Can I Share a Few Things With You Guys? Thanks.

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--Here is a pet peeve of mine.

Let's say we are talking politics. I offer an opinion on the issues facing the election. My opinion is based on facts which I have applied practically to a situation(s). Someone offers a reply to my opinions with, "So? If you don't like so-and-so, tough. There are problems everywhere." I reply, "These problems need fixed and I'm offering my opinion on how that might be done." The person replies with, "Maybe you should fix yourself."

Problems:

1) This person has offered no opinion, but merely veiled hints to the fact that they disagree with you.
2) This person later states they are keeping their opinions to themselves.
3) They have resorted to a personal attack.

If you can't hold a civil conversation and/or you don't know what the hell you're talking about, shut the f*ck up.

--Does anyone watch Tru Calling on Fox? Me either. However, because it is Eliza Dushku (sorry for the awful pic on IMDb, not my fault), possibly my future wife if Kristin Kreuk turns me down, I always end up watching the commercials on TV. If you haven't seen any of the commercials, the premise is that Tru works in a morgue. Every now and then, one of the dead people talks to her and she finds that she can help them go back in time and prevent themselves from being killed. Hey, it's Fox.

Now in the first trailer for the first episode, she's pulling the cadaver drawer out and a dead chick opens her eyes, turns her head to Tru, and says, "Help me." Tru jumps back and screams, understandably. Well, now we're on Week Six or Seven of the show. Every trailer shows her pulling someone's drawer out, the person looking at her and saying, "Help me," and her jumping back and screaming.

Does this bother anyone else? After the first two or three, when you've figured out you have this "gift", don't you just pull the drawer open expecting this to happen? Does she always have to be shocked? I don't get it.

Incidentally, a year or so ago one of my buddies saw her in a Blockbuster. I asked how she looked, and he shot back this Hall of Fame Answer: "Hot with a 70% chance of dirty."

--Did anyone see any of the interviews on ESPN with John Elway at the SuperBowl festivities? Can someone get him the 800 number for Rogaine? I can't watch Johnny Football disintegrate like this. It's like watching Diane Lane get a little more wrinkly every few months. Someone make this stop.

--This is setting up as the best Real World Season ever. Truly. In the first four episodes you've had chicks kissing, a fight over a racial slur, a rape flashback, a chick who has a crippling phobia of large boats basically cheat drunkenly on her boyfriend twice (once vomiting in her sleep), a drunk housemate saying, "Boom, Bazooka Joe, man," two people fail a sailing test, a guy taking his d*ck out and two people getting arrested. It's like they went down to Mardi Gras, found all the people in the drunk tank, then put them on the show with a smart black kid who doesn't drink and a really, really boring hot Asian girl. I love it. And did you know that they might not be able to pull off Real World Philadelphia, which is next? Apparently, there was an alleged rape in the San Diego house (not involving any of the castmembers but one of their friends and a random person) and Bunim-Murray doesn't yet know their responsibility for the event.

The kids of Real World Paris gotta be pissed, man.

On a sad note, Mary Ellis Bunim, the co-creator of Real World, died this afternoon after a battle with breast cancer.

--As many of you are aware, I drive the New Hottness (the extra "t" is for the extra "Tang" I pull whilst driving it), a 1996 White Ford Escort Wagon. This week my father, who has owned more cars than the Sultan of Brunei, went out and bought a 1996 White Subaru Impreza Wagon. You should see us drive up to places together. People expect us to get out in matching suits with synchronized watches. And yes, I know it's adorable.

--Dennis Miller's co-host on his new CNBC show this week was a Chimpanzee. God, I love this guy.

--Saw Jennie Garth on some show as I was flipping channels tonight. On UPN. Jennie is apparently taking roles based on the Get Yourself Out Of High-Paying, High-Profile Jobs Fast So You Can Go Directly To the Lifetime Channel and Possibly Oxygen Network Handbook by Meredith Baxter-Birney with Foreward by Kirk Cameron.

--My b*lls itch. There, I fixed it.

--OK, I found something: having your manager call you and tell you they don't need you for your shift at American Eagle is almost as joyous as hearing that you have a Two Hour Delay with Modified Kindergarten because of snow. Basically, I hate working and I want it to go away.

--Honestly, really, your life is not complete until you have visited The Badger Song Site. Many thanks to Pledge Herald Miller for the link. Hint: It's on a loop. You will never be the same. Thank me later.

All for now. Check back when I have a real cause to write about.

Down With Conservatism! And Calobis Monkeys!

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Time to delve into the political realm here.

I'm voting Democrat this year. I'm not a Democrat, but I am a Liberal, and frankly, I don't think Bush is doing much of a great job. I also don't think the Democrats have all the answers; not nearly. But I do think we need a new direction. Why?

1) Economy--Everyone is lauding the Bush Administration for this "huge" economic recovery we've had. I don't know the world about business, but I can tell you this: not everything comes down to a slowly rising Stock Market Index and low interest rates. Fact is, Middle America is suffering. I know--I live here. The Manufacturing Sector is in its worst shape in over 50 years. Layoffs are coming down in droves all over the place. People here (who don't really know about politics, they just stick to one party or the other because they always have), when asked about Bush's tax cuts, give him all the credit in the world. "Hey, got a $200 credit last year! Got a cut this year! I might not be around next year, so that works for me." Which is exactly the idiocy that makes people OK with Tax Cuts that never actually solve a problem. Most people don't understand what a dibilitating situation this deficit is really going to become unless we get it under control. Along with this we need to reevaluate our Trade practices. NAFTA has got to go, and Bush's New Idea with Mexico is absolute crap. If we can't get our manufacturing capabilities up, we are in trouble. As my friend T. Richardson Brown, Banker will tell you, we cannot have a steady economy based on services and working-class jobs farmed out to foreign countries.

So are tax increases necessary? It seems to me to be a temporary evil to fix a $500 billion-plus deficit and make some real changes FOR THE FUTURE. Now, if everyone would just f*cking listen to me and force Washington to institute a Flat Tax, we'd all be much better off. And don't give me any guff about Trickle-Down Economics, which is wishful thinking on par with Communism.

2) Administration--These people suck, flat out. I'm tired of watching Bush appoint Ultra-Conservative pundits to key positions. All this does is drag America further under the tarp of Christian "Morality". You don't think John Ashcroft is dangerous? I don't want uberSocialists appointed to these positions either, but I cannot stand this influx of zealots who are going to influence laws about how I should act.

As per this, I want to issue this challenge: Someone give me one good, solid, secular reason as to why Gays and Lesbians should not be allowed to marry. One.

I won't get started on Haliburton, as I had that conversation the other night, but I'll say this: you've got the Top Corporation in the World in this area, the best at what it does, and you're going to try to tell me that they landed this massive government project because they made a clerical error on their proposal, giving them only about 3.4% profit out of the whole deal? Please.

3) The War--I want to say this: I think Bush did an absolutely phenomenal job handling the fallout of Sept. 11th. No question, and the job he did should never, ever be forgotten.

I also fully supported Military Action against Iraq. Saddam was dangerous. The world is a better place without him.

Here is what I believe: I believe we knew that Saddam was not an imminent threat. I believe that so many Congressmen and women voted for the resolution giving the President the power to use force because they believed such would be carried out properly. I believe we should have waited at least long enough to give the world time to catch up to our intelligence before bursting in there, nearly unaided, and alienating ourselves from a global community--which we worked with for 80 years, orchestrating the end of the Cold War to establish a good rapport--in the process. After all of that, all the Shock and Awe, we've lost our focus on Afghanistan and Al Qaeda and they're regaining power. All because we had to do it right then. It just doesn't make a lot of sense to me. I think Bill Mahr put it best: "Why are we attacking Iraq when they haven't bothered us for twelve years? Isn't Al Qaeda the real threat right now? Why aren't we doing more in Afghanistan? It's like saying you lost your keys in the living room, but you're going to look for them in the garage because the lighting is better."

On a related topic, this Terror Alert System is mostly a sham. It's is merely a blanket under which this Administration wants us to crawl so we believe we need them to make everything OK for us. Honestly, when they raise the color from Yellow to Orange, do you take extra precautions? Al Qaeda continues to attack American interests overseas and I seriously doubt that another attack at home will be thwarted because we see a damn Red Bar on the screen.

4) I just mentioned this elsewhere, but add to this that Environmental Standards have been relaxed nationwide, we still have the worst Health Care system in the civilized world, our urban public school systems are decrepit, our Civil Liberties are being threatened by the Patriot Act, and in the middle of an international crisis, we are talking about going to the Moon.

Do I think the Dems can solve all of our problems? Of course not. I just think that we need to focus more on Homeland issues, get our troops the hell out of Iraq (turning the rebuilding process over to the international community), and start to move in another direction. No one is going to cure all of the ills that wear our country down, but I do think we can move in a much better direction. That said, I'll rank the candidates as to what I think of them right now:

1. John Edwards--I like not only the things he says but the way he says them. I like the fact that he is trying to take issues away from the current Administration and fight on his own ground. He doesn't seem to be influenced by special interests. I also like the fact that he's not a career politician. He's very well-versed on the issues (and no, I don't really find the Defense of Marriage Act to be much of an issue right now) and has an all-encompassing platform. His social ideas worry me a little, as they're...well, a bit Socialist, but he makes a good point: humans are fallible. It's nice to hang to the theory that the rich get richer and the poor are out of luck, and in a perfect world we could overcome that, but in a real world society you can't have 7% of the population owning 93% of the wealth. I believe there is a way to resolve this as fairly as possible while not only providing affordable Heathcare for every American but also weaning people the hell off of Welfare.

2. John Kerry--I have him neck-and-neck with Edwards, but what bothers me is his constant chastising of "this President". You can't blame it all on one guy; it's an entire Administration. He seems to be making this a much more personal battle than it needs to be. But someone asked me how anyone in the Military could respect any of these Democratic candidates. Well, aside form others with qualified credentials, Kerry is a War Hero and well-decorated Veteran. George Bush conveniently slid through the cracks of the draft by signing up with the Texas National Guard and then never reported for duty. Who should respect whom?

3. Howard Dean--I like this guy a lot as a person. I think it's great that someone says what he means all the time. I think it's great that he went nuts at a rally of his supporters and campaign workers after they finished third in Iowa. I don't think he has a temper problem. But there are three issues. First, he has no idea about foreign policy. None. Second, running the entire country is a bit different than running the relatively sheltered state of Vermont. Third, I don't want a President that runs on emotion as fervently. He scares me. I don't want a President hat runs on so much gut.

4. Joe Leiberman--I like this guy a lot too as a person. I can't argue with a lot of his politics. This is a sh*tty reason to have him fourth, but God's honest truth, I just can't see him as President. It's that simple. I don't think he's very strong on economics, either, or at least he doesn't address the issue enough.

5. Wesley Clark--Has really slipped in my opinion recently. He's well-spoken and any General has qualities you want in a President. However, he didn't distance himself from crackhe...er, filmmaker Michael Moore when he endorsed Clark, calling Bush a "deserter" in the same sentence. Big mistake, as that moniker is off base at best. He also is strictly a one-issue candidate. Maybe in 8-12 years he can figure out exactly what he believes and run again with better success.

6. Dennis Kucinich--Another one-issue Candidate. His only concern is American jobs. No foreign policy. You can't do that.

7. Al Sharpton--I have to say I have a newfound respect for Al. In the debate before the Iowa Caucuses he was very impressive. He answered every single question that came his way and didn't dodge anything. He's a smart guy. Unfortunately, he's overzealous on the race issue and doesn't have a clue about anything else. He can host the f*ck out of Saturday Night Live though, huh?

Again, I believe Edwards or Kerry could lead this country in a better direction. Hey, maybe George Bush is the most honest guy in the world and he has great intentions and has done a great job. I also don't believe that either of these guys will win against Bush. What I believe Bush has done a remarkable job of is keeping the American shee...er, people glued to him, thinking they need him to survive and to keep our country safe at any expense.

I just personally don't buy any of that, and damn, I wish Colin Powell would just get off his ass and run.

Watch As I Take on the Nation's Capital

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But a few other things first...

--I talk often about my best friend from High School, T. Richardson Brown, Banker. At this time I'll ask everyone to keep his mother in their thoughts and send out a bunch of good vibes in hopes that she gets herself well soon. Suzie is a damn good lady.

--Did anyone watch the Golden Globes last night? All of these Awards Shows are little more than popularity contests, but the Globes are especially fun to watch because it's the oldest one running and because they serve alcohol during the live telecast.

Brilliant.

Two things to note: Bill Murray got the award for Best Actor in a Comedy or Musical for Lost in Translation. Bill Murray has been an underrated actor for about as long as he's been around. The great thing about him is that he's always picked roles not for exposure or for deep meaning, but because he liked the material or because he thought the role would entertain the most people. He didn't always pick wisely, but he's got a pretty good portfolio, and it's nice to see him get some kind of recognition.

Second...I have always been a Renee Zellweger fan. She's hot, even if her eyes are a bit squinty. She's put on some weight for her role in the second film of the Bridget Jones's Diary series, and I just want to stress how phenomenal she looks. This frame works far, far better than the stick figure that she became after Me, Myself, and Irene. Renee, think about hanging around this way, eh?

Oscar nominations come out tomorrow and yes, I'm f*cking excited.

THE NATION'S CAPITAL THREATENS TO END MY LIFE FUNCTIONS

I don't get to drink much anymore, so this Saturday's trip down to visit some buddies in D.C. was a nice change of pace.

The stage was set thusly: my buddy Loftus lives with our buddy Adam and my two former roommates Kyle and Louie. Kyle's girlfriend Ni...er, Karyn is basically the fifth roommate and house mascot in Arlington, VA. Add to the mix that one Steven Perdue, Oil Magnate and General Ruby Burgoyne, Electrician are down for the weekend and, well...here we go...

--Ruby calls me as I hit I-95 on the way down. He informs me they will wait for me and that we are going to a strip club. Joy.

--I arrive to pleasantries and good cheer. Louie does not want to attend the strip club outing and Kyle and Adam are involved in a day-long Texas Hold 'Em tourney down the street. We talk, in front of Karyn, about the fact that we are going to a strip club--remember that for later. Ruby and Steve have looked up the strippers for Camelot on the Internet. I walk downstairs to find them spooning on Loftus's bed watching Good Will Hunting. Spooning. Ben and Matt would be proud.

By the way, Loftus is toiling at work on a Saturday after being out until roughly 3 AM the night before, hammered, watching an 80's cover band called Leg Warmer. Reports detail that Mr. Loftus was less than three-deep from the stage at all times, pumping his fists and singing along to every song all whilst exclaiming to all around, "THIS IS MY SH*T!!!!!" As my buddy Craig would note, Loftus is this morning likely performing his duties in an extreme haze, still thinking about Bananarama.

--Perdue, Ruby and I decide that the best way to get downtown to Camelot is by Metro. Heading for the subway, we park in a garage in Stafford Plaza. We ask a desk attendant in the building how to get to the Metro. He mumbles something in an non-English dialect and points to our left. We walk to our left. Two bathrooms and an Employee's Only closet. We head back, asking for the Metro. He grumbles louder and more unintelligibly and points us back. We go back. Two bathrooms, Employee's Only closet. We look at each other. Head back, ask for Metro. He gets up, physically leads us around the corner, where we FINALLY see...

Two bathrooms and a motherf*cking Employee's Only closet.

I'm laughing. Perdue is thinking. Ruby doesn't know where he is. After a moment of standing we walk back and Ruby says, "Look, there's nothing there, we just need to get to the Metro Station." The guy fold his hands and says, in perfectly broken English, "I apologize, I thought you said bathroom. Second Floor to left." Thanks.

Arriving at the station, Perdue and Ruby decide to share a card. Perdue puts his card through first, successfully. Ruby tries to follow him. Bupkus. Nada. See Station Manager. Remember this. They let Ruby through.

The train ride is filled with discussion about where we are going. We are to take the Orange Line from Ballston to Metro Center, where we pick up the Red Line and head to DuPont Circle. Easy. Ruby has it written down. Perdue has it in his head that there is no such thing as Metro Center, that every stop is a Metro Center. He convinces Ruby. For twenty minutes they ask back and forth, "Are we on the right train? Metro Center isn't even a stop. That was the metro center. Where are we going?" To break the monotony, Perdue offers Ruby $500 to drink an entire cup of his chew spit. Ruby refuses. This is the first thing in history I have ever seen to disgust Ruby.

--We arrive in Metro Center. Perdue says nothing. Ruby must see the Station Manager again. On the train to DuPont, Ruby tells us he'd like to fly on the President's Private Jet, Air One. Somewhere, Nelly's ears are burning for the all the wrong reasons.

--Exiting at DuPont Circle, I get to ride the tallest escalator I have ever seen. Upon hitting the street, we stand turning on the heels of our shoes for two minutes figuring out which way M Street is. Luckily, we begin walking the right direction, though Ruby is "suspicious" the entire time.

--We arrive at Camelot. There are a few things at work here.

First, I am sober. Going to a strip club sober is tough for me because I find the whole thing extremely funny. You can walk into any bar in the world and see bottles, beer, people, etc. But walking into a Gentleman's Establishment and seeing all that plus boobies...well, I think it's hysterical. Therefore, the second I enter one I have a big, goofy smile on my face, and immediately people think I'm some kind of pervert. They're not wrong, but I just don't want them thinking that in the first five minutes.

Second, it wasn't even bright daylight outside, but the inside of this place is f*cking DARK. I can't see a thing as I'm walking in and I'm banging into chairs all over the place. The bouncer must have sensed this and sat us as far away from The Pole as possible.

I have to say that I as wildly impressed by Camelot. For a Saturday afternoon in the dead of winter all of the performers were quite attractive, and what more can you ask for? Also wonderful was the fact that, while some of the ladies had rather robust mammary areas, not a single one had even a drop of Silicon in them. Lovely. And somehow, I'm keeping a (moderately) straight face. All is well. I am, however, pounding drinks. I'm on Mixed Drink One and Beer Two before Perdue and Ruby finish their first drink. Our waitress, Hot Jamie, keeps making sarcastic comments when I order such as, "Oh, did I forget to bring your drink last time?" Nice try, not going to help your tip. But let me state that the fact you are waitressing in your underpants will.

At least one stripper and the old chick behind the bar comment about how cute Ruby and his hair are, both asking if he's even old enough to be in the place. Ruby is 25 and the eldest of us all. He takes it in stride.

After each dance, if you haven't approached The Pole while they are dancing to offer a tip, they come to your table expecting to get one. This is fine. I just wanted to note that, when you first get there, you feel awkward and sheepish. You calmly slide your dollar in their garter belt and say only a quick thank you. Perdue can't even look them in their faces. He's actually just waving the dollar in the air and focusing on the cushion behind him. And if they make eye contact with you from the stage? F*cking forget it.

Then, as the day progresses and the drinks start flowing, your comments get better and better. Here are some of the ones I threw out personally, feeling the buzz:

"That was technically perfect."
"You were the best dancer of the group."
"Thanks for dancing to Coldplay, here's two." (EDITOR'S NOTE: You know you are in alcohol-related trouble when you start announcing how much you are tipping the strippers.)
"You were our favorite."
"Thank you for the entertainment." (Christ help me.)
"I enjoyed the shaking." (This one made me really afraid I was going to be thrown out by my neck.)

From Ruby:

"I liked that thing you did with your ass."

All in all, we spent about four hours and a hundred and fifty bucks there altogether. We get in touch with Loftus and we are headed to The ESPN Zone to meet him.

--On the cab ride to ESPN, Ruby calls his girlfriend. At the end of a conversation that was way too long, he gets roped into the "I love you". Guess who we made fun of the for the last five minutes? Nothing like watching one of your buddies squirm, especially when you're loaded.

--At ESPN Zone we concentrate on beer, Golf, Football, and Basketball. I'm not going to talk much about basketball, but you can figure that, since I'm the worst basketball player in history and I'm stupid drunk, I didn't do too well. I did establish the second-highest score of the day in football, however.

--Eating dinner at said Zone, Loftus says something clever. Ruby responds with, "Oh good one, that was a Widdly Tiddle." With Ruby you're never quite sure, but we think he was going for a "Witty Tidbit". Whatever he intended this becomes my official vote for our Fantasy Football Trophy: The Widdly Tiddle Cup. Mark it down.

--On the Metro back to the car, Ruby once again must see the Station Manager. She asks, "Are you trying to use the same Metro Card?" Ruby replies, "Yeah, but the damn thing doesn't work, and I've been having to see the Station Manager all day." She informs Ruby you can't use the same gate the person you are sharing with just used to come through. No sooner does she tell him this than he tries again to use the same gate. Later, as the train is approaching and we are waiting to board, Ruby nearly falls into the track and Loftus has to pull him back.

--During beer pong an hour or so later, Ruby and Perdue escalate their Your Mom Verbal Battle (TM).

(EDITOR'S NOTE: WARNING. The following exchange contains graphic, awful language and mental images. Please be warned. Seriously. This is a very serious warning.)

RUBY(makes a cup): Oooh, slippery when wet.
PERDUE: Yeah, your mom was pretty slippery when I f*cked her last night.
RUBY: That's because my dad's big c*ck stretched out her p*ssy for you.
PERDUE: I wasn't f*cking her p*ssy.

Gold.

--Loftus, Ruby, Perdue and myself head to a bar in Georgetown. Georgetown is beautiful, and a Georgetown bar can only rightfully be compared to what you might expect at a Hahvad Bah, complete with equations on the walls and sh*t. Every guy--repeat: EVERY GUY--was dressed in a sweater with a button-down underneath. Rock and Roll.

We head upstairs, where two things happen. First, I run into a friend of my ex-girlfriend. Kristina is a cool girl and lives in D.C. now, and we had a nice conversation. But I must being something up. Here is an excerpt of our discussion.

K: So, I was told to go to your website and I did.
G: Great! What did you think.
K: Well, I want to know, do you really think you're smarter than everyone?
G: Yes.
K: Really? Because you went to JMU, and we all went to JMU, and you think you're smarter than people who went to JMU?

(EDITOR'S NOTE: At this point I'm only interested in avoiding a situation. I'm drunk, she's drunk, no reason to start anything when it's been such a good day.)

G: Let's just say I think I'm a better thinker and better able to express myself than others.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Then she pisses me off.)

K: OK, because I was going to say, you misspell a lot of words.
G: Really? Like which ones?
K: Um, like...awkward.
G: A-W-K-W-A-R-D.
K: No, it's A-C-K-W-A-R-D.
G: Eh...I think you're wrong.
K: No I'm not.
G: OK, well you go spellcheck that Monday and get back to me OK. (And I love this...)Maybe you're right.

I change the subject and eventually we decide to go find our friends. People, I want to bring up a point. I know English. I don't misspell words, especially with the aid of spellcheck. My grammar is stellar. Every once in a while, I mistype a word, which is quite different. The lesson: don't come up to me anywhere at any time and criticize my work on a fact of which you are quite wrong. And people wonder why I think I'm smarter than most? Jesus.

A-W-K-W-A-R-D. Kristina, it was very nice talking to you, but that's how you spell it.

Later in the night, I am walking to the bathroom when I get bumped into an adorable little Asian girl. I turn around and put up my hand, and say, "Sorry about that." She's double-fisting, probably not thinking rightly, and she hip-checks me with surprising force. I look back, and she realizes what she's done. She flees, absolutely flees, and hides behind one of her friends who is laughing hysterically. On my way back, I see her again and walk up. She looks frightened. I apologize again, letting her know that someone had pushed me into her. Her friend speaks up in her defense, saying she is drunk and didn't mean it. I assure them that I'm not mad in the slightest, I just wanted her to know I didn't intend to jack her in the first place. So the adorable little Asian girl comes up to me and launches into a diatribe that went something like...

"Well, OK, if you say that it happened accidentally, then I believe you, but you still shouldn't bump into girls, I mean if you're a guy you're supposed to keep your balance and not do that, but it's OK, I mean as long as it was an accident..."

Her cell phone rings, and she holds it up.

Now I very, very rarely ever get to say anything clever. Usually I think about things I should have said afterward in a George Costanza-ish way. But this night, I finally had my glory. With Ruby and Perdue listening to the proceedings two feet away, and this girl's friends watching form just as close, I finally get my shot.

With everyone watching, she raises up her phone, and I say:

"No no, that's OK, I don't want your number."

I must have smiled as wide as the Mississippi. Perdue and Ruby lose it. Her friends lose it. She is speechless in a, "No, I wasn't, I mean I didn't..." manner as I walk away. For that ephemeral moment in time, I feel like a winner. It lasts for no more than four seconds, but still dammit, that's something.

--The night is capped off by myself and a sober Louie driving to the Silver Diner, one of my favorites. Everyone is drunk and ordering either breakfast or burgers. When I order the meatloaf, which is spectacular, the waiter looks at me like I have five heads.

The next morning, Karyn asks if we "really went to a strip club" and then whines that "(I) really wanted to go". Karyn, these are things you bring up before we leave. Not after. Before. Not after. Read up and down, left to right. Take Tylenol for any headaches. Midol for any cramps. But I love you Ni...er, Karyn.

All in all a great night and a great excuse to get out of the house for a while. I drink next during the Fantasy Football Trophy presentation.

Everyone have a Widdly Tiddle.

Well, This Just Damn Pisses Me Off

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--Most depressing new of the last two months:

Dustin Hoffman Cast As Greg's Father in Meet the Fockers

Let me state that I have nothing against Dustin Hoffman, who has proven time and again that he has great comedic acting chops. BUT HOW DO YOU NOT CAST JERRY STILLER?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! Everyone wanted to see this! I'm hoping it's because he turned it down for some reason and not because they didn't approach him for the role. In-ex-cuse-a-ble, Mr. Steinbrenner would say.

But that's not even the most horrendous and potentially depressing part of the article. Ben Stiller openly, willfully verbalized that his number one choice for Mrs. Focker be...BARBARA STREISHAND.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I will boycott, I swear I will f*cking boycott. Shoot me now, g*ddamnit sonsab*tching motherf*ckers. 22 December 2004 could be one of the best or worst days of my life. Someone console me.

--I go to a gym now. Yes, I realize that such a concept strives to negate our belief in a benevolent God, but yes. Ignore that for a moment.

In the room with all the treadmills, there are three televisions. Now I'm not trying to create a bias or start a commotion here, but usually when I go up there are more women than men in the room. Nothing wrong with that. Here's the problem:

Inevitably, I swear to you, one TV is on Sharon Osborne, one is on some kind of Daytime Soap, the last on Lifetime. I promise you I'm not making this up. When I ask if I might change one of the channels, I am met with scorn and silent--yet highly detectable--outrage. There is no reason, no reason whatsoever, that at least one television should NOT be on some kind of sports programming. End of discussion. No debate. I'm asking for one television in a room of 12 treadmills. The volume is not up, you've got two other sets, let me f*cking watch Sports Center without feeling like I just abruptly asked you for anal sex in the middle of your Elliptical routine.

--That's it for now. The Meet the Parents thing really pissed me off.

A Few Things I Was Thinking About, Version 8.0

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--Late, late last night I was flipping through the channels and came across TRL on MTV. They were having some kind of cheerleading gimmick called "Camp TRL", where the guy from "Camp Jim" and two other people judged differing high schools on their cheering skills. One of the schools was Cumberland Valley. They ended up winning.

Ugh.

Cumberland Valley was one of Cedar Cliff's (my high school) biggest rivals in the Midstate. They are good at everything. They always have the best football teams, the best swimmers, the best soccer teams, the best wrestling teams, etc, etc, etc. When you have over 3,000 kids to choose from for sports, this ends up happening. You get sick of reading the scores in the paper and seeing that the Eagles (how generic) had notched another on their bedpost. I watched CV beat some other team, and the girls jumped around and screamed with their fake, heartless cheerleader smiles, yelling "CV number one" and the like. So, naturally, this TRL competition annoyed me to no end.

Then I remembered three things:

1) When I went to Cedar Cliff ('95 - '96, '96 - '97, '97 - '98), we dominated CV in the sports that count. Three years--yes, three years--in a row we beat them in their bread and butter, football. Our football team went on to win a District Championship and was a Runner-Up for another. In basketball, we beat them six straight times, and we were unstoppable, going to the state playoffs twice, losing once to a Lower Marion squad that held none other than Kobe Bryant as their star forward, losing by only 9 points. So in the two Money Sports that matter (don't try to argue this, you know it's true), Cedar Cliff was a combined 9 - 0 vs. Cumberland Valley. Yay.

2) Cheerleading is not a sport, so that doesn't count anyway.

3) Cumberland Valley girls are just that--Valley Girls--and the fact that most are as cranially vacant as a desprung Bobblehead means they probably didn't know where they were or what they had done anyway.

All is right as rain.

--Climbing up the list of "Guess who got hot?" starlets is none other than little Rudy from The Cosby Show, Keisha Knight Pulliam. She's in the new Chingy video. Yowza. Who saw that coming? Between her and Tatiana M. Ali (my all-time favorite), we've got a good thing going here.

--On the flipside, what in the Christ happened to Danielle Fishel, who played Topenga on Boy Meets World? One season she was unremarkable, the next season she was absolutely on fire, and the season after that she comes back looking like she had Lawrence Taylor's shoulder pads surgically implanted. And you figure, "Oh, she'll grow back into them." Then BMW goes off the air and no one has seen her since. Can I get some Recon on this? Someone do research. Have her shoulders swallowed her neck? I want to know.

--I haven't been as able or willing to follow politics this year as I would like, but I did pay close attention to the Iowa Caucuses this week. In case you live in a cave, John Kerry won in something of an upset with 38% of the vote, John Edwards finished an astonishing second with 32%, and the favored Howard Dean came in a disappointing third with only 18% of the vote.

From what I can gather about these candidates, and this is on a very low level of really understanding these guys, it appears that Kerry, Edwards, and Wesley Clark could all do the job. I'm going to dig deeper and pay more attention in the next few weeks. All I know is I'm totally nonplussed with Bush. He'll probably end up winning again, as he and Ashcroft have everyone cuddled up under the Fear Blanket, but I'm telling you, I don't think it's good for this country.

Also, Howard Dean scares me in a very fundamental way. He is evil, I'm telling you.

--If you read and liked any of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy, then you should all be reading Stephen King's The Dark Tower series. Sure, it's seven books. Sure, most of them are over 400 pages. I know. But I don't read books too much, and I certainly can't get into much of the fantasy crap that's out there, and I find this amazing. Think of LOTR combined with a Western like High Noon or The Searchers and you've got TDTS. I will turn this series of books into a film franchise one day and win all kinds of awards. Mark my words.

--Great night of television last night, beginning with American Idol, which was hysterical. I just don't understand how the need to be on TV for twelve seconds outweighs the pride and dignity of a person who can't sing. Some of these people seem genuinely surprised and angered when they're told they're awful. Please help: if you know someone who can't sing and is considering trying out for this show, tell them now and spare feelings.

Wait, wait...what the f*ck am I saying? Push them towards the front of the line! Nothing better than watching someone humiliate themselves on national television.

Then we had the finale of Real World/Road Rules Challenge: The Gauntlet. I actually got tense watching this last one. RW Back to NY Coral nearly died of an allergic reaction to a spider bite, which was good TV. Team Road Rules prevailed by a slim margin.

For some reason, I always feel obligated to root for Team Real World. I can't tell you why. Also, here is something I'm tired of hearing people complain about:

"Why do these people keep going on these things? Don't they have a life? Why are they trying to extend their fifteen minutes of fame?"

OK, look: each of these people gets to leave for a month, go hang out somewhere beautiful where the weather is usually great, chill with a bunch of their friends, get in shape, hang rent-free in some kind of resort, be on TV a little longer, and get a chance to win $25,000+ and a car. Oh, also, they get five grand just for showing up at all.

Um...yeah, you're right, I'd reject that on principal too.

I'd like to add that my RR/RW Challenge Fantasy Team finished a robust 986 out of about 90,000 teams. Boo-yow. Bring on the Inferno!

--My early pick for the Super Bowl: New England 17, Carolina 12.

--Let's recap a few things about the NFC Championship game, shall we?

1) There's no earthly way to pin the loss on either of the Eagles' QBs. Did the WR corps have their helmets on too tight? Did the electric blue in the Carolina unis upset their synapses? Did the smell of Philly B.O. take over the Linc, causing a dimensia downfield? When you are a Wide Receiver in the NFL, you need to know how to run a pass route. It's pretty simple. The problem is that Philly has a team full of third WRs. And Freddie Mitchell. If I'm the Eagles GM, I'm going to take a serious look at trading up as far as I can to land Larry Fitzgerald.

2) My father insists that DeShaun Foster's TD run was the product of poor tackling. I disagree. He just f*cking wanted that end zone. Great run.

3) Chris Collinsworth is the biggest idiot on the planet. They guy knows all about the WR position, a bit about QB, and zero about anything else. His dumbest statements of the game were the constant reminders that, "Duce Staley comes out and plays with so much heart..."

Are you f*cking kidding me? Duce playing with heart? Please. Where the hell has this guy been all year? I'll tell you where--on the sidelines being consistently outperformed by Correll Buckhalter and Brian Westbrook. Know why he's playing so hard? Because he's not gonna be playing in Philadelphia next year and needs a contract elsewhere. The guy is reading directly from the book of Corey Dillon. Shame on the team that buys into his performance this weekend. As soon as he has the check, he's done.

--Let's say you're coming back from the gym, tired and sore, it's cold and icy outside, you're wearing your shorts and a sweatshirt only, trying to get to your office, and you see an old woman struggling to get her car off of an ice patch.

Strand her. Trust me on this. Nothing good can happen by helping.

--Saw Along Came Polly this weekend. No new ground broken here, but Ben Stiller is always a good time and my sexual interest in Jennifer Anniston was rekindled--lotsa shots of her braless, which is a good thing. Oh yeah, they're real. Phillip Seymour Hoffman makes the movie. A good time.

I need to discuss the trailers, however, and this is a Public Service Announcement if there ever was one. If you are not a fan of scary movies (I'm not--I'm a big, big p*ssy), make sure you go into the film AFTER they're over. Why? There is a trailer for the new remake of Dawn of the Dead, wherein a Plague-like virus takes over the world, turning most humans into flesh-hungry zombies. The point is this: the trailer is absolutely f*cking terrifying. People were literally screaming in the theater. Most well-made trailer I have ever seen, but I wasn't expecting it, and I'm not going to lie, a little pee leaked out while I was watching.

Just warning you.

--If you are a guy and an O.C. fan, good news: Mischa Barton (Marissa) turns 18 on 24 January 2004. On that day you can safely masturbate whilst thinking about her without fearing that the authorities will break your door down.

What?

--On the heels of the above, I know Hilary Duff will be hot once she turns 18, but seriously, does she really think she can sing? Simon would have driven her out of the room in nine seconds. Awful, really.

Her lead guitarist rocks, though.

JMU: Knowing Not the Boundaries of Nausea

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Made an impromptu trek down to JMU on Thursday, 15 January 2004 for a recreation of New Year's Eve at 1145 J Ashby, home of both James (CannedJam) and Smitty (SmitHappens). I stayed only for the night. Any more and I might have exploded into a billion little pieces. Before I get into the night's running diary (Sports Guy-style), I want to link to two pictures that tell a pretty good story all by themselves:

Picture #1 (roughly 10:19 PM)--Left to Right: A mildly constipated Smitty, DanWho, James, Myself, Ryan, Piyum. This is early in the festivities, me on my secondish beer. I show this photograph for reference purposes only. Note the happiness on my face. Note the fact that I seem to be aware of picture-taking. Note that I do not look like I might fall over and pass out. Note all of this.

Picture #2 (of totally unknown time period)--Look at what I have become. I have zero recollection of this picture. Zero. Expressionless. Motionless. Eyes covered in more glass than a...house of...glass. Sure, my skin isn't green and aside form the glazed ocular region there's nothing overtly troubling about my appearance (no comments), but upon closer inspection anyone can tell that this is a man on the brink of something explosive. Recall this as you read.

On to the countdown...

9:45 PM--I arrive in the quaint little college town of Harrisonburg. I stop at the Ashby office to obtain a parking pass. Nada. Zilch. No guest passes. Typical. Ashby has gone downhill since I left. Totally.

9:47 PM--Someone outside the office ditches a parking spot. I race outside to my car.

9:47:04 PM--Parking spot taken by massive Escalade before I even reach the New Hottness ('96 Ford Escort Wagon). Motherf*cker.

9:48 - 9:57 PM--I circle the Ashby visitor's lots numerous times attempting to find a spot. It seems as though every time I enter a lot, someone is taking a spot of someone who has just left. Blind people with Parkinson's have had more success playing "Operation".

9:58 PM--I park my car and enter 1145 J. No one is expecting me, and in one of my finer moments, I enter into a room of about 15 people to, "Geoff Baio is here!!!!" and "What the f*ck are you doing here???", making me feel almost like a man. The situation is further heightened by my constant overuse of the 80's Transroom Point (TM) to anyone who yells to me. Ever closer to being a man. Almost.

10:04 PM--With the Parking Lot Authorities about to start towing, I resume my search for a visitor spot. One swipe through the back lot and I have my spot. Where the f*ck were you fifteen g*ddamn minutes ago?

10:07 PM--First beer is filled. I have not had anything to drink in roughly a month, so I make a conscious effort to pace myself. Unbeknownst to my liver, "conscious effort" clearly means "comatose noneffort", a stipulation that allows it to go completely out the window at any given time.

10:10 PM--Conscious effort to pace myself goes out window as I fill my second beer.

10: 25 PM--James comes out of his room with a 1/3 full Traveler of Jagermeister. Jokingly, I say, "James, why don't you chug that" in a comical Tough Guy voice. James, ever the misinterpreter of sarcasm, does so. A violent jerking takes over his face for a few seconds afterwards, and the chance of the first vomit is in the air. However, James recovers remarkably and proceeds to the kitchen to check the level of other liquors. I follow him in and remind him, "James, you better pace yourself. It's not a sprint, it's a marathon."

James, in all his infinite wisdom, spits back the Quote of the Night and current Quote of the Year:

"Yeah. Unless you're a Kenyan, then you can sprint the marathon."

Seriously, can anyone top that? And this man, drunk out of his mind, shot it off in .2 seconds. Brilliant.

10:47 PM--I'm headed to fill beer four or five, I can't recall which, and really feeling it. As I walk into the bathroom (where the keg is), two girls are having a conversation. I don't know what I came before, but I step in to hear, "Yeah, so thank God I have a great ass because my tits are pathetic."

Then they see me. Silence. Awkwardness. I'm shifting. For some reason, some unGodly reason, I picked up a toothbrush from the sink. Why? Why? What would propel me to do something like that? Nothing good is coming out of this situation. They're giving me a look like "What the hell are you doing in here?" I feel ashamed, but seriously, if you are going to discuss such issues over a keg at a party with 50 people at, don't you assume someone might hear you? Days later I'm still confused. I replace the toothbrush and get my beer.

11:13 PM--James, DanWho and I discuss what could be a breakthrough in the way we see history. Clearly, Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred and ninety-two. However, Cristobal (as I like to call him) was an Italian that sailed with the help of the Queen of Spain. Taking into account his nationality and the country backing his voyage, we decided he did NOT cross the Atlantic in the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, but in either a drop-top or T-top IROC. Possibly with hyrdraulics.

Occifer, can you get me a coff of cuppee? Sanks.

11:45 PM--1145 J's Steve, ever the host, hands out tiaras and plastic hats--reminiscent of the Derby Malcom McDowell wears in A Clockwork Orange--to the partygoers. I take a yellow derby to be cool. I'm ready for a little of the ol' ultraviolence. Then, without warning, my Male Vagina Meter goes off the charts as I realize the plastic has begun to burn my head.

(EDITOR'S NOTE--I just want to say that this in no way reflects upon the graciousness of our hosts. Steve could not have realize the hat would burn my forehead so. The gesture was a phenomenal one, and has the chemicals not reacted unfavorably with my delicate skin, I would have kept it on.)

What's funny is that I must not have been the only one, because all of a sudden there is a wave of people passing hats off to others. It's like a big game of Musical Plastic New Year's Hats. I'm worried we might spontaneously generate a leper colony. However, Ryan approaches with some champagne (the good Andre kind), and I forget in a glorious fit of cheap sparkling wine.

11:50 PM - roughly 3:00 AM--This time period is clouded in thick fog. After the champagne hit, I really lost myself. I barely remember the Fake Ball Drop, though I do remember yelling. I remember standing on the couch. I remember wandering and talking and bits and pieces, but nothing comprehensible. So let's fast forward.

Roughly 3:00 AM--My friend Nicole is attempting to walk back to Southview, about a half mile away, by herself. Now I'm a jerk and an assh*le, but one thing you can never allow is for females to walk home by themselves, even at the relatively safe JMU. Note one thing: I know I have in my head that I have to make it back to Ashby, as my case for my contacts is in my bag in my car there. Note this.

Post 3:00 AM walking--I recall little, but I do remember at one point I'm feeling very, very sick. Stomach rumbling. And Nicole is pointing to Hunter's Ridge and saying, "I live that way." Note that Hunter's Ridge is in the opposite direction of Southview. Things are looking progressively worse.

Later--Somehow we find her place. Upon entering Nicole, ever the gracious hostess, is offering me drink, cereal, and aspirin like a concerned grandmother. My stomach is bubbling like a tar pit and I tell myself "Yep, I have to puke." Unfortunately, my inner monologue has collapsed, and I emit this verbally. Nicole, still the gracious hostess, near screams, "Can you make it to the bathroom?"

My answer comes in the form of me placing my fist over my mouth, creating a two points of pressure at either side of my mouth. As the vomit erupts through my esophegus and behind my teeth, I know that no good can come of what is about to happen. I figure, not in a sober manner, that I can hold the vomit in my mouth until I reach the bathroom. Unfortunately for all involved, my legs are not carrying me in that direction. The half-digested beer and gastric acid hit my lips with surprising force, and the pressure of my fist on the outside forces the vomit in--and I cannot overstate this--absolutely high-velocity gushing streams through the narrow gaps on the side of my mouth. As I spray, my legs finally kick into motion and I run for the nearest toilet. Nicole, whom I have never heard swear in my entire life, screams, "NOT ON THE F*CKING CARPET!!!!!!"

I have no idea when--I wake up facedown on the tile in the bathroom. Somehow my aim was true and all the vomit hit the commode water. I even managed to flush. However, the tile has left cross-mark imprint on my face. This hurts. I stand up wobbly and rinse my mouth out. The floor looks better than the tile.

Christ knows when--I wake up on the floor. I can feel the imprint of the grainy carpet superimposed over the cross-mark imprint of the tile. I forget where I am. That couch looks good though.

F*ck if I know--I wake up on the couch. I have forgotten where I am again. It takes me three minutes to right myself. My eyes hurt. I realize that New Year's Eve has truly come and gone, and hurray. Another in the books, and in the trenches. I feel my face. The grain of the couch has superimposed itself over the grain of the carpet and the cross-mark of the tile in an imprint on my delicate face. Before I pass out, I think to myself that I must look like the Swamp Thing.

And there you have it. In the morning (well, afternoon) I have the second worst hangover of my life (the worst being Homecoming day 2000 when I had consumed two Steel Reserves the night before at Melrose. God help us all.) and want to die, knowing I have a three-hour car ride home. I return to the carnage that is 1145 J and retrieve my bag. I brush my teeth and remove my contacts. Smitty, James, Nicole and I are chatting. I present James and Smitty with a bad porn tape that I'm desperate to get rid of. The actual conversation that followed:

SMITTY: Wow, 222 minutes of porn. Thanks.
JAMES: How could you ever watch that much porn?
GEOFF: I usually end up only watching about seven minutes at a time.

Sometimes I wish I weren't so verbal.

I show them a picture of Jameson, who used to be my dog, and Nicole exclaims "EEEEWWWWW." This conversation follows:

GEOFF: Hey, c'mon, that's my dog!
NICOLE: Sorry, I don't really like any animals.
JAMES: Not even bunnies?
NICOLE: Ew, no, bunnies carry rabies.

Finally, as I'm discussing my trip to the PA State Farm Show, we talk about Alpacas. Nicole is looking at me confused. The conversation that follows:

GEOFF: Have you ever seen an Alpaca?
NICOLE: No, what is it?
GEOFF: It's like a really, really, really f*cking dumb, more useless Llama.
NICOLE: Oh. I thought you were talking about computers.
JAMES: I think that's Compaq.

Truth is stranger than fiction. Truly.

My excursion ended with an everlasting motorcarriage trip home and a four-hour stint at American Eagle to boot. I was hungover until noon the next day. Numerous times I considered stopping the car to ralph, but in the end I persevered.

Just like any other JMU weekend.

Next weekend: I tackle the Nation's Capital.

Something I Need to Make You Morons Understand

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Alright.

Two separate people sent me IMs yesterday with basically the same theme:

"Wow. You are really are a female hater. Wow."

I have referenced this before, but I'll go over some points I may have left behind for all of you.

I don't "hate women". However, I do think, in general, females can and tend to be vile, catty, bitter creatures. Who wants to deal with such a person? Notice the in general portion of my statement. That's because it certainly doesn't extend to all females, as one should infer from such a general statement. I know plenty of wonderful ladies who buck the trend and are far more than decent human beings. They know who they are and they know I love them. End of story.

Something else: I am one of the happiest people on the planet. Anyone who really knows me knows I'm always smiling and laughing and doing something for the amusement of others. It's my nature. It is extremely rare that I have a "Bad Day" or allow the things in life that do piss me off to affect my overall Daily Routine. Part of what keeps me a happy person is that I have this Blog to get rid of all the complaining I have inside of me. Keeps me smiling on the outside. Some of you should try this.

So let's get to the meat of this...

At this point in time, I am particularly disgusted with the female gender. It's likely a two way street--I've pissed off enough broads to fill the Atlantic. Also, I'm partly to blame, as I stayed in a relationship for far too long with a person that I just wasn't compatible with, but was too much of a p*ssy to do the right thing for both of us until I had soured on the situation entirely. All that taken into account, let's just drop everything on the table, shall we?

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes, I am generalizing. These are my personal opinions and I do not intend to reflect society at large or anyone else but myself therein, irregardless. So don't f*cking put words in my mouth, lest I bury you.)

1) Women Are Catty--Chicks hate other chicks. It's a fact, and I don't care what anyone says. At one end you have girls who are only friends with guys and have no girlfriends. At another end you have girls with lots of girlfriends, and God knows they talk about them behind their backs every chance they get. Guess what? They both hate other girls. They will jump at a chance to criticize anyone who isn't their favorite celebrity. One of my ex-girlfriend's roommates said it best: "Guys just have a fight and go back to being friends. If it was us, we'd talk about each other behind our backs and be awkward for two weeks."

2) Women Are Too Emotional--Here is one of my main problems. Above all else in this world, I value logic in any given situation. Of course there is always an emotional element to everything, but females take it way, way overboard. Could guys stand to be more emotional and less stoic? Absolutely. But there's that two way street again. Chicks have to learn to be less f*cking emotional. Can you just cry over less and get worked up over bigger issues? Thanks.

3) Women Have No Concept of Male Society--If you are pretty and take care of yourself, seriously, there's no need to doll yourself up every f*cking day. The hours with the makeup and the clothes changing and all the bullsh*t....please stop. I'll lay it out for you right now: if you look as good as Britney or Jessica Simpson or whoever, good for you, that's fantastic. If you don't, that's fine too, because guess what? NO GUY EXPECTS YOU TO. I always hear all this crap that advertising and movies and TV teaches women they need to look a certain way or have a certain cup size and blah blah blah blah blah. You know who is perpetuating this ridiculous notion? OTHER WOMEN. Allow me to be as specific as possible: Guys don't give a flying f*ck about "expectations". Be pretty. Take care of yourself and your body. Stop bitching. I'm not kidding, it's that simple. You aren't being compared to anyone. Stop. Seriously. On a side note, if you are overweight or unhappy with the way you look, complaining and crying about it doesn't help. Find a gym and shut the f*ck up. Irregardless (both of them were for you, T. Rich), people do not exist solely as your own personal EgoElevators.

4) Women Say All They Want is Honesty, When This In and Of Itself is a Lie--This Blog is living proof of such. If you tell them what you really think, there's a firestorm of criticism coming your way. Why? For some reason, there is this mental block that disallows women to see any fault that is pointed out to them by anyone but themselves. It's ridiculous. Let me state something else very clearly, and this is a personal note: I do not sugarcoat or make nice. I have a pretty good sense of tact (unless I have more than four beers in me) and will exercise such. But if you ask me what I think, I'm going to tell you. If you don't ask, I still might tell you, and I'm not going to pussyfoot around an issue simply to avoid conflict. Too many people (guys and girls both) mistake honesty for meanness. That's stupid; don't do it.

There are more but these are the bulk of my issues. Before you cast your stones, a few disclaimers:

1. Maintaining a conscious approach to logic, I do NOT, in fact, assume that every female exhibits the above mentioned qualities. In fact, the first time I meet a female, I'm giving the benefit of the doubt, hoping and praying I'm not disappointed.

2. On that note, I don't expect that anyone should "try" NOT to disappoint me. That's not even an issue. People are who they are. If I don't like you, it's a personal decision. I don't think that anyone should have to live up to my ideal either. That's not the point. Everyone has standards, and I'm damn sure I'm coming in under the Ideal Radar for a hell of a lot of people myself.

3. Furthermore, some ignorant assh*le is going to bring this up, so I might as well squelch it right now: I do not think I am special. I do not think I am God's gift to the world. I'm a person with opinions, like many of you, but unlike many of you my opinions are based in a good deal of thinking, reasoning, and where applicable, factual research. Also, unlike many of you who are spineless or afraid to offend, I express my opinions. The fact that I am not Heaven's Intended Gift to the Female Population does not negate my right to assert what pisses me off. No, I am not perfect. I don't claim to be. Every chance I could be wrong. Got it? Thanks.

4. Debate is good and I encourage it. However, some will assert their right to make a personal attack on myself in whatever manner they deem suitable. Please know, however, that I am confident in the fact that I'm probably smarter than you (no intelligent person needs to resort to a personal attack, unless in jest) and should you choose to engage me in a verbal battle, you are digging your own grave.

One more small point: one of the people who mused about my woman-hating was an ex-girlfriend. The relationship ended on good terms. It was the first time I had heard from her in probably five months or more.

Hmmmmm.....

A Small Bit of Hilarity For the Morning

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Any of you who read Maxim will recall this list instantly, but I just thought it'd be good to have a quick Internet reference in case a rule check is necessary. Thanks to Dr. Lisa Ravindra (The Indian Barbie Doll) for the heads-up:

The Man Code

PS--Dr. Lisa, how's them teeth? Stay to the right...STAY TO THE RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Something I Forgot to Mention and is Gnawing at Me Harshly

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Does anyone else watch MTV's Cribs? I am fascinated with it. I begrudge no one the right to do whatever the hell they want to do with their money. If you want to have a 40-Room Mansion with Solariums and Maid Quarters and all manner of useless amenities, please, be my guest. I'm just baffled because you have all these people with all this money, and they have NO idea what to do with it, so they buy these huge houses and clutter them with all this expensive sh*t that they probably never utilize. I cannot fathom that I'll ever want a huge house. Sure I'd like something decent sized with a nice pool and a movie theater. That would be great. But what the hell would I need all that space for? Besides (and this is a topic for a later post), I plan to be so filthy rich that I can be philanthropic out the whazoo.

There have been a lot of Cribs showcases featuring a lot of materialistic, name-obsessed d*chebags (Mariah Carey jumps to mind immediately), but the wife of Hip-Hop mogul Russell Simmons takes the cake.

Russell seems like a good guy. Not only is he laid back and cool, but his tireless self-promotion doesn't come off and conceited and showy or as pushing for more bucks--it just comes off as hard work. The guy's got Def Jam, Phat Pharm, and all kinds of other irons in the fire. He's a business whiz. Good for him.

His wife blows a f*cking donkey. First of all, I'm back to the Asian thing, and she's an attractive Asian, but she's certainly not the hottest, not even close, and Russell, with all his money, could have done better. Second, the first thing she says as the cameras approach the door, in an I'm-better-than-you-because-I-have-money tone is, "Hello, I invite you into our home with love, and for those of you whose job it is it to hate, you better turn the channel." Really? F*ck you, you dumb b*tch, because here I is. Hatorade be splish-splashin' this day.

The entire segment is Russell being low key and Kimora pointing out all of her wonderfully unspectacular material possessions. Oh, this is my six-foot high such-and-such chandelier. Oh, this is my collection of Versace furniture that I got from an auction. Oh, these are my custom pillows. Oh, these are my jeweled animals that remind me of people who used to pick on me in school, well I'm rich now, so there. Oh, my dining room walls are made of silk. Oh, Versace's bed. And blah blah blah blah blah into abf*ckingsurdium. Then, the most irritating part, on to her "Office", of which she says, "This is my office. It's on the ground floor because I run this house."

F*ck you, you blatant waste of human breath. May I point out that you are a "model" (and I use that word lightly) who has done NOTHING but mooch off your husband for the past seven or eight years? May I point out that your efforts probably paid for little or nothing in that house? May I point out that only useless beings such as yourself would possibly care about your China, or your silk walls, or whatever else you wasted your husband's money on? And then you dare to pretend to be urban and tell people not to "hate"?

People like this annoy and aggravate me to no end. These are the people that deserve the "hate". She is exactly what "hate" was designed for. I hope Kimora Simmons gets on the same plane as J-Lo and Mariah and it crashes wildly into the side of a mountain, burning them alive in agony for at least 15 excrutiating minutes until they finally expire. Dense f*cks. Again, your money is your money and spend it as you like, but don't brag about sh*t that A) Four people in the world care about and B) you had nothing to do with paying for. I feel bad for Russell. You can tell he is suffering form the Normal Guy Who Married the First Hot Chick That Banged Him for His Money Because He Didn't Realize How Powerful His Money Was Syndrome.

I fell better now.

--Also forgot to mention this bit of coincidence...

As per the aforementioned laughing at the buffoon attempting an ill-fated Waistband Tuck (TM) at a party, as I was partaking in my joy, who should call but one Mr. Chris Loftus, drunk out of his mind, with our good friend Melissa Taormina at a party. It was loud there, and I could make out little that he said, but I was able to get out the following:

"Ican'tbelieveyoucallednowohmyGodI'mwatchingsomekiddotheworstWaistbandTuck(TM)I'veeverseenit'sincredibleI'mlaughingmyassoffbye."

That call placed at that moment by my Associate...well, needless to say, it made my weekend. Incidentally, if you see an awful Waistband Tuck (TM) being attempted in your town, please let me know about it.

You May Not Want to Believe Me, But I Hold the Key to the World In My Hands

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Before I get into the Unconquerable Postulates (TM) and the InterMale Relational Topics (TM), I first need to point something out.

--The Philadelphia Eagles are not only the worst 13-3 team in the history of the NFL, they are also one of the luckiest. True, they are in the NFC Championship Game, but saying such is the equivalent of bragging that you are the tallest midget in the circus. Eagles fans (and people from Philadelphia proper, in general) are widely considered--and rightly so--to be the most abomidable and disgusting sports fans in the country. So if you are one of these Eagles fans, take note: The Philadelphia Eagles did not win yesterday's game. The Green Bay Packers clearly gave it to them. Aside from McNabb, who showed only flashes of brilliance, no one else came to play yesterday and they all benefited greatly from the Pack's lack of defense and Favre's last second dimensia.

Just wanted you all to know that. I'm not even an NFC fan. I just hate the Eagles. Also allow me to point out that, if the Eagles are lucky enough again to beat the Panthers (whose defense will likely swallow whole the pathetic "Offense" of Philly), they shall be lambasted outright in the Super Bowl, a crushing defeat yet again for a crappy city.

On to greener pastures...

INTERMALE RELATIONAL TOPICS (TM)

Please ignore the fact that the title sounds obtusely homoerotic. These three issues for verbal conveyance can be used at any time in almost any situation if you need to simply associate with those around you. Basically, if you ever need to establish common ground with another male for any reason, you can bring up any of the following. Examples include:

--Hanging out with a group of your buddy's friends whom you are meeting for the first time
--Male friends or male family members of a girlfriend
--Co-workers at a new job

Sadly, the ladies will likely be unable to vibe with these three topics, but then again this post is not intended for such vile beasts (I'm kidding. Mostly.).

1) The Contra Code--I have to say at the outset that I cannot take credit for developing this IMRT. This practice was initially introduced to me by one of my gurus and favorite writers, The Sports Guy. He brought this up in a column probably a year or two ago.

The premise is simple: seeking to establish unity in a group of males with whom you are not familiar, simply recite the following:

"Excuse me...Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A Select, Start."

The room will be awash with glee and someone will immediately yell out, "THE CONTRA CODE!!!!!!" This IMRT works 100% of the time it is used in circles of North American Males.

The code, as any red-blooded American between the ages of 18 and 30 will recall, was the code in the Original Nintendo game Contra to cheat the system, beat the man, and receive 99 lives. It almost guaranteed you could soar through the game with vitality to spare. And EVERYONE knew about it. Everyone.

I have field-tested this IMRT on many occasions, usually whilst drinking. It almost always brings a round of drinks to the table, and if nothing else, promotes some lively discussion while making you an instant cultural hero.

WARNING: Should you encounter one or more American Males aged 18-30 who do not know of the code, or encounter a female who has more than a passing knowledge of such, extracate yourself from the premises immediately. DO not pass "Go", do not collect $200, and may God have mercy on your soul. Be extremely wary of males who do not know "The Code", as they are likely communist operatives. Also be on the lookout for females who possess too much of either video games or sports. Severe evil lurks inside of these individuals. Trust me. If there is no room to run away, bricks may be thrown.

2) The Middle School Dance Excitement Survival--Talking about this literally put me laughing on the JMU Freshman Mailroom floor back in 1999. It's an experience so common to males of any age that it is easily considered universal and transcends many geographic, religious, and time-specific barriers.

The average 13-14 year old male is one of the most highly excitable beings in existence. The onset of puberty combined with the right breeze can send a skyrocket of blood and hormones to the unsuspecting crotch with a ferocity I dare not trifle with (more on this in a bit). Combine this with the fact that Middle School Dances are a breeding ground for the first real Female Body Contact (The Slow Dance), and you have the most frightening issue in the World of the Teenage Boy: The Spontaneous Erection.

The problem with Middle School Dances is that, often, there is a Dress Code involved that includes a tucked-in shirt. This is extremely bad news, as it negates the possibility of a working Waistband Tuck (details, again, in a bit). But, as young lads, we are helpless. We have just begun to notice that girls are not icky; in fact, they smell rather nice, have pretty hair, and have grown inexplicably attractive mounds on their chests. This, unfortunately, presents a force of nature that will forever encompass our being, and at this cruel stage of adolescence, we are unable to rationalize the complications of the matter. When asked to dance (or on the rare occasion we did the asking, because girls were far more advanced in the art of...intergender communication, at this point), we oblige willingly and excitedly.

The Slow Dance starts out innocent enough, but problems arise when the two individuals draw closer to one another. And closer. And closer. The girls know what they are doing the whole time; why else would they have asked us to dance? However, only when the bodies touch do the males realize the complexity of the situation, and then a stream of consciousness erupts that enact too many important, yet ill-timed, questions: Why did she ask me to dance? Why are we so close? Does she like me? Do I like her? What are those lovely bumps inches from my neck? What in th...oh no.

And there it is. Without warning, a Grandiose Pocket Rocket has sprung, and your first thought is that it will take weeks for it to go away. Frantic, your mind searches for a solution to the Worst Problem in History. Finally, realizing that you're only 30 seconds into a four-minute song, it hits you--you must proceed with a Pelvic Backaway (TM). Amazingly, the bone structure of the Teenage Boy allows you to keep your head, chest, and legs connected to that of your dancing partner, while only slightly arching the buttocks outward and disconnecting your pelvis from the proceedings. Were you to stabilize your racing mind and look around, you would realize that every other male in the vicinity is doing the same. All are in luck, as during The Slow Dance the lights are low. Your worst fear is that the disco ball will stall or someone will get creative with the spotlight, announcing to the world that the tent in your pants is ready for the evening. This rarely, if ever, happens, and though it might not seem possible at the time, your trouser treasure should recede in the 2-3 minutes of song you have left. Should it not, you can always immediately fake a lower back injury or a need to tie your shoe for an extra minute as the lights go up and the problem rests.

Though the reenaction of the Pelvic Backaway (TM) is usually a needed visual representation, I think you know what I'm getting at. There is no male on the planet who will not appreciate its inclusion in general banter, especially if a witty story is to follow. It can also lead into a discussion of....

3) The Waistband Tuck--Ever see the E! True Hollywood Story of Milli Vanilli? Gripping stuff. Particularly entertaining is the segment of the interview with Rob Pilatus (I'm officially assigning him the role of Milli--he's the one who offed himself in '98) discusses the fact that they didn't want to get exposed as frauds. He told the interviewer they were desperate to NOT win the Best New Artist Grammy because everything would be found out. "All we were thinking is, 'Don't get the Grammy, don't get the Grammy,'" he said in his thick German accent. "And then, we got the g*ddamn Grammy."

This is, more or less, the feeling that sweeps over you during a Middle School Dance (or...well, anything, really) when you feel a stiffy coming on. It's the "Oh please no, oh please no, oh pl...F*CK" that sweeps over you. To guard against the unfairness of nature, men have invented and perfected the Waistband Tuck.

It's operation is simple, as my reader Stephanie correctly surmised: upon the onset of erection, one quickly feeds a hand into the pantal/crotchular affected region, gently lifts the penile organ, places it against the lower-lower abdominal region, and carefully folds the waistband of the undergarments over top to protect it. The result? A non or almost near-non showing of a full-force erection. An untucked shirt completes the transaction, hiding your boy from all scrutiny. Though the method sounds complicated, it can be performed by even the clumsiest or inexperienced of males in under two seconds. It has become second nature to many of us.

The only pitfalls come when A) there is the aforementioned NonCasual Tucked Shirt or B) one is wearing a thin short, such as a gym short.

I recall one of the worst days of my life in eighth grade. My mother had purchased a three-pack of silk boxers for me and, as we had a heated game in our school-wide kickball tournament that day, I wore mesh shorts to school. The combination of the cool, soft silk combined with constant movement...well, let's just say that I carried books in front of my crotch in between every period that day to mask the redwood growing in my loins (and yes ladies, that's an accurate description--call me). No Waistband Tuck could be performed, as the force of the erection is greater and more consistent than gravity. It takes a substantial material--a khaki or a denim--to visually repel its force. I attempted the Textbook Coverup (TM), but that becomes obvious before you even get to Lunch.

This IMRT can be used any time as well, but is particularly effective when dealing with the goodbyes or during stories of related strife.

UNCONQUERABLE POSTULATES: JMU (TM)

A couple of theories, developed by myself and one Mr. Chris Loftus.

1) The Summer of George--after the clocks turned past 11:59 PM on December 31, 1999, the New Millenium was upon us. Some expected Armageddon in the works; we had none. Some expected the world's computers to crash; they did not. But you got the feeling that something was in the air. Something real. Something powerful.

My friends, there was.

Thinking back on the last century, males had traditionally been expected to make the first moves in an intergender relationship. A male was expected to approach the female, chat her up, ask for her number, and arrange a first date. The system dominated our and other culture(s) for at least the past 1000 years. But Loftus and I began to notice something after the turnover...

Girls were approaching us with ferocity.

This was nothing new for Loftus, though he could do nothing about the constant influx of females, as he is spineless and will admit to such. But the ladies never particularly hit on me. Usually I was the one making the advances. However, after that fateful December day, a change of monumental proportions occurred--I began to be noticed. I was getting heat from all corners of the JMU community. Loftus had seen a significant increase in his numbers as well. What the hell could be going on?

The answer was right in front of our faces--the New Millenium had signaled a Thousand Year Long Summer of George. The Fates had realigned. Female Biochemistry had been affected. Social norms were destroyed in an instant. Mark my words, it still is happening, though I am now out of the college environment and cannot statistically reference such with profound accuracy. I got no better looking, "game" did not improve, and I wasn't trying anything. It just happened.

Mark my words, gentlemen. Sit back and enjoy the 21st Century. Don't bother to try to explain it. Let them come to you.

2) Hijacked Bloussant--Around the beginning of Second Semester, 2002, Loftus and I noticed a dramatic increase in the breast size of JMU females. I'm not talking a few more girls with enlarged mammary glands; I'm talking a full-blown Breastal Explosion. At least 50% of the female JMU population was carrying a C-cup or better. I kid you not. I wish I had taken pictures.

Our only possible explanation (and this fit in well with our theory that all females were required to submit a headshot with their Application for Admission to the University, because Jesus Christ, you should see the girls there, my God) is that the Admissions Department had either purchased or hijacked a shipment of the then-popular Breast Enlargement Vitamin, Bloussant (I know you saw the commercials) and fed it into either the water supply or spiked the food at D-Hall. I'm telling you, this has to be true, because the next semester breast size had gone back to the normal level of noticeability.

Speaking of Bloussant, that commercial involved me in one of my most embarrassing moments in history. My roommate Craig's parents came to visit one weekend. His Dad, a super guy, is a man of few words. I was engaging Mr. Metz in a very slight conversation--the how are things, how was the drive, etc.--when talking stalled. As he sat on our sofa in the living room, I moved to the kitchen to get a drink. I turned, asked him if he'd like something, and in the space before he could answer me, as if the volume was set on Level 2,514, the TV blared out the fabled commercial:

"Would you like to have firmer, larger breasts than you ever imagined?"

I froze. Froze. Mr. Metz said nothing. The real horror of the situation was that the TV remote was too far away for either of us to casually reach to and change the channel. So we sat there, saying nothing, unsure of how to proceed. Being the mature individual I am, I hurried to my room, locked the door, and curled up under my comforter in the fetal position, crying softly. I don't know if Mr. Metz ever got his lemonade.

Again, as always, feel free to discuss and leave your comments on all.

The Hiatus Comes to an End So I May Discuss Real World San Diego

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So little happened over this Holiday Season that I can barely begin to comprehend its uselessness. The only thing that occurred was the passage of time, bringing me closer to Los Angeles. Even with the lack of events, I still have plenty to talk about.

--Let's get right to my Totally Non-Judgmental Thoughts (TM) on the first episode of Real World San Diego. In such, I will assess the character of each individual participant, taking into account that all reality TV shows have Story Editors, and basically you can make anyone look any way you want to through editing. However, I will also note that eventually, creative editing notwithstanding, you have to be yourself over a five month period and the cameras will eventually capture that essence. Before I get into San Diego, though, I must make a note form last year...

RW Las Vegas Steven is quite possibly the biggest d*uch*bag on the planet. I mean seriously, this kid is a leaking bag of douche. Spilling. How can anyone be fooled to NOT think this guy is a waste of organs? I point directly to the debate that ensued after he and RW Las Vegas Brynn got into an altercation. She threw a fork at him and pushed him because he called her all manner of synonyms related to "Streetwalker". Though a fork is truly an violent instrument of terror that should only be handled by top-level operatives (your SarcasoMeters should be exploding at this point), let's ignore its involvement for the moment. She pushed him. She is maybe 100 lbs, and Big Steve is cracking in at about twice her height and a good 180. His big argument was that he wanted her out of the house because, were she to go off on him again, he "might be forced to hit her back" and "would be labeled a woman-beater for the rest of (his) life". And he kept saying that, like it was even a f*cking issue: "This is the rest of my life!"

Shut the f*ck up you ballsless d*ckbag. He just kept saying it, like his ridiculous argument had any merit whatsoever. Then, to cap it all off, in the elevator with RW Las Vegas Arissa, he says, "I think I made some really amazing points." RW Las Vegas Steven, you are the biggest flaming pile of trash in America, surpassing even Boomer Esiason and Hilary Duff's guitarist. Now what really bothers me about this whole fiasco is that both RW Las Vegas Brynn and RW Las Vegas Trishelle (don't get me started)both wanted to f*cking marry the kid. And there are girls out there who still would. Ladies, I don't begrudge you a roll in the hay if you think he's attractive, but is there any way you can NOT, again, NOT think he's the epitome of slime? Anyone? I will say this straight-out with no hint of sarcasm and will stand firm on it: Jessica Simpson is probably the hottest biped around, but after seeing what she's really like, I would only bang her senseless and three ways from Sunday. I would not date her and would certainly not marry her. No chance in hell. Do you see how grizzled Nick Lachey is getting (trust me buddy, I know the feeling)? She might be hot, but I have standards. I'm hoping females would exercise the same against RW Las Vegas Steven.

OK, glad I got that off my chest. On to the current cast...

1) RW San Diego Cameran--Alright, you are certainly hot, though you could stand to put a few pounds on that frame. Legs are a little sickly looking. Fantastic ass. But you really, really bother me. Why? First of all, the Civil War ended about 140 years ago. Get over it, and that goes for everyone in the "South". I don't even care if you're joking, which you likely aren't; bringing up the "I hate Northern Yankees" card is like me exclaiming "We want Jim Crow". Notice no one from the "North" perpetuates useless lines of dialogue that are so blatantly in the geriatric. Stop. Also, your "Aw, Shucks" attitude is fooling no one. No one. Not that you aren't probably stupid, but telling us that you think sex is "messy and awkward" while overtly pointing out to everyone in the house--in a shameless fit of off-topicness, I might mention--that you brought your vibrator with you is just obvious. I'm not buying the Good Southern Girl bit at all, and I doubt too many people are. Chill out.

2) RW San Diego Jamie--Anyone who knows me knows I have a burning, itching, painful case of Asian Female Lust. I can't speak much to her character, as she barely talked in the first episode, but Jamie is by far the hottest castmember. Whoo. Whoo. I'm getting flushed. Jamie, call me.

3) RW San Diego Brad--See above with RW Las Vegas Steven. OK, OK...he's not that bad. I will say I'm particularly impressed with the way he handled the Hot Tub Frankie situation. It was classy and appropriate. However, I think had things not been on camera, it would have been a different story. RW San Diego Robin's assessment of Brad is true--the Typical Frat Guy (TM). Again, ladies, if you think he's the greatest looking thing since sliced bread, believe me, I'm not going to try to debate you. But the limpd*ck tricks on the motorcycle? The fawning of his girlfriend, who isn't very attractive to begin with? The overt meatheadedness? Come on. He might say he's from Chicago, but this dude positively screams Jersey Guido D*uch*bag (TM). If he's fooling any of you, well, I'm going to need to run out and buy some more stock in Females Are Idiots and Bringing About the End of the Planet.

4) RW San Diego Randy--What's not to like about this kid? He's got the sweet hair, he's from Boston, he runs security at a nightclub and attends Art School, and by golly, at age 24, he's the house Grandpa. If the females have any intellect, he'll get more ass than Brad when it's all said and done.

5) RW San Diego Frankie--You absolutely have to love the fact that a Punk Rocker with Cystic Fibrosis can get sh*tfaced on the first night of filming, try to make out with a roommate knowing that her boyfriend will be seeing it later, fall on the way to the bedroom, and then puke over herself. Does it get any better? I ask you, does it get any better? The Cystic Fibrosis thing is like the really, really especially big candle on a really, really fantastically burned cake. Made my week. And the whole thing is, if not for the weird bangs and lipring, she'd be a damn cute kid. Smoke another Clove, Coughy Cougherson! Nothing beats watching someone tear their life down on Basic Cable.

6) RW San Diego Jacquese--Seems like a solid kid and, honestly, anyone that can make it out of Patterson (the same town that drove Rubin "Hurricane" Carter wrongfully into prison) and attend college is a damn fine human being in my book. One thing though--it appeared that he wasn't drinking the first night. Unless a recovering alcoholic, always be wary of someone who chooses not to drink. It's just a gut feeling of mine. RW San Diego Jacquese is my Dark Horse for Lunacy, running behind, of course, RW San Diego Frankie. Incidentally, not since RW Hawaii have two roommates been teetering so gently on the brink of insanity (RW Hawaii Matt and RW Hawaii Kaya, and if you don't seriously think RW Hawaii Matt was about to totally lose his sh*t, think again).

7) RW San Diego Robin--A good looking girl with a cool job, a good head on her shoulders, and two major fatal flaws. One is the Too Short Hair, often a horrible gamble if you're a female. It looks bad on her, as it does on 99% of the ladies who attempt it. Don't. You're a chick; look like one. Second, she's got some of the worst implants I've ever seen. Now, as those of you who know me know, I am staunchly against implants. Not for any moral reason. I just think they look awful most of the time. However, in this day and age, you can go out and get fantastic looking fakes. RW San Diego Robin apparently glazed over this fact on her way to the plastic surgeon, and instead appears to have asked her doctor to, "attach the most gargantuan, obvious cereal bowls to my chest, and spread them as far apart as possible so that we leave no doubt I'm a huge f*ckup." The good news is that, in the event of some kind of maritime disaster aboard their Touring Sailboat, RW San Diego Robin will float to the top fastest.

As per normal, your comments, be they yay or nay to mine, are encouraged.

--Some horrible news from this past weekend: watching one of those VH-1 "Where Are They Now" things, a segment came up on Kevin Kline. I always liked Kevin Kline. Damn fine actor. But I was irrevocably disheartened to find that he somehow tricked the luscious Phoebe Cates into marrying him. Did anyone know that? I think he's been secretly keeping her chained in his basement for years, forging the marriage certificate all whilst sustaining her on a strict diet of Wheat Thins and Soy Milk. Jesus, she still looks great, and honestly, what the F*CK is she doing with Kevin Kline? This is as bad if not worse than the Catherine Zeta-Jones/Michael Douglas union, which I still can't discuss with any amount of common sense.

Can someone make this go away, please? If the Olson Twins marry Philip Seymour Hoffman next week, I swear to f*cking God I'm moving to a shanty in Upper Canadia.

--I'm at a party last night, sober, meandering, and I hear some kids laughing behind me (and before you ask, yes, I'm the oldest person at this party by a solid three years). I turn to look at them, and they are mocking a kid on the other end of the beer pong table. He has been partnered with a blond girl for what seems like hours now, and they have begun to rub on each other quite a bit. The kid, obviously drunk and unaware of his element, is feverishly attempting the worst Waistband Tuck (TM) in the history of the world. At first I wasn't sure what was happening. Then one of the Laughing Kids yelled, "Yeah buddy, tuck that in!" Then I knew. Instant, frolicking laughter. I hadn't thought about the Waistband Tuck (TM) in months, because when you do it, you do it subconsciously. It's simply a force of nature. But not this kid. No. He was digging, fidgeting wildly in his trousers, oblivious to our delight. Apparently defeated, he actually TURNED TO FACE THE WALL and continued to work at it. Then, finally winning the battle, he turns around like nothing is wrong. Somehow the Hookup Gods are smiling widely on this kid, because his partner (and later random hookup) failed to notice the entire incident. Such an event can only be amusing to someone with a fifth grade humor level. Someone like me.

Oh, don't know what the Waistband Tuck is? If you haven't figured it out, wait patiently for the next GooseTown Entry. In said Entry, we will visit two of my favorite Unconquerable Postulates (TM) and three of my favorite InterMale Relational Topics (TM) from college. We will tackle:

1) The Summer of George
2) Middle School Dance Excitement Survival
3) The Waistband Tuck
4) Hijacked Bloussant
5) Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right....

It will be glorious.

I will end by wishing a safe and uneventful return to US soil for my good friend Matt Sanders, off for a one-year tour in Iraq. Godspeed my friend. Godspeed.