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.