scandalous activity. I am safe for now.

Now our attention turns to the biggest news of yesterday. Britney and K-Fed .

To K-Fed: I’m sorry, yo! I didn’t mean for mine and Britney’s relationship to interfere with your marriage. After all, it is purely sexual. What can I say, she likes to get herself some of this, yo! She just likes to play, “pet the magic monkey” a lot. I’m sorry that she told me you have an unusually small penis, and oblong-shaped testicles. In conclusion, keep it real, yo. Keep rappin’

The best part of Britney/K-Fed news is the story headlines they come up with. My favorite so far: “K-Fed is Now Fed-ex After Britney Files for Divorce.” Simply hilarious.

Also fun to observe is the different treatment the divorce of Brit/K-Fed gets from the Reese/Ryan split. When you tell people about Reese/Ryan, they give a little tilt of the head, a little sigh and say something like, “I always liked those two, I thought they would go the distance.” The reality is that they did go the distance, but only by Hollywood standards. The stayed together long enough to create little blond-headed babies who would grow up to be Oscar winners. Isn’t that what life is all about anyway - creating other beautiful people so that we have someone to leave our money to besides charities, homeless people and starving china-people. So when I broke the news to my secretary about Britney/K-Fed, her exact words were, “It is about damn time, she should have kicked him to the curb a long time ago.” When I told her that I saw this article saying that K-Fed may have found out by text message, she laughed gleefully. Actual glee! That women hates the K-Fed. I just feel sorry for him. It must be tough to go through life with oblong-shaped testicles.

I am not really certain, but I think texting your spouse to tell him he will now be poor and divorced has to be the saddest thing possible. Apparently he had no idea since a few hours before the divorce was announced he was quoted as saying, “I've been away from the kids for like a week right now. It's killing me inside, you know, but, baby, I'll be home soon [yo]” That really has to hurt. I don’t know if you know anything about lawyers, but it usually takes them longer than a couple of hours to draft the necessary paperwork, etc. Britney probably had those lawyers draft a set of divorce papers to keep on file, just in case. She had her lawyer on speed-dial and as soon as K-Fed pissed her off, she had a lawyer on the way to the court house. My guess is that she had the papers drafted when she heard the rap album. I mean, if I had a spouse, and she started rapping, I would hire a lawyer too. Who wouldn't?

Well folks, you have once again wasted some time reading this pointless stuff. I can’t believe I just wrote over 500 words about Britney. Pathetic and sad. Please forgive.

Danger!

I may be in a small amount of trouble. Well, to be honest I don’t know how "small" the trouble is. My life may be in danger. I want to tell you all because, um, I don’t have anyone else to tell. I think the Coors Brewing Company may be out to get me.

On Tuesday I posted a little bit about me drinking a Coors Banquet Beer. (It is, after all, like a banquet in your mouth). Within the hour, there was a hit on my blog. I notice the hit because, well, when they come in ones and twos by the day, you tend to notice them. This one especially caught my eye. The location was Golden, Colorado. If you are not familiar with the glorious city of Golden it lies at the mouth of Clear Creek at the edge of the foothills of the Front Range. It was founded on June 16, 1859 and named for Thomas L. Golden. (I just stole that directly from Wikipedia). Golden is known for being the home of the world’s fifth largest brewing company, Coors Brewing Company.

When I saw the City of Golden on sitemeter, I got excited. "What a coincidence!" my naive, silly self thought to. . . uh. . . myself. Then when I clicked on the statistic, I became concerned. The ISP was from Coors Brewing Company. Obviously, they have some kind of sophisticated software that allows their spies to see when anyone on the entire internets types the word "Coors." I was concerned at the sophistication and technology being employed by Coors, but this concern had not yet reached the level of fear.

I am just a worthless blog guy. I have nothing to offer to the world, and the words I type mean little to anyone, especially since they are read by so few. Why would the world’s fifth largest brewing company care what I have to say about one of their products? Unfortunately, I may never discovery the answer to this dark secret. When I left the office yesterday and entered my car in the parking garage, I noticed the unmistakable scent of hops. Surely you are familiar with what hops are. Hops come from the flowers of Humulus lupulus, and contain several characteristics very favorable to beer: (a) hops contribute a bitterness that balances the sweetness of the malt, (b) hops can contribute aromas that are flowery, citrus, fruity or herbal and, (c) hops have an antibiotic effect that favors the activity of brewer's yeast over less desirable microorganisms. While hop plants are grown by farmers all around the world in many different varieties, there is no major commercial use for hops other than in beer. (I also stole that from Wikipedia).

Did you hear that people? No other use, other than beer. I’m fucked.

So then I get home and I see a white van parked near my house. I swear to god it had a refrigeration unit on top, like someone that is transporting beer might have. Got to keep that stuff cold, you know. The van was parked there for about 20 minutes after I got home, and then drove away and out of the neighborhood. I couldn’t see anyone inside the van from my angle, but I suspect it was a Coors operative. I have now stopped logging on the internet from home and stopped talking on the phone because I suspect that my computer and phone line may be bugged.

There is little say now. I am probably endangering my life by writing this to you, but I love you. I feel I must share this with you, lest anything undesirable occur. May God have mercy on my soul. If I am back with another post later, just ignore this stupid little rant. If not, tell the world my story.

Beware of Women in Skirts!

Check out this article.

This is scary stuff. “Women dress to impress when they are at their most fertile.” I don’t know about you, but I am now avoiding all women dressed in sexy attire, because, according to cnn.com, they may be unintentionally trying to get themselves impregnated. “They tend to put on skirts. . . and dress more fashionably.” So when you are out walking around today, if you see a “sexy lady” out and about, beware! She is trying, desperately, to get knocked up. Signs that a woman may be on the hunt for your sperm: (according to cnn.com) 1) She is “dressed to impress,” 2) “more fashionable” clothing, 3) flashy jewelry, 4) skirts, and 5) showing some skin. Avoid fashionable women in jewelry at all costs.

Who funds this research? What is going on in the world today? Teams of researchers hired a panel of men and women to look at photographs of young college women in an attempt to ascertain if those college women were ovulating based solely upon their fashion choices? Am I alone in saying, “WHAT THE FUCK?” Is this study going to do anyone any good? I know there is that one couple out there who is struggling to get pregnant, and they just can’t seem to determine when the missus is ovulating. One day she will wake up, slip on a skirt that is above the knee, pick out the cubic zirconium ring, and, in a moment of divine realization say to herself, “Fucking A! I’m ovulating! Lets Fuck!” (Or more likely since it is the woman saying it - “lets make sweet love and conceive a child to bless us. ”)

In other news, I am not going to any Halloween parties this year. I am not dressing up, and I will not be trying to bed a slutty nurse dressed up as a slutty nurse. I don’t celebrate Halloween because it is a pagan holiday honoring Satan. Instead, I will stay at home, watch the Charlie Brown Halloween Special (I wonder if the Great Pumpkin will be seen this year?) and read the Bible.

Actually, I will be handing out candy to those Trick-or-Treaters that come to my door. I will be dressing as Guy Drinking Can of Coors Banquet Beer Handing Out Fun Size Snickers. What is ideal about Coors Banquet Beer and Snickers is that they both really satisfy. However, only one of them satisfies intense feelings of loneliness and self-loathing.

Happy Halloween everyone! Remember to have your parents check your candy for needles.

An Enlightening Conversation with My Boss Regarding Hispanics

Something Ace Cowboy wrote yesterday reminded me of a story. My story is in no way funny, and you should probably stop reading here. You will be disappointed. What Ace said:

. . and for the first time the Mexican assistant and I locked eyes and telepathically agreed: what the fuck? [ed. note, I'm not racist on that last point, the dude actually is from Mexico, the World Cup brought us together.].

About four years ago, I was in my boss'’s office sitting across from his gigantic, dark, rich wood desk. Interestingly, his chairs are kind-of extra high-back chairs. The back of the chair looms what seems to be about two feet above your head as you sit there. The effect of this is that the chair feels huge, and in turn, you feel small. It's all about the mind-fuck with the executives. So I am sitting there feeling very small as this 65 year-old man is leaned back in his chair asking me about my weekend.

He asks, "“Reid, How was the weekend? Anything exciting?"

"“No sir, just attended a wedding."

"“Well, son, that'’s something exciting, isn't it?"

It actually was kind of fun. It was the wedding of my brother'’s wife'’s sister. The groom was an Hispanic gentleman, and the wedding was full of traditions I have not since seen. The groom is also from Mexico. Mexico City to be exact. Soon after the wedding the bride and groom moved to Mexico City. During the conversation with the boss, I referred to the Groom as a Mexican. This, apparently, makes me a racist. The conversation continued:

"“Well I guess it was a little exciting. It was my brother's wife'’s sister getting married to a Mexican man, and . ."

"“Whoa, Reid. I am certain you meant to say '‘Hispanic'’."

"“Well, actually sir, he is from Mexico."

"“I don'’t care where he is from Reid, we do not use that term here."

"“We don'’t use the term 'Mexican'’?"”

"“Exactly, the proper way to refer to them is '‘Hispanic'’."

I sort of sat there staring at him with a dumbfounded look on my face. My first thought is that the entirety of my education in political correctness had somehow gone awry. I looked across the desk at the Boss'’s furled brown and disappointed expression. I thought about it for about 10 seconds. He clearly wanted me to apologize and admit my faux pas.

I slowly stood up. Walked over to his big fucking desk, put both hands down, looked him in the eye, and said, "“Listen you old fuck. The man is from Mexico. That makes him a Mexican. He is a fucking citizen of Mexico. He lives in fucking Mexico City for God'’s sake. He is Mexican. It is not derogatory to refer to him by the county of his citizenship. I mean, what the fuck?"”

Actually, what really happened is that I nodded my head in agreement as I said, "“I a’m very sorry sir, I certainly meant no offense. It won'’t happen again."” If there is one thing I have learned in my 6 years of working in the corporate world is that you don'’t get very far pointing out other people's stupidity, questioning the boss, or asking any type of question at all for that matter. You kiss ass. That is why they pay me the big bucks now.

The next week a booklet was circulated regarding "“diversity in the workplace."

So my little friends, what have we learned? 1) The boss is always right. 2) Sell your soul if you can get a little extra in Christmas bonus. 3) The more money you make entitles you to bigger chairs. 4) If you can't leave the bar with the one you want, just drink more until you don't know the difference.

A Few Moments Ago, I Almost Died

A few moments ago, I almost died. 15 minutes ago, to be exact. I don’t really want to write about this because of the subject of my last post. Some might begin to think I am morbid. However, I feel the need to write about this because, well uh, I don’t have anything else to write about right now. I was going to write about something, but I can’t remember it as I sit here. I have a small amount of memory loss. I think I do anyway. It is hard to be certain about the memory loss because I can’t remember if there was something I have forgotten. Maybe I didn’t have anything to write about, and I didn’t really forget - I just think I forgot. Great! I am now a fucking rambling and babbling idiot. The pain is killing me. It is intense. It is hard to type because I keep having to hold a rag to my forehead to curtail the bleeding. Fuck - why am I typing this? Why do I have a blog again? It is not funny, no one reads it, the people who do read it don’t really like it, it is not getting me laid, I haven’t received one e-mailed photo with a naked woman in it, and no woman has said she will blow me because of this blog. (Note: notice I said “no woman” - To the guy from Waynesboro, Georgia and the guy from Elkhart, Kansas I sincerely appreciate the offers, but 1) I don’t even own a sex swing, 2) I don’t see how that is anatomically possible, and 3) I am not really all that gay.

What was I saying? Oh, I hurt myself. I nearly killed myself. I may have a small concussion. I was in a supply closet. I dropped a box of staples. I bent down to pick them up and hit my head on a filing cabinet. Blinding fucking pain. Seriously! I hit it hard enough that I saw stars and split my head open. Blood running down my forehead right in the middle of my office. All of the “motherly” women in the office immediately began to care for me in my weakened state. The bad part is that none of the non-motherly types wanted to care for me. They looked disgusted at the blood and slunk away making comments like “Sorry Garrett, that sucks” and “that must have hurt” and “fucking asshole, serves you right”

Now I am sitting at my desk in pain. I am starting to feel nauseated, and I can’t stop the bleeding. I am actually starting to feel a little light headed talking about it. I am going to stop this post for now. If you don’t ever hear from me again, I love you all. I think of you as my family (except for my female readers - I think about you in naughty ways).

Dogs and Cats Living Together - Mass Hysteria!

I just got back from my little local Starbucks. Do they have those everywhere or is that just a HERE thing? Anyway. While there I observed several disturbing things that made me believe the world is coming to an end TONIGHT. First, Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl couple. This is a combination I cannot figure out. Let me just say that there is no one more racially sensitive than I (not true), but I don’t get it. Very rarely do you even see the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl couple in real life. It only happens in TV sitcoms, and with rich guys. I bet you can't name one couple that you actually know that has the Fat Guy/Skinny Girl combo. I am not talking about the guy that has a few extra pounds to lose - in his late 40s. I am talking about the morbidly obese guy with the half hot dog stuck between two of his chins and the pack of ding dongs rolled up in his sleeve in case he gets weak while taking a shit. It just doesn’t happen. Also true of the White Man/Black Girl combo. I base this on years of scientific anthropological research and studies. Black girls just don’t dig the white guy. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it, its not logical - but it is reality folks. So, when you see Fat White Man and Skinny Black Girl its like finding a five leaf clover. Either you are one lucky son of a bitch or there is some nuclear mutation shit going down.

So I’m standing there waiting for my Chai Tea, observing the human aberration, when I observed the Second Sign: Preppy Girl with Goth Guy. When I saw this I looked to the sky fully expecting the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. What is this about? I would try and describe what the girl was wearing, but I am terrible at such things. I would guess she was 17, and if she were at my high school she would have been the hottest, most popular girl. She was a little edgy. She was wearing a little yellow T-shirt with a girl skateboarding while smoking a cigarette, but she was definitely not Goth. I would say she was a burgeoning Hipster Chick. However, the guy with which she was holding hands - Dyed black hair, black lip liner, eyebrow piercing and lower lip spike. I was astounded. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life. I can only assume that she was desperately rebelling against a rich, lawyer father and Goth guy had a big penis. I wanted to grab Goth guy by his unusually long bangs and tell him to live in the moment because she will soon see that her Daddy’s money is way more valuable than her sense of rebellious youth.

To end this stupid and sordid story - the Final Sign of the End Times: Starbucks Girl took my order, smiled at me, told me to have a good evening, and generally seemed pleasant and kind. I at once began confessing my sins (there were many) and preparing to be swept away to the sweet by and by (I don’t know what that means - but it sounds like a nice folksy way of saying we’re fucked).

Its possible that the End is coming a little later tonight. That is the reason for this post. I just wanted to warn you people. You have been coming to this site rather irregularly and haphazardly for several days now, and I feel that I owe you this. It has been fun. Go do whatever it is that you want to do in the last few minutes of your life. I am going to masturbate to the Girls Gone Wild Commercial. Good night and good luck.

My Drunken Weekend

I swear to God you folks are killing me with the incessant e-mails about when am I going to tell the story, how long until I post, and on and on and on. I do have a small life outside of this thing and reading other people’s things. I seriously have received at least 2 e-mails about the post. Anyway. Sorry for the delay, but I found a website with every original Nintendo game online for free playing. Awesome.

As you surmised I drank some this weekend. Well, “some” is not really the right way to describe it. You know that one Nicholas Cage movie where he plays the guy that drinks himself to death. Well that was me. Only I wasn’t hanging around a hooker the whole movie, it wasn’t in Vegas and I didn’t die in the end. It all began on Wednesday when some friends said they were getting together and going to our college town for some drinking, debauchery, decadence and some other cool word that I can’t think of which starts with ‘D’ that means roughly the same thing as those others. Hotel rooms were booked. Alcohol was purchased. Driving plans were made. Road trip was on. Let me just say that I am not proud of the things that I have done. But what is done is done. I can’t take them back now. All I can do is tell you all about it so you can laugh at me as my best friends in the world have done.

As I lay in my little bed on Wednesday night dreaming of good times, I devised two goals for the weekend. 1) Drink - a lot. 2) Do my best to have the sexual relations. If number 2 failed, I at least wanted to either make out with a hot girl that was a little out of my league (most are) or achieve orgasm in a way that didn’t involve my hand and a circa 1992 photo of Kristi Yamaguchi.

Let me just get right to the good stuff because this post is already too long and I have lost most of you I am sure. So, we got there we looked around the campus. I don’t think I have been there in 7 years. Some things changed, some stayed the same. You get the F-ing point. Then we hit the bar. The same bar that I hit for four of the best years of my life. If there is one piece of wisdom that I would like to pass on to the next generation below me it is this: Don’t ever, ever leave college. College involves very little real responsibility, much sex, much drinking and sleeping until noon on days when you don’t have class. Could there be any better life than that?

Much like every small college town, this bar had a drink special. They had these 24 ounce cups that they were selling full of nasty cheap beer for $2. That’s pretty unheard of I think. I, at once, slunk into predator/neanderthal mode. Must get as much beer as possible before it runs out. I bought three immediately. This damaged the lady prospects some since I was carrying around three gigantic plastic cups with both hands, and looked like a complete idiot. We couldn’t find a place to land so I was stuck holding those three beers for about half an hour. When I tried to drink from one, the other two would slightly spill, getting my hands and sleeves wet. Classy, I know. So I drank. And I drank. And I drank. Goal Number 1 in the bag. Unfortunately the harder I hit Goal Number 1 the harder it was to hit Goal number 2. This was fully realized by me when I was standing around my group of friends (consisting of three other guys and two girls - one girl was the wife of one guy and one girl was the girlfriend of the other guy - got all that?) and I was trying to convince them of my attractiveness to the opposite sex. Finally I decided to demonstrate said attractiveness by baring my ass, giving it a little slap and proclaiming, “what lady wouldn’t want some of this?!” This was after my 6th beer, at approximately 1:00. They turned on the lights 45 minutes later, after I had attempted to drink the beer in the bar dry.

As my friends led me out, I think I was saying to women, “I am Leo DiCaprio. I am fucking movie star!” At the time it seemed kind of funny since I, in no way, resemble Mr. DiCaprio. So as we got to my car, and I proclaimed how much I love my car - I vomited on my car. Yes, it’s a lovely site to see a man completely humiliate himself in front of his closest friends. Normally, I am not one for huge hangovers. This day was the exception. I began heaving and did not stop until the heretofore mentioned McDonald’s incident.

I did not achieve goal two, nor either of the fallback goals. Sad really. However, the highlight of the evening came when we all got back to the hotel. As we (the group minus one couple who had left earlier) ate some Taco Bell on the way to our rooms we paused before we went to our separate rooms. It was then that we heard something. We stopped. We listened. We strained our hears. There it was, coming from room 417. “Mmmmmm. [Pause] Mmmmmm [Pause] Mmmmm, Oh My God. Mmmmmm.” You get the point. We heard the sounds of sex. 417 belonged to the missing couple. What we heard was my friend Justin and his girlfriend having the sex. More importantly, we heard Justin’s girlfriend enjoying the sex. My first thought was “good for him, he is making a woman moan. Fucking lucky bastard.” Then a second thought crossed my mind, Justin had given me his second key earlier so that I could run back up to his room to get beer we forgot. It was then that I devised my evil genius plan. I was going to accidently walk in on them. Brilliant. Hilarious. Brilliant.

I communicated the plan, and got the go ahead from the others. The plan was for me to pretend that I thought it was my room, and they were following me in for some reason (we really didn’t get that far). What I saw was one of the funniest sights I have ever witnessed. Justin wearing nothing but a pair of socks. His girlfriend on top of him. Justin’s hands tied behind his head with some kind of scarf and both of them with a look of horror on their faces, looking at four drunk people in their doorway. The joy I felt in that moment will likely never be surpassed.

So that was Saturday night into Sunday morning. I sill hurt. I am exhausted. But it was all worth it because I got to drink heavily and see two people having sex. Maybe my life is complete now.