Hugh Bastard!

I have super powers - super human strength, ability to fly (into a rage), I can even shoot a web (of lies) with my hands (on a keyboard).

But, much like my favorite super hero, Popeye, I need a catalyst to display these powers.

And my can of spinach is Hugh Jackman.

Stop it. Stop it right now. I hear you typing. I can feel it with my mind bullets.

"But Narm! Hugh Jackman is Wolverine!"

Bad Reader! Bad! I should rub your nose in the pile of crap that is Kate and Leopold.


Hugh Jackman is a goober - and I don't use that term lightly. He isn't a nerd. Being a nerd is excusable, if not useful. Nerds are full of useful knowledge and can fix my computer when I look up too much porn and get all those spyware things.

No, Hugh Jackman is a goober. He is the guy in high school that was into musicals. He is the guy that described all the cool sports like football and seal clubbing as "barbaric".

No, I'm not saying he is gay. I would never insult the gay community like that.

I'm not even saying he's British.

I'm just saying Hugh Jackman is a goober. And when I see him, I can't help but rip off my shirt and start throwing tanks. Don't be fooled by chest hair and Van Helsing - the mere sight of Hugh Jackman makes me breath fire and step on thousands of Japanese people.

Wait, Godzilla isn't a super hero. Mothra is.

Luckily for all of you who are getting concerned that I might throw a tank through your living room - my one weakness has already been discovered. The one thing that will stop me from popping off the "Sexiest Man Alive's" head like so many beer caps -

Isla Fisher.
I think I need to be alone for a few minutes.

N.A.R.M.

This time of year is confusing for me. Everyone keeps asking what my New Year's resolution will be and how I plan to make improvements in 2009.

But how do you improve perfection? Maybe calf implants but I think girls kind of dig me having a flaw - almost like a chink in my ridiculously sculpted armor. I'm like the Batman suit with nipples...oh wait.

But I decided that there was something I could do to make myself a better person - I could get involved with charity.

Everyone is always trying to save something; wales, gorillas, rain forests, time, money, the date - well I'm going to jump on that bandwagon.

It's time to save the mustache - that's why I am creating the National Association to Resurrect the Mustache (N.A.R.M.).

For thousands of years men have donned the mustache - gladly sacrificing their dignity and looks for the tradition of having terrible facial hair. Our fathers took up this cause with such furious passion that nary a picture from our childhood is void of the lip sweater.

But what of our generation? Take a moment to look to your left and right. How many mustaches did you see?

Shameful.

I'm not asking for a lot. I understand that times are tough and it is hard to spare anything right now. I'm only asking for two or three inches of face space a day to continue the tradition of looking like a huge pervert. If you can't afford (or grow) that, a few straggly threads of peach fuzz will show not only your support - but your dedication.

N.A.R.M. is going to be sweet. I'm thinking t-shirts and hats and meetings where someone keeps "minutes".

"Minutes" people!

But a mustache is more than a symbol - it is like the body's own little piece of charity -

it saves you the trouble of getting laid.

Would Ya Wednesday on Thursday....Christmas Edition (Sinners)

Bad news.

If you read this post Santa isn't going to bring you any gifts. This blog is a one way ticket to the "naughty" list.

Laaaaaaaaaaadies.

Anyways lets make this short and sweet - my family is going to show up in a few hours and I'm not sufficiently drunk enough to answer the, "When are you going to have some little ones running around at Christmas?"

Well, Aunt Matilda - based on simple math I'm sure I DO have a few little ones running around - but until I am notified by the courts there is no way they are coming to Christmas. Too illegite to quit, baby!

Back to the important stuff. Like sex and Christmas. We all know the rules to Would Ya Wednesday - I throw up two pictures and you tell me if you would (choose one of the following) A) Slide down their chimney. B) Unwrap their gift under the mistletoe. C) Have intercourse with them.

But use protection - you don't want any little ones running around next Christmas.

Yukon Cornelius - ladies you've been asking for a manly man. This dude licks axes (read that outloud perverts).

or

Clarice of giving Rudolph a red nose fame -

What? You guy's aren't into animals? You city folk just don't understand the finer things in life.

Down With Brown

I'm down with brown.

RS27 - please stop raising the roof - I don't mean Indian people.

I mean the color brown.

People are always talking about blue skies and green pastures - and brown gets shit.

In fact, brown doesn't even have the same rights as the other colors of the rainbow. I get why the rainbow doesn't have white or black in it - those two colors are the extremes of the color scale - but brown? No brown in the rainbow at all? Seems a little racist, Roy G. Biv.

But that isn't what burns my ass. What burns my ass is the color 'tan'.

Please explain to me the characteristics of tan that make it anything other than 'light brown'. If I were an extremely good looking alient and I came to you and said, "I have researched your culture and understand everything except for Brittney Spears being famous even though she is mediocre at singing, dancing and looking hot - oh and what 'tan' means."

You would say, "Tan is just like a light brown."

You can't say that about any other colors. You can't describe blue or red or green. Sorry, color-blind people, but this is why you aren't allowed to vote.

So when I am at the mall shopping for pants and the worker says, "Do you want them in black, or tan?" Don't be offended if I knock her out.

Because we all know that with my skin tone I need the khaki.

Would Ya Wednesday on Friday...Aged To Perfection

It's Friday! Time to stuff our faces with alcohol we can't afford and our crotches with people we just met.

We all know the rules - I throw up two celebrities and you tell me if you would throw down.

Oh but there's a twist.

This week - we're doing old people. Well, for some of you that isn't any different than a normal week, but for the rest of us we are retiring our morals and moving south to their nether-regions.

Before I ruin the mood by talking to much (ladies - take note) lets loosen our morals and drop our pants -

Harrison Ford of Star Wars and Indiana Jones fame

Jamie Lee Curtis of that ridiculously hot dance scene in True Lies fame - oh and other stuff too

Slash Is My Hero

Lady Friend, a vegetarian, watching me eat a plate of mussels - What do mussels taste like?

Me - A Guns'n'Roses guitar solo.

Lady Friend - That is what you said Christmas Ale tasted like.

Me - Exactly. Epic.

Lady Friend - You also compared taking off your shoes after a long day of work to a Guns'n'Roses guitar solo.

Me - They don't taste like that.


(BTW - I realize this post is weak sauce. I thought it was Friday all the way until I got to work and turned on my computer. So I'm pouting - and you are the one who suffers. Actually reading ANYTHING on here could be considered suffering but this post looks like something from Full House so it is even worse than normal.)

Dig In Your Santa Claws

I've been pretty harsh on you lady-types here on this little slice of heaven I call White-Collar Redneck. Sometimes you girls just get me all riled up and the only thing that helps the intense burning and itching feeling is to get a big tube of Sarcasm and apply generously. I know sometimes my cutting wit and skilled tongue can be taken the wrong way - so I guess I owe you an apology.

I'm sorry for pointing out the obvious.

Really! I am! Would this face lie to you?

Only to get in your pants.

But thats what the roofies are for! And the compliments - but seriously that shirt looks great on you.

Even with my harsh words - you know I love ya.  I'm not so naive as to think you aren't important and that life could go on without you.  In fact, I was just thinking about how lost I would be if it weren't for women!  I guess what I'm trying to say is that...

...I really need help wrapping all these presents.  

Random Thoughts 12/16/08

Why is it that no matter what I do to my white t-shirts - they always shrink and get super short. Is there some sort of crazy technology that doesn't effect the width of a shirt and only the length? And why have we not applied this to mini skirts? It would help transform a respectable girl into a slutty with nice and easy baby steps.

Can I get a final ruling on the word, "murse"? Is it a male nurse or a man purse? Both are equally funny and I find myself staring at the ceiling in bed wondering, hoping and wishing for a resolution to this problem.

I can't roll my r's - which is fine because I have about as good a chance of learning another language as Marissa Miller does having me return her phone calls. But what if I was some little Mexican kid and I couldn't roll my r's? What then? Do they just get shunned from their families and labeled a disgrace? Is it like rednecks that can't drop the g on ing sound?

G.I. Joe told me that knowing is half the battle. That seems like a disproportionate percentage. I love pie charts and all; but 50% of the battle towards "knowing"? You can have your 50% "knowing" and I'll take 50% "huge guns" and we'll see who wins.

You Best Be Douching

In my high school and college days, back when Nickelback was named Creed, I put my rugged good looks and piercing eyes to use by having a few radio shows.  I realize that my face being on the radio is just a waste of a good beard, but I did my best to keep the kids entertained.

In high school my talents were relegated mostly to weather reports and high school sports scores (unless you are a girl reading this - then I was a local sports hero and homecoming king).  It wasn't until I joined forces with the University of Toledo's campus status, WXUT, that I got what everyone feared - full control over what went on the air.  

Part of my responsibilities at WXUT (well the ones that I actually did) were to review new music that came in - this includes commercial albums and local drivel.  One day the following morsel was delivered to our office - and became the opening and closing track of my show for the next two years (just barely edging out Seal's "Kiss From A Rose".  Anything I could write would not do this song justice, so without further adieu - please enjoy Chick Boyd's "You Best Be Douching".

If Chick Boyd is out there, still playing that drum machine like it is a beautiful woman - then I hope I am fulfilling your legacy by bringing this song back to light.  

Would Ya Wednesday on Friday...Jailbird Edition

It's time for everyone's favorite gaaaaaaaame -

Would Ya Wednesday! This time on Friday...the Jailbird edition.

I realize that jump suits are hard to get handsy in - and that horizontal stripes aren't very flattering - but lets take a look at some normal "definate do's" and see how we feel after they've been locked in The Slammer.

Scared straight? Maybe in my pants - HEY-O!

For those of you who don't know the rules - grow up. I throw up two celebrity pictures and you tell me if you would have a conjugal visit with them or not. This time, however - it is if you would be their cell mate IN the picture below - not just overall.

Heather Locklear of being my girlfriend fame -

Hugh Grant of terrible chick flick fame -

I'm Wiped

When I started this blog, many people assumed that I had some shred of dignity; an ounce of shame that I would grip like Tom Cruise to the closet door.

Then I revealed a few of my Secrets.

What started with women's deodorant is now turning to baby products.

Wet wipes to be exact.

Wet wipes are the mint on the pillow of a good bowel movement.

A pack of wet wipes in the bathroom says, "Those aren't my shoes that are squeaking, Old Chap."

And yet, so many people leave my bathroom with a confused look, asking, "What the hell are the wet wipes for?"

Well, Mudbutt, they are to make my cheeks look like Mr. Clean's head. If I want to throw a wet nap down my crack like my butt just had a bucket of chicken wings - then stay out of my biz-nass. (Oh NOW I get what Ludacris meant.)

If you are like me and shop at the greatest store in the world, Aldi, then your toilet paper is like a 4 yr old trying to eat his vegetables - it falls apart at the slightest hint of trouble and mostly just moves things around. Add a wet wipe to the mix and suddenly your ass feels like it is staying at the Ritz.

I understand it is a big jiump. Most people aren't prepared to just set that box of wet wipes on the back of their john and display to the world that they have a clean butt. All I'm saying is wait till late at night, lock the doors, put on some smooth jazz and let the velvety caress of that bath tissue take you places you've never been before.

You'll thank me later.

And if you suddenly get that "new car smell" I apologize - I just farted.

Top 5 Awesome Things My Dad Says...

Let me preface this by saying that my old man is not overly redneck. He is an accountant by day and farmer by night - like a superhero who fights hunger and tax audits. But, to be honest, I am probably a bigger redneck than he is. He is smart and enjoys things like wine and traveling and shirts that don't have pearl buttons - unlike his son who like Busch Light and watching things blow-up. That being said, growing up where I did and working on a farm his whole life he has inherited some amazing phrases that I think need to be shared with the world. So here they are, the Top 5 Awesome Things My Dad Says -

5 - Two hours. Everything can be done in two hours. Hoe a 160 acre field that has more button weeds than this sentence does redneck references? Two hours. Nevermind ten hours later I’m knee deep in mosquitoes and blisters – it should have taken two hours. I’m fairly confident if you asked my Dad how long he’s been alive he would answer two hours.

4 - Shit-ton. As in – my Dad has a shit-ton of awesome sayings. Shit-ton is by far my favorite. I use it a shit-ton. You know that riddle “What weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?” And the answer is they both weigh a pound? Well when it comes to shit you can throw that out of the window. A pound of shit actually weighs more than anything else in the world – because no one is going to lift that shit. It’s science. I would rather lift a box full of Wanda Sykes than a box full of shit. A shit-ton is a country system of measurement – like the redneck answer to the metric system.

3 - Piss-ass. As in – if you weren’t “piss-assin’” around all day maybe you would have all that hoeing done. As in - quit “piss-assin’” around and get a job. I’m not really sure when “piss-assin’” became a term for hurry up but I think we can all agree it was one of the top five most important days ever.

2 - Cat’s Ass. As in – I used to have trouble keeping the weeds out of my fields, but since I've had kids it's become the 'cat's ass'! Apparently a cat’s ass has some sort of evolutionary development that makes it much more efficient than a normal ass. Is there some sort of surgery I can have to get a cat’s ass? I want to be part of this magical ass party. Then I could be all like, “Hey Brad Pitt – you might have money and hot girlfriends and good looks but check out my cat ass!” Oh he’d be jealous.

1 - Raped Ape. As in – when I caught all you kids drinking in the basement there were kids running out of here faster than a ‘raped ape’. I don’t have much experience in raping apes (like 3 or 4 TOPS) so I am not sure on the exact speed at which they run – but it must be fast. Can you imagine if Godzilla raped King Kong and he just TOOK OFF? We’re talking like three tons of gorillas just flying down the streets of New York. I’m glad I live in a city where we don’t have to worry about giant monsters piss-assin’ around in the streets

Office Toy

I am ridiculously important. I type things and do the email and sometimes say things like "call of business", "integrated" and "cream AND sugar?".

With all this responsibility I have to have a vast array of tools at my fingertips. But all the staplers in the world can't compare to the most important piece of equipment - my office toy.

No, I don't mean that cute girl that sits three offices over - grow up, Reader. HR is reading this and they want to have a "talk" about your "behavior" involving "respect issues" and they don't approve of you saying, "that's not a Swingline in my pocket".

Currently, my office toy is one of those big binder clips. It isn't overly exciting but fits the needs of looking important while still being loud and annoying to co-workers - which, coincidentally, is my role in the office.

Past office toys have included - broken headphones, a Livestrong bracelet, a Gumby bendable action figure (not a doll) and one of those stress balls that looked exactly like a rock so I could throw to people and they would freak out that it was really heavy and then when they realized it was just foam would look really stupid.

But for every successful office toy there are mounds of failed objects. There was that highlighter back in June that always seemed to end up making my nose look really important and no one can forget the "Hole Punch Incident of '06". I guess office toys are a lot like bloggers, they are all over the office and very few of them work.

What is your office toy?

Would Ya Wednesday on Friday

What better way to celebrate a Friday than to unfairly judge celebrities and point out their every flaw?

Thats right, it's time for WOULD YA WEDNESDAY ON FRIDAY!

*crowd noise*

Side note - crowd noise was edited in during production - the original crowd was bored at best.

I would tell you the rules - but I don't make rules I break them. I also ride motorcycles and use hair gel...laaaaaadies.

Below are two pictures - you tell me if you would point your privates in their direction and sail their vast seas.

And awaaaaaaay weeeee goooooooo!

Kari Byron of Mythbusters fame

Keanu Reeves of bad acting fame

Fun With Pie Charts

I'm busier than Gary Busey at a crazy buffet today - so instead of insightful commentary - you are stuck with a Narm original pie chart.

For A Good Time Call...

I am a fairly sensitive guy. I can sympathize when a girl needs to touch up her makeup or is cold or doesn't understand that I am 25 years old so you can quit waiting for me to stop thinking farts are funny. I have no problem sitting through a chick flick or getting dressed up to go out to eat some night - I get that.

But if you stop me making good time I will murder you till you are dead.

There is no single action on earf more important than making good time. Toledo to Cleveland takes an hour and a half? Fuck you, I'll do it in an hour. Then I'll talk about it - because it's awesome.

I am fairly certain God created sports so that guys would have something to talk about other than that one time they made good time. In fact, that is why college football still has the BCS and won't go to a playoff - it gives the fellas something to talk about that doesn't result in murder.

I would go so far as to say the only reason NOT to sacrifice everything in your power to make good time is to defend the thermostat.

Remember, fellas - that thermostat is yours and you must defend it with your life. Girls have their "dignity" and "morals" and we have the thermostat and wet dreams.

We win.

Know what makes good time? White knuckles and AC/DC cassette tapes.

No what makes bad time? Rest stops and "I Kissed a Girl".

Although if you let me watch the kissing part I think I could still have a good time.

Friday Night (Busch) Lights

Just like everyone else, I headed back home into a sea of high school friends and hometown charm for Turkey Day. I swear to god I'm going to have a shirt made that says, "Cleveland, Advertising, When Marissa Miller starts returning my phone calls." That way, every time someone asks, "Where ya at these days? What do ya do? Ya getting hitched?" I can just point at my shirt and won't have to stop drinking my beer.

Anyways my old high school won it's 5th state football title in 11 years - meaning the rednecks came out by the hillbillions to mix all that turkey with cheap beer.

The great thing about a small town? When there is reason to celebrate marshal law is enacted. We take over the streets and for no apparent reason, toilet paper every building downtown. The cops give up and people set up coolers and hand out beer to everyone who passes.

But where most people would be happy being able to throw a roll of toilet paper 20 yards down the street - the redneck looks at that piece of bathroom tissue and says, "NO! I can rig up something that could fire that fucker the speed of sound!"

So as I walked down Main street, two beers in hand, I was struck by the most beautifully redneck invention there is - the Toilet Paper Launcher (patent pending).

Ingredients - a leaf blower with a board screwed to the side of it that is holding a roll of toilet paper on a peg at the end. That way - when you turn the leaf blower on - it blows the toilet paper 60 yards down the street and over most small buildings.

In case you were wondering - YES this is a completely necessary invention. You go cure cancer - we're going to have a fucking PARTY!

Gobble, Gobble, Gobble

Would Ya Wednesday on Tuesday....ROCK STAR EDITION

It's time once again for Would Ya Wednesday!...on Tuesday - the Rock Star Edition.

Reee-reee-reeee-wowa-wooooooooooooow

That was me playing air guitar.

I. Rule.

Anyways this is the part where I try to think up funny ways to describe two people doing it.

Tuning your love organs?

Squeezing for sex juice?

I'm struggling today. All I can think about is getting a heaping plate of turkey and rubbing myself down in mashed potatoes and gravy while maybe putting a little cranberry salad down my pants because I like the way it squishes between my thighs.

I REALLY like Thanksgiving.

Oh...the rules - tell me if you would stuff these two people's turkeys and if not, how many alcoholic beverages it would take to do so.

ON WITH THE SHOW!

Rivers Cuomo of Weezer fame
Fiona Apple of Fiona Apple fame

Home Video

I've had it.

I love my job - but I just don't think this 9-5 thing is for me. I've thought it out and decided I am going to take my new life in a new direction.

Sex tapes.

Seriously, why have I been bustin' my back working all these years when all I needed to do was throw up a camera and get busy?

Laugh if you want - but Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian have their shit together. What do you do with your life when you have no discernible talents or ambition?

Sex tapes.

I figure I make this tape and within three days it's on the interwebs. For $19.99 you can download the most passionate, explosive, mind blowing 30 second sex tape you have ever seen.

After releasing the sex tape everything will fall into place. If my math is right, I should have a DUI, failed pop album and an assault charge for attacking a paparazzi by February. A short stint in rehab and then BAM - by next March I will be rich and famous and do what celebrities do - like wear fancy sunglasses.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not going to just throw up a camera and lie there like a dead fish like those two.

Um...not that I've seen their tapes...

Nope, to do this right - I'm going to have to make this a PRODUCTION.

I'm talking multiple camera angles, fireworks, midgets, monkeys, mustaches, an F-15 fly-by, Def Leppard playing in the background, a nine iron, American flag, bald eagle and at the climax I'm going to dismount and throw my arms up in a Kerri Strug Olympic pose while having roses thrown at me.

The way I see it - anyone worth doing, is worth overdoing.

Hugh Jackman Can Suck It!

Might as well address the elephant in the room...

It's A Love Story

I wish more than anything in the world I thought Taylor Swift was hot, because it would give me SOME sort of excuse for liking her songs.

Seriously, I am the lowest life form.

I am supposed to be the Music Nazi. Who am I if I can't judge people solely for their taste in music?

"How's that Bill guy?"

"Eh, he's ok but I think he likes Linkin Park."

I feel like my entire world has been turned upside down by a little blond girl that looks like an alien. Seriously, if you put her face on a hot air balloon and flew over Texas you would have 17,266 UFO sightings. How do her eyes go in that direction? It is like she is doing a really racist impression of an Asian person all the time. Or like my four year old nephew gets to put her eye liner on for her.

Seriously, Nephew, how'd you score that gig and why you holdin' out on me?

I can't even pass off singing along to one of those stupid songs as being a pedophile.

"Hello, I'm Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC. We understand you really like that new Taylor Swift song - mind telling us why?"

"I don't know, I just think it's catchy!"

"You mean you DON'T just want to bang Taylor Swift? You mean you actually like that song?"

"Um...well...yeah, I guess."

"You fucking creep."

Would Ya Wednesday...Tuesday Edition

I would rename this feature but I am addicted to alliteration. And acronyms, LOL.

But for now here we are with another round of Would Ya Wednesday! The Tuesday Edition.

Now, I like to think we are all grown up enough to talk about stickin' our privates in each other, so let's be civil about this.

The rules are pretty simple - I put up two pictures, and you tell me if those people make you want to shoop. Shoop-a-doop. Shoop-a-doop-a-doop-a-doop.

So loosen your belt and your morals...its Would Ya Wednesday time!

Peyton Manning of Indianapolis Colts and every commercial ever fame


and

Victoria Beckham of Spice Girls and nailing David Beckham fame

Real Men of Genius

White-Collar Redneck presents - Real Men of Genius

Real Men of Geeeenius!

Today we salute you, Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy

Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy!

When others would have quit after 472 repetitive commercials, you just keep on chuggin'

Woo!  Woo!

Nevermind that this campaign began in the late 90's, like blue jeans and U2, you believe these ads are timeless.

Did you see the finale of Friends?

Try something new?  Never.  You found your cashcow and you are just going to milk, milk, milk.

Sometimes I cry at night!

So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, oh Man of Genius, because you ARE a genius...and you have the library of tapes to prove it.

Mr. Real Men of Genius Writer Guy!

Cramazicryin

First off just wanted to say thank you Pittsburgh for letting me be in you last night.

That came out wrong.

BloggingJason and I took ourselves a little last second road trip to the steel city for a Drive-By Truckers / Hold Steady co-headlining the ROCK SHOW. Luckily there were trained medical professionals on site to administer help to those who were rocked into kick-drum convulsions. My procktologist is still trying to put me back together after the dual band encore made a mess in my Batman undies.

But enough about my ass.

Something magical happened on the way home. Something that can only happen during a 2am drive through the wooded hills of a school-night road trip. In the foggy haze of Steel City raindrops and basking in our post-rock glow, these two weary travelers set out on a journey through the bowels of the XM-Sirius merger.

It started with a conversation. A tired argument with neither side caring to win and the battle lines not clearly drawn.

Aerosmith's "Crazy" - rock genius or 90's throw-away?

We gave our arguments, pleaded our case and then slipped away without so much as a resolution or conclusion. Somewhere Alicia Silverstone is begging us to continue - this is all she has.

A few more miles, a few more Gin Blossoms songs and suddenly we found ourselves staring down the barrel of Aerosmith's "Amazing".

Suddenly it was clear to us both, there was more in the air than those icy November raindrops. There was the chance to be something special.

This time there was no argument, just a silent realization that we had exactly 47 minutes to achieve a feat so rare and unexpected, most had given up hope. A feat that's time has passed and is now only spoken about in hushed voices or referenced in obscure Youtube videos.

We were sprinting towards the finish line of the Aerosmith Triple Crown.

As "Amazing" wrapped up it's delicious morsel and the radio again shifted to a forgotten tune from a 90's band that is undoubtedly now working at Starbucks (this time in the form of the Spin Doctors), we fell silent. I stepped on the gas peddle, I willed those airwaves to test fate, to challenge the gods and to etch our names forever in the stone of immortality.

And then it happened. As our tired bodies began to give out on hope, as we inched towards our destination, hope trickling out of us like a leaky valve, Steven Tyler whispered to us through the sound of the road, the rain and our waning spirits.

"There was a time,
when I was so broken hearted,
love wasn't much of a friend of mine."

The triple crown.

We started our trip, hopped up on speed and rock, arguing the merits of "Crazy".

We became weary and tired, humming a few bars of "Amazing" as we stared out speckled windows.

But as we neared home, we achieved greatness in "Cryin'".

The Aerosmith Triple Crown.

All done in 2 hours and 17 minutes.

Cramazicryin.

Part of a Balanced Diet

Livin' On The Edge

I don't worry about much in life - as long as I am happy, healthy and have sweet hair I consider life a win.

But I also realize I can't just focus on the right now - when I leave this world, I want to give everyone something to remember me by -

A pretty corpse.

That may seem a bit morbid - but wait until you see me; I'm going to look like a dead Brad Pitt.

When I kick the bucket, I want to look fabulous. I want any girls that turned me down for dates to walk out of my funeral thinking "Damnit - I could have totally nailed that dude - now I'll never have the chance." I want people to walk away going, "I don't mean to seem insensitive, but did Narm use a new shampoo?"

Oh how I'll laugh.

In fact, this desire leads most of my life. I live life to the fullest - but within reason.

Do I want to go skydiving? Hell no! How am I am going to show that girl that turned me down for prom that I was a catch if I am flat?

Same goes for bullriding - yes I will look like a badass for a few minutes but who wants to look my mom in the eye and say, "He looks so peaceful" if I am turned into a huge pile of goo?

No, I have to protect this real estate. God only gave me so much to work with and I'll be DAMNED if I'm not taking it with me.

So to live on the edge, I am going to continue to push my body to the limits of alcohol consumption, test my innards with daily Chipotle intake and, despite Momina Nomina's best efforts, refuse to wear a coat even when it is chilly outside.

Because I'm totally going to kill at my funeral.

Would Ya Wednesday on Thursday

Wow have I sucked at blogging lately. I'm like the New York Knicks of blogging - all the bloated egos but none of the production.

I apologize - I got an election that lasted over four hours and when I called my doctor he said there was nothing he could do. But now that my cousin Barack Obamina is in office - it's time to start asking the important questions - like who do you want to bump uglies with?

Is the proper sentence structure; with whom would you like to bump your uglies? I'm pretty sure I ended with a preposition up there and that is just embarrassing.

If you haven't been paying attention the rules are simple - I post a picture and you tell me whether you want to Wang Chung with that person. If not, then how much tequila would it take (this is research for me so that I can have a bottle handy if I meet any of you ladies - I'm smoooooth.)

And we're off!

Fellas - Rachel Nichols of ESPN sideline anchor fame

Ladies - Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs fame

Let those loose morals shine...

Volcanomina

Girls think guy's are dumb; truth is we are unchallenged. I can't figure out how to not piss on the seat - but if you show me a picture of lava I have already devised a system of levers and pulleys to lower giant objects into the magma.

Who wants to flash fry a turkey?

No?

How about a fucking cow. That shit's potent.

When a guy sees footage of lava his mind goes racing. There should be a safety warning before Destroyed In Seconds begins.

"This program rated M for mature and contains strong language, nudity and fucking lava."

One time I saw a show about lava and blacked out for two hours. When I woke up I had hijacked a towtruck and was using the crane to lower a futon into the Cuyahoga River.

Hey - it isn't lava but it burns.

Lava is one of those things God put on earth for guys to fuck with. It also may have something to do with platectonics - but mostly the stuff about guys. He figures he'll create lava, fireworks and Tabasco sauce to kill off a few men every year and balance out the population.

And is it our fault? We start out careful enough. We take the right precautions and test things out to see how unsafe and how hot...

Shit, cow's done - who wants steak?

Guardian Angels

Thanks to everyone for their suggestions. When I woke up Friday morning I had every intention to be George Michael. I had visions of walking into parties and playing "Faith" on the guitar and watching all the women swoon - but alas, the thought of my precious guitar getting demolished in the freight train that happens when Crown Royal touches Coca Cola made me think otherwise.

Plus I wasn't committed to staying in character and being forced to play with myself in the bathroom.

So then I thought maybe I would be Gallagher. I went to the store, got all the goodies and came home excited about the prospects of demolishing everything in sight with my Sledge-o-Matic.

Then the mustache happened.

It was innocent enough; to get in character I shaved my delicious beard into a molestache. But when I pulled that razor from my newly bare cheek, the cold winds of winter brushing my bare skin for the first time in months, inspiration struck.

How could I turn that mustache down? He didn't want to be part of some elaborate costume - he wanted to shine. I looked him deep in his eyes and granted his wish; because that's what I do, Reader, I make dreams come true.

So off I went, first to a party, then to the land of Meat-heads and Barbie Dolls - a downtown bar.

My favorite part of downtown bars is that they have mathematically calculated the exact number of people to let in to ensure that you will have someone's ass rammed into your crotch the entire time you are there. I feel much safer knowing that my crotch is now using the buddy system with some stranger's ass. The bar was like a pack of sardines; if sardines wore too much hair gel and loved Jager bombs.

As the bar did it's collective crotch dance, fusing our reproductive organs into some sort of synchronized dance, one girl decided that she was no longer part of the group. Instead, she decided that I was public enemy number one - keeping her from getting to the bar for a drink. I have to give this girl credit, she had the determination of Lance Armstrong the way she repeatedly used her ass as a weapon to shove me into the 48 people inhabiting the 3 ft area in which I stood.

After screaming at me repeatedly she reared back and used her ass as a battering ram to clear me out of the way. It was at this point that I accidentally spilled my entire drink on her.

"Accidentally" MIGHT not be the right word choice. "I turned and dumped my entire drink down the back of her stupid Catwoman costume" might be a better word choice. But I am no word smith, so lets stick with accidentally.

After some screaming and name calling, Catwoman disappeared into the night and out of my life forever.

Kidding - that would be a terrible story.

About a half hour later, Catwoman's Meat Head boyfriend, dressed as Fred Flintstone, came up to me and said -

"You hittin on my girl?"

WHAT?

She screamed at me and I dumped my entire drink on her! I must REALLY suck at flirting if that's how it is supposed to go. Here I was, complimenting girls or making a joke, when in reality I needed to just berate them and throw things at them. Who knew my education on women came from trolling the redneck trailer parks back home.

I try to talk Johnny McMuscles out of fighting me, seeing as how I am dressed as a pedophile and he as Fred Flinstone, but he was having none of it.

Just as he was ready to go Barney Rubble on my ass, a giant Garth from Wayne's World came up behind me, looked at the guy and said, "Dude, he wasn't hitting on your girl."

Fred Flintstone glared at me, backed up and gave me the "tough guy stare down" all the way out of the bar.

I turned to Garth, all 6'5" and long, stringy blonde wig of him and he says, "What an asshole."

And then he was gone.

What I am trying to tell you, Readers, is that sometimes life gets you down. Sometimes life finds you with a porn stache and a pocket full of Laffy Taffy, about to get pounded into a bloody pulp. And that is when god sends his angels to watch out for you.

I hope all of you have a Giant Garth that looks over your shoulder when you need him most.

Party on, Garth...

Hallo-whoops.

Shit.

Halloween is tomorrow.

I've had so many great ideas -

Freddy Mercury -
Ed Hochuli -


George Michael -


A Zombie -


Extremely good looking -

But now it is tomorrow and I have nothing prepared. I have a beard...thats it.

I need ideas.

I am definitely down for shaving the beard into a mustache for the sake of hilarious costumage. Also - do not be fooled by my ideas above, it does not HAVE to be a gay, British rock star.

No pressure, but my entire Halloween depends on YOU.

Please help. Give me ideas, oh Beautiful Readers. Save my halloween.

Would Ya Wednesday...Wednesday Edition

Time for everyone's favorite game...Would Ya Wednesday!!!

You don't sound very excited.

First off I want to give a shout out to Maxie. She has been doing a similar feature, "Would You Rather Wednesday" which is always hysterical. Go check her place out - it is much nicer so take off your shoes before you go in.

Ok - now back to where we are sticking our privates!

If you don't remember the rules, they are simple. Would you get nuded up and make bad decisions with the people listed below - one guy, one girl.

Now I've been catching a lot of flack for having two consecutive nerds for the guys. My bad. I thought chicks were into nerds - I mean what other excuse did they have for hooking up with me?

Oh, thats right, the roofies.

This time I went more metro-sexual. Next week I'll try to get someone less feminine.

Without further adieu -

Ryan Seacrest - of Ryan Seacrest fame -

and

Melissa Joan Hart of Sabrina and Clarissa Explains it All fame -


Fellas ready? Ladies ready? LET'S GET IT ON!

Booger Nights

We're friends, right?

I mean I'm not going to ask you to be in my fictional wedding - and you probably won't have me watch your dog when you take that well deserved vacation to Denver this winter - but I'd say we're friendly.

Well I gotta tell ya something.

I love picking my nose.

Oh don't act like you don't go digging for gold every now and then. When you got a boog up there hanging out and getting comfy it feels like you accidentally snorted a small dagger.

But where is the proper place to get after it? In the bathroom? In your bedroom?

Judging by where I see it most, it's on the drive to work. I have never seen so many people knuckle deep as on my morning commute. Put your SUV on cruise control, cash in your ticket for the booger train and go! Go! Go!

I drive past business man after business man with a varying selection of fingers rammed up their shnoz. The pointer finger for dexterity, the middle finger for big jobs and, for those crustaceans that act like a scared badger backed into a corner - the pinky.

But the car is also dangerous. Let's say the person in front of you slams on their brakes and you are digging around playing "Where's Waldo" with a snot raisin - you are in serious danger of jamming your middle finger so far up your nose your brain thinks you are telling it to fuck off.

I come to you to be educated, dear Reader - please bestow upon me your favorite place to pick your nose.

A Comprehensive List of Events I Remember from Saturday Night Sponsored by Miller Lite

...

Would Ya Wednesday on Thursday: Friday Edition

It's time for another exciting edition of 'Would Ya Wednesday on Thursday' this time, on Friday! I was going to do this on Wednesday, but my mom laid out my Thursday underwear on Wednesday, and then my Friday underwear on Thursday and now finally my Wednesday underwear on Friday. So my week has been all messed up.

I'm kidding - I wear Batman underoos.

If you don't remember the rules, they are fairly simple - dudes would ya do the chicks; chicks would ya do the dudes; dudes that are into dudes would you do the dudes; chicks that are into chicks would you let me watch.

And, if your answer is no - then how much alcohol would have to be consumed to let your boy parts play with their girl parts or vice versa.

Laaaaaaaaaaaaaadies - Zach Braff of Scrubs and Garden State fame...


Fellas - Ellen Pompeo of Grey's Anatomy and Old School


Drink up and drop your trousers - would ya?

This Blog Foreclosed

That video blog took a lot out of me - so I took a vacation to New York today and can be found on Surviving Myself. He has let me take over his slice of heaven for today and for that I am thankful - mostly because he is really funny and I am not - so now I've got street cred.

Can't wait to see everyone's Halloween costumes. Until then, here is a comic I found amusing and goes along the lines of my guest post.

A (NSFW) Message for America - VLOG Style

*There's bad words in there.

Bad Blogger

So I have been a terrible blogger lately. I haven't been posting frequently, I haven't been leaving comments on your blogs and sometimes I don't take the time to sort my recycling.

The shame.

And even with my overall suckitude I still got more comments than ever before on my last post. Hopefully this isn't like high school when Momina Nomina had to pay my friends to hang out with me. If so you should probably hold out for a raise. And I still want to know what she paid to have my prom date put out.

In all seriousness thanks to everyone who either agreed that SJP is scary looking or admitted that with even drinks in them they would still totally take her home. As for the Mac guy - I thought girls liked nerds? Now I'm screwed. Or not screwed. Not sure which is worse.

But anyways - even with my suckitude, I've been tagged by Himbo AND Fiona to do one of those things where I list things that are things that others things don't do. Please go check out their blogs - they are just like mine only intelligent, funny and well-written.

1. I don't speak good. I mean I speak well grammatically, but I have these funky little pronunciation issues. I can't pronounce the "dr" sound as in drink, drank, drunk and dragon slayer. When I say it, it comes out jrink, jrank, jrunk and loser. I also do not say again as "a-gen"; I say "a gee-in". Which is nice and hillbilly and makes all my city friends have plenty of fodder to make fun of me. We'll see who is laughing when suddenly they have a bunch of hay and no one to bail it! Then who will be laughing, huh City Slickers? You'll pay.

2. I spent 3-4 years on the radio in high school and college. It was just for the small country station in my home town during high school and then for the college station at Toledo - but at least 4 people listened so that gives me as many fans as Eagle Eye Cherry, right?

3. To try and make some cash, my friend once auctioned himself on eBay to drive anywhere in the country, bring a boom box playing on Foreigner songs, dress up like Larry Bird and do anything (within reason) that you asked for a day. I wrote his description section on eBay and it was later featured on Jay Leno's "Crazy eBay Auctions". Neither of us saw it but he got around 1-2 billion calls about it. We called NBC to see if we could get a tape of it and they wanted to charge us $50. So I have, to this day, never seen my creation on The Tonight Show. If you are ever watching a rerun from 2003 with Jerry Seinfeld and you see the "Crazy eBay Auctions" come on - please call me. I'll give you $50.

4. My middle name is Elmer.

5. But I didn't get that name until 3 days after I was born. My parents couldn't decide on a name so they introduced me as "baby" for the first few days of my life. I sometimes have flashbacks when I'm at the bar and all the ladies are coming up and saying, "Hey Baby". I always want to ask them how they know that story but I'm too busy making out with all of them. At the same time. That might be a lie. But I did kiss a girl once - 6th grade was awesome.

6. The name on my birth certificate is just Jeff - not Jeffrey like most losers with my name. I worked at Toys'R'Us in college and when someone buys a big-ticket item they radio for someone in the back to get it. Instead of using a name, they always say, "Geoffrey" as in Geoffrey the Giraffe. For the first 3 weeks I worked there I would get furious because I thought they were calling me Geoffrey instead of Jeff. It took me THREE WEEKS to figure this out. Maybe I should quit jrinking.

Would Ya Wednesday

Today's post is simple...and a day late. But 'Would Ya Wednesday' sounds better than 'Would Ya Thursday'. Alliteration is better than boobies. Thats what the kids told me.

Rules are simple - I'll post a picture (one for the fellas, one for the ladies) and all you have to do is answer if you would make relations with them or not. If not, please list the amount of beers it would take to commit the crime.

Fellas - Sarah Jessica Parker (the Sex And The City girl)



Ladies - Justin Long (the Mac guy)

Sneeze

I just had the most sexually rewarding sneeze of my life.

I didn't need a tissue, I needed a towel and a cigarette.

If I ever find myself wrestling in the sheets with an uggo, I can just close my eyes and picture that sneeze and everything will be ok.

I didn't even cover my mouth - I hope that my germs will disperse throughout the world faster than Shawn Kemp's bloodline and get someone else sick - just so that they can experience the same sneeze I just had.

Nope, I'm not even going to wipe that beautiful experience off of my beard.

I'm just going to sit here and remember the good times; the way that one sneeze changed my life forever.

God bless YOU, Sneeze.

Brothers in (clothing without) Arms

Hey, Internetz.

Good, good – how are you doing?

Yeah, she’s fine it was just a rash…Hey listen, can we talk? Something has been bugging me for awhile now and I didn’t really know how to bring it up.

When were you going to tell me about the Jonas Brothers?

I just saw some commercial about them on the TV and, from the looks of things, they are more popular than breathing. I’m still not sure exactly what they do besides wear vests and give dramatic looks, but apparently it drives the kids crazy,

When did this happen? I like to think I keep up with things – I mean I have a blog, and Twitter and even a toaster oven – but suddenly pop culture comes in and makes me look like a fool.

Are they actually brothers? Or are they brothers the way Hulk Hogan calls people brother?

I heard one of them is dating Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus or one of those other girls I don’t look at until they are 18 so I don’t say something creepy – doesn’t he realize they are like two years away from their drug induced, psychotic meltdown a la Britt and Lindsay? Everyone knows THAT is when they start putting out!

And when do we find out Lou Pearlman was copping feels on these kids? I think that is the most exciting part of boybands. The “Oh wait, this creepy looking 40 yr old guy ISN’T actually our friend and I shouldn’t accept his offer to wash my back in the shower. But he has soft hands!!!”

And of course, who is going to be the Lance Bass of the group? You know what I’m talking about, the one that finally comes out of the closet years later and admits to the world – “I want to be an astronaut.”

But most importantly – where do I get one of those snazzy vests?

A Little Slice of Heaven

Pi - kinda boring

Pie - delicious

Pie Charts - now we're talking

I fucking love pie charts.

Why?

Because they are awesome - listen if I am going to pour my heart and soul into this you can't be asking dumb questions the whole time. I'm sorry for the tough love, sometimes I worry I care too much.

If I were to make a pie chart about how awesome pie charts are - I would simply draw a circle and write, "100%, Bitches" - because I like pie charts and having good grammar.

In fact if I were to make a pie chart about how much I like pie charts and good grammar it would look like PacMan with his mouth being "Good Grammar".

I like grammar but c'mon - in a pie chart about pie charts it only gets a little slice.

This got me to thinking - pie charts couldn't have been invented until AFTER pie had been invented. Pies date back to 12th century England (thanks, Wiki) - so pie charts couldn't have started till after that.

How in the hell did King's allocate their time to plundering, feasting and wenches? "Too many wenches!!! Ahhhh! If only I could accurately articulate the share of wenches in comparison with feasting and plundering!!!"

I used to talk about pie charts so much that a friend of mine stated, "If I had a Jeff Nomina pie chart, I'd eat it."

I'd be fucking delicious.

Knowing my love for all charts pie, you can guess my excitement when I discovered the single greatest, most spectacularly beautiful pie chart I have ever seen. I, in no way, claim ownership of this pie chart - as it was discovered late one night, spent like so many others, Googling pie charts. I present - the Meat Loaf pie chart:

Facebroke

For once I want to be serious. For once I want to talk about the issues. There is a time and a place for being charming, witty and muscular - and that time is not today.

Our economy is in shambles.

Our decisions and habits are having a very real effect on the environment.

We are in the midst of one of the most important elections in history.

But most importantly, we need to come together as a generation and demand the old Facebook back.

I can't think of one issue that has a larger impact on my generation, Generation Me, than standing up for our rights to have applications on our main profile page.

We need to follow the groundwork laid down by our parents; who fought against the draft and organized rallies against the war in Viet Nam. We need to take motivation from the rebel rum runners of the prohibition - fighting for their rights as the government was swayed by special interest groups.

We need to take hold of our resources and make our voices heard by the masses, we need to DEMAND change in the most powerful way we know how - we need to get 1,000,000 strong to join a Facebook group called, "The new Facebook sucks!"

If things continue the way they are, it will take all Facebook users one extra click to go from reading what that cute girl in your history class' friend wrote on her wall to then go see what Sex and the City character she most resembles.

Those clicks add up to hours and days of wasted time. With all of this precious time lost, what will become of Twitter updates? They will be half-hearted.

At best.

I don't want to see that world. I dream of a world where Facebook is once again the most important thing in our entire existance. I dream of a world where I wake up in some A-Ha inspired other world where I morph in and out of real life and a Facebook world where wall posts and pieces of flair and bumper stickers are all together in one ridiculous cluttered, slow-loading, annoying page.

Our generation faces an adversary the likes of which hasn't been seen since the last time Facebook made radical changes and introduced the newsfeed.

When this villain struck the first time our passion was great, but our organization was weak. We screamed through groups and emails. We slandered Facebook with nicknames like Stalkerbook and Creeperbook.

And then we got the fuck over it.

Family Dispute

Me (after my Mom convinced my nephew to have me tell him a bedtime story instead of her): And then the magic train goes allllllll the way to the moon where it stops to pick up martians!

Momina Nomina (voice muffled from behind the door - eavesdropping on my story): Martians on the moon??? You might want to rethink that one, Uncle Jeff!

Seriously, Mom? I bail you out of storytime and this is what I get?

It's on.

The PETA Pits

I had every intention of posting today, Reader. Really, I did. I had grand ideas for hilarious posts that would bring joy and happiness to your Monday morning.

But then the Discovery Channel decided to play a Planet Earth marathon last night.

A man has to have priorities.

After watching for two hours last night I came to a realization.

Penguins are by far the most puntable animal.

Guys, be honest, when you see a penguin you instantly guesstimate it's height and weight and try to determine what kind of distance you could get on that lil guy.

I love penguins, don't get me wrong. I've read the Zoobooks, I've watched the shows -

But I bet I could make a 25 yard field goal with an adult penguin.



As if that isn't enough - they huddle together to make themselves look like bowling pins. Look at them! I just want to get a full head of steam and do a Pete Rose dive right into the middle of that pile.

But penguins are only found in the poles of the world - and I'm kind of broke and don't feel like taking that many days off of vacation.

No, my dream of punting penguins going to have to wait. Until then, I'll have to stick to punting normal things here in Cleveland. But I have to admit - it just won't be the same -

Poodles just don't get the same distance.

MS Office for the Office

I Will Stab You To Death WIth My Ticket Stub

There are two kinds of people in this world -

People that yell "FREEBIRD!" at concerts...

And people who have thought seriously about murder.

Don't Sweat It...Or Else

There are so many things girls are fundamentally opposed to - fart jokes, following the plot of a movie, sanity - but there is one thing that is worse than all of these combined:

Girls hate sweat pants.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Ladies! I hear you - you are saying "But Beautiful Narm, I wear sweat pants all the time! I have this great matching sweats and jacket thats all pink and it goes PERFECT with my gray Pumas and that little purse I found at Target but I tell everyone was really expensive..."

I get it.

It isn't that you hate sweats - its that you hate when I get to wear sweats. Why aren't sweats equal opportunity garments? Maybe I found that old pair of sweatpants from the 80's and even though they have a couple of weird stains on them I want to wear them over to your friends house since we are just going to have appetizers and play board games anyways. Maybe sweatpants would help me get in the "Charades" frame of mind. Maybe now we can finally stomp that annoying couple that we don't even really like but she was in your sorority and you feel bad because she calls you all the time so sometimes you can't think up a good excuse and drag me along to suffer through stories about her work.

(The above paragraph is completely fabricated - I would never date a sorority girl.)

But guys - have you ever had a girl say to you, "Oh yeah - just wear your sweatpants! I want you to be comfortable, happy and have the ability to overeat without terrible consequences."

I try to put myself in as many sweatpants-friendly situations as humanly possible, but, like rhinos and popped collars, the only places this works are full of large, horny animals and smell a lot like cologne and body odor.

The only places I have left are -

- Trailer parks
- Places chicken wings are compared to anything related to magma
- Anywhere with Busch Light in the refrigerator
- People doing Rocky impressions

Whats that?

You promised your old sorority sister who lives in the trailer park we'd pick up a case of Busch Light and some Hooter's wings and play Charades?

Here's a hint -

One word...

Movie...

Rocky?

Is it Rocky?

You're damn right it's Rocky.

More Fun Than A Barrel of Monkeys

Girls - I need to let you in on a little secret.

You've been left out.

There is something happening around you all the time - every second of every day - and you have no idea it is happening. You see the signs; a sideways glance, a snicker, a sheet of paper with names and numbers on it.

It's The Game.

The Game is the simple fact that guys turn every single activity into a contest. Today alone the roommate and I putted golf balls into a cowboy boot, bet on how many steps it took to get to the bar and tried to guess the exact cost of our entire cart of groceries.

Don't feel left out - guys don't get to be a part of your super-sonic high-pitched scream voice when you get excited - so lets call it even.

My problem is that my roommate is the king of Useless Skills. There is no one in America better at throwing an empty pop bottle over the couch and into the trash can even though we can't see it. And you should see that kid in front of one of those stuffed animal claw machines. He is a master. He is to claw machines what I am to chiseled abs.

And that brings us to Curious George.

One morning, after a night full of Crown Royal and Bad Decisions, Curious George showed up at our apartment and more important - became a player in the game.

The rules were simple - hide Curious G somewhere that the other person will stumble across him in their everyday routine.

The washing machine.

The freezer.

One morning I even found him wired to the inside of my toilet by some Bill Nye looking wire hanger contraption.

So, after finding Curious George hiding in a shirt pocket last week, I slipped him into a new hiding spot -



Quite proud of myself I forgot about ol Curious George and went on with my life.

Yesterday I came home to this -



Yes, that is Curious George with a plastic bag over his head and a suicide note taped to his chest. Apparently he had enough and hanged himself from my ceiling fan. The suicide note read as follows -

"The times we had were great and grand, but your endless relationship with that seductive blog of yours was just too much for me. I couldn't handle you loving that blog more than me. We had some good stories and the jokes we shared drove people banannas. (I'm a monkey and still don't know how to spell that damn word.) Things will be better this way.

Love Always,
C George."

I think I just lost The Game.

I Deserve A Standing Ovation

Apparently I have started dating work, because, like a girlfriend, it is taking up all my free time and telling me not to wear that shirt to go meet her parents - they are already skeptical about me because of the beard and I don't need to go making a bad impression.

Due to lack of time - all I have today is my latest fortune:

"Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance."

In other words - "If you're stupid and you know it clap your hands."

*clap*

*clap*

(Side note - I'm hanging out at Alexa's today. If you are one of the 13 people in America that don't already read her blog then go check it out.)

Miss Me?

I'm over at Moooooog's house today - drinking beer, teaching his kids dirty words and putting my feet on the coffee table. (Sorry about what I did in your bathroom, Moooooog.)

If you don't already read Mental Poo then go check it out - he is hilarious and an artist (if being an artist means cutting and pasting people's faces onto other people's bodies. In the last week alone I have become Richard Simmons and tried out for the Casting Couch - not at the same time though - that would be weird.)

On a side note - any of you Clevelanders interested in a big, bad, blogger meet-up? I promise more alliteration if you come. Alexa and I have been talking about it forever and wanted to get an idea on the amount of interest in meeting and grabbing drinks some night. If so email me at jnomina@gmail.com so I can get an idea of the who, whats, whens and what to wears (I promise it will be slutty).

Let me know - I've met a few of you and don't regret it TOO much - should be a fun night.

Putting the Gyp In Gypsy

My adventures in fortune cookies has been well documented through this blog. I've had good, bad and, as Charles Barkley says, the turrible.

But today may have taken the cake. While out for lunch I decided to test my luck with the Gypsy fortune teller machine. How can you turn down a machine that is either trying to grab your ass or going all DX and telling you to Suck It!


So, I put my four quarters and hit the button - hoping for some crazy "Big" moment where I will be transformed into Tom Hanks and then I'll tell him that the Da Vinci code is up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, a, b, a, b, select, start. Or is that the Contra code? Either way - I put my quarters in and hit the button...

Nothing.

Hit the button again.

Nothing.

Hit some of the other buttons.

Nothing.

Look behind the machine - not even plugged in.

Not the first time I spent a bunch of money, got my hopes up and then can't get the girl turned on.

I'm Into Goth Chicks

I am ok with the fact that when a vampire bites you, you turn into a vampire. I get that. I'm not here to question Count Chocula.

But here is the thing.

If I get in a bar fight with a vampire because he thinks I was hitting on his girlfriend when really SHE came up to ME and asked where I got my shoes, because, lets face it - they are pretty sweet. How was I supposed to know she was the bride of the undead? And seriously, Count, lighten up - I realize you don't ever get to see the sun so you might have a little Seasonal Affective Disorder but there was that one summer when I worked third shift and it didn't turn ME into an asshole.

Anyways let's say the Wahhh-pire and I get in a bar fight - and I get some of his blood into an open wound of mine. Do I turn into a vampire?

I mean it is pretty clear that the zombie virus is transferred by blood - and if you get zombie blood in your blood - you had better start practicing dragging one of your legs behind you and trying to catch Rachel Ray's "How to Cook A Human in 30 Minutes of Less!" BUT - does the same hold true for vampires?

Or are vampires like big mosquitos with bad hair and shitty accents? Do they HAVE to bite you and get some of their saliva into your blood stream?

I'd like to know how to defend myself against a possible Dracula attack - because seriously, dude's girlfriend is HOT.