Monday, September 29, 2008

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...



Is it Rocky?

You're damn right it's Rocky.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

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.

Friday, September 26, 2008

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."



(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.)

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

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 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...


Hit the button again.


Hit some of the other buttons.


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.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

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.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Working Too Hard For A Joke

You know what you never hear? A crack addict say, "Oh damn, thats entirely too much crack! I'll never be able to smoke all of that! Could someone help me with all this crack? I'm going to have to take some of this crack home for later."

The same rule applies to giant hamburgers.

I'm a fatty. Maybe not in stature, but I eat, sweat and pant like a fat kid. I don't swim with my shirt on though, so I'm not sure the fatty community will let me into their inner circle and give me their secret code word to get into their secret meeting places (hint: the locations are marked with Golden Arches and the code word is Super Size Me).

Even I realize that a burger that is so large it doesn't fit in your mouth is just stupid. That is like Megan Fox only being able to have sex with guys hung like a light switch.

But, as a fatty, I still giggle like a school girl when that giant hunk of animal gets set on the table. I realize in my brain that I can't possibly eat the entire thing - but the hierarchy of my thought process goes as follows:

Boy Parts
My Liver's Masochism

So, like any self-respecting man, I pick that thing up and don't set it down until it is gone or I am drunk on meat and suffering from a fatal case of the meat sweats.

Putting a giant burger in front of me is like putting a box of fireworks in front of a 14 yr old. Even though I know better; I'm still going to end up in the hospital.

Why isn't there more done to regulate hamburgers? Sure the drug trade is causing problems in America's youth - but lets talk about what giant hamburgers are doing to our middle-aged white guys.

How am I supposed to turn down such a delicious offer?

"Hey do you want a hamburger the size of a basketball?"


That's like asking Gary Busey if he would like more crazy. Or Brittany Spears if she wants to more pregnancy. Or me if I want more poorly-written celebrity jokes.

There are some things that are supposed to be oversized - funny sunglasses, clown shoes, my ego - but hamburgers are not one of them.

I ask you, Reader - nay - I beg you, dear Reader - stop the insanity. If it can't fit in your mouth - then what is the point?



Tuesday, September 16, 2008

I've Hit My (Widow's) Peak

I spent all morning trying to figure out where all the hair from my receding hairline was going.

Then I saw my back.

Found it.

Growing up sucks.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

I Do Not Approve This Message

Sure there are plenty of things to be annoyed about during the election season - exaggerating commercials, lawn signs, smart people who ask me my opinion about foreign diplomacy and I'm all like, "I want my diploma from America!"

But is anything worse than the tagline "I'm __________ and I support this message."

We get it - I just watched 30 seconds of a commercial about how McCain has 48 houses and looks like a monkey trying to crack a coconut when you hand him a computer - I didn't really think the Republican Party was going to foot the bill for it.

But the politicians aren't nearly as bad as the 1,000,000 commercials that use that tagline and think they are hysterical.

Hey, Local Car Dealership Guy - when something makes you want to jump in a swimming pool full of hot sauce and broken glass - you should NOT adopt it to try to sell something.

I'm not an expert (wait - I work at an ad agency - maybe I am an expert) but that just seems how advertising should work.

It reminds me of those commercials that have an alarm clock in them - because apparently the emotion they want associated with their product is blind rage.

While there are important things like taxes, foreign policy and health care - I think we should start keeping track of who has the most annoying commercials and take votes away from them.

-100 votes for every time I hear, "...and I support this message."

Obama is actually in the negative after this gem -

Friday, September 12, 2008

An Open Letter To The Vending Machine Guy

Dear Vending Machine Guy,

I like your yellow shirt. It's nice and it says, "I don't own a washing machine." I respect a man with a message.

But we need to talk.

Our office, almost 100 of us now, love Snickers. Almost without fail, if someone is sliding change into your 1980's vending machine, it is because they have a taste for chocolate, caramel, peanuts and nougat.

Not to mention the sayings on the wrappers - Nougatocity, Peanutpolis, Substantialiscious. These are funny and they give me something to talk about that isn't the weather.

What I am trying to say is that Snickers bring the office together.

But you don't care, do you? Because last time you came, you only put four Snickers in the vending machine.


Lou Bega has written more Mambo's than you put Snickers in the vending machine. So, of course, they were gone within hours. When I am knee deep in some Excel spreadsheet and I need a little chocolatahol - what am I supposed to do? Milky Way? Yeah I'll eat it but it's no Snickers. Milky Way is to Snickers what Saved By The Bell the College Years is to the original - it feels familiar but why is Bob Golic there?

So we managed to get by on or four Snickers, assuming you would see how quickly they disappeared and refill the machine with an acceptable amount.

In fact when you arrived last time there were emails sent and meetings skipped to see what kind of candy pleasure awaited us.

And then we saw three Snickers.


Three fucking Snickers?

I understand gas prices are high and the hurricanes mean we need to ration certain things - but if you ever walk into this office with less than 8 Snickers bars I swear to Jebus I will rip that shirt off and put it behind the 14 bags of pork rinds in that machine that haven't moved in 7 years.

Thanks for your time.


Wednesday, September 10, 2008


I'm about to share a secret with you - and this time it isn't that I smell like a girl. A hairy, bearded, beautiful girl.

This is something that is going to make girls roll their eyes and call me a "typical bachelor", "immature" and "stunningly handsome".

But fellas - whats cooler than being cool?

Two 42" plasma screens in your living room.

Oh but you have picture in picture!


My retinas laugh at your picture in picture. After a Saturday of college football I have to rename my eyes Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens because they are roided the fuck out. (If you're keeping score - righty is Bonds and lefty is Clemens).

Worried about the Raiders game because you have $300 on the over and if you don't hit Rico is going to send his muscle over and bust your knee caps - BUT - you also need to keep tabs on the Steelers game because the watch your Grandpa wore in dubya dubya two is gone if they don't cover?

No problem!

In fact, I think the double TV's provide the one thing men have needed above all else -

A way to be completely unproductive twice as efficiently.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Sorry Mom

Momina Nomina - So I found your blog today...

Me - Let's not talk about it.

Momina Nomina - I think that's best.


What's red and white and hurts all over?

Let me give you a hint - it is super sexy and saves kittens on the weekend.

I spent the weekend bachelor partying on a lake up in Michigan and used the "Self-applied suntan lotion" technique. This technique is very similar to sponge painting your upper-half but instead of using paint you are coloring yourself with sunburn. Lets see Crayola come out with that color.

"Do you have Red-Orange?"

"Hmmm - no but I do have Excruciating Sunburn. It has more purple in it."

My back looks like a paint by number colored by a 2 yr old. I am pretty sure you could play Risk on my back because it looks like a world map. If you are concerned about the hurricanes heading towards Florida just ask me to lift my shirt and I can give you up to the minute updates.

Is it possible to overdose on aloe? You are going to find me in the gutter with two bottles of aloe and a green ring around my mouth.

Look for me on an upcoming episode of Intervention. I'll be hanging out at Rite-Aid and trying to pay homeless guys to rub it on my back where I can't reach. Finally you'll find me locked in my room OD'd on thirteen bottles of aloe and suicide note -

It's better to burn out than to peel away.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Bad Decisions

Last night I was in dire need of drinking and shenanigans so I met Cleveland celebrity Taawd out for some drinks. Little did I know that "drinks" didn't mean a few casual beers, it meant Miller Lite, Natty Light, Patrone, and a never ending stream of Riverbend Red. I am pretty sure if you mixed all of those things together in a science lab you would make anthrax. Somewhere in that concoction I contracted a hangover. I think it might be fatal.

Anyways the night started at Rock Bottom Brewery.

A brewery.

Where they make beer.

Their own beers.

The beer on the menu is their beer.

Not other peoples.

So what do I do when the waitress asked me what I wanted to drink?

"I'll have a Miller Lite please."

I'm an idiot.

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Stupid People

I am of the opinion that bears are the scariest things on Earf.

Some of you out there may think that sharks are the scariest things in the world.

You are dumb.

Bears - super scary. Sharks - as long as I don't get near it's mouth...or water... can't hurt me. Sharks don't even have thumbs.

If anyone would like to convince me that sharks are scarier than bears - I would gladly have a blogxing match and prove that bears are by far the scariest things in the world.

Unless you are my roommate - when I asked him this question he answered, "A moose at night."

I didn't know we could specify time of day for the scariest animal conversation. And when would you not pick night? At what point are you like, "Um a tiger in the early morning."

But then I looked up the stats and moose kill more people every year than sharks and bears...combined.

Touche, Bullwinkle.

But thats not why we are here.

As mentioned below - we just got DVR and digital cable. My roommate, being a hunter, watches himself a lot of the Outdoor Channel. Seeing as we have two TV's in our living room, I am always watching my beloved Cleveland Indians lose baseball games on the other - so I am fine with whatever is on the main TV.

But yesterday when I got home from work my roommate runs up as I walk in and just says...

"Oh boy"

That is the International Man-Sign that something awesome has happened. Assuming it involves boobies, I drop all of my stuff and run in the living room.

Roommate - Guess what I have on the DVR?

Me - I bet it involves camouflage.

Roommate - Yup - and a guy hunting elephants.

Me - What do you use to hunt elephants?

Roommate - ...a gun...

Me - Is that gun called a bazooka?

So he turns on the DVR and sure enough - a group of like six people are walking through the jungle looking for Dumbo. Suddenly they see a big, pissed off elephant.

Now let me say something - I think bears are the scariest things since Gary Glitter, but a charging elephant is no joke. I assume that hunting an elephant involves a ton of people with large weapons, a jeep and some crazy scope so you can shoot the thing from Milwaukee.


Here is what hunting elephants involves -

Walking through the jungle with a gun that holds two bullets and holding a bag of rocks.

What is the bag of rocks for?

When you see the elephant, you throw the bag of rocks at his face so that he will charge you.




Who are these guys that hunt elephants and what are their testicles made out of? Steel? Titanium? That plastic stuff that scissors always comes in that is impossible to get open and always cuts your hands when you try and the irony is that you are trying to get to the scissors so that you can use them on stuff just like that?

So the elephant charges, gets about 20 yards away and then you shoot it. Elephant falls down.

Now what?

What do you do with a dead elephant? Throw it on your back? Shooting an elephant is like volunteering to help someone move.

"Hey want to walk around the jungle, throw rocks at an elephant, shoot it, then spend the next week trying to figure out how the hell to get the elephant out of the jungle?"

I'm only in if there is a bazooka.

Squid Pro Quo

The roommate and I finally bit the $5 bullet and got DVR this week. I had DVR in college and recorded everything I possibly could. Like Madonna trying to figure out which baby she wants to steal every time she leaves the country, I would have to do some crazy eenie, meanie, miney mo thing to decide which episode of Aqua Teen Hunger Force was getting the axe when that thing got full.

So with a week gone by what is recorded on my DVR?

Four shows about giant squids.

Thats it.

Four of em.

I have seen more shows about Giant Squid than I have Rocky movies. Which means even my DVR knows I'm a nerd.

It gets thrown into an apartment of two mid-twenties bachelors and is thinking, "Sweet - a life of porn and sports - I hit the jackpot!" (In this story my DVR is a guy).

But no.

Four shows about giant squids. And colossal squids. Which are like giant squids. But different.

You would know that if you DVR'd four shows about giant squids.

What if my DVR was like Tivo and recorded shows it thought you would like. Where the hell do you go from shows about giant squids?

"Let's owner is a huge fucking dweeb - I'll record math shows and 7th Heaven."

Even my DVR won't be my friend.

It could at least try to be funny and record "L.A. Ink" and "Miami Ink" and "Inked". At least then I could say my DVR was witty. ( it? I didn't say it was hilarious - but the thing is just wires and computer chips - you can't expect gold here.)

But instead it just sits there and suffers through shows about giant squids.

When I see my DVR pouting and feeling down I just remind him, it could be worse.

I could be recording Grey's Anatomy.

Monday, September 1, 2008


So when everyone kept wishing me a happy holiday weekend - I kept assuming they meant because of Labor Day. Now here it is, late Monday night and I find out that Sunday was BlogDay!

Where were you on THAT one Bad Kitties calendar? It better be in your 2009 edition or I'm going to have to look elsewhere for my Bad Kitties needs. You give me Canadian Thanksgiving but not BlogDay? That is racist. I refuse to put up with it because I am an erasist.

Anyways I received two mentions and I wanted to say a big THANK YOU to those two wonderful bloggers.

Ang* at Angilio Loud and Proud was kind enough to give me the Blogo Briliante award - and spruced up the logo's lip sweater which, if you know me, makes me giggle like a small school girl. Is there anything better than a mustache?

I think mine from last year is pretty spectacular as well:

I can't read Spanish so I assume that the award is for "Bulging Biceps" - in which case I gratefully accept and thank you for noticing. I've been working out.

Jenn over at Free and Flawed also stroked my already ginormous ego - though it took me 30 minutes to look past her ridiculously awesome layout. Damn you standard blogger template. Every time I visit her blog I realize I really need to spruce this place up. I mean I have company here and I couldn't even throw out some doilies?

* I get 5 points for spelling doilies right on my first try.