Vampires Suck

So if you haven't been paying attention, this whole Twilight thing has taken over the world like some kind of beanie baby offspring. Girls everywhere are screaming for Edward Cullen to sneak into their bedrooms at night and bite their neck.

How romantic.

But I've noticed something a bit fishy about the actor who plays Edward, Robert Pattinson. He seems to be reaching out and stealing style tips from other, more sexified people.

Mainly me.

Robert's new beard -

My beard -

Coincidence?

I think not.

Sandman

"You were in my dream last night!"

I bet I hear this at least once a week. I am some kind of weird dream whore that goes from person to person and sneaks into their dreams. Like an out-of-work actor that ends up being an extra in every movie to come out during one summer.

And I can't help but think how creepy it is.

I mean THAT many people dream about me?

I am a WEIRDO.

Seriously. It isn't their fault they dream about me - if we could control dreams I would have that one where I defeat the zombie army led by a zombie Rip Torn and save Marissa Miller from certain death. Then we do it.

But no, we don't control our dreams.

Which must mean I do JUST enough weird things to be top-of-mind for people when they go to bed.

Like they lay down and try to rehash a conversation we had and try to figure out why I spent 15 minutes talking about bears. Or read this blog and think to themselves, "Well, THAT guy is going to jail at some point in his life."

And I have no idea how to correct this. I think I am destined for a life as the Sandman. Maybe someday I will find a way to not be a huge creepball. Maybe someday I will quit sneaking into people's brains while they are sleeping and do random and anti-climatic things in their dreams.

Or maybe I'll forever be a creep.

Hey, a boy can dream, right?

Holiday Fear

(First, a shout-out to Ang, who was in Cleveland but I didn't get a chance to meet or creep-out because I am what the kids call, "A big-nosed loser who smells like farts." God I hated 3rd grade.)

Think about how confusing it has to be to be a kid.

"Alright, Billy, I don't want you to cross the street or talk to strangers - oh but a giant fat man in a red suit is going to sneak in our house overnight and decide if you've been naughty or nice."

Holy shit!

If kids were smart, they'd be freaking the fuck out. Mostly because fat people are gross - but also because their parents are perfectly fine with some guy just waltzing into their house.

And it isn't just Christmas - think about how often we tell children that random people will be breaking into their house and watching them sleep. It is like some creepy Disney version of 'Paranormal Activity'.

"Ok Mary-Lou, rip that tooth out of your mouth and put it under your pillow so that some woman can sneak into your room and steal it later!"

How do kids accept this? Someone is going to break into their room and steal parts of their body! The Tooth Fairy? More like the Bone Collector. What does she do with all of those teeth? I am assuming make weird necklaces out of them like we all do with shark teeth.

"Ok Sally - whatever you do, don't take candy from strangers! Unless that stranger is a giant rabbit that is hiding eggs around our house - then go crazy!"

Giant rabbit? Fat man with a beard? Woman that steals my teeth?

With all these scary characters running around it's no wonder the Boogie Man is so scared he's hiding under their bed.

I'm Leaking

The human body is confusing. If you think about it, we are a big bag of skin that is just slammed full of organs and bones.

And that bag of skin finds all kinds of fun ways to leak. Sweat, snot, urine, saliva, tears, poo - my body looks like a yard sprinkler. Little children put on swimsuits and run over top of me when I lay down.

But while my body spends all that time shooting fluids, why when I take a drink doesn't it just leak right out?

Think about it - in college I would drink 20 beers in a day - you would think my ears would just be spurting out Natty Light. With all that beer I should have High Life tears and be sweating pure PBR.

But my skin bag would hold all of those liquids in like it was some kind of Ziploc.

That is - until the worst possible situation.

Cute girl? Arm pits! Dispense liquid!

Long line for the bathroom? Bladder ATTACK!

Really sad episode of Saved by the Bell where Kelly breaks up with Zach at prom? Tear ducts - that's your cue!

More or less my body is playing one big practical joke on me all the time. It forces me to fill it with the very liquid it is going to end up shooting all over the place later. This is like passing out Sharpies to everyone at the party and then passing out on the couch. You might as well draw the penis on your own face.

It's so frustrating sometimes I just want to cry.

But I don't want to give my body the satisfaction of winning.

Burnt

I don't know if you were paying attention, Clevelanders, but it is winter. If you are unfamiliar with Cleveland winters, the sky is gray 98% of the time. It is like George Clooney's hair without all the sex appeal.

So, Cleveland Ladies, why are you all so tan? Why do some of you look like oompa loompas? I know playing pretend is fun, but you are in your mid-20's and it is 15 fucking degrees - maybe you shouldn't be at the tanning booth.

More than anything it is a safety concern. What if the abominable snowman comes? Where is your orange ass going to hide? I'm going to be so pale I'll just lay down in the snow and he will walk right past. He may think, "Wow that snow has a lot of chest hair" but I still think I'll be safe.

You on the other hand, look like a giant orange Skittle. I can't blame the guy for eating you - hell - I want to eat you. Taste the rainbow. Your best bet is that he hopes you are a carrot; because carrots suck and the abominable snowman does not waste his time on suck.

Or you could just realize you live in the midwest during the winter and not bake your skin. Unless it is just to even yourself out - no one wants to see your snowsuit tanlines.

Go Eat Crow

First things first, yes, there is a door to go outside from my bathroom. There was an addition built on my kitchen and blah blah blah GOD homeowners are boring, aren't they? Who cares about your leaky roof or what you found under your carpet. Unless it is a sandwich, then give it to me. Now.

Moral of the story - I have a deck off of my upstairs bathroom. The door looks like this -


Which is a pretty nice view when conducting "The Business" in the mornings. It is quite peaceful. I can watch the trees sway in the wind and watch as the sun pokes its sleepy head over the horizon.

But then, the birds come.

A little bunch of crows, every morning, comes to roost in the neighbors tree.

And they watch me. I know they do. They watch me and they judge me and they probably go tell their little bird friends.

Sure, they can crap on whoever they want - but as soon as I eat Chipotle I have to explain myself to those beady little black eyes.

I have been thinking about installing a BB gun mount to the window so I can take aim while doing my business. That will teach those son of a bitch peeping Toms to get their kicks somewhere else.

Because I don't take shit when I'm taking a shit.

Sore Loser

My company had our annual flag football game last Friday - also known as my "Annual One Day of Working Out Per Year".

For those of you that don't keep up with current events, Friday was four days ago.

My legs still feel like someone injected them with Super Glue.

My back feels like an old-timey car - like someone put a little lever in there and then just cranked it for a half hour until my muscles looked like spaghetti being wrapped around a fork.

Last night I couldn't get out of the couch to get the remote so I watched "What Not To Wear" for an hour. If I could have gotten the remote I wouldn't have changed the channel, I would have turned that shit UP. Give it to me straight, Clinton!

The moral of the story is that you could have a member of the Swedish Bikini Team with a beard fetish carrying a keg of beer and a copy of "Groundhog Day" asking me to come to her house to play - and you still couldn't entice me to get off of the couch and be active.

Besides, What Not To Wear is on.

Name Game

I miss the days when storms were called things like "El Nino".

What a badass name. I bet "El Nino" got ALL KINDS of ladies.

But lately all the storms just have people names - and that is super awkward.

"Bill Kills Young Girl"

Well, Bill sounds like a prick.

"Andrew spreads across the Florida coast"

Um - it's called Spring Break and I don't think CNN needs to report about it. That is what MTV is for.

We don't name other things. If I get a really nasty cold I'm not like, "OH MAN! Roger is kicking my ASS this year."

I don't wake up from a night of drinking and refer to my hangover as "Pedro".

If I eat some bad Chinese food I don't say I've got a case of the "Berts".

Although what goes on in my bathroom does bear a striking resemblance to El Nino.

Tackled

I love football.

Like, in a creepy way.

Like I draw little hearts around football's name on my book covers and have a poster of football on my ceiling so I can stare at it while I sleep.

But football has one major difference than life: in life, no matter what happened beforehand, if another man runs at you and forcefully throws you to the ground - it is not time to celebrate.

In football, if a receiver catches a first down, or a running back gains ten yards - they always show off. No matter what. Even though they are literally paid to do that exact same thing, they show off. Like if I made a bunch of awesome copies and then started flexing like the Hulk and got in the receptionist's face to tell her who's her daddy.

But even while they celebrate good times, they still just got tackled.

That means that someone else saw them running and dodging people and decided he wanted to pick them up and throw them straight to the ground. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Just get serial crushed.

That counts as a win? Because junior high went a LOT better than I remember if that is true.

In real life, if another man knocks you to the ground like so many Jenga pieces - it is over. Your pride is done-zo. You might as well grab your pocket protector and go home.

But in football, after a tackle - you get in his face and tell him you are better than him.

I guess this attitude only exists in football and can't be translated into real life.

Or at least that's what the receptionist said when she tackled me into the copy machine and asked me "Who's your daddy!"

Drunk Driving

Impressively Drunk Browns Fan - "Yeah man, his wife is going to come pick him up. I'll tell ya what, back in my day you could get as drunk as you wanted at the game and then drive yourself home. These days, there's so many cops around it's too damn dangerous to drive drunk."

I hear ya buddy - with all those cops out there it's a wonder someone doesn't get killed!

Santa's Identity Crisis

My hatred for Christmas has been discussed.

But let's take a deeper dive at the Czar of Christmas Spirit - ol Santa Claus.

Or should I say - Chris Kringle?

Or perhaps, Jolly ol St. Nick?

I'm on to you, fatty.

Know who else needs an alias? Criminals. And strippers.

And I hope to god Santa isn't a stripper. Mostly because I am out of $1 bills and the ATM charges like $10 to take money out. Daddy needs a lap dance!

So that leaves a criminal. Who would have thought that a giant fat man that climbs into your chimney when you are sleeping and lets little kids sit on his lap would be a criminal??? I know, right?

The only other explanation is that he is a super hero, and Chris Kringle is to Santa Claus as Peter Parker is to Spiderman. Or Clark Kent is to Superman.

Or maybe he is just some old guy with no real super powers whatsoever.

In which case Chris Kringle would be to Santa Claus as Bruce Wayne is to Batman.

I still wouldn't sit on either of their laps.

I'm Dreaming of a Snow White Christmas

A conversation at Disney World this weekend -

Snow White - "Well hello! What is your name?"

Me - "Narm. I see you aren't wearing a ring. I'm sorry things with you and Prince Charming didn't work out. You seemed like a really cute couple."

Girl behind me - "You're as asshole!"

Apparently I don't understand the magic of Disney.

But Snow White, if you're reading this -

Call me.

Disney World

Narm - you just got done writing an entire blog - what are you going to do now!

"I'm going to Disney Land! ...or Disney World. Wait, which one is in Florida and which one is in California? California is the one to my left, right? And Florida is below me - like China. "

Anyways, I'm not here. I'm in the land of Disney, chasing around a 5 yr old and a 2yr old as they direct me around.

But most of all, I'm trying to pry the Lady Friend away from Cinderella's Castle. They may have to call in the 7 dwarves for back up.

"Put down the tiara and nobody gets hurt."

I'll be back on Monday.

My dignity is staying there.

Snow Excuse

I can't wait for the snow. I hope we get 48 inches in January. I hope it never stops snowing from January through March. Know what would be even better?

Freezing rain. Non-stop. In fact, I hope my front door freezes shut.

While everyone else in Cleveland is saying, "Whoa is me! It is so cold and snowy! Whatever shall I do!"

I know what I'll be doing.

Nothing.

I'll be on the couch, under a nice warm blanket watching a marathon of something on the History Channel that I have no intention of remembering or putting to any use.

And you will have no good reason for me to do otherwise.

You can't tell me it's a beautiful day.

You can't tell me I should be working on the yard.

It will even be too cold to sit in Marissa Miller's bushes and watch her read the newest issue of Better Homes and Gardens.

Snow is the "I have a headache" season. It is the perfect excuse. It is "my dog ate it" and "my back is out" rolled into one. It is like "I have to work" with a side of "I have to watch the kids".

Snow is Mother Nature's way of ignoring your phone calls.

I can't wait for the snow and all of the nothingness that it brings. If it snows on Christmas, I don't care if I am on Santa's Naughty list. If I get nothing, I will get everything I need.

And if you want me to come out and have a snow ball fight?

Sorry, I have a headache.

And my back is out.

And I have to work while I watch the kids.

...and my dog ate it.

Movember Mo' Problems

Movember has come to a close, and with it, the joy brought to the word from all of those beards and mustaches. I have decided to keep mine a bit longer - partially because I enjoy being a walking advertisement for the sex and partially because Cleveland is really fucking cold.

It is always a sad day when Movember ends, but on a positive note, now it will be a lot easier to tell apart the Movember participants and the people who are just pedophiles.

Beard Born On Date - Nov. 4th.


* Yes, that is my bathroom and yes, it is painted bright purple.

** I have owned that shirt since the year 2000, when I bought it at a thrift store for $0.75 and then had my senior pictures taken in it. I assume its actual age is somewhere around a billion.

*** My eyebrows look like fuzzy caterpillars.

Victoria's Secret

When I was growing up, the two dirtiest words in the English language were "Victoria's Secret".

If a girl walked in there, it meant she was coming out with something painfully sexy. Like see a doctor if this lasts more than 9 hours sexy. It would have lace and frills and straps. It would be better than football - like if football games tasted like bacon.

But now? Half the shit that comes out of that store is less scandalous than a Tyler Perry movie.

I wrote before about how music has become watered down - but now even our porn has been infiltrated by granny panties and support bras.

I was looking through a Victoria's Secret catalog the other day (for research) and saw the word comfort.

COMFORT!

Now they are worried about lingerie being comfortable?

Well smack my ass and call me Susan. And not in the good way.

Do you think this beard is comfortable? Hell no! But I know it makes the little phillies feel all tingly in their girly bits.

No, I suffer everyday with my face lingerie and now Victoria's Secret is worried about comfort.

I'll tell you what's not comfortable.

Having this thing for 9 hours.

Maybe I should see a doctor.

A Case For Thanksgiving

Santa is a bully.

First he makes lists of who is "naughty" and "nice" and then gives coal to those that are "naughty".

Isn't breaking into someones home and spreading coal around a crime? How can that be ok? I mean if he is leaving gifts it is easy to look the other way - but when he is doing the equivalent of taking a dump in your stocking - I think the authorities should be involved.

But looking past all of that (and some obvious labor issues with those elves and animal cruelty with the reindeer) - dude can't even just take his full month of celebration and songs and guys dressed up like him at the mall.

Nope.

Santa has to crawfish all of Thanksgiving's thunder.

And without the thunder, what does Thanksgiving really have?

So lets take a look at Thanksgiving, and what makes it the greatest holiday on earf.

Food. Duh. Thanksgiving is all about food. And awesome food at that. Turkey, mashed potatoes, pie - that spread is like porn to me. I want to rub the mashed potatoes all over myself and shower it off with gravy.

Alcohol. What is Thanksgiving without beer? You have to wash all that food down with something. Not to mention you have to get drunk enough to get out of washing dishes. It is like a race - who can get a full 6er down before it is time for dishes. (Hint - I' m going to win.)

Football. Sorry about that - I didn't mean to MAKE YOUR FUCKING HEAD EXPLODE. Food, beer AND football? If dessert is a stripper I'll be concerned that I actually died at some point and have now gone to heaven.

Yelling. A by-product of football and beer. As well as relatives. On Thanksgiving, yelling at the TV is an older traditional than pumpkin pie. The Native Americans actually taught us about this right before they showed us corn.

Napping. All that yelling, food and beer catches up with you quick. Then it is time to nap. This is also a defense mechanism against doing the dishes. Here is a hint - grab the cutest kid under the age of 5 and make them fall asleep on you. Little kids are like home base in freeze tag - if you have a sleeping kid on you no one will bother you to get up. Finally, a use for children.

What now, Santa? Take your jingle bells and your ho-ho-hos and get in line.

Otherwise you might find coal in your stocking this year.

Suit Up

I've figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

When I was younger, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a dinosaur. Well, we can all see how that worked out.

But now, NOW I know what I want to be.

I want to be one of those old guys that wears suits everywhere he goes.

You know what I'm talking about - those little old guys with gray hair that seem to be shrinking right in front of your eyes. Like if you turn around their clothes are suddenly going to be way too big and the shoes three sizes bigger than their feet. It is like they are being baby-anized. Or part of some new horrible movie - Honey, I Shrunk Your Grandpa.

How many suits do these old guys own that they can wear them to the grocery store or the dentist? Do they collect them over the years? Why don't old ladies wear bridesmaid dresses everywhere?

It just doesn't make sense.

But it is my destiny. I want to get up in the morning, spend 30 minutes getting my entire suit put on, walk out to get the paper and then come back home and have to change.

I want to be the Barney Stinson of old guys.

So now that I know what I want to be - I just have to figure out how to be it.

But how do I realize my dreams? How to I become this new person?

I researched online and the only advice I could find was this -

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

That doesn't seem like it would work at all.

Online, Out of Tune

The internet killed music.

Hear me out.

What we have now with the internet is the ability to find any song by any artist at any time. I don't have to go to record stores, or meet kids at shows, or get mixtapes from random people to find good music. I just log on and surf the internet for 10 minutes and BAM - I'm cool. Or cooler. Wait, what's cooler than being cool? Ice cold?

No, in today's world - the indie kids are connected - the hip-hop purists hear every demo tape. I can be into the alt-country scene in Austin without ever leaving my living room. Hell - I can tell you every B-side to some Norwegian metal bands entire catalogue without them ever leaving their country.

I can log onto Youtube and see some emo kid in his room covering Dashboard Confessional songs and crying over his girlfriend.

Play him off, keyboard cat.

And what do we get for all of this?

The Black Eyed Peas.

Kenny Chesney.

NICKELBACK.

You see - there is no one left to demand good music. We are all off listening to our XM Radio and our iPods filled with indie-rock dance songs. All that is left is the vanilla. The lowest common denominator. Fall-Out Boy.

The trend setters have gotten what they wanted - they've gotten a constant stream of the good stuff. They have an IV filled with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

But what has that left? A barren desert of auto-tune and ring-tones. Radio stations now just have to play a song, any song (I'm looking at you "Party in the USA") enough times - and people will like it. They will like it because they think they are supposed to like it. They flip on every station and that song is there, it becomes familiar, regular, it becomes engraved in "their" collective heads until we have something like "All Summer Long".

But I don't blame the masses.

No, I blame the internet.

But I can't stay mad at the internet; not after it has given me so much free porn.

No, I have to blame the man who INVENTED the internet.

That's right.

Al Gore ruined music.

Eat Your Heart Out

Me: My Dad ate beef hearts for dinner last night.

Coworker: heh heh

Me: You think I said "bee farts" don't you?

Coworker: Maybe.

Me: I can't imagine bee farts would be very filling. In fact, most would argue the trouble of getting a bee to fart in the general proximity to your face isn't worth the trouble.

Coworker: Not to mention the science involved with trying to cross pollinate a petunia with kidney beans.

Me: But they sure are delicious.

Stereotypos

Stereotyping is fun.

Admit it.

When you go to a wedding, you know before walking in the door that the DJ is going to have a goatee. It's science. I saw an entire episode of Bill Nye about it.

Or when you see a girl driving a Chevy Cavalier - there is a 100% chance she smokes. It is actually part of the lease agreement.

Without stereotyping, how would sitcoms survive? How would I know who the mysterious rebel was if they weren't wearing a leather jacket? Or who the nerd was if they didn't have suspenders and glasses? Or who the dreamy guy was if there wasn't a chorus of "oooooooooh!" every time he came on stage.

But what stereotypes do people have for me? I want to know what people's snap reaction is to me when I walk into a room. After the swooning, that is.

Do they look at my beard and assume I can cut down trees with the single swing of my giant axe? Or assume I have a blue ox?

Do they look at my giant nose and assume I'm actually a small wooden doll that was brought to life by an old toy maker?

Do they hear my deep, gravelly voice and assume I'm Batman?

Well, the stereotype had to start somewhere.

Raise the Roof

Home ownership is an entirely new animal. Sure it hurts your wallet and your social life - but perhaps nothing takes a hit quite like your pride.

Case in point -

I climbed up on top of my garage to clear a bunch of old sticks, leaves and other debris before the always fun Cleveland winter. All is well, I scrape everything off and do acrobatic sex moves to maneuver around the power lines. All in all, I looked like a badass.

But then it was time to get down.

You see, I hadn't secured the ladder on level ground - so every time I went to take a step, the ladder would slide out from under me.

In other words, I was stuck on the roof.

Of course, this would not have been such a big deal if it had not been the last nice weekend of the fall - so every single one of my neighbors was also outside doing yardwork.

I know the polite "Hey nice to see you but I don't want to talk to you" neighbor wave.

As well as the "I would talk to you but I am in the middle of this job and can't stop" wave.

What I haven't learned is the "Oh my god I have a terminal case of Embarrassment and I will now commence a three month period in which I don't leave my house for fear of having to explain to you why I am sitting on the roof of my garage screaming for my roommate to come hold the ladder so I can get down" wave.

Practice makes perfect.

The 90's

I am 26 sexy years old.

For those of you bad at math, that means I was born in 1983. So I turned ten around the time Kurt Cobain was taking a shotgun to the last decent mainstream band of the last 20 years. I was only 15 when Seinfeld went off the air. I was 14 when Titanic came out. And I saw a Kate Winslet boob, and it was awesome.

But then came my formidable years. The teens. The 16-20 age that I should be able to tell my kids, "Back in MY day!"

But those years were swallowed by the black hole that was 1998-2004.

What am I going to tell my kids about? Korn? Ally McBeal? Is my quintessential comedy going to be...American Pie?

My era sucked. Where is my U2? Where is my "Animal House"? Where is my rebellion or my moment?

We children of the 80's have nothing to hang out hat on.

There wasn't a rock band that took over the airwaves and changed the way music would sound forever. There was no Beatles vs Rolling Stones or Pearl Jam vs Nirvana. There was Backstreet Boys vs N'Sync.

We didn't laugh along with the Huxtables - we watched Home Improvement.

We didn't stand together as a generation and fight for our voices to be heard. We didn't rebel, we didn't believe in something so strongly that we wouldn't take no for an answer. We were too busy using our 1,000 free hours of AOL in chat rooms and looking up porn.

We are an entire generation defined by the "Thong Song".

We could have at least failed at something. At least left an impression. Even disco had an impact. You could erase the years between my driver's license and my first (legal) beer - and the world would keep on moving.

People say my generation didn't have to live through any major distractions. There was no bad guy. No excuses not to be great. I disagree.

We had to stave off boredom. We didn't have a cold war - we had white noise.

And now we are in control. We are the ones making the decisions, saving the world from evil. We now have the power to make this world a better place. We can make a difference...

...right after this rerun of Friends.

TMI Thursday - The Crab Walk

Like a big cup of coffee first thing in the morning, TMI THURSDAY is here to help push out the unmentionables.



Thanks to Lilu for creating such a warm, happy feature for blogland - where we post just a liiiitttlle bit Too Much Information...on a Thursday.

The other day I ran out of toilet paper. I scanned the room and did a crab walk* for the first thing I could find - a newspaper. Now, much like when you press Silly Puddy onto a newspaper, I like to think that I walked around the rest of the day with that days stock information imprinted into my ass. Or maybe a Peanuts cartoon. Oh Lucy, when are you going to let Charlie kick that football!

* Hilariously misspelled as "crap walk" the first time I typed it.

What is the weirdest thing you've ever had to use after running out of toilet paper?

Everyday Enemies - I'm Cold

Today brings installment of Everyday Enemies - a semi-regular feature here on WCR that allows me to scream at people on the internet. My therapist says this is much healthier than making stabbing motions at them when they turn their back.

For those of you new to Everyday Enemies, it focuses on the people and situations that interfere with my ability to make it through everyday. The people that make me question whether this rat race is worth the cheese at the end. The people who ask, "Hot enough for ya?"

Today's Everyday Enemy - The Obvious Complainer

I recently did a study that analyzed the affect of complaining to changing a situation. What I came back with was quite interesting. After extensive tests and research it turns out that COMPLAINING DOESN'T HELP EVER.

I'll pause while women everywhere pick their jaws up off the floor.

There are lots of situations that I deal with regularly that maybe I don't enjoy - being out in the cold, waiting in long lines, talking to you - yet, I realize that if I complain the entire time, it won't get better.

Know what does help shitty situations? Zoning the fuck out.

When I am stuck out in the cold in a long line talking to you, I just zone out. So when I am looking off into space, fantasizing about Taylor Swift pulling me on stage to sing 'Love Song' and then a spaceship from her home planet comes and beams us up and the Jonas Brothers are steering the ship, then one of them looks at me and just before he can tell me the secret to life I hear your voice say, "I'M SO COLD!" - I'm going to give you the Murder Eyes.

I don't want you to think I am against complaining - I mean, I am a blogger for christ's sake - complaining is like the air I breathe. That being said, complaining in already horrible situations is like Hell playing a loop of Nickelback - I'm already on fire, don't rub it in, Satan.

Because I am not afraid to make stabbing motions at him when he turns his back.

Whale Wars

I'm sorry everyone, but I am too excited to blog today. You see, at home I have a gift. Not just any gift, but possibly the greatest gift of all time.

It is sitting, gift wrapped in my little Tivo box just waiting for me to unwrap and enjoy.

What is it?

THE WHALE THAT EXPLODED

That's right. It is a show about a whale - that exploded.

Where did it explode? In the middle of a street. And the city it exploded in? Tainan, Taiwan. What a hilarious city name! Of course a whale exploded there - it exploded from giggles at saying Tainan, Taiwan.

So, as much as I would love to tell you some fabulous story; I'm afraid nothing will match the story of the exploding whale.

Or saying Tainan, Taiwan.

Vanity Unfair

I'm not one for vanity plates.

I mean, I enjoy that they let me know if people are weirdos before I ever meet them (like wearing a Wanda Sykes t-shirt), but I have yet to read one that told me something I needed to know.

"Ballin"

Really? Is it gangsta to wait in line 45 minutes at the BMV to change your license plate?

"Was His"

Congrats! You got the car in your divorce! And to celebrate, you got a license plate that will scare off any new potential man more than the words "I'm late".

But yesterday I saw one that confused me to the point I wanted to just pull over and cry.

"NTY MNKY"

What?!?!

What does that stand for?

Nifty Monkey?

Naughty Monkey?

Nasty Monkey?

And behind the wheel? I middle aged bald man.

What could this possibly stand for? It HAS to be some form of monkey, right? And the NTY can pretty much only mean something disgusting. So how did this middle-aged bald man become not only a monkey, but some form of perverted monkey - and why does he now feel the need to broadcast this?

But most importantly, why would he wait in line 45 minutes at the BMV to have this changed?

That's not what a "Nasty Monkey" would do.

Trust me, I would know.

A Love Letter To My Beard

Dear Beard,

I want to begin this letter by saying I can't remember the last time I felt so close to someone. At times it felt like we were part of the same person. Our first meeting was a bit awkward, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit skeptical that we could become something special. But you grew on me.

We shared laughs - oh, how we shared laughs. The long nights that are all a bit fuzzy now - but your razor sharp wit will always make me smile. As we grew more comfortable with each other I felt as though you could see it all over my face - I was in love.

But, as often happens, as time went on we had our problems. You stopped grooming yourself for the future and became a little thicker. I became irritated and had my own bout of rash behavior.

And last night I finally cut off what little connection we still had.

I want you to know that this isn't forever. We will see each other again; perhaps as the weather changes and I lose the need to be free I will retreat back to the warmth of your embrace.

But for now, I'm left to look at the pieces of us strewn around - circling the drain.

Here's to a clean start.

Love Always,
Face

Coff-Fee

I'm in love.

I stopped for coffee and a muffin at this little mom'n'pop shop this morning to cure my fat kid hunger. They didn't take card; I didn't have cash - so the guy behind the counter just said -

"Just pay us next time."

He gave it to me for free. He saw my brain begin eating itself for lack of caffeine and an overdose of Morning and sent me on my way.

It took me back to growing up in a small town - where a few bucks here and there were always forgotten. Where a handshake or your word were as good as a check. Where a pat on the back and a cup of coffee were a fair price for making a stranger's morning that much easier.

And it felt good to find a place that hit home.

I left that coffee shop with a warm heart and took a sip of the coffee.

It tasted like crap.

Ahhhhhh just like home.

Maybe Starbucks isn't SO bad.

Halloween and the Fall of Society

I realize that for every slutty Halloween costume there is someone complaining about slutty Halloween costumes, so I'm not hear to bore you.

Well, not intentionally.

But if girls are going to get all slut-tastic on Halloween AT LEAST be creative with it.

When shopping for Halloween costumes this weekend, I came across the "School Girl Witch".

Does this mean the Halloween industry has completely run out of ways to get girls in short skirts and stockings? We are to the point where we have to COMBINE slutty costumes?

What's next - French Maid Angel?

Devil Nurse?

Bumble Bee Barbie?

Stripper Playmate?

Wait - ok that last one would be just fine.

All I am saying is GET CREATIVE. It is Halloween - do something bold - let's see if you can make Shrek sexy. Let's see a mummy costume that makes me want to trick your treat.

In fact, here is a challenge - if you want to be Queen of Halloween - the girl that can make any costume sexy - lets see you sexify a ghost costume. Let's see you put a sheet over your head and still make me want to go all Casper on your ass.

Then, and only then, will I be impressed.

But really - I've just been dying to use the "want to roll around under the sheets" pick-up line for years now.

Cleveland's A Plum

Top 5 reasons why Alexa from Cleveland's a Plum rules Cleveland:

5. She is a trendsetter: in Cleveland, black is the new black

4. When she yells "HELLO, CLEVELAND!" - it answers.

3. Her blog is the city's only exported good.

2. By winning Cleveland Magazines "Best Blog" she has won more than Lebron James.

1. Her only competition is Drew Carey.

I will rule this town one day - or I will host the Price is Right. Whichever comes first. Watch your back, Alexa.

Oh, Canada

America - we have a problem.

Not only are Canadians smart, polite and cultured -

They're cool.

I know - I know. We thought we could get away with being simple-minded, unintelligent fatsos because Guns N' Roses was born here.

So did I.

But after this past weekend's trip to Montreal - they are all cool. Every single one of them. Even Canadian Nerds could be Mayor of Cleveland in like a week due to sheer coolness.

Walking down the street is like walking through an episode of any show on the CW - just pretty people dressed in crazy clothing everywhere.

And they're smart.

They speak somewhere between 14-72 languages. I am pretty sure they just make up languages when they get bored and then speak those. I barely speak English. The next closest thing I speak is Ebonics - but I only took two semesters of it and used freetranslations.com for all the tests.

All I'm saying is that as long as Bill Murray is alive, we will still be the coolest country in the world. But when he's gone - watch out.

Next thing you know we'll be the U.S.Eh?

Moody Blues

Man was I in a bad mood last week.

Like horrible bad.

Like El Nino was going to ask to borrow my stapler, saw the look on my face and went and destroyed South America instead.

I was in a bad mood -

And it was...AWESOME.

Bad moods might be one of my favorite things ever. Just hating everything. Cursing people for no apparent reason. Over-the-top uses of sarcasm. It all rules.

I actually prefer to be annoyed when I am in a bad mood just so I can say Fuck that guy!

Did he breathe too heavy in a room adjacent to mine? Fuck that guy!

Did that girl just roll her eyes at me? Fuck that guy!

Is that wall not looking at me right? Fuck that guy!

But while I'm cursing people, I need a soundtrack.

I know most people go for death-metal; but I think that is too obvious. Sometimes I have a little Appetite for Destruction - but even that doesn't do the trick.

So what do I listen to?

Marvin Gaye.

I get in my truck, hit the road and blare "Let's Get It On".

Then I sing, oh do I sing. And dance - with moves you've never even seen before.

Because I'm in a bad mood - so I don't care that I sign like Britney and dance like...well...Britney.

I know what you are thinking - what if Britney reads this and get upset?

Well...Fuck that guy!

America's Hat

The Lady Friend and I randomly decided on Tuesday that we were flying to Montreal on Saturday. I wouldn't even really call it a vacation - vacations are planned for. This is like a field trip. We are the equivalent of a 6th grade class learning the ins and outs of a far away and foreign culture.

I've been to Windsor (the strip club capital of the US) and Toronto recently, but this will be my first trip back to Montreal since I was but a wee lad.

I wonder what these strange and exotic people will be like. Will they have funny accents and strange clothes? Will they have ever seen 'the White Man' before? Will their women walk around sans clothes, unaware of Western Civilization's shame in nudity?

Or will it just be a lot of denim and maple syrup?

Either way I am excited, lets just hope they didn't find a way to screw up bacon.

Bon Voyage (see, I'm already learning their language)

Side Note - I need your best Canada jokes to fend off all the politeness and hospitality. These colors don't run!

Leave A Message

Girls - here is a free lesson:

Guys hate phones.

We hate phones like girls hate following movie plots.

We hate phones more than girls hate punctuality.

We hate phones more than girls hate passing up a rest stop without testing its bathroom facilities.

If you have something important to talk about, I would rather you send me an actual letter - in the mail - than call me about it. Maybe even just use smoke signals - or see if you can do it telepathically.

Every time a girl flavored friend calls they ask some form of the question, "So, what's new?" Oh, great, just what I needed - a pop quiz.

I have to pull some crazy Sherlock Holmes shenanigans to remember what I had for lunch yesterday, now you want me to entertain you with tales of my everyday?

If that is the case, then girls need to start being more entertained with my stories - I don't want to talk about my job or my house - lets talk about that time last month when I saw a bird fly into a window! It twitched for like 5 minutes!

So, to combat having to give my verbal memoirs every time a girl calls, I've started lying.

What did I do yesterday? I fought through the restraints of a group of firefighters and ran into the fire at the old tire plant to save a box of kittens. Sure it was scary, but you should have seen the looks on the faces of those kids from the children's hospital that just happened to be there for a field trip.

How is my job? Sometimes the stress gets to be too much, with so much riding on my every decision. I know most men would crumble under such life-and-death circumstances but if not me, then who? THEN WHO!

What's new? Scientists have discovered that talking on the phone kills dolphins. Yeah, I know, crazy. We better hang up right now. Save the animals!

Click.

Running Down a Dream

Running a marathon isn't that impressive to me.

Why?

Because my body can't even fathom what running 26.2 miles would be like. It is an unrealistic number. It is like when the gov't talks about money in billions. I have no idea what a billion is - I assume there are a gazillion zeros because gazillions are actually more realistic to me.

Telling me you ran 26.2 miles is like telling me you rode a dinosaur to work. I'm just going to ask if there was a lot of traffic because you are obviously making things up.

My body can run MAYBE one mile before exploding. If you put the finish line 1.1 mile away, I would be so close, you would see me coming and I'd have my arms raised in a triumphant V and then BAM. Gone. A puff of smoke and a pair of shoes would be all that was left.

Plus, no one ever wins marathons. I'm a winner, damnit. I'm not going to run in something and know I am going to finish in the back. I might as well sign up to be on that team that plays against the Harlem Globetrotters - or hell, even tryout for the Knicks. People say it is just one of their goals to finish a marathon. Your goal is to lose? I won't even play my 5 yr old nephew in Checkers because I don't want to lose.

So this past weekend the Lady Friend ran a half marathon. What did I do? I ordered and finished two full entrees at brunch.

We both accomplished our goals.

But mine had bacon.

I'd say I'm the winner.

Zombiefest 2009

So, as you know (because I brought it up 300 times between here and Twitter), I attended the Zombiefest in Pittsburgh over this past weekend. And since I know you were just DYING for pictures (if you think the zombie puns are going to stop there you got another thing coming), I thought i would share some pictures that will warm your still beating heart.

Myself, in full zombie gear, holding my iPhone. Have you come down with a virus that seizes control of the brain and makes you thirst for human flesh? There's an app for that.


My buddy BloggingJason, unliving proof that I have friends -


Most everyone who knows I attended said the same thing, "God you are a freak." Well, your face smells - so shut up!

Zombie lovers aren't all weirdos - they come from all shuffling gates of life -

Young Zombies



Thirsty Zombies

Frisky Zombies

AberZombie and Fitch

Self-Righteous Zombies

Sports Fan Zombies

Republican Zombies (That's a Rush Limbaugh Zombie with a bottle of Oxycontin)

Even Bad Bathroom Etiquette Zombies.

God I hope he washed his hands - I wouldn't want to come down with anything.

Ben's Vlog on Sharks vs Bears

Ben over at No Ordinary Rollercoaster offered to answer ANY question, on camera, and provide for my reader's entertainment. Of course, I have never entertained my readers before, so I am not sure why I would try to start now, but what the hell.



Based on his answer I may have a video rebuttal for next week - but mine will be much less thought out, without props and if you think my hair is going to look that good you got another thing coming.

Would Ya Wednesday on Tuesday - Mass Debate Edition

Ok. I need your help.

You've seen my roommate and I argue over women before, mainly Queen Latifah, but we argue over most any girl on TV. Or the internet. Or that girl that might be missing a chromosome that works at Target. I so would.

But for all of these "Would Ya?" arguments, no one has divided our personal moral standards like...

Serena Williams

With her inclusion on the cover of ESPN The Magazine's "Body Issue", the argument has come to a head.

Which is where you come in (thats what she said). Here is the cover of the magazine; no fancy jokes, no innuendos, I just want to know if you would get jiggy with it.

Nana na na nana na na.



The ball's in your court (Ok, I couldn't resist ONE lame joke).

(Side note - tomorrow will be the unveiling of Ben from No Ordinary Rollercoaster's video entry for a question I submitted to him last week. I'll warn you...it's epic. He totally Michael Jackson'd the Farrah Fawcett that is my blog on this one. Stay tuned.)

Folk You

Everyday Enemies - The Road To Nowhere

Quick note - I'll be in Pittsburgh partaking in the Zombiewalk this Sunday at the Monroeville Mall. Any of you wonderful Pittsblurgers that are in the area should come out in join in. It's for charity - and for awesome.

Today marks the second installment of Everyday Enemies. It is more or less replacing "Would Ya Wednesday" - instead of focusing on if you would screw someone, we look at people who are screwing my will to live. Think of it as my stress release - some people have yoga, I scream on the internet.

For those of you knew to Everyday Enemies, it focuses on the people and situations that interfere with my ability to make it through everyday. The people that make me question whether this rat race is worth the cheese at the end. The people who ask, "Hot enough for ya?"

Today's Everyday Enemy - Anticlimactic Storyteller

When I tell a story I have a goal - I want you to crap your pants. I want to grab your attention, and I want to tickle it. I want to caress your attention and hold it and sing little lullabies to it. Just went you think you are in a safe place I want to drop the anvil from the window that is the punchline. I want laughing. I want crying. I want defecation.

So when you are telling ME a story - all I am asking is to make my eyebrows move a little. Maybe they nuzzle together in puzzlement. Maybe they raise in shock. Maybe they furrow in anger. No matter what you make them do - make them work. They are thick, luscious and get this little wrinkle between them that just drives the ladies crazy.

I don't have time for stories that don't go anywhere. You went to the mall looking for shoes but you couldn't find the ones you wanted so you asked someone and sure enough they were right there the entire time?

BOOM! Shotgun to my own face. Only reasonable response to your horrible story. I would rather chew on tin foil and bath in hot dog water than listen to a story that goes no where.

How Anticlimactic Storytellers have survived this long baffles me. The only acceptable reason is that their stories are SO boring, normal people would rather off themselves than chance having to hear another horrible story. Reverse Darwinism. The strong have met their match - and their match is slide show of Hawaiian vacation pictures.

You know what? Lie to me next time. Tell me you rode a dinosaur to France and beat Elvis in Scrabble. Awesome, dude. At least your story went somewhere. Only Anticlimactic Storytellers would probably even fuck that up and spend 15 minutes laying out why they couldn't use the triple word score.

And maybe it is a little mean for me to daydream about the them falling off a cliff as they recap their trip to Sam's Club -

But damn, can you imagine what a great story that would be?

Prettiest Belle at the Ball

Me: My parents thought I was going to be a girl when I was born - they even had a name picked out.

Friend: I bet you'd be a hot girl. I would have dated you.

Me: Thanks?

Mug Shot

This is my coffee mug -


Cute, eh? It took me 6 months and a lot of stained teeth to get her just right.

That's right, I haven't washed that mug, ever, in my 6 months of being its father.

Inside is 6 months worth of late nights, early mornings and rush projects. Inside that cup is any chance of me saying "Good morning!" as I pass a coworker in the hall.

Inside that cup are the hopes and dreams of a 26 year old who just wants to make it home in time to watch reruns of Seinfeld.

Those coffee stained rings represent mornings that have come and gone - like tiny, disgusting trophies for surviving timesheets and spreadsheets and empty bedsheets.

Unsanitary? Unprofessional? How about Undeniable - nothing will stop me from my morning cup of coffee - not dried coffee rings, not grounds stuck to the bottom for the last 3 weeks, not...

...wait, is that a hair? Oh that is fucking gross, man. I gotta wash this thing.

In The Back of Your Mind

Ok. I admit it. Every now and then a Taylor Swift or Jason Aldean song makes it into my workday. I can't help it, you can take the boy out of the country but you can't take the country out of the boy. It's like herpes.

Well last week I made the mistake of listening to this Kellie Pickler song -

Kellie Pickler - Best Days Of Your Life (Official Music Video) - A funny movie is a click away

AND NOW IT WON'T GET OUT OF MY HEAD.

I've tried listening to equally annoying but catchy songs - "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and "Take My Breath Away". I'm about 5 seconds from downloading "It's A Small World" and just ending it all.

At this point I would rather dump Draino down my earballs than have to hear this song in my head. I have contemplated playing Russian Roulette with a drill bit to the forehead.

IT. WON'T. GO. AWAY.

What do I do? I tried to have an indie-rock intervention with myself but it went no where. All the skinny jeans in the world couldn't help me now.

I turn to you, dear Readers. Help cure me of this affliction. What is a fool proof song that will be like a pry bar to this damn Kellie Pickler song?

If you could help me out it would be the "best day....the best day of my liiiiiiife..."

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Pittsburgh - I'm Coming For Your Brains

We are on Rocktober's Eve, Reader. The most magical time of the year! In Rocktobers past, I have filled my schedule with cheap indie rock shows, my stomach with cheap PBR tall-boys and my wallet with...nothing because the first two things cleaned me out (my wallet and my lower intestine - damn PBR).

But this year is different, instead of waking up post-concert with a slow gate and an awkward moan - I've decided to spend my night doing the same.

I am participating in Pittsburgh's ZOMBIE FEST on Sunday, October 11th.


They are trying to take back the World Record for Zombie Walkers - and damnit if it didn't reanimate my heart to help.

But with any good zombie costume comes ONE question -

The wound.

Sure - anyone can do a themed zombie - but the REAL question is how did you die (the first time)?

So many options! Pitchfork through my stomach, hatchet through my head, gun shot, stab wound, bad Tuna at that cheap sushi place, car wreck, killer bees, chocolate - the options are endless.

So my question, dear Readers - how did I die?

I've got the shuffle. I've got the moan. I even have a slight craving for brains wrapped in bacon (or braincon as I like to call it).

Give me your most creative and hilarious idea and I'll try to make it come to life.

But please - help me out.

The pressure is killing me.

Job Security

Promotions are awesome. They make you feel important and normally come with more money. Also, you get new business cards to have but not know when to give to people.

But with the new title comes responsibility. As you get promoted you are asked to make more important decisions and be able to think critically about the company as a whole.

I think I am ready for a promotion...

...in my relationship.

Can I move up to "Senior Boyfriend" or "VP of Boyfriend Affairs"?

What will that get me? Am I allowed to watch more MacGyver reruns? Can I have entire meals made of bacon? Do I not have to explain why I'm pantless and 4 beers deep by noon on a Saturday?

Why do guys have a glass ceiling in relationships? How do I get talked into dress pants and argyle socks but my recommendation for nipple tassels falls on deaf ears?

I don't even necessarily need a huge promotion - how about I become more specialized; "Director of Remote Controls". Project Runway is OUT, Honey, there is a special on bear attacks.

Unfortunately there is a recession in girls that put up with talking exclusively about sports and zombies so I have to just be happy I am employed. I wouldn't want to cause a stir and get demoted down to just "friend".

Well, unless I got to keep the benefits.

The Good Book

First off just wanted to say it was great meeting Maxie and Lemmonex. While I missed out on most of the weekend shenanigans I did get to see the warm up to what I'm sure was a pretty amazing dance party. All it takes is those two and Alexa on her deck and it is already the coolest club in Cleveland.



Lets not pretend that status updates on Facebook aren't contests to see who can get the most comments. When you sign on and the Good Book tells you there are 6 notifications it is like Christmas - only better because you don't have to wear pants.

But what drives me crazy is when you read some ridiculously boring status like, "UGH! Sick again!" and it gets 42 comments. What the hell! Where is the drama? The passion? Where is the protagonist and the hero? You have 140 characters - do something with them!

"Dropping the kids off at school then time for laundry!" You are telling me that is worthy of 72 comments? I've read street signs more interesting than that.

"It's Friday!" Well, at least this is informative - though changing your screen name to "Captain Fucking Obvious" might help me to alleviate any confusion.

And so Facebook created the Hide feature. With the Hide feature my Facebook has now turned into "Facebook Survivor".

You took a quiz to find out which Sex and the City character you would be? You are now voted off my news feed.

Oh how cute, you tagged a picture about your friends with who is the Funny One or the Angry one. Pack your bags - you are gone.

In fact, I love hiding people so much I have my news feed down to only the best updates.

Mine.

Wait. What's this? This joker wants me to read his blog? I've got news for you, Mr Narm -

You are hidden.

TMI Thursday - Steam Bath

Well I've finally bit the bullet and participated in Lilu's Too Much Information Thursday. Enjoy.



One time I farted in the shower and it smelled so bad I had to get out and wait for the smell to go away before finishing my shower.

The end.

Sports!

Ouch. I am still suffering from the Dolphins' loss last night so here is what I am asking - please leave the best joke you know in the comments to soften my murderous rage. Maybe we can work this thing down to just an "assault and battery rage" or even a "light petting rage". Don't get in my way if you don't want to get to second base!

CATCH THE DAMN BALL TEDDY!

Everyday Enemies - Wave Em Like You Just Don't Care

I'm starting a new piece here at White-Collar Redneck. I call it Everyday Enemies. It isn't weekly and doesn't have corporate sponsorship...yet. Maybe someday soon it could be the Everyday Enemies brought to you by Enzyte. For now - this is all ya get.

Everyday Enemies is going to focus on the people and situations that interfere with my abilities to make it through everyday. The people that make me question whether this rat race is worth the cheese at the end. The people who ask, "Hot enough for ya?"

Today's Everyday Enemy - Overexcited Hands Storyteller

Know what your story doesn't need?

Touching.

In fact, I am fairly certain telling stories is not a contact sport.

Also - unless you are telling me a story about jazz hands - you can keep your hand motions to a minimum. Billy Mays has left us and with him went the need for waving down planes while talking.

Let's face the facts - if you are telling me a story, I am just waiting for you to finish so I can tell a better story. And, chances are I am hungover - and hungover people are like bears - you need to avoid sudden movements or gestures for fear they will rip your arms off and beat you dead with them.

Please take note -

If something is cold, I don't need to also feel how cold it is. I have been cold before. I am familiar with the feeling of something being cold - I live in fucking Cleveland. Your description is just fine.

I don't need to feel how hard someone hit / pinched / sexually harassed you. Again, pain is something I have felt before, use your words not your ridiculously annoying hands.

Finally - there is no need to hold my arm as you tell the story. While everything in my body wants to run away screaming, I promise I will not do so. I will be polite - and by polite I mean wait for the first time you stop to take a breath and then interrupt you so that I can start talking.

On second thought - maybe next time I see you, instead of coming over for a quick conversation - I'll just wave.

You're Doing It Wrong

This is ridiculously disgusting and completely not safe for work - so if you are easily offended or my Mom - please don't watch it.

If you are into awesome and awesome related things - then, by all means, proceed.


Office Masturbation - Awesome video clips here

Toys R Us Kid

My name is Jeff.

Just Jeff.

Not Jeffrey or Jefferson or Jefftardo.

Girls, this may come as a surprise because so many of you come up and say, "Hey there, Handsome." Handsome is not my name. It is my MIDDLE name.

When I was in college I worked at Toys R Us so that I could afford alcoholism.

Let me tell you - nothing is as hard on a hangover as a mother with a screaming child giving you the business for not having the correct Bratz doll. Listen, Lady, I'm sorry but your attempt to turn your daughter into a slut will have to wait 3-4 business days - go home, turn on MTV and deal with it.

At Toys R Us, when a large ticket item (say a bike or a sandbox) are purchased - someone has to go into the back and bring it up front for the customer.

For the first two weeks I worked there I would hear over the radio:

"Jeffrey - we have a pickup from the back."

And everyday I thought the same thing - "I will murder you until you are killed dead if you call me Jeffrey ONE MORE TIME, Radio Voice."

So finally after two weeks of this I had enough. I walked up front to the cashier and said, "Listen - my name is just Jeff - enough with the Jeffrey shit."

Her response?

"It's Geoffrey. As in Geoffrey the Giraffe. You know, the mascot of this entire store that is plastered on every square inch of open space? Him."

Oh.

Hmmm.

I guess Geoffrey is ok, then.

I Phone, You Phone, We All Phone For iPhone

I am a weak, weak man.

I promised myself I wouldn't get the iPhone.

No matter what, I said, I can't afford it. But then I got into the store with all the bright lights and trendy music and I caved. I CAVED!

So now I own an iPhone. I am a super trendy elitist nerd with black-rimmed glasses that swears music sounds better on vinyl. And none of those points were exaggerations.

I am Steve Jobs' bitch.

But so far I have not come under the iPhone spell. I haven't downloaded many apps or taken pictures or made lasagna or whatever it is iPhones do.

But I have felt the affect of the iPhone.

My bathroom visits are twice as long.

I sit down in there to do my 2ing and I got lost in a sea of internet and other funsies. Suddenly two days go buy and my ass has permanently attached itself to the toilet.

I walk out of the bathroom after a romp with the iPhone and there are flying cars and robots doing the dishes.

It is like I downloaded the Quantum Leap app.

Thank god there is an app to order pizza so I don't actually have to leave the bathroom as I surf the internet.

If I were more handy I would install a second toilet in my bathroom so I could stay in there all the time and not have to leave when other people need the bathroom. Unfortunately, I am bad at being handy so instead of flushing, my toilet would probably turn on my toaster. If only I were handy!

Hmmm...maybe there's an app for that.

Sit Down

I think we can all agree that sitting is awesome.

Everything about it is awesome - not supporting any weight, the comfort, the NOT standing part.

Yet, time after I time I offer my seat to someone and they say, "No thanks, I've been sitting all day."

WHAT!

It sounds like you have had an awesome day! Why not continue the awesomeness and sit more? Sitting is not drinking - you won't be hungover tomorrow from sitting too much.

I can't think of a situation where I wouldn't want to sit down. Standing is ok for MAYBE 5 minutes. Like "Hey! We're standing and talking and this is great."

But then I start looking for something to put my arm on to hold me up, then I try to lean on something - around minute 7 I am doing a tripod to avoid standing.

Know what I like to do after a long day of sitting? Sit more. As much as possible. I've never been like - "OH MAN - what a hard day. I am exhausted from all that work - I can't wait to get home and just stand there for awhile. Oh it shall be so relaxing. The standing. I don't even want to lean - just stand and relax - you know, because standing is so relaxing in comparison to the amount of relaxation you get from sitting. Standing rules sitting drools!"

So don't ever tell me that siting is overrated -

I can't stand it.

Ed Hardly

Top 5 Things I Would Rather Wear Than An Ed Hardy Shirt

1 - A "Big Johnson" shirt

2 - An angry cat with claws made from that plastic stuff that they wrap electronics in that is impossible to open without suffering multiple lacerations

3 - A "Palin 2012" sticker

4 - A shirt made entirely of hair, ants and those annoying tags on the back of t-shirts that rub your neck even after you cut them out because you can't get the last little bit

5 - A bag of Kirstie Alley's liposuctioned fat goo

What did I miss?

Nobody Home

I have decided to streamline your blog reading for today - instead of reading half of my post, being disappointed and finding a new blog to read; I am just going to link straight to a way funnier blog.

HA! I'm over there too. You sucker. You can't get away from me - I'm like internet herpes or that Kid Rock song.

"And we were trying different things and we were smoking funny things"

Fuck me.

Now that song is in my head.

Go read this post while I wash my ears out with battery acid.

Lucky Duck

I've been called lucky quite a few times in the last few weeks -

There was the time the lady backed into me and I was told I was "lucky" that the scratches should be able to be buffed out and not need a new bumper.

Or that I was "lucky" that the cable company was able to squeeze me in, after screwing up the first three meetings I set up.

I was "lucky" I only got stuck in a half-hour traffic jam, as people who left before me where there for an hour.

And now I am "lucky" that my brake pads and rotors will only cost a few hundred opposed to the $500-600 originally thought.

My luck sucks.

Why are the only times I get lucky when extremely bad things happen? Is that still considered luck? It should be considered "moderate suck".

Or "relative suck".

Or - "If you call me lucky as I write another check I swear to god I will stab you dead."

You see this on the news too, some horrible thing will happen and the newscaster will say the victim is lucky the bullet wasn't one inch over or it would have killed them.

THEY GOT SHOT! No matter what happens when you get shot - you are not lucky. Know what would be lucky? NOT GETTING SHOT.

If the person who got shot is lucky - what does that make the rest of us that didn't get shot? Is it a miracle?

The bullet could be made of diamonds and puppy smiles and I still wouldn't consider myself lucky for having it slice through my body.

So I might be the only "lucky" person on earf hoping and praying my luck will change -

Being lucky is too damn expensive.

You're All Fucked

I don't mean to cause alarm, but I woke up this morning with a...condition.

I felt normal, maybe a little stiff legged. My voice felt a little hoarse and I had the most unquenchable thirst...

FOR BRAINS!!!


Do you SEE that? I'm like 10 minutes from being part of the walking undead!

But am I scared and fighting for my life?

NO!

I'm worried about you. I've logged so many hours in front of zombie movies I am the perfect zombie protection plan. Without me, well, not to be mean, but you guys are fucked.

You think you are fine and, honestly, you probably have a few days. At least you out of towners. But from the looks of that tiny little red splotch on my eye, I'm a goner. And when I become a zombie - you don't stand a chance. Even with zombie eyes, if you take one look into these beautiful brown oceans of love you are lost at sea. And that's when I strike.

No, even as I sit here - waiting for the zombie virus to take over my senses and turn me into a shuffling, mindless ghoul, searching the earf for victims, I can't help but think of you first.

I mean, it could be worse...

I could have swine flu.

Color Me Surprised

Owning a house is the hardest hit to my manhood since I played the clarinet (if you are new here I will give you a minute to laugh at that fact).

I am trying to choose colors to paint each room and am forced to have arguments with the Lady Friend that end in me screaming things like, "GODDAMNIT I WANT RED ROSE BOUQUET!"

A man should never scream the word "bouquet". My testies actually started crawling up inside me out of embarrassment.

While scouring the aisles of Marshalls this weekend, I was actually BANNED from using the words "accent color". Which is unfortunate because those towels would have looked FAAAABULOUS in the kitchen.

And as if that isn't bad enough, ask me what color I am painting my bathroom. I dare you. Ask me.

PURPLE TWILIGHT.

Who the hell is naming these things? Can't we get a line of men's paint?

I want my room to be "Raw Meat Red".

My kitchen could be "Bacon Brown".

The dining room is "Grass Stain Green" with accent colors of "Bruised Knee Blue".

I want "You're My Boy, Blue" for the guest room.

And the basement walls could be "Halle Berry Brown".

But for the living room, I definitely want "Purple Twilight".

What? It looks GREAT with the "Red Rose Bouquet" accent color.

Unbearable

I'm kinda handsy.

I always have to have something in my hand (laaaaaaaaaadies). When sitting at my desk, it is normally a pen or a binder clip or something else that I can make annoying noises until my coworkers speak with HR to understand how killing me would effect their employment status.

So to counteract my handsinaciousness, a coworker bought me a small, rubber bear that I can play with and not bother anyone.

The bear soon became part of my office persona. It came with me to meetings, it would turn up in compromising positions on my desk and if you walked by quick enough, you could probably catch me chewing on it (who's scary now, bear?)

But while on the phone on Friday, my cozy, cuddly bear exploded in a mass of Timothy Treadwell.

So today is a sad day. My bear has left me with not only empty hands, but an empty heart.

RIP Bear.
It's better to blow up in a fireworks display of tiny plastic balls than to fade away.

The Dolphins Make Me Cry

I have something admit to all of you.

I'm that guy.

I'm the guy that sits at a sports bar, by himself, every Sunday to see his favorite football team's (the Miami Dolphins) game.

And I wear a jersey.

I PAY MONEY to be part of an exclusive Miami Dolphins message board.

I have Miami Dolphin colored stripes running down the sides of my truck.

I hate you, Tom Brady.

I can not only name the entire 53 man roster, but could probably tell you the name of the Assistant Secondary Coach.

I love you, Dan Marino.

When my brother and I speak on the phone, there is a 5 minute window to discuss our lives and his kids before we launch into, and I kid you not, weekly 45 minute discussions about ONLY the Dolphins.

There are and will be not plans made for Sundays during the NFL season. Ever. The Lady Friend understands that I will do anything she asks 6 days a week - but come Sunday - I am off limits.

When Hootie said, "I'm such a baby, yeah, the Dolphins make me cry." I knew EXACTLY what he meant.

Ace Ventura could have just been Jim Carrey making faces at a camera for 2 hours but if the Dolphins were in the background I would still consider it a cinema masterpiece.

When the sign in my office says "Miami Dolphins Fan Parking Only" it means "Miami Dolphins Fan Parking Only, Mother Fucker"

I am that guy.

But most impressive beyond all of that -

I am willing to wear the colors aqua and orange to support my team.

That is devotion.

Go Phins.

Pop-Culture

Things I have trouble believing -

People think Katherine Heigl is attractive and a sweetheart.

Anyone has ever laughed at a Wanda Sykes joke ever.

Jon and Kate have anything left to say.

Heidi and Spencer are still relevant in any way.

Winona Ryder won't return my phone calls.

Tyler Perry isn't turning into Earnest (umm...umm...Madea goes to...space? Film it!)

Grey's Anatomy is still on.

People don't realize Lady Gaga dresses like that because it makes people buy her records.

Lindsay Lohan hasn't been in a movie in almost 3 years but I still see a news story on her daily.

We are all supposed to forget about shaved head / swastika carving / umbrella wielding Brittney.

I've been blogging for over two years.

Thanks to everyone who reads this space and helps satisfy my need for attention. If I could give you all a big kiss, buy you a beer and give you a smack on the ass I would - but my lawyer said I'm not allowed within 50 yards of any of you.

Thanks to all of the great people I've met, the great blogs I've found and for anyone who reads White-Collar Redneck.

Girly Man

Me: Do you have anything for spiders? I scream like a little school girl every time I see one.

Hardware Guy: We have traps.

Me: Looking more for something that will ensure I never have to see another spider ever.

Hardware Guy: You could just be a man about it.

Me: Do you sell something for that?

I Will Murder My House

You know when you do something and everyone keeps warning you it is a bad idea but you only look at the good parts until reality sets in and it's too late and you are already screwed (girls - this is like dating a guy with a chin strap beard)?

Well, helllllo home ownership!

My Friday started with someone backing into my beloved truck. I am using the word 'truck' loosely here as it is a Honda - which is about as manly of a truck as a VH1 reality show is really 'reality'. Point of the story - it's gonna cost some money to fix. While this isn't necessarily directly related to the house, I am already trained to blame all things money related on the house (that includes my girl friend).

Saturday ended with my painting the FOURTH coat of paint on my bedroom. It was like a tug of war against my will to pick up that paintbrush. Like that paintbrush was a carrot and I was a 5yr old at the dinner table. I knew I had to paint it or I'd never get dessert. Dessert in this scenario is just a painted room - so I didn't even get to put sprinkles on it.

And then, finally, on Sunday - my bathtub decided it would be fun to turn my kitchen into a slip'n'slide by leaking water from the ceiling and all over. This proves my bathtub is stupid because slip'n'slides always end with rug burns and knee-scrapes and that is NOT cool. Buy me a Skip It or lose me forever, Bath Tub.

So after all of that - and the probable COST of all of that - I am pretty much ready to punch babies.

But that would probably get me sent to jail.

And as much as it sucked to have someone back into my truck - in jail I would probably get rear ended.

I guess things aren't that bad.