Just Off Center

We’ve all experienced our share of difficulties with this blogger thing. How many times have I been unable to comment on posts that I actually found myself wishing to respond to? How many times has it taken an hour to republish my blog? And for the love of God, how many times have I lost entire posts because the fucking connection to Blogger was such shit? I never really understood the problem. Isn’t’ this thing run by the folks who own google?

It seems to me that the difficulties with Blogger directly correlate with the increase in popularity of the blogging phenomenon. I know that the people who control this forum are professional and technically proficient. So assuming that all that can be done to keep this place running smoothly is being done, the only way we can get our beloved blog system back to nominal working conditions is to thin the herd of bloggers out there. Once we unclog the servers of bad blogging, we can continue along our merry and clever path. Here are a few ideas I’ve had.

• First, we need to pick off the low hanging fruit. Let’s take out the stupidest and most easily dissuaded before all others. A google search for “site:blogspot.com” plus phrases like “phone number is” and “fax me at”. Anyone dumb enough to publish a live analog number on the Internet deserves some torment. Now we all just go to our friends’ and neighbors’ houses and start dialing. Be sure to include heavy breathing and the occasional “I like those shoes you wore today.” That should eliminate a few hundred morons right off the bat.

• Next we set a trap for all the bad poetry and song lyric publishers. What we’ll do is set up a fake blog under a fake name. We’ll call it “Tortured Musings of the Happily Rejected”. We have some fun writing the worst tripe imaginable and posting it. Then we start clicking “Next Blog” and every time we encounter another one of these dickbrains we comment on their blog, inviting them to join our blog. Then we start emailing them and get some contact information. Once we know how to reach them it’s right back to the pervy crank calls where we point out all the intimate, personal shit they spewed all over our little Web slice. Except the goth girls. They’d get turned on. For them we’ve reserved special calls to their parents to tell them their daughters are cutters and how we found out. This should knock out another 700 or so.

• Any man who has opted to use a blog as a source of jack-off material is just sad. Of course, it’s a good bet he’s also married. Single guys don’t have to abstain from visiting websites with pervy sounding URLs like milfhunter and almostlegal. And while a lot of these men don’t have blogs of their own to muck up the works, the traffic they cause is a nuisance. Plus it’s fun to catch men with their pants down. So we do the same thing as the poetry site, except instead of poems and lyrics, we make it another lame blog about a girl and all the cock she’s rockin’. We draw in the really sick dudes by posting about enjoying beatings, scat, bestiality and faux-rape. And just for good measure we’ll get the guilty good husbands by making a second one with a good girl who just can’t get enough of her constantly traveling, emotionally unavailable, minimally hung husband. Then we call their wives. We may even be able to get a few credit card numbers out of this to fund this campaign.

• If at all possible we should see if we could eradicate the entire population of Singapore. I’m sure there are very nice people there. But nearly half of the blogs I see with cluttered, illegible templates, pop-ups, java and flash graphics, and sidebars that stretch 1,000 pages down come from fifteen year old girls in Singapore. Holocaust may be our only recourse. We can always blame it on Iran.

• Finally we unleash a hellish rumor that the entire Blogger system is infected with a terrible computer virus that obtains bank account numbers and publishes them for fifteen seconds on the third Thursday of every month to anyone who knows the URL. We spread it like wildfire as well as the assurance that other blog hosts such as Xanga are protected from this problem. This way people will run for the hills with their retarded blogs without ever having to see any proof that they’re in danger.

Remember, freedom isn’t free. If you want to make an omelet you have to break a few eggs. The tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Blah blah blah ad nauseum.

As the week goes on I’m getting more and more excited about my impending trail hike with Nina and Sam. I’ll explain. Nina and Sam have agreed to go on a hike around Pass Mountain with me this Saturday morning. I’ve been on this trail before, and it damn near claimed me. But I’m confident that, on foot, the three of us will have an amazing time.

A few weeks back, before I spent two weekends traveling, I was supposed to go trail riding with coworker Mike. As expected, when I met him for breakfast in the cafeteria he flaked out. It’s the same every time. He’d sit down, ask how I’m doing, pause, and then say ‘Dude, I can’t go’. Well this time I was really looking forward to a good ride. And since he hasn’t exactly been a model friend I was running out of patience with his bullshit. So I told him that he could go and that he would go. He threw out excuses, each more lame than the one before and even easier to put down. Finally, I just told him that I had expected him to cancel anyway, but that I’d go it alone.

After breakfast I started thinking about which trails I would ride that afternoon. I didn’t want to go to an unfamiliar park, so I decided to stick to the trails in the Usery Mountains Regional Park that we usually ride. But then it occurred to me that while Blevens and Moon Rock trails were fun, and offered some endurance and technical challenges, there was still one trail that I hadn’t conquered.

Behold the glory of Pass Mountain Trail! This 7.1-mile loop running around Pass Mountain, the highest and most noticeable peak in the Usery Mountains Regional Park, is easily the most difficult ride in the area. It starts out at a campground site, at the entrance to a 1.8-mile peak hike called Wind Cave Trail. From there it starts getting choppy right off the bat. There are wicked turns and dips every hundred feet, all leading up to a 700-foot climb to the highest point. And let me tell you, 700 feet is a lot of climbing to do, especially if you’re a novice cyclist riding on a $300 Trek 4300 with original components.

As you climb, the mountain continues to turn until you are no longer in view of civilization. The view is extraordinary. Unfortunately, this also means that civilization has no visibility of you either. Once on the other side of the mountain you’re on your own. No water, no rescue, no escape. The thought of conquering this giant piece of volcanic ruff was so intense, that I could barely work at all that day. All I could think about was getting off and tearing that trail down. I skipped out about twenty minutes early and made my way to the trailhead. When I got to the entrance of the park, the man who took my $5 entrance fee told me that I’d had just enough time before dark to do the Wind Cave Trail, but that I should hurry. Then he wished me a good hike. I thanked him and drove my Lumina down the road, Trek 4300 and delusion of grandeur in tow.

About 40% through the trail, I was screaming and cussing like a sailor. I couldn’t manage to stay on my bike for more than a few seconds without encountering some obstacle that I just couldn’t negotiate. For the most part, I attributed this to the bike being a piece of shit. I verbally abused it for its inadequacies. I must have walked my bike nearly half of the entire trail. I suppose I could have better heeded the article I’d read claiming that cyclists aren’t really allowed since this one jerk off died. I was sore, exhausted, and hot, and I hadn’t quite made it half way around.

Then after riding a good 200 feet I reached two large rocks that I couldn’t wedge my tires between correctly. I pulled my left foot out of my pedal cage and tried to step on the ground, but there was no ground to be stepped on. I lost my footing and fell off the trail and about twenty feet down the mountain’s ever steepening face. I would have sworn that I’d broken my left leg. My left calf cramped up like a brick. I’d slammed my head into a rock, scraped my knee up, and scratched skin off the rest of my legs and a couple fingertip pads. I quickly assessed the damage, pushed my bike off my legs, and sat up on a rock to re-center myself. With no real knowledge of how far along I was I had to assume that I’d already passed or was very near to the 50% point and that I should just continue to the end.

About another mile down the single-track path I was pretty well over hurting from the fall and the blood from my knee had clotted. I passed a couple short, thin hikers coming the other way who congratulated me on making it so far on a bike. It was good to see another human being with the sun quickly setting on the other side of the mountain.

Once I made it all the way around the backside of the mountain it was time for the descent. The first portion was unnavigable for me due to its steep angle, sharp turns, and butt-puckering falls that would occur if I failed. So I walked it down to a less steep point and hopped back on. From this point all I could do was pull off the saddle, lay on my brake, and try not to wipe out. The track was entirely covered in loose rocks, making it hell on my spine, given the mediocre shocks on my hard-tail. But it was the most fun portion too. I had already eaten shit hard, so that fear was gone, and the speed added a cool breeze and some excitement. It was another couple miles before the trail evened out and returned to mostly dirt.

With only a mile or so to go I was walking my bike again, this time due to muscular exhaustion. I was dehydrating and had run out of water in my High Sierra a while back. My bike was torn up from all the laying down and falls I had. My left pedal cage was busted, the frame scratched to shit, the brake line was loosening from the constant use, and the tires had lost some air fro the impacts. But after a bit, I saw a manmade structure in the distance. It was the restroom that I’d changed my clothes in when I arrived. I’d made it! I was alive and a better rider from the constant, though all in all I’d have to say the mountain won. I saw the hikers again finishing their hike and smoking cigarettes. They shook my hand and kept walking down the road. I piled both my bike’s and my own remains in the Lumina and headed home. I remember saying when I started the engine that it’d be a long time before I attempted that again. About halfway home I started wondering what I’d do differently next time. By the time I got home I was planning a second run within the next couple months.

I’ve almost completely healed from my bumps and cuts now. And rather than risk myself like that again, I’ve decided to take Pass Mountain on foot this time. So this Saturday, Nina, Sam and I are going to hike the trail. I’m really excited about it. Nina says that the 7.1 miles should be easy for her since she walks so much. It’s the 700-foot climb and descent and the need for sure and strong footing that worry her. Sam was talking all big a couple days ago, saying he climbs ladders and shit every day so this should be a piece of cake for him. Nina told me today that he told her he’s worried about the hike. I suppose I’m just supposed to think he’ll break the mountain down and carry it home in his pocket. I’d rather he stopped talking big and prepared for the reality of this hike accordingly with sufficient water, stretching, light cardio, and carbo-loading.

Regardless, this hike is practically all I can think about. I can’t wait to show them the view from the other side and watch my tootie prove to herself that she’s still a badass. After the hike, our neighbor is having a cookout that he’s invited us to. Barring any serious injuries, this could be a really great weekend. I’ll post pics next week.

Whew! What a weekend. It’s Monday morning and I’m sitting at my desk after having processed last week’s requests and I just wanted to give a recap of a great and busy weekend that Nina and I had.

Thursday was all about the travel. We got up at 3:00 AM and drove an hour to the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. We caught a 2.5 hour flight to Dallas/Ft. Worth where we would connect to our next leg. We had about a two hour layover in Dallas so Nina and I walked up and down the terminal, did some people watching, ate at a Chili’s, and had desert at a frozen yogurt bar before boarding. Right off the bat Nina and I were having a great time. Days of travel can be very stressful and draining, giving way to bickering and snide remarks. But by and large we made the best of it. My Ipod and a book published by the Bathroom Readers’ Institute kept me company while Nina read about all the wonderful ways one can analyze patterns of blood spatter. One day I’ll be dead, and Nina will be acquitted. Avenge me!

After another two-hour flight to Louisville KY (be sure to pronounce it LOO-uh-vuhl) we waited for about forty minutes for the baggage to start coming out. During this time I had become obsessed with imagining new and gruesome ways for this really annoying woman in the area to suffer and die. She was this short, thin lady, kind of a squeaker. She was probably quite a catch before she got married and dedicated her life to being a mommy. She had two sons who were just behaving as little boys do. But she made me just want to choke the life out of her. She stood there with her dork ass husband, but she never spoke to him. She only spoke to the children and all comers who would pander on about how cute they were. And God did she crave attention for her momminess. She would speak loudly and congratulate her boys on the most mundane of accomplishments like sharing a fucking cookie. And whenever some stupid broad would comment on how cute her kids were she’d perk up and put on this nauseatingly well rehearsed “aw, thank you soooo much” face and start in on adorable little anecdotes on the quirks and joys of being a mommy. I just stood there grinding my teeth, fighting back the laughter at the thought of just walking up and giving her an atomic wedgie with that ugly thong that kept sticking out.

There was another family at Dallas that caught my attention. It was a five-person family, looking ragged from travel. The parents didn’t anger me as the super-mommy did. This mom was just trying to keep the kids well corralled and out of trouble. What really caught my eye was dad. He showed up with a big bag of Wendy’s fast food and sat down to pass everything out. He was overweight and worn. He had this kind of sadness in his eyes and step that made me say, “jeez, poor guy”. I’m sure he loves his kids and he probably isn’t as bad off as he looked. But I just couldn’t help but feel that this guy woke up not too long ago, looked in the mirror, and just fucking lost it. I’m not one for pity. There was a group of wheelchair-bound guys traveling with us. They were obviously here for some race, because they checked their aerodynamic chairs with them. They were joking and having a great time. I kept thinking, “damn, why is it that guys in wheelchairs always land hot, non-handicapped girls? Way to go, speedracers!” But this dad next to me just had me reeling in pity. I suppose you just had to be there.

Once we arrived in Kentucky, it took me all of ten minutes before I was screaming to get the fuck out. The airport staff was incompetent, the drivers were slow and hugged the fast lane, and the accents made me want to shove white-hot knitting needles in my ears. But, after a fairly tolerable ninety-minute drive we finally made it to Evansville Indiana. Nina and I both commented that it was such a shame that such beautiful land should belong to such a boring place. Once we got to my mom’s house we were met with hugs and kisses and roast beef sandwiches. My mom is just great. She’s really done well at chilling out and suspending most of the nagging (except for making me feel guilty about living so far away). Maybe she’s just too busy nagging my little sister.

Mom was both excited and nervous about the wedding. It’s just those little details that you aren’t sure if you forgot that drive you crazy. After a bit she showed me the music she would have me sing and I settled in to practice. Nina decided to go for a walk. Mom warned her that it was getting dark and she didn’t want Nina to get lost. Nina went for a walk anyway. While she was gone Gordon (mom’s fiancé) showed up with a gang of his family. Later on, after dark, Nina showed up from her walk. She had gotten lost. We talked and joked and talked some more. Mom slugged me upside the head again for my tattoo. Gordon gave his family a tour of the house wherein they saw the exercise room and asked about the big rubber balance ball. Gordon said he’d be bringing that with him to the hotel after the wedding. I nearly fainted. But I think my mom has chilled out significantly since she started getting laid regularly, and since he’d be marrying her in less than 48 hours I decided not to rupture his spleen.

The next morning, Nina and I were the last ones up. Stiff and sore from the old mattress on my old bed we hobbled out to the kitchen and did some chatting. Then Nina and I went to the local park for a walk in their “nature paths”. They were the same as I remember from when I was a boy, but I don’t think that I had ever taken Nina on the nature walk while were dating. She found it to be very romantic. She started talking frisky and I put a few moves on her. But alas, she was unable to comply due to a biological scheduling conflict. It was still nice though.

Afterward, Nina went out with my sister and her boyfriend to a mall or something. She wasn’t happy with the clothes she had and there’s this trashy little store in this trashy little mall that she has to shop at every time she comes to town. So she left to shop and I went with my mom to the church to rehearse for the wedding with Sister Darlene, a very nice lady who was able to accompany me and change keys and tempos as I needed. I realized that I wasn’t going to be singing a few simple tunes as I had thought. I would be cantoring an entire Catholic mass, something I hadn’t done since I was nineteen. However, with a little review, it all started coming back to me. What really had me nervous was the Ave Maria. It’s my mother’s favorite tune and I wanted to do it perfectly. But I didn’t know what key to practice in and I had only learned it in German. Mom wanted the Latin version. So I spent the remaining hours before the wedding rehearsing in my head.

After the rehearsal, mom and I picked up my diminutive and sweet old granny from her cute red brick home and took her back to my mom’s house. There Nina came to pick me up and we went over to Sam’s parents’ house for a short visit before the rehearsal dinner. Joe and Lisa were really nice and we talked a lot about Sam. They showered us with gifts and sent us on our way. The dinner was held at a local pizza joint, formerly owned by Evansville local hero and former New York Yankee Don Mattingly. I ate full blown pizza, and lots of it. Over the next twelve hours I suffered the wrath of intestinal ingratitude.

After dinner Nina and I headed out to the home of my old best friend and high school drinking buddy, Glenn. Glenn and I had a falling out in 1998, and hadn’t spoken until about a month ago, when he called to speak with Sam. We caught up with each other and agreed to meet for a few beers at his house. He’s doing pretty well for himself as a window salesman. After many canned Bud Lights and several hands of Hold ‘Em poker we left and went back to my mom’s house for some sleep. It was past midnight and it felt like I was seventeen again, sneaking in the front door hoping not to wake my mom, alerting her to my delinquent goings on, but this time with a girl in tow. We crashed out on the uncomfortable twin bed. I tried to use my trump that Nina wasn’t the last girl I’d fucked in that bed. But she said that we had done it in this bed before and that mom had caught us sleeping and gotten mad. Maybe I blocked that out.

The alarm went off early that morning. I had a lot to do to get ready for the wedding at 1:30 and I still needed to call Joe, Sam’s dad, and tell him we wouldn’t be able to make it out for breakfast. After I called we fell asleep again for another hour. Still we were the first ones up, well except for mom who probably had been up pacing since 2:00 AM. She was getting exceedingly nervous about her impending nuptials. I drank my coffee and paced around trying to shake off my cheap beer hangover. Before long I was feeling fine, and I was fairly confident that I would be alright at the wedding. Mom went in her bedroom to change and started freaking out big time. My sister, Pam, was supposed to be there to help her. Knowing my sister, it probably sounded a lot like “Jesus, mom, would you calm down. You’re making me nervous.” I’m sure that helped.

We got to the church an hour early and I started getting very nervous about screwing up one or more of the songs. Mom had assured me that she didn’t care if there were any mistakes in the wedding, but I still wanted it to be perfect. And perfect it was. I sang pretty well I have to admit and everyone else did his or her parts with precision and care. The vows made me all teary eyed. Weddings always turn me into a blubbering softy. After the ceremony, we took some pictures and headed off to my Aunt Barb’s for the reception. Nina went back to my mother’s house to grab the batteries. I rode with my sister in my mom’s car. There was a tape in the stereo. It was Prince, singing “Sexy Motherfucker”, followed by “Cream” and “Get Off”. I was officially creeped out.

The reception was filled with family. Since I have a large and growing family and I’m never around for family events, I can never remember who’s who. What’s my cousin’s wife’s name? Who’s kids are all these? Which one of my aunts is Kathy and which is Mary? Have I met this girlfriend before? I usually just count on Nina for these things. Everyone kept fawning all over me about my singing. You’d think that I’d gobble this attention up and ask for thirds. But actually, it just made me uncomfortable. I sang for my mother, not for celebrity. I just accepted their praise, and told them I was glad to do it. Then I’d walk away and be confronted by another person telling me how beautiful it was. It’s great to know that everyone was really impressed. But I really just wanted to melt into the background and leave the spotlight on the couple of the hour. And it was. They laughed and kissed. There were toasts and cheers and kiss tappings on the glasses. The cake was delicious. The company was close and comforting. It was all around a beautiful day.

Mom and Gordon left for a hotel after a while and all us kids with our beaux’s went back to my mom’s house, drank, ate pizza and wings, and watched a movie. I played with my nieces, which is always great. I know it’s wrong to play favorites, but the middle kid, Nicole, is my absolute fave of the three daughters. And she loves me too. We middle kids have to stick together. After a while we all settled our weary asses into our respective rooms for the night.

I got up early the next morning again. We had a long day of travel and it had to begin early. Mom and Gordon showed up a few minutes after I woke up and we talked and packed. I helped upload the pics into mom’s computer. I wished we could have stayed longer, but we had to get on the road for a long day’s travel back to Phoenix. But there is a certain benefit to being the first one to leave. You get all your goodbyes in at once. We went back the same way we came due to some delays and rerouting. And we had to suffer through having the annoying, little thong mommy on board again on the way home, god damn it. But we made it home with no real issues, and crashed out in our beautiful oversized king pillow-top bed. All is well. Mom got married, Nina and I got along beautifully, the family was great, the food was excellent (except for the wings), and there were no major disasters waiting for me at work this morning, which has allowed me to spend the last two hours writing this post.

While I was at lunch today I was listening to the gaggle of women who go to school at the Aesthetics Institute across the street, as I always do. I’m not sure why I listen to these mundane and repetitive conversations they have. I just love watching women interact with each other. It’s the constant eye contact, the exaggerated facial responses, the way they mimic each other’s expressions, and how they seem to never actually listen to each other and just wait for their turn to talk. Anyway, today there were a couple of the prettier girls sitting at one of the round tables silently competing over who could eat their sandwich the slowest and throw the most away. They were on the topic of some other girl in the class, a never-ending conversation for any mix of these girls.

Apparently, one of the other girls had just moved in with a boy she’d met a few months prior and had just received a hang-up phone call that she suspected is her new boyfriend’s lover. Is it lover or mistress? Anyway, it was the man’s apartment she moved into so even if it was a girl calling for him, it couldn’t be that unexpected. I mean you can’t expect a guy to contact every ex he’s ever had and tell them he’s taken a new girlfriend, right? Wrong! Who’da thunk it? The blonde girl at the table was aghast that she didn’t confront the man and dump him right there and then. Big talk I say. Put her in those shoes and see what happens. Then I lost interest and left.

So this got me to thinking: if these girls saw this as some kind of betrayal worthy of dumping him, is there any difference at all between one infidelity and another? Does any kind of infidelity warrant the abandonment of all promises? I’m going to need some input on this one. Here are a few scenarios.

SCENARIO 1 – Bill and Ted are outside the Circle S on a Saturday night. Their wives are at home tending to the babies. Since Bill and Ted are both big stars now they have put on disguises and are enjoying one of their first “boys’ nights out” in months. As they are sitting there, stone drunk and high reminiscing about the origins of Wyld Stallionz a pretty hooker in red pleather struts up and asks them if they want a date. Ted, now too drunk to hide his latent homosexuality, ralphs on the curb. But Bill, who’s sex life has dwindled down to a monthly run-through decides that a quick blowjob behind the Circle S might just make things better between him and his princess. He takes her up on the offer, tosses her a fifty and gets five minutes of cheap, no thrills head against the stone wall. Afterward, they both pack up their stuff and head back to their respective domiciles in the Hills. Neither mentions the evening to the princesses and Bill, who was able to see the straying as a minor infraction but not worthy of repeating, remains faithful from then on.

SCENARIO 2 – After taking a nasty spill during a morning trot, Cotton Candy is brought back to her feet by her good friend Butterscotch. After helping her walk off the pain, the two spend the afternoon gallivanting around the enchanted forest discussing their relationships with their current mates. Cotton Candy, who has been mated to Blossom for years begins bemoaning how her lover isn’t as kind and sweet as she used to be, and was never as kind to her as Butterscotch. After a pained look crosses Butterscotch’s face, Cotton Candy realizes that Butterscotch is actually desperately in love with her. Never before has Cotton Candy considered this since Butterscotch has always seemed outwardly pleased with her mate, Blue Belle. After a few hours of intense dialogue they both realize that they are both in love with each other. But knowing the potential damage they would wreak upon the Pony Palace and knowing that snoopy little Snuzzle and big-mouthed Minty would find out and gossip they decide to just secretly be love with each other. They share a quick and heartfelt head nuzzling and tearfully run away, vowing never to reveal their love to the world.

SCENARIO 3 – Ever since their brief stints on Kids Incorporated, Ryan and Stacy have been a hot item. It was the consummate romance. After high school they each enjoyed success on the stage giving them money and fame. They married at 20, having saved themselves for their wedding night. And now after twelve years of marriage they still burn hot and steady with romance and passion. Except that Stacy has a secret passion that Ryan has never filled. Every eighteen months, under the guise of a traveling show Stacy spends three days and four nights in the arms of her long-time lover, Martika. The relationship is purely physical and there is no talk of any relational progress between them. They just spend a long weekend in bed taking turns with the strap-on. And afterward, Martika goes back to her ranch in Canada and Stacy comes home in adoration of the man who has given her the very definition of love.

I could go on and on with more scenarios of different variations on this theme. They are all so very different. But are any of them worse than any other? Can we say that Bill is a scoundrel without condemning Stacy for her tryst? Is it possible that from this day on, Cotton Candy and Butterscotch will be the most unfaithful of them all, without ever laying a wanton hoof outside of the bounds of lifematedom? Can we blame Ted for not talking Bill out of it? Or do we just call them all cheaters and hope they are ravaged by wild boar? Your input is appreciated.

This past weekend was one of the most enjoyable in recent memory. I traveled to see friends in California, took in a fun bike ride, saw the ocean, had a cook out, and just chilled. But the most enjoyable thing of all was that, for the first time in a while, I was happy to be spending this quality time with Nina. Nina and I have been having a difficult time these past few months. She nags me because I didn’t do this or that. I tell her to get off my ass and throw in a few unnecessary jibes. Things escalate and turn into monstrous, hideous arguments. And after a while, it wasn’t that I wanted to be apart from her… I just didn’t care. It’s a very sad feeling when you realize that the person you have chosen no longer interests you. Happily though, it wasn’t as bad as I feared. We just simply couldn’t find a way to reconnect. Couple these problems with the fact that we were preparing to celebrate our seven-year anniversary and you have a recipe for the consideration of splitting up.

But we won’t. We’re happy. Don’t wait for the sad ending you’ll usually get out of me. And that was the focus of this weekend. Friday morning, still very dark, we piled into the Impala and I drove us to Grace and Steve’s. The ride up was relatively quiet, at least if you were a passenger. I spent most of the drive listening to my Ipod and jamming out to whatever popped up on shuffle. But we talked about this and that. I almost ran out of gas in a shithole called Indio, and that made me blow a gasket, but only for about twenty minutes or so.

When we got to Grace’s place, we hung out and relaxed from the drive for a bit. Grace was working from home, and I had a work situation pop up that required my attention. Coworker Mike chewed me out far beyond his authority. Effective immediately, coworker Mike is on my “Destroy Him” list. Afterward we ate lunch at a cool little mall joint called Wahoo’s. I had a fish enchilada. I felt so bad eating an enchilada on my diet. Then I felt like a pansy for feeling bad about the enchilada, and sucked it down like a real man should. Steve dropped by to hang out during his lunch hour. He looks so harmless in his work clothes. Effective immediately I am deathly afraid of Steve and what destructive power he keeps under wraps.

Later on, I talked Grace and Nina to come on a bike ride. I wanted to sample the concrete trails they have out in Cali. They’re very cool. They’re wide and smooth and shared by all sorts. Whenever you descend ride under a road you have to peddle hard to get back up the hill, forcing you to put some real effort into the ride. We made it about four miles and turned back. Grace’s saddle is not padded. She has a sore coccyx. Coccyx.

That night we all went to a cool spot called Ten and had sushi and sake. Ten is my kind of place. You get to sit on couches and ottomans around little tables, surrounded by other diners well within earshot, and try to look like you belong at such a hip establishment. I’d never had sake before. It tasted a lot like rice wine. Plus I learned that wasabi is more fun than anything ever invented. After Ten, we got back in the car and headed to the beach. Nina and I bounded around from bolder to boulder like a couple of kids. Well, actually it was more just me doing the bounding. Nina’s leaps were more like arrhythmic jerking. We watched the sun set on the water and saw all the groups of stoners and Asian churchgoers having dorky campfire fun. Then it was back to their pad to watch Ocean’s Twelve on their North wall. Projectors rock my socks! Then we went to bed because we’re old and feeble.

Early the next day Steve decided to take up on a bike ride beyond where Grace went with us, all the way to Newport Beach. He thought it was just a couple miles past where we stopped the day before. All told, the trip was 23 miles long. But we did make it all the way to the broadway. We even crossed a river on a ferry. While riding down the beach, Nina took the lead and showed us that courtesies such as calling your position, slowing for those in front of you, and not scaring oncoming cyclist out of their shoes are rules for pussies. The beach road was hers. I stayed about ten feet behind her to survey the carnage and apologize accordingly. Steve managed to smoke both of us throughout the entire ride, using nothing but a hard-forked, cheap-frame, Y-brake, dial-shifting piece of K-mart crap. I have a new reason to both respect and fear Steve. And he didn’t have a drop of water the entire time. I suspect Steve has an internal sustenance generator implanted in his body. Afterward I had a sandwich, a beer, and painkillers for my achy quads. Grace was prepping Jell-o shots and recovering from her perfectly logical fears that since we had been gone so long, we must have all wiped out, broken our necks, been fallen upon by rapist cannibals, and had our violated flesh ripped from our bones and our skeletons tossed to the pack of wild coyotes that lay in wait. We did, however, get a couple of nice, juicy sunburns. How the fuck did that happen? I live in goddamned Arizona.

Nina and I went to Old Navy. It occurred to me that the jeans I brought didn’t fit. It wasn’t so much the fear of looking like I’d taken a dump in my pants that spawned the shopping trip as it was the absolute certainty I would be pantsed and photographed… without adequate financial compensation. Nina couldn’t find anything she liked. The words “short crotched” came out of her mouth. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like a deal breaker for new clothes. I got a new pair of jeans and the illinest shirt ever made. It was like a second skin, which is good because my real skin was looking extra crispy.

The details of the barbecue can be found on Grace’s blog. It’s all true. And yes, my wife will be checking herself into a Betty Ford clinic this next weekend. We made her wait until 6:30 before we let her have her first drink. Then at 6:31, she opened her mouth, which expanded to a maw the size of a small car and initiated a vortex leading to her stomach that ripped every drop of alcohol from our hands and the fridge. Then she put on a sweet smile and said “Oopsy”. It even had the little squiggly line going in a clockwise motion. And for the record, I have never received more or more severe peer pressure from anyone about anything than I did about doing the goddamned pony dance. And I’m a guy who’s had his share of peer pressure. It’s a spontaneous thing, people! What show you got, while graceful and beautiful, was a forced act to quiet the throng. Then everyone got hammered and fell over… except for Steve. He did dishes. He’s a mutant.

After nursing my mild hangover and tending to Nina who would rather have been dead, we got in our car and drove home. Before we left, Grace put together the sweetest little picnic for us, a bag filled with sandwiches, fruits, crackers, water, and sweets. Then she started crying and pulled some hair out in clumps. Steve shook my hand and gave me some awesome CDs that I suspect he burned for us using a laser implanted behind his left eyeball. The drive home was going rather well until we ran out of gas 23 miles out of the nearest town. And how fortunate for us to have run out of gas right next to a state prison, ensuring nobody would ever stop to help. After about an hour and a half of walking around the desert, we managed to get a phone call in to our insurance company who sent us a few gallons of gas. This allowed us to make it to the nearest and most expensive gas station in the universe. It’s ok though because I shoplifted a lollypop. Ok, not really. But that would have shown them. Fuckers.

The entire weekend, Nina and I got along famously. We had fun, handled our business with grace and style, and we even made it through running out of gas in the middle of a California desert an enjoyable experience. We talked and laughed. During the party I even got in a toast to our anniversary. It’s nice to see that we can disconnect so terribly and then reconnect with just a little patience, understanding, caring, and concern from us both. We got home at about 7:30, ate, unloaded, and went to bed. And after a solid pass was made at my bride, I was shot down with the excuses of hangover, sore muscles, and sunburn. Grace and Steve had given us a great weekend within which Nina and I could rediscover some hidden love, but still managed to keep me from getting laid. Oh well. Thanks for a great weekend anyway.

Woman: I should have known this would happen when I decided to wear white today. I’m used to working on my knees, but I didn’t expect to have to do any of that today. And the lubricant I normally use, the last two times I used it, it splattered everywhere.

Man: A real mess, huh?

Woman: Oh yeah. Even if you know what you're doing, it can still get all over you. But I wasn't expecting to have to use any today. And then "BAM", two customers call with no advance notice. Guess I'll be going home at lunch to change into something I can get messy in.

I wake up in the morning and the first thought in my mind is no longer the question of whether or not I should jerk off, risking waking Nina. I wake up and I can almost smell the sweet cinnamon rolls that aren’t baking in the oven. I know that the coffee hasn’t been brewed yet, but I can detect a hint of its aroma and my dry mouth wets and my stomach grumbles, now empty of the night’s contents.

I get up and get cleaned up for the day and as I brush my teeth I wonder about the vanilla flavored Crest under the sink that I’ll be using once this plain tube is exhausted. The thought reminds me of the French vanilla creamers that I have recently eliminated from my morning coffee. I wonder about the other flavors I could use to give my morning jo that extra kick of sweetness; chocolate, hazelnut, butterscotch, Irish cream, and caramel. I walk into the kitchen and begin brewing my Yuban.

As I drive my hour commute through the East Valley I avoid all commercials. I know that they’ll be stuffed with ads for the newest sausage, egg and cheese croissant sandwich or the promise of a great breakfast burrito with sour cream and salsa for only ninety-nine cents. My stomach grumbles as I busy my mind with other thoughts. “This is temporary,” I tell myself. “The gnawing emptiness and the mental lust will subside”. I sip my coffee. And though its flavor satisfies me, it beckons me to pair it up with its friends Danish and cigarette. I resist and pull into the parking lot.

I start up my computer at my desk and insert my jump drive to open up my Excel based food journal. I copy and paste from the previous day to include today’s 18-ounce coffee. Eleven calories so far and not a single gram of fat. A good start. My stomach reminds me once again that it hasn’t been fed. It plays with my mind, putting in thoughts of how breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Bacon and an order of biscuits and gravy would be better used right now than any other time of the day. I ignore the thoughts and focus on my standard breakfast. I wait until 7:30ish and take the long walk to the main cafeteria with a coworker. I walk in and make my way past the fruit. I could really use a banana, but I’m not paying ninety-five cents for one. I walk past the toaster and the heat lamps containing those prefabricated micro burros I used to enjoy every day. $2.11 bought me a tortilla stuffed with egg, cheese, sausage, onion, and sometimes chorizo. I move past the sign advertising today’s special. “BODACIOUS BREAKFAST – WAFFLE BITES STUFFED WITH HAM AND EGG WITH HASH BROWNS - $2.65” I look away and move on toward the main grill. John, the grill man waits for me and knows what I’m having.

“Three Egg Beaters, John” I rattle off. John makes his way to the cooler and comes back with a cardboard half gallon container marked “Better ‘n Eggs” and pours my egg substitutes on the grill next to the peppers, onions, sausage, bacon and whatever else the person in front of me is having in his custom breakfast burrito. Two large bags of hash browned potatoes sear on the back of the grill. I turn around and face the ice bin loaded with yogurts and fruit cups. I’d pick one up if they weren’t so outrageously expensive. I take my plate of eggs and move to the register. $1.78 gets me my faux eggs and I stop off at the coffee bar to fill up a styrofoam cup with tap water. I pass by other breakfasters and take a seat with my coworkers who enjoy all manner of A.M. treats. I salt and pepper my egg substitutes and shove them down in one minute flat. If I close my eyes and concentrate they almost taste like real eggs.

After breakfast I make my way back to my office and try to get busy at work. I keep a bag of pretzels at my desk in case of emergency. But I know that every pretzel must be written in my food journal, so I abstain until I’m too hungry to pass them by. Around 10:00 my stomach reminds me that it can dissolve egg substitutes like it would be rewarded for speed. I stay hungry and occupy my mind with work until 11:30. I call Mike and make my way across the parking lot to the Subway ¼ mile away. I get in line and order the $2.49 special of the day, but only if it’s one of the healthy ones. Otherwise, I just pay regular price for a Subway Club. Sometimes I get the chips and drink, Baked Lays and a Diet Coke. I finish quickly and choose to enjoy the sensation rather than stare longingly at the ravaged sandwich wrapper. I refill my Diet Coke and slosh all the way back to my office. I write in my lunch’s value in my journal:

6” SUBWAY TURKEY BREAST AND HAM ON WHEAT
290 CALORIES
5 GRAMS OF FAT, 1.5 SATURATED

I’m pleased to still be under 500 calories for the day with only the evening left to suffer through. Nighttime is my hardest time, full of temptations. I snack on my pretzels and even indulge in another Diet Coke, caffeine free this time. I drive home and pull into my driveway. I see my Trek 4300 hanging in the garage. I come inside, drop my accessories, walk to the closet, change into shorts and a sleeveless shirt, and hop on my bike for a ride. It’s 3.27 miles around the big block. I never stop peddling. By the end my face is contorted and I can only breathe through my mouth, but I make it. I walk inside, panting. Sam and Nina are sitting in the living room. Sam asks me if I’m going to live. I pretend to be breathing too heavily to answer so that I don’t have to answer such a stupid question. I drink water and walk out back to the weight bench. I do bench press and bicep curls. Some days I do sit-ups. Abdominal exercises never feel good the way other muscles do when I exercise them. They only hurt, but I have to trust that the pain means I’m getting better.

It’s 6:00 and I’m coming down from my exercise high. I’m getting hungry again. Nina has prepared some baked chicken with green beans. She asks me what I’ve had to eat today. After I tell her she tells me I need to eat more. “You’re exercising now. You need to give your body some fuel.” But I have fuel. I have loads of stored fuel hanging all over my body like saddlebags of feed. I am using them up and have no intention of giving the feast of my fat a break. I try not to overeat at dinner. I try to only eat healthy foods. There are two boxes of Hot & Spicy Cheez-its in the cupboard and I’m proud I haven’t touched them in weeks. I’ll never throw them out. I busy myself some more with chores or a movie. Weariness settles in and I welcome it as a reprieve from temptation. In bed I feel my muscles relaxing and my body feels different to the touch. But it still needs a great deal of work.

It’s been a long day and I’ve suffered through hunger and the temptation of the wrong foods. But I won the battle for the day. I fall asleep and dream about blintzes and cheeseburgers. I swim in a sea of pasta and sit at banquet tables catered by Jack in the Box. I wake up in the morning and the first thought in my mind is no longer the question of whether or not I should jerk off, risking waking Nina.

I decided to go for a walk off site today for lunch. After my scrumptious six inch Italian BMT on wheat from Subway (extra toasted with American cheese, spinach, red onion, mustard, tomato, black pepper, and parmesan cheese) I walked across the busy intersection by my place of employment and isle-shopped an entire K-Mart. The place was fucking dead. For a minute I didn’t know whether they were open. I almost feel bad that I didn’t buy anything. And I definitely should not have shoplifted that pack of Juicy Fruit.

On my way through the parking lot I noticed a small booklet with comic strip drawings on it. Always a sucker for culture, I picked up the weathered, dirty pages and began to thumb through it. I was amazed. I hadn’t seen an honest to God “repent or be damned” booklet since I was in training for my First Communion. I’d post pictures of its pages, but I’m at work and I just don’t feel like it.

At first we see a side view of a coffin in the ground. Its contents, a young white man in a black suit with his hands folded over his belly. Emerging from out of the body is what I have to assume is his spirit which looks more like Jim Neighbors startled with a giant question mark over his head. He is moving toward a huge fonted “ARISE” coming from above. He’s confused and naked and being drawn out of the ground. Once topside, he’s met by a white angel who actually tells him “Come, you have an appointment!”. After trying to explain that he doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell he is swept up like Lois Lane and the angel begins souring away. They fly through outer space until the angel points and says, “There is your destination!” Apparently the angel says everything forcefully (!) and holds God’s day planner. They sit down on a slab in the clouds where the man tries to tell the angel that he’s lived a good life and that he was no different than anyone else. The angel replies, “Everything has been recorded!”

From a door to the right a huge voice says, “NEXT!!!”

Inside the next room there is a lot of white light and some clouds. A large, art deco chair rests in the middle with an enormous, robed, faceless white person sitting in it. The voice booms, “REVIEW HIS LIFE!” The angel replies, “Yes Lord!” So now we know it’s the Lord our God in that chair come to pass judgment on this poor, wretched everyman. I might have guessed from the font. Omnipotent people always speak REALLY FREAKING LOUD! Suddenly the room goes blank, except for the stars, and a giant movie screen pops up in front of the angel and the man with the words “THIS WAS YOUR LIFE!” Huh. Maybe God is actually Ralph Edwards.

Anyway, on the screen we see Al Capone’s face on the body of an infant. This must be the man as a toddler. He seems to be playing with black stuffed bunny rabbit and I suspect those blurry shapes on his pajamas are actually pentagrams. Next he’s a teenager wearing a white t-shirt and black leather jacket telling a dirty joke to his friends. The man is very embarrassed to have this story told in front of the angel. Then we see a brick wall with an opening. You can only see the man’s left eye as he peeks around the corner to ogle a woman who, based on the facial features, is either half plastic or might just have a dick.

Well no time is left for any further detail, so we go to a montage page where the man is standing in the center with shock lines surrounding his head and sweat dripping as he says, “Why didn’t anyone warn me about all this?” The rest of the page is pictures of his head in various states of sinful face makery with dates of the year and words like “THEFT”, “DISOBEDIENT TO PARENTS”, “FALSE ACCUSER”, WHOREMONGER”, AND “HATER OF GOD” filling up what little empty space we see. The whoremonger face is a classic one. It’s contorted and he has this cheesy little grin on his mouth like he’s about to say “Aalllllll riiiiight.” It kind of reminds me of Quagmire.

Next it shows him in church. Wait a mmmoment! This fella was in church, what’s he worried about? Ahhh…as we see the preacher at his pulpit preaching the books of John and Romans. All the while our man puts on a dour puss and fills his thought bubbles with “I wonder who’s winning the ball game?” and “I couldn’t care less – what time is it?” But then he finally busts out loud with “BUNK – I don’t need Christ! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’ll make it MY way!” as he walks away from the preacher. He clasps his dead head as he realizes how crazy he was. It would be a touching moment if he didn’t look like Jerry Lewis about to faint. He finally collapses to his knees, his face in his hands and weeps at his guilty, guilty guilt.

Cut to that white, faceless Lord guy in his chair pointing to the angel and ordering him to “OPEN THE BOOK OF LIFE!” We reach the climax as the angel points at a book bigger than my first dictionary and says “His name does not appear, Lord!” Wait. Did God not know if his name was in the book? Who’s editing this thing? Did God forget or is he just making this poor Frankie Avalon looking angel go through the motions. At any rate, our sinner friend is now officially fucked. God makes one last statement to his child.

“DEPART FROM ME, YE CURSED, INTO EVERLASTING FIRE, PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS!!!!”

Finally we see the angel at some sort of stone dock after having just cast the damned soul into a sea of flame. Little bodies are all over it, their arms flailing and their heads bobbing. It would seem that the Lake of Fire is somewhere on the premises. Or maybe the angel knows some kind of special Heaven to Hell Mario Brothers warp tube. Anyway, so ends the story of Everyman – dead in the beginning, humiliated all the way through, and torched in the finale.

So last night I’m laying in bed flipping through the movie channels looking for some decent jack-off material and I come across a regular one-hour program on Showtime called The ‘L’ Word. It’s a show about a group of lesbians and all the lesbian things they do with their lesbian selves and their lesbian friends. I’ve never been much for watching lesbos go at each other, but I figured there might be some tits on the screen to say the least. Moaning works too. Well right off the bat the first minute of the show gives a montage of moments building up to this episode. Two of the moments show naked boobies and one of them had a girl sucking on them. SCORE!

So the first real scene comes around and we see two women in bed sleeping…nekkid. Well this might just go somewhere. They’re spooning and the one behind the other one wakes up first and starts kissing on the other girl’s shoulders and whatnot. The other girl starts to wake up, getting into the moment. Yeah right, like girls really put out like this pre-toothbrushins. But then, off screen, there’s a sudden beneath the sheets hand movement and the girl in front does that cool back arching thing with the shoulders tensing up. Lesbian one must have just went for a handful of coochie.

Now they’re definitely going to get it on. But then a couple of stupid ass little kids come burst in the bedroom and spoil the moment. The mom (the lesbian behind the lesbian) shoos them off and turns back with the determination to get laid of your average male. And what happens next? They start talking. They’re naked, spooning, one having already had a hand on the other’s clit and they decide that now’s the time to start having a fucking conversation. And it just keeps going and going. Then it cuts to a scene with another lesbian being all lezy at work in her lesbian suit. What a jip. I was so mad I started punching the remote control with my now-limp cock. Fucking lesbians. And not a fucking thing else on the tube. I had to resort to turning it off and relying on my actual memories of previous sexual encounters.

So I woke up the next morning, I’m getting dressed for work and thinking about what bunch of FUCKING RETARDS those lesbians were. I get in the car and I start thinking about the lame-ass double meaning of the title of the show. The ‘L’ Word. Whatever could that ‘L’ truly stand for? Is it Lesbian? Is it Love? Is it Leaving straight men with a flaccid dick in their hands watching naked women under covers talking about their stupid lesbian feelings? Whatever it means, it got me thinking about a bunch of other little words and phrases that make me want to reduce the people who say them to a smoldering pile of carbon.

BE A MAN – All I can think is “fuck you!” as an appropriate response to this one. Usually you hear this one come out of the mouth of some chick when a guy lacks the courage to do something that the chick also lacks the courage to do. Who the hell is some woman to tell me to be a man? I’m already a man, cunt! How would you feel if I told you to be a woman? And when would I say that anyway, when the gag reflex kicks in? Only a man should say this to another man. Like the other day when Mike and I were out on the trails and I was getting winded. He said, “Man up, bitch!” And so I did. I heaved and huffed the remaining few miles down Blevins Trail to the Guinness at the other end.

DON’T GO THERE – I really doubt that I have to spend too much on this one. There are shitload of cutesy little 90’s phrases that piss me off. But this one stems from me not knowing what it meant before everyone started saying it. I was sitting in the lunchroom with a bunch of guys I normally wouldn’t have hung out with and I noticed that this girl walking up to the snack bar was looking quite a bit heavier than usual. I noted that a Hostess Pudding Pie was the last thing she needed. The guys were apparently her friend and told me that I didn’t need to go there. Go where? Just don’t go there. Where the fuck is it you don’t want me to go? Don’t … say… that. Ooooooh. So that’s what that means. Hey fuck you and your tubby-tittied friend. I’m leaving.

YOU GO GIRL! – This should have died a long time ago. I don’t know many people who still say this, but they’re all women and they’re all about six years older than me and have dark roots. Why do we feel the need to congratulate a woman for every single mundane act of independence or successful pursuit in this condescending, trashy way? Whatever happened to a firm, open palm slap on the rear and a “Nice martini, doll. Keep ‘em coming.” Just don’t say this. When a woman does something great, just congratulate her. Saying this is like saying, “Hey great job… for a woman of course”. Every time a woman says this to another woman, the world’s collective skirt shortens by ¼ inch.

43 – have you ever read The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? If so, GET OUT! Get the hell away from my blog if you’ve read that book and especially if you’ve ever used this line. This is the stupid diatribe you’ll hear from self-proclaimed intellectuals whenever someone says, “I have a question…” The big thing is, in the book, there’s this great computer that is built to answer any question. It spits out the number 43 as the answer. But it never specifies what the question was. So if you have a question, the answer could always be…43. Isn’t that clever? Kick people who say this.

QUESTION FOR YOU – Along the same lines, I get a call every day or so from a coworker in another building with an inquiry. Fine, I answer questions all day, what’s yours. Except that he never just comes out and asks his question. He prefaces every fucking one with “Ummm…got a question for you.” Why? Why not just ask me your stupid question? Should I be bracing myself for the sheer gravity of your inquiry as some lame spreadsheet? Hearing this makes me want to just say “that’s nice, someday let me know what it is – click!”

JUST LIKE – Women. Women women women women. Women, this is Mike, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!? Does your gender have a genetic predisposition to trying to sound as ignorant as possible? How many times have I had to sit in cafeterias and lunchrooms listening to these hoards of females droning on endlessly about the fucking conversations they’ve already had? You’re having a conversation right now! Does it have to be a conversation about a previous conversation? And the entire time they spit out the phrase “just like” about fifty times per minute. “Shelly was just like ‘oh…my GOD’ and then I’m all like ‘yeah I know’ then Sandy comes over just like she’s invited and she’s all ‘I heard that from Kelly yesterday and she was just like’ it was a total scene’’ I’m like ‘ god who invited you over here and nice socks by the way LOL. I’m so bad.”

HE/SHE’S A GENIUS – Why, because he or she is smarter than you? Chances are that’s not a monumental feat. I’m always hearing people talk about other people like they were geniuses. Do you people even know what a genius is? Does a person’s skill at making spaghetti guarantee her an IQ of 140+? Does this guy’s ability to change your car battery out give him a predisposition for extraordinary cognitive processing? No, it means they learned how to boil water and throw in pasta and the miraculous process of “lefty loosy, righty tighty”. Every time this happens I bet Steven Hawking shits himself. Maybe not because of the whole calling a stupid person genius thing, but it probably happens a lot.

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Previously on the Real World…

When last we checked in with Mike in his RF engineering work setting he was being confronted by an assortment of interesting characters who managed to, on a daily basis, give him a month’s supply of the heeby jeebies. Such anomalies included Fruity Gay Guy with the Fruity Gay Smile, Princess Butterface, the walking skeletal remains of a prominent secretary from the 1870’s, and of course the guy with itty bitty little shrunken baby arms. While each of these provided Mike with a certain amount of cubicle agoraphobia, shut-in status would continuously elude him. Day in and day out he is forced to meet new and horrifying people who somehow manage to carry on professional careers in this industry. Let’s see what new additions he’s made to the list of creepy creeps who creep him out.

B.O. Diddly – Ach! Cough hack wretch gag fucking puke! What the fuck is wrong with this society when a guy believes that it is perfectly acceptable to work in a cramped office environment with what has got to be a pair of six-months-dead carp lodged under his arms? This engineer down the hall who I have to go talk to more and more frequently smells and looks like he hasn’t showered in weeks. His hair is a tangled mess. His skin is pasty and dull. His fingernails are dirty. But most of all he reeks of body odor. And I don’t mean that sort of gross and sort of sexy musk a guy gets like after he works out or comes down from the ladder with your kitten. This is just a rotten egg salad sandwich served in a high school boy’s used gym sock.

Asshole Bean Pole on Crack – You remember that little skinny guy in grade school? He was really small, even for his age, scrawny and weak. It wasn’t his fault, and you probably felt bad for him. Remember how strange it was when you realized that rather than being a polite, cuddly little friendly sort he was actually the meanest, most sarcastic and condescending prick in the class? Well now he’s a full grown, mean, sarcastic, condescending prick. And by “full grown” I mean 5’10” and 104 lbs. And that’s what I’ve got going on here. This little jerky shit head walks around talking down to everyone (including us friendly contractors) like because he’s an electrical engineer he’s now able to start taking everyone else milk money back. He needs to be punked. I guarantee that if I were to walk by and cock my arm like I was going to punch him he’d fall down, whimper, and defecate. He also has this convulsing problem where he just blinks and twitches and generally spazzes out like a zombie from 28 Days Later. He’ll be the first one to bring in the rifle. I’m keeping my distance.

Rebel with a Soldering Iron – In one of the large labs there’s a guy about my age with tattoos all up and down his arms and one of those big ol’ bull-ring septum piercings. He always wears jeans and t-shirts and walks around slow and casual making light of everyone’s situations like he’s the only one who gets the big joke of life. It’s annoying as fuck. Every time I see him I just want to grab that fucking nose ring of his and start screaming, “Your father didn’t joint the Merchant Marines! He abandoned your mommy and then drank himself into a shallow grave because you’re such a fucking failure! Pull up your pants!” I mean there were entire cliques assigned to this kind of arrogant angst in high school. But this guy’s got a receding hairline and a $10/hr job soldering resistors to circuit boards. The only thing he has to be arrogant about is the fact that he somehow manages to get away with playing Bejeweled on the computer half of every day. And his high score is shit!

Ooooh…tha Ladykillaaaah – I’ll just come right out and say it: engineers are not sexy. They’re either overweight or underweight, awkwardly shaped, socially inept, predominantly male, unkempt, poorly dressed speds who can only score chicks of equal or lesser caliber because they make good money and haven’t stumbled upon that expensive taste in Babylon 5 memorabilia. But then…most engineers aren’t Stu, the Disco Fever Engineever. Watch him strut down the corridor like Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever (not Travolta’s feet by the way) like he’s gliding to the beats of They Might Be Giants’ new club megahit. See that orange and green taffeta shirt shimmering up to the fourth button, where it goes undone, exposing that sexy, masculine bald, flat chest. Check out those feaux-vintage jeans and how they shape his ass like every gay porn star I’ve ever seen. And that hair. However did he get it so curly and full? Yesssir…this cat’s got it all; looks, sweet threads, a suave walk, and the ability to repair your HAM radio. Ladies, ladies please…one at a time.

The Bigot Who Assumes That I’m a Bigot Too – So this Mexican walks into a bar with a big green parrot on his shoulder. The bartender takes one look and says, “Hey cool! Where’d you get that?” The parrot than says, “RAHR! Mexico. There’s millions of them down there. RAHR!”… This was just one of the jokes I’ve been told by the white guy at the other end of the building recently. He comes complete with 1,001 ways to land yourself in HR like “Q: How do you get a black guy out of a tree? A: Cut the rope” and “Q: Why did the woman cross the road? A: What does it matter, who let her out of the kitchen in the first place?” It’s always such a pleasure to bond with distinguished members of my gender and race in this meaningful and productive way. And every time I hear one of these gems I can really relate to the hidden truth behind each punch line like how you really can get blacks off a white woman by throwing them a basketball and how women get PMS because… (ready for this?) they deserve it. DAMN! BURN! Oh the truth of it just brings a tear to my eye. And he knows I’m German too, so I’m never getting away from this.

And that wraps up another episode of Creepy Creeps. Tune in next quarter when Mike is met by the woman with shoulder pads like a quarterback, the janitor who can’t speak English yet who keeps trying to strike up a conversation, and finally the engineer who walks the halls with a tape measure and just starts measuring things on the wall for no apparent reason. Oh what a time we’ll have.

I know it’s been a while since my last post. I’ve had a completely frustrating case of writer’s block. I just couldn’t think of anything that I wanted to write about. Sure there were issues going on and topics I had in mind. But they all seemed so forced and contrived. I just had to wait and hope that by the time I finally felt inspired I hadn’t lost all my readers. Then I realized that never really wanted readers in the first place, so fuck off and die.

I’ve been in a lot of conversations lately with Christians, Jews, and other followers of the world’s various (ahem) major religions concerning the impending death of our Pope. As most of you know I was raised Roman Catholic, and damn near went to monastery at the ripe age of seventeen. But even though I have stepped away from the faith, I still had plenty of indoctrination and teaching of its inner workings and processes. You see, the Catholic Church is run much like a government is. It’s so large and has such an enormous responsibility to each and every follower that it has to be orderly and controlled with diplomacy and democracy. So now that we’re coming into a crucial point in Catholic history, the death of the old Pope and selection of the new one, I thought I’d take a few moments to acquaint you heathens to the process involved.

At this very moment Pope John Paul II is dying. The whole world knows this. Don’t worry about him. He’s had a damned good run and a fantastic and productive life. Plus he’s almost guaranteed a seat in the third tier of Heaven. As he is fading away he is no doubt undergoing his final duty to his Church, the spiritual blessing of the candidates who are up for his succession. At this point Cardinal John Joseph VII, second in command of the Catholic Church, may be escorting all of the potential popes into the Pope’s chambers where they will gather around in a circle, clasp hands and pray. It is the expectation that the Pope will bless each of the potentials in spirit, arming them with an extra shot of faith for the daunting task ahead.

Once the Pope has passed on, the Vatican administers a decree called “Rex Decrus Di’papal”. Then it becomes very much a matter of business. Every Cardinal (the ones in red cloaks with the beanies) distributes commands to the bishops under them to carry out the Holy Vote. This is the very essence of the Pope’s selection. In all Catholic parishes the priests, deacons, nuns and select parishioners are given the task of overseeing the vote that will decide the next pope. The Sunday after the Pope’s death every baptized and confirmed Roman Catholic is called upon to cast their vote for the next pope. Before I get into that, a bit about the “nominees”, or Chrisundi as they are called.

The Archbishop of Canterbury has a greater task than overseeing the simple day-to-day tasks of his flock. For over 300 years, it has been the duty of this servant to seek out and adopt in their infancy the potential successors to Earth’s Throne of God. One of the teachings that he must undergo is a sensitizing of his spirit to the Blessed, those humans granted a closer bond with the Kingdom even in the flesh. The children will most likely eventually become high-ranking member of the Catholic Church anyway. But it is Canterbury’s task to have these “blessed” children brought to him to see if they are meant for greater service beyond the role of shepherd to our souls. Bi-annually, the Archbishop makes a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, where he is met by the caretakers of those children sent by churches all over the world to be tested.

The test consists of the Archbishop placing his hands on the chest and forehead of the little boy (only boys have ever displayed this divine gift) and says a prayer to the Lord. During the prayer, the Archbishop recites in his mind another prayer for healing and wisdom. By the time he has finished the actions of the infant or toddler will have revealed his spiritual closeness to the Hereafter. Most of the time the Archbishop returns having recognized not one single candidate for Pope.

But those who are chosen are immediately adopted by the Archbishop and transported back to his monastery where they are raised in a manner consistent with the teachings of the apostles to hone their minds and spirits so that they may give hope and life to the Church of Rome. At this moment there are only fifteen of these monks. The range in age from 35 to 57 and have spent their lives in isolated prayer and study and on missionaries throughout the world. For those who believe that these children should be given a choice, be comforted by the fact that they are. Every sacrament is voluntary, and at the age of 33 years and 77 days, each is given the chance to leave the Church permanently, with no ill will or further obligation. By this time they will have served faithfully and done a great number of people a great deal of good. In over 200 years, not one monk has left, and those who are not chosen have never once disclosed any anger over their lives.

And now back to the vote. The Sunday after the current Pope’s death, every parishioner who has experienced the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation has the right to place their vote for the next Pope. The votes are weighted. The least valuable vote, assigned the tally of one (1) is the unwed mother. Since divorce is not recognized by the Church, divorced women are considered “unwed”. Annulled marriages leave the woman single. The Single woman without child is given a voters weight of 2 votes. The weight of the votes breaks down like this:

2,500 – Vatican Cardinals
500 - Cardinals
100 - Bishops
50 – Priests
25 - Missionaries
15 - Deacons
12 – Monks in practice
9 – Monks in training
8 – Wedded father
7 – Wedded males over 33
5 – Wedded males up to age 33
4 – Wedded females of any age past Confirmation
3 – Unwed males of any age past Confirmation
3 – Wedded mother
2 – Unwed woman of any age past Confirmation
1 – Unwed mother

Once the votes are cast, and they are usually cast by placing a mark on a simple ballot using a Church writing instrument called a Pluomb which is very similar to a plume but writes with an ink from the juice of the holly plant. Once completed, the votes are counted in the rectory and the numbers hand carried to the Bishop who in turn passes his totals to the Cardinals and so on. Once all the votes are collected they are reviewed in the Vatican by the Holy Council of Papal Reveal, an assembly of Cardinals chosen by the former Pope. Once in agreement, the new Pope is announced and the selected monk is transported to his new home in Vatican City where he will spend his time becoming acquainted with the issues of the hour and take on his new name. All Popes are given new names to represent the life they leave behind for the gargantuan responsibilities they now owe to the global flock of Roman Catholics.

And that’s how it’s done. I hope that this helps to shed some light on the mysteries of the Church of Rome. Again, I don’t follow the faith anymore, so I will not be voting. But if I chose to I could do just that. If I were more of a hypocrite I’d go to Holy Cross and place my vote for Brother Select Francis Gianni Collici. He's only 42 and has already served on three missionaries and is believed to have the healing gift. We could use a Pope who can sanctify the body beyond illness.