& The News

So, what's the bad news? The bad news is that my BAC was .22 a couple months back when they pulled me over and arrested me. Because of such a high (or impressive) BAC, I got an extra three months of cocktail college. My sister said she liked it and that you just end up watching a bunch of Intervention and hanging out with partiers.

In addition, I will be required to perform nine days of community service with criminals. I do, however, look pretty decent in orange. Vests, not so much. I wonder if they would let me just wear an orange cummerbund. I'm also trying to figure out which gang I should join. The white power dudes scare me and the Latinos are a little intense. I need to find the Canadian gang and then I think I would be able to get by by just being real nice to people and being funny.

Let me see. Other bad news is the fines, the restricted license for to and fro only to work, cocktail college and weekend freeway trash pick-up. This could totally work if I met someone at trash pick up or the cocktail college. It would be like a weekly date.

Now. The good news? I just saved three hundred dollars on car insurance. Seriously. I've never changed my insurance since I bought my car and was referred to a DUI car insurance guy who was kinda funny as hell and awesome. He called me back today and it will be switched over tonight. The car's a piece of shit and I never drive it, so it'll work out fine. Plus, I got a free t-shirt and bottle opener. Pure Awesomenacity.

Throughout the whole ordeal, I will admit one thing and that is that I really kind of needed it to happen so that I would stop arrogantly driving around like I was untouchable. I was given a lot of chances and someone had to finally come up and bitch slap me and cuff me to a bench so that I would stop acting like a fucktard. I still get fucktarded now and then, but I don't drive anymore when I'm all fucktarded. I think it's going to end up working out. Plus, I now have that social club that I've needed for the next nine months. DUI class has got to fall somewhere between AA and a book club, right?

Trail Of Beers

Well, it's on. Fresh off a beautiful trip to Hood River, OR, I booked the flight to LA to be in a TV project, which absolutely cracks me up. I'd give away the premise, but it's not really mine to give away. So, put that on the list with all the other shit that makes no sense that I do. The only acting that I've ever done in my life is that musical when I was like 8 and various instances of creative lying. Oh, I've also acted like I had Down's syndrome when my sister and I were shopping for pants once. She got superpissed about it.

So, the recent Hood River trip. It was for a friend's wedding and I was staying with two of the dopest people I know in a really nice place that would cost way too much if it were located in the Bay Area. We even got a special guest visitor on the couch that I took to Shari's at three in the morning for some fine barefoot dining while wrapped in a TrailOfTears blanket that was worth $500 in this particular circumstance.

The condo was within walking distance of a severely confused British pub that became post-festivity headquarters. I call it confused because there was a fucking Frommer's guide to Ireland on the bar and not one TV for showing soccer. Plus, they weren't even open for the first EPL game of the day on Saturday. I guess if you fly the Union Jack and serve Bass, you are British enough.

The condo also had a view of Washington conducting commerce and for $1.50 American, you could cross a bridge and pay sales tax and pump your own gas. It was brilliant and the weather was a borderline sign of the apocalypse. It was just perfect.

The pub, however, had one thing going in their favor in the form of a bartender that I was lightly smitten with on the first night that we got there. The last night I was there, I ended up with her at another bar with her bartender friend that she had to have been sharing a bed with, but stranger things have happend. It was the Pacific Northwest, though, so I may have been reading her wrong.

The next day, I woke up and had a slip of paper with a penis drawn on it and her girlfriend's name written above it. That makes us BFFs. I don't remember a tremendous amount of the latter part of the night, but my left nipple was in severe pain the next morning when we disembarked on the scenic route to the airport. There are a lot of waterfalls in Oregon. Pro Tip.

Now, for notes from the wedding, I'll just bulletpoint some quotes/conversations:

Conversation 1
Her: "I was told that you are my best chance for getting laid at this wedding and I've already thought of some disgusting things to do to you."

Me: "And your name is?"

Conversation 2
Other Her: "Has anyone told you that you look like Dane Cook?"

Me: "No. And I don't enjoy his humor. Have you ever heard of Bill Hicks?"

Conversation 3
Other Her: "I heard you call some girl a moose at the bar. Is that what you call me?"

Me: "Uhhh. No. Of course not. Swear."

Conversation 4
Dude: "Robert Palmer is dead?"

Me: "Yeah, he died like five years ago."

Dude: "What did he die of?"

Me: "I don't know. Maybe a love addiction?"

Might As Well Face It

I just ordered a new iTouch as I need an iPod upgrade. Coincidentally due to a friends re-enamoration with the brilliance of Robert Palmer (1949 - 2003), I had it engraved with "Might As Well Face It You're Addicted To Love." My iTouch will serve as a memorial to the man that didn't mean to turn you on. The runner-up engraving was "Mr. Gorbachev. Tear down that WALL!"

Bears

This is one of the funnier stories I've seen all month. You may not even need to read it, but a dude was riding his bike down the road and crashed into a bear. Fuckin' rad.

Teacher OK after crashing into bear on a bicycle - Yahoo! News

47 Dicks

Ummmmm. On a whim or because my house had been taken over by ten year old guitar heros, I went for a drink last night. Probably too late for a Sunday night, but I'm not as fragile as I used to be. So, I had a few and talked to some girl for a while...woke up with a swastika drawn on the right side of my chest and a giant dick on the left. There was also something drawn on the back of my neck that I'm kinda hoping that no one else can see. Also, there is ink all over my sheets.

There is a ton of irony in a dick being drawn on me. For some reason, it feels like a symbol's revenge somehow. The picture above is from the Imperial Palace last week when I decided to draw dicks with a keno crayon until I got my food. This is not some weird Superbad thing either. Been drawing dicks for a while. I think it started with golf balls. I would just draw a dick on them instead of my initials.

So, I was at dinner last Friday with my sister and her boyfriend and her old roommate and their friend. A lot of wine was harmed in the formation of the fuzzy memory that is Friday, but I was talking to her friend who is retardedly smart, charming and has an advanced degree in Psychology. I asked her if a grown man drawing 47 dicks on a placemat would concern her and she just told me that it definitely raises a red flag. I'm not even sure she was kidding.

So, regardless. I got chiefed by a girl last night. Grown man chiefed. That's just sad. It will get better. This I know.

FTATM

This is my Favorite Thing At The Moment while I worry about The Breeder.

Get Your War On: The Animated Series

This is just beyond the definition of superbadazzzzzzzzz.



Just absofuckinlutely brilliant. The other episodes are on 236.com. Also, check out My New Filing Technique Is Unstoppable.

Bingo Army

First of all, may Jerry "Snowman" Reed rest in piece. An immense talent under the direction of the great Hal Needham and not even Sally Field looked as good next to Burt "Buddy" Reynolds.

Next, Feist is the official soundtrack of the bike ride into work this week. It's just the perfect amount of chill to slowly remove the cob webs at 6:50 AM. Plus, it calms me. Speaking of calm, I've started making my bed every morning again. This is a really good sign. I only do that when I'm feeling content with life in general. I don't know why I'm content, but I never question these things. It could be all the CW that I've been watching. I watched Gossip Girl the other night and I'm totally gay for 90210: Redux.

Third, the reason I'm posting. I recently moved from my office that smelled of a Salvation Army dust aroma because it's where they did most of the research in the late 50's while creating the plans for a particle accelerator. At least that's what my grandpa said about the building. It has no connection to the smell besides it just being a really fuckin' old building. Regardless, it was gross and not cutely vintage. So, I got cubed and haven't been happier in a long time with my work situation. Lots of desk space. Little storage space. This resulted in me getting rid of a lot of accumulated crap.

So, my own private world is good, however, there are new people to not play well with. One that I've picked out in just 48 hours is the woman that matches me toe-to-toe with a meal to each cup of coffee that I have. That's three by noon, by the way. She keeps offering me food every time I go grab a cup of coffee. I may have to trick her into getting shoved into an oven a la Hansel and Gretel before this is all over.

Speaking of Hansel and Gretel, I was in a musical of it when I was seven or eight. I still remember the song "I'm Your Big Brother" from it. To be truthful, it was an elementary arrangement and the word choices were horrible, but whatevs. I think my dad has a videotape of it somewhere for blackmail in the event that I ever run for public office. Oh, so instead of shoving the witch into the oven like in the book, they had me kiss her at the end. The kiss made her good, I believe. Now, do you see the warping of a child mind that happened? I was ruined for life. I believed (like 80% of the female population) that my kiss could change a witch (person) into a princess Something good). That's fucked up to do to a kid. The kiss should have made her melt so that I could take that forward in life to POint A.25.

So, back to Bingo Arm. As I look around, if I took everyone in the room from door A to door B and tried to put them into an elevator, there would be no chance. Furthermore, if you put me on a plane next to Bingo Arm, I would go for the emergency exit as a shock induced death would take way less time and be way less painful than being smashed into an airplane window next to a woman like that for any amount of time. On top of that, I would avoid having a gravy/butter hybrid of sweat dousing me. I'd also like to add that it is the same lady in charge of the annual cakewalk. I think I may be able to have a little bit of fun with this a la the voice activated copier prank of 2008. Six fuckin' people yelled at the copier that day to my amusement and only three people in the department knew I did it because I told them I was going to. I think the first prank I will try is laying some faux food out like a styrofoam turkey leg and see if she tries to eat it. From there, I'll figure out what makes her tick and exploit it. It's what I do.

So, yes. I love my new cauge.

Shaved Beef

This is a hypothetical story that may or may have not happened. I'll be the first to say that you would need wings to fly above the pile of weird shit that's intersected my path from point A to point A.5 so far, but this hypothetical story is one of the more weird. It starts with me trying to find a new girl to cut my hair.

I knew a girl that cut hair that I had talked to in the past and she commented on how good my hair was. I don't mind being stroked and started talking to her once I had asked her to take her top up a button because she was really trying to hard. I'm a man of business when it comes to finding a new manscaper. I had no idea how far this was going to go. So, we talked a bit and then parted ways. We exchanged numbers which ended with some extremely explicit text messages from her which in turn lead to an extremely implicit deletion of a contact.

So, down the road, I was a little desperate for a local girl to cut my hair and I knew where to find her. It was the bar, of course, my center of commerce and culture. Commerce being free peanuts and culture being people that never made you apologize the day after a bender, but appreciated it and welcomed you back.

She walked in while I was there after work and we talked a bit. We played some dice and then an extreme game of bar Yahtzee that may or may not have resulted in an under-the-bar HJ. This strayed deviantly from the task at hand which was to find a new set of clippers locally. The good news? I found a new girl to cut my hair that knew how to work with a puff of hair surrounding a giant scar. The bad news? I may have made a future haircut uncomfortable.

So, I explained to her that grabbing a dude's junk in public was totally inappropriate and she suggested that she give me a ride home. I jumped on the ride home because I was wasted. BIG MISTAKE.

So, one thing lead to another and I had a grown woman in my shower. That's if a grown woman is 21 years old. Women do mature faster than men, though, so she gets the benefit. All of that is pretty normal on a Tuesday, but it gets weird in a second.

I handed her a towel in the name of chivalry not being dead and she asked me to jump in. This is exactly what went through my head in giant letters: "WHATEVER."

I'll cut through the boring parts and just jump to the part of having razor burn below the belt.

I'm a self-admitted manscaper, but it's been since marriage that I let a girl do that. It's the opposite of how a sandwich is better if someone else makes it for you. Swear. Same sandwich made by someone else is better.

Now, the good news about the whole thing is that I may have a last ditch haircut if I need it and I know she cuts all styles and may even throw in a shave. Plus, I was asleep by midnight. That, my friends, is the sound of winning.