An Addendum

Some of you have doubted the veracity of my story. This was perhaps (as was pointed out to me several times yesterday) because I used such phrases as "this story is totally made up," and "I didn’t have sex with Alterna-girl," and "all of this story is fake, and "this is all made up."

Let us just say that I like to keep you guessing. So, without further fanfare and ado (and whatnot) I give to you:

My gigantic puppy, Abigail Road.

A picture of the aforementioned tattoo (cropped ever so carefully so as not to reveal more of my body than necessary, thus avoiding the possibility that you throw up little bits of your Sausage McGriddle from this morning).

This is Why Nothing Gets Done Around Here.

For the past hour I have been procrastinating by reading about why people procrastinate. I read that some people’s procrastination may be linked to depression. I had no idea I may be depressed. So I started thinking about whether I was depressed. This lead me to the conclusion that I may, in fact, be suffering some mild depression. This realization has made me so depressed that I am cannot seem to get any work done.

I May Have Messed Up.

What I am about to tell you will shock you. You should prepare yourself accordingly. If you are at work, make sure you muffle your impending audible gasp. If you are at home, please clear beverages away from the computer area so that you don’t knock them over when you raise your hand to your mouth like they do in movies when someone is shocked. If you are neither at home nor at work, and you are sitting at a Starbucks having a Chai Tea Latte, or on a park bench watching little birdies while you browse your way across the internets - well then fuck you. You heard me, fuck you. The rest of us have to work for a living and you are probably some guy who is living off of the royalties you inherited when you grandfather created The Gong show or some similarly stupid thing. However, if you are actually just off work today from your job in aerospace engineering, and you decided to grab a Chai Tea or stroll in the park, my sincerest apologies for saying “fuck you.”

So back to the shocking news. This weekend I went on a date. It was actually date 2 and a half with this girl. The first half-date involved me crashing at her apartment at 3:30 in the morning after a night of heavy drinking. She is a friend of a friend and we met when my friend brought her along to a night out. I have been trying to think of the best way to describe her for you. When I described her to some friends this weekend I called her Alterna-Girl. Her hair is an unnatural shade of red. She has many, many piercings in strange and phenomenal places, and she works at a tattoo parlor/piercing place/book store. You know when you are walking down the street and you see a girl whom you immediately know would be into some strange semi-illegal sexual practices. This is her. Basically, she is a hipster.

Like I said we have been on 2 and a half dates. The first half-date involved a drunken, sloppy tryst on her couch in the early morning hours two weeks ago. I called her the following Monday and suggested that we actually go on a date where we could interact and talk and such. We went for Thai food and a movie. Mistake number one was assuming that an Alterna-girl would be interested in such a date. It did not go well. No groping action followed. Profound disappoint abounded. I made a conscious note that if I wished to see more of that little cross tattoo on her hip I would have to change things up a bit. Well, a big change happened.

On Saturday night we were supposed to go out again. This time she asked if I wanted to go see a band in which her friend was playing. We met late and drank heavily again (always a good sign). We moved bars to where her friend was playing. We watched a few songs then went outside for a smoke. She, once again, expressed boredom. I suggested that we go to my house and drink some more. She seemed excited about that idea (and why wouldn’t she?).

We left her car and took mine. On the way there, she said she wanted to stop by her work to see if someone left some thing for her. We went in together, where I started talking to the tattoo guy.
Scenes from the next twenty minutes:

Me: I’ve always thought about getting a tattoo.


Her: (jumping up and down, giddy with excitement) Please get one it will be so cool!

Tattoo guy: Because you came in with her, I’ll do it for half price.

Her: (after I told her there was no way I was getting tattooed - her with pouty bottom lip and everything) I was really hoping you would do it.

Me: (Trying to keep her excited - but without needles entering my body) I don’t even know what I would get - I should think about it and come back next weekend.

Her: (Seeming a little turned on) Lets look through the book and find something really hot.

So people, (as your surmised) I am now the proud owner of a huge fucking tattoo of a weirdly-designed sun on my left shoulder blade. It is big and black and it hurt like a mother fucker.

This officially goes down as the most I have ever done to have sex with a girl. I am modest, so I won’t talk about any details. However, let me just say that it totally worked. She was a ferocious sexual beast that could not get enough of me, and it was one the Top 5s of sexual experiences of my life. We did things in ways that I previously thought not possible. You know that scene in Zoolander where they all have peyote-induced sex. It was like that - only with Southern Comfort instead of peyote. My dog actually barked because she thought someone was being murdered by the amount of screaming. I don’t want to talk about it though. I’m too much of a gentlemen for that.

The worst part is I don’t think I am going to see her anymore. She has a weird sexual thing she did that freaked me out a bit. So yeah, I got a tattoo for a girl I was on a second and a half date with, that I am no longer going to see. I’m a fucking winner. Big time.

For those of you that know me in real life: This story is totally made up. I didn’t have sex with Alterna-girl. There is no need to feel weird around me now. All of this story is fake. Please don’t tell Alterna-girl about this blog. I am a little scared of her, and I don’t want her to know I told everyone in the world what occurred. Not that anything occurred since this is all made up. So there.

Disturbing Things

Yesterday I went down to the break room on my floor. There were a couple of girls (women) down there talking over some juice and a pastry. I grabbed a Krispy Kreme, poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down with them. One of the girls (women), I know fairly well. She has been working here for about 8 months and she has joined our group several times for drinks after work. I talk to her in the break room quite a bit because we seem to refill our coffees at about the same time. I’ll call this girl Lisa.

Lisa has been married for about a year, and I get the impression from speaking with her on several occasions that her and her husband have a tumultuous relationship. Lisa is 25 years old. She has no children, and if there is one important thing that you should know it is that Lisa is kind of hot. There is a 95% chance that I will think of having sex with her within a 24 hour period. This is not to say, of course, that I will actually have sex with her, but I will damn sure think about it. For those ladies reading this blog, this is something you should know: If you are hot, all men you come into contact with on a regular basis will think about having sex with you. Most likely (and I don’t mean to scare you here) they will do so while pleasuring themselves. In addition, if you are hot, and the man knows you, he will probably be fantasizing about you doing all kinds of nasty, fairly degrading things. I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you these things, but this is just the way life works. Men get bored when they pleasure themselves (most likely because they have been doing it every day since they were 12) and they have to think about something new and exiting. I mean, how many times can you go back to the memory of the time your eighth grade civics teacher let you touch her left boob behind the History and Geography section in the library? I mean, it was a great memory and Mrs. Barnes had a nice rack, but you have to move on at some point.

Let us say you just happen to be the hot girl that buys coffee from a guy every morning on your way to work. Unbeknownst to you, you are now a full fledged participant in an elaborate scenario involving you telling that guy you "must have him right here, right now," on the just-delivered copies of the Dallas Morning News. I would venture a guess that if you are smoking-fucking-hot you have been a participant in no less than 120-145 masturbatory fantasies by the time you are 30. If you work in a place with a great deal of co-workers (50 or more), this number jumps to 250 to 425, give or take. Chances are, even if you don’t think you are hot, there is still somebody out there whacking it to the thought of you tying him up with his own necktie and forcing him to lick the bottom of your red pumps. I’m just saying.

Anyway - sorry for that tangent. What was I saying? Oh yeah, Lisa is hot. She is married. Her husband is a very big fireman. He looks like a fireman. Whatever you pictured just now when I said he looks like a fireman, that is exactly what he looks like. Of course, that is the primary reason that I will never have sex with Lisa. The second, obviously, is the fact that she is hot. That, and oh yeah - the fact that she is married.

So Lisa is in the middle of a conversation with our co-worker, complaining about her super-muscular firefighter husband. Today she is bitching that he leaves their bathroom in a state of disrepair every morning. I sit and listen while she complains about the towel that he won’t hang up, the underwear he leaves on the floor, and the puddles of water accumulated while drying off. I secretly curse her because she is probably having sex like a mad cow, morning and night, and she is complaining about underwear on the floor. Anyway, this exchange occurs:

Lisa: . . . and I don’t even want to get into the mess he makes while shaving.

GR: How does he make a mess while shaving?

Lisa: There is shaving cream every where, stubble all in the sink and water all over the counter.

GR: Shaving is not that hard, you wouldn’t think he would make that much of a mess.

Lisa: Well he says that he makes a mess because he is trying to balance with one leg hiked up on
the counter top.

GR: . . . . . . . (blank look on face)(look at co-worker)(look back at Lisa - still blank look)

Lisa: You know. . . when he shaves, balancing on one foot. . .

GR: What the hell are you talking about?

Lisa: When he shaves "down there" (she says while motioning down to her "special place")

GR: Are you saying your husband shaves his pubes with his leg hiked up on the bathroom sink?

Lisa: Well, yeah. (said like this is the most normal thing in the world)

GR: Why doesn’t he do this in the shower or something?

Lisa: Because it takes too long and the hot water runs out.

GR: What exactly does he shave?

Lisa: Everything (again in this same voice).

GR: Are you saying that your husband shaves all of his pubes off?

Lisa: Well, yeah.

GR: Everything?

Lisa: Yep.

GR: All of it?

Lisa: Yeah.

GR: He is totally bare?

Lisa: Yeah.

GR: He’s got no pubes?

Lisa: Yes!

I excused myself, where I went back to my office and spent the rest of the day thinking about this exchange. Hey - I am for partial depilation as much as the next guy. I think it common courtesy to engage in a bit of a trim and what not (of course, only on the off chance that a lady will one day want to go downtown). But I have never met (nor seen) a guy that shaved everything. What does he say to his friends in the locker room? Are other men doing this? Is this a new trend that I don’t know about? My god, if I was lucky enough to hook up with some hapless girl, what would her reaction be when I revealed "the goods," and she is face to face with a completely bald, unhidden, set of genitalia?

I have no way of answering these questions without your help. I need every single person to leave a comment. For men: Do you do this? Is this common? Do women like it?

For women: Have you ever seen this phenomenon? What would you do if you stumbled upon a bald set of twig and berries? Do you find this sexy? Would you laugh if some guy dropped his underpants to show you a freshly-shorn pubic area? Or would you feel like you are raping a 12 yearn old?

This entire post is a little disturbing. Is anyone taking bets on how long it takes me to be fired for sexual harassment in the workplace?

Reid's Philosophy of Time Travel, vol. 1

I have been thinking a lot lately about time travel. I know what you are thinking as you sit there at work trying desperately to waste your company’s resources. You are thinking, “why I am wasting my company’s resources by reading what this idiot has to say about time travel?” Well my little friends (and a few mortal enemies) I have a point. It will take me no less than 1000 words to get to that point, but it will happen. Oh yes, it will happen.

Before we get in to the down and dirty (as I like to say). I want to point out that it is 10:57, post meridiem, as I begin writing this thing. So I want you to know the level of dedication that I have to you. I love you and want you to be happy. I know that you haven’t been happy with me because I have been getting some death threats accompanied by pleas to post again. I have also received a few requests to discontinue all efforts at writing this blog, but I assume those people are just kidding around.

Okay folks, back to time travel. I have always been a fan of time travel movies and books. Donnie Darko, Twelve Monkeys, the Back to the Futures, Millennium, etc. I tend to think about these movies much more than necessary. Then I begin thinking about things such as The Grandfather Paradox (if you invent a time machine and go back in time and kill your grandfather you would never be born - so you couldn’t build a time machine - so you couldn’t kill your grandfather - so you still should have been born). The movie The Butterfly Effect is one of the best at demonstrating this paradox. At this point in my thoughts, my mind is usually blown. So I smoke some pot and listen to The Beatles White Album.

Okay, I am working towards the point, give me a little bit of a break here. It is only 11:04 and have some time to kill. So the other night I am watching The Butterfly Effect (even though I have a deep hatred of Ashton Kutcher (or A-Kut as we used to call the fucking pretty boy back in Cedar Rapids)), and it got me to thinking about something of particular relevance to our little discussion here tonight. I went looking for other people that might have written about this subject. However, no one seems to have broached this important scientific question, and because I am scientist (even though I just had to try three times to spell scientist - don’t judge me) I will do it here tonight.

Let us say that you are a 40 year-old married man living in Madison, WI. You got married to your college sorority sweetheart when you were just 22 years old, having just graduated from the University of Wisconsin. (None of these details have anything to do with the point here, I am just giving you some background because that is the kind of thing us serious writers do). So anyway, you are married and you’ve got a couple of little kids running around the back yard in the snow. In your garage you just built a time machine. If that were me, one of the first trips I would take would be to go back in time and observe myself at different times in my life (sort of like A Christmas Carol). Lets just say that on one of these trips you run into a 20 year-old version of your lovely little wife. Being the man you are, you think of a way to get the version of your wife that is 20 years younger into bed. You might come up with a story about how she died at the age of 30 and you came back in time just to see her once more, etc. Basically you say whatever it takes because, well, she is kind of hot. Your future (past) wife is so moved by your love for her, she agrees to do this for you and makes love to you all night long.

So the question is: Is that cheating on your wife? If you go back and sleep with a younger, hotter version of herself, does that count as cheating on the older worn down version? That is kind of close to cheating, right? My guess is - she would be pretty fucking pissed off when you go back to present day and she waiting outside of the time machine in your garage. I bet she would be standing there with a "you fucking, asshole, cocksucking little bastard" look upon her face. But I don’t know that much about women so how would I know.

These kinds of things are never addressed in time travel movies. (Although in Terminator, John Connor did send his best friend Reese back in time so that he could have sex with his mother and become his father - so that shit is weird)

The other thing I would do (and we don’t need to talk about it here because I don’t want you to start thinking I am odd or something) would be to go back in time and find myself. Then I would convince my past self that we did not spend near enough time having mad amounts of sex. Then I and myself would try and drunkenly seduce ladies into threesomes. If you think about it this makes perfect sense. Having a threesome with two guys and one girl is always going to be awkward because there is another naked man there. If there is one person I am comfortable being naked with, it is myself. The added benefit, of course, is that there would be no penis envy because you both have the exact same package. Surely the penis doesn't change too much in 20 years time.

Of course this adds a problem. Remember that crappy movie "Threesome" with one of the Baldwin brothers. During that movie the one guy touches the other guy’s ass during the threesome. The problem: the crossing swords issue. If you accidentally touch your past self’s penis during a threesome does this make you gay? Or since it is really just a past version of your own penis is it just masturbation? I would vote for some pseudo-masturbation definition. These things need to be clearly defined the moment time machines are invented because you don't want to have weird feelings about touching your prior self's penis during a threesome. That kind of thing could really traumatize you.

These are the things that keep me up at night. I only tell you these things because we know each other so well, and I know you won’t think ill of me. It is now 11:27 (I had to break to urinate and get more beer). I’ll leave you with my Top Four Places to Visit if I had a Time Machine (in reverse order).

4) New York City circa 1932 (just to see the place - and get a cup of coffee).

3) New York City, Café Bizarre, to see the Velvet Underground play when Andy Warhol first watched them play, circa 1965.

2) The Beatles playing the Casbah Club, circa 1961.

1) To 10:56 p.m. tonight to write a better post.

Good night and good luck.

All About Me

I have been receiving many, many e-mails about what I am like in "real life." I understand, people want to know more about what it is to be me. Some want to know what I was like in my "rock star" days. It's a little embarrassing to talk about really. First, I hate to use the phrase "rock star." I mean, sure, I was adored by millions for a short while. However, it's simply an exaggeration to call me a "star." Chris Martin is a rock star, not me. The person who wins that American Idol show will immediately ascend the throne of rock stardom. I am just a guy who used to play for crowds of hundreds of thousands. Secondly, I don't like to talk about those days very much. As a role model for thousands of school aged children in Mozambique, I cannot advocate the lifestyle of Quaaludes and Playboy magazines that I lived then. Third, I cannot talk about it because of the gag orders in the legal proceedings currently pending against me in the States of Nebraska, Wisconsin or Rhode Island (not to mention the one from the Dominican Republic). Fourth, I don't want to talk about it here because you can read about it in my upcoming book and VH1 special, "Please don't stab me and steal my guitar. . . again (One rock star's struggle against madness and venereal disease)" -- We are tweaking the title.

But for those of you that insist: I have enclosed for your viewing pleasure a taste of what it was like to be me. Here I am performing in Cincinnati in 1970. Some will say that I copied my performing style off of Iggy Pop. This I vehemently deny. Sure we have the same taste in women and an affinity for shirtless androgyny. The difference is obvious though. I know how to rock. Some say that's all I know. I Rock. Rock N Roll. With a capital "N". That's right.

It is Valentine's Day for Fuck's Sake

I don’t know if you have noticed this or not, but today is Valentine’s Day. I know that it is a very cliche thing to say, but this day is pretty f-ing stupid. Valentine’s Day is supposed to be the day that lovers express their love for one another. In theory this is a fine idea. However, we all know that there is only one true way to express your love for another person. That is, having the sexual intercourse with said person (or if you are incapable of intercourse because of a tragic lawn dart accident, a sexual act of some type). So if today were to involve people fucking like mad little rabbits instead of exchanging stupid little cards with one another then I would be perfectly happy with the day.

We (meaning one guy with a blog that very, very few people read and you who has nothing better to do with your life than read a blog that very, very few people read) should do something to better society - by changing up Valentine’s Day. No more cards, gifts, flowers or candy. Only two things are necessary to celebrate Valentine’s Day: 1) a semi-rigid penis 2) a place to put a semi-rigid penis. (If you are a lesbian couple, you are on your own because I am not really certain how lesbians have sex. On a second note, if you are lesbian couple (that may or may not like some man-loving on the side) and want to show me how lesbians have sex, please e-mail me and I will immediately give you my home address and phone number). So everyone spend today skipping out on work and having the sex. I am working to change the world one orgasm at a time.

I also should have mentioned a second way to express your love for another person: very expensive gifts. To truly be a gift demonstrating love, the gift must be over $500. If you can swing that, then you get out of the sex. If you don’t want to spend that, then get to humping.

I asked the ladies around the office and, surprisingly, no one is up for getting a hotel room across the street and spending 12 minutes in sexual bliss. I even offered room service. To console myself, I am taking option two. I am spending over $500 on a gift for myself. Today I will leave work early and go straight to the Best Buy where I will purchase both a Nintendo Wii and a Playstation 3. I couldn’t decide which to buy, so I am just getting both. My evening will be spent trying to reunite Link and Zelda, and then pleasuring myself while listening to Hank Williams’ I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.

P.S. If you took my advice and spent the day having the sex, please send me an e-mail or comment letting me know. Also feel free to describe the sex in great detail including, but not limited to, the number of different positions experienced, whether you moaned or screamed, and whether you photographed or video taped the encounter. Peace out.

Three Quick Things

First

I was driving down the street yesterday afternoon to pick up a mid-afternoon sushi snack when I saw a sign staked into the ground at the intersection where I was stopped. It read:

VIAGRA
MADONNA
DIET

I tried to get out my phone to snap a picture, but before I could the light turned green. I am much too lazy to go back out and take a picture, so no picture for you. I also didn’t write down the number or I would most certainly have called yesterday to find out what the diet entails. I can only assume that the diet is for men, and it involves three basic steps. 1) Take a full dosage of Viagra. 2) Wait 30 minutes until fully engorged. 3) Take out the photographs of a nude Madonna (taken at a time when she was hot) **WARNING: LOOKING AT THIS LINK WHILE AT WORK WILL TOTALLY GET YOU FIRED** 4) Beat the holy fucking shit out your penis until you begin to perspire. 5) Rinse and repeat.

It is estimated that a 45 year old man could lose up to 40 pounds in a month simply by wacking it to Madonna’s Sex book.

Second

I hate February. I don’t hate it because of the cold weather, lack of quality holidays, or because of that stupid fucking leap year thing. I hate February because the cursive ‘F’ sucks. Isn’t the point of cursive to join all of the letters together so that writing is quicker and easier? With the ‘F’ you have pick up your pen three times. What a waste of time and energy! Then you have that stupid cross through the middle of the letter. What the hell is going on with that? The print ‘F’ doesn’t make you cross all the way through the letter. It is only a line drawn on one side the letter. The cursive ‘F’ thinks it is so damn good that it has to have some little flag off the back end AND a line all the way through the letter. Fuck that. Don’t even get me started on writing the cursive lower-case ‘b’ into the ‘r’.

The second reason February sucks. What is going on with that fucked up pronunciation? Is it me, or is that ‘r’ in there just wasted. I found this on Wikipedia:

Many people pronounce "February" with a round 'u' instead of an open 'u' vowel, which forces the first 'r' to be eclipsed, viz. 'FEB-yoo-air-ee' instead of 'FEB-roo-air-ee.' That is, it elides into first half of the trailing diphthong. Otherwise, the flanking mid vowel ('e') and back vowel ('u'), combined with the final -ry syllable (front vowel 'ee') make the 'br' difficult for Anglophones to pronounce in the first place. The problem does not usually arise for Scotiaphones, however. The Scottish names for the month are "Feberwary" and "Februar," the latter usually pronounced with a long "ay" vowel in the first syllable.

If you need this much explanation for why the pronunciation is fucked up, it is time to change the name. I propose we do away with February and call the second month “Reid.” It has a great ring to it: January, Reid, March, April. . . etc. As the namesake for Reid I immediately move that two extra days be added to Reid to give it a more significant status. The added benefit is that you will never have to listen to one of those people born on January 29 say, I was born during leap year. . . This year I turn 8 years old! Get it, I am really 32. Get it? You get it? Leap year? Get it?

Third

I am trying to determine how long I can go today without talking to anyone in my office. Non-verbal communication doesn’t count. I nodded to the receptionist when I walked in and she said “good morning!” Since that time I have had no communication whatsoever with anyone here. I wonder if I can make until six without saying a word in this office. I’ll let you know how this goes. I am sure you really care.

Hi, My Name is Garrett.

Many of you are here because of this:

Two sons of Andy Reid targets of gun, drug probes

While I enjoy guns and heroin as much as the next guy, I am not the Garrett Reid you are looking for. However, I want to welcome you here and invite you to stay and look around. I have a couple of stories about a girl that refuses to flush her toilet paper, one about bad Mexican food and a few others about. . . well, I don't really know what my stories are about. Mostly they tend to ramble, lack humor, or a point. Often they are riddled with spelling errors, contain glaring grammatical mistakes and show no sign of proper sentence structure.

My credentials (partial list):

Once, when I was 12, I was asked to pose for the "swim suit" issue of "Boy Scout Magazine" by my boy scout leader. He was sent away before my modeling career even began.

I was having sex with high school teachers long before it was popular to do so.

Sometimes, when I masturbate, I think of Jane Pauley.

Yesterday, I ate an entire box of Fruity Pebbles cereal.

I am being stalked by no less than 3 women. (two of which I may or may not have had sex with).

So, you be the judge.

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.