Short and sweet-- and a challenge

Is it proof of a hyperactive imagination that I enjoy reading movie transcripts online, I mean from start to finish, while I'm at work? I've done it a couple of times in the last month, and if I know the movie well enough, it's almost as good as watching it. I'll sit at my desk, laughing at Anchorman or Kingpin, or smiling my way through and old Star Wars, having a great old time.

Also, this is cool as hell. Online vocab quiz, 50 levels (although they say it's very rare to get past 48). The organization donates ten grains of rice through the UN for every word you get right. So I'm a level 44. Bring it on, bitches. You got the word in you?

Finally, I just finished an article about a few studies (by both traditional family institutions and by pro-gay, progressive institutions) that claim that gay men die as much as 20 years younger than the average man. 20 years. So I guess being gay is bad for you. What do you think about that?

Sometimes I am just retarded

Nope, there's nothing more to it than that-- no sad backstory or funny anecdote. I just read my post from yesterday, and wow! It's retarded. No other way to describe it. So I apologize. I have no excuse for my behavior and I promise to do better in the future. I hope I didn't drive anyone to hara-kiri, or even worse, to stop reading me.

It puts pressure on you if anyone ever says, "you're funny," or "you're not retarded," because it means they expect funniness and nonretardation forever in the future. But rejecting nonretardation is not something I can avoid at all times; just look at this sentence.

Anyway, I am leaving work [cue jealousy] to meet my family downtown for lunch. No meetings, no more work for me today. I'm sorry for my shameful display yesterday, and I hope we can still be friends.

The absolute zenith of mixed signals

First, I would like to say the following: telling me that there is a surprise ending to a movie "but I won't tell you what it is!" is almost as bad as telling me. And then giving me a paper cut right on my butt so it stretches out every time I sit down. And you soak all my underpants with lemon juice that gets in it.

Because, duh! when I'm watching the movie, I'm going to be guessing what the twist at the end. Surprise!!! Well, no, not really; I knew it was coming even if I didn't know what it was. "It's a surprise ending, so don't let anyone ruin it for you."

Well, dick, it's too late.

Fidelity is out this season.

Women in a Nepal mountain village have been mailing condoms to their husbands working overseas to protect them from sexually transmitted diseases, a news report said Tuesday.

My only question about this whole situation is how awkward do you think the first conversation is when he gets back?

Husband: "Hi! Oh, I love you. Great to see you!"

Wife: "I love you too. We missed you!"

Husband: "Yeah, I missed you all too. I wish there was an easier way to have made some money."

Wife: "Me too. But I really appreciate that you did it. I know it must have been hard."

Husband: "I know it was hard for you, too."

[kiss]

Wife: "It's good to have you back... So did you get letters we sent?"

Husband: "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, they were great. A real pick-me-up on some rotten days."

Wife: "Good... good."

Husband: "Yeah."

Wife: "So did you get the condoms we sent you?"

Husband: "Um, the what? I mean, yeah, yeah, I got those."

Wife: "Oh."

Husband: "Yeah, they were um... yeah, so. Why did you send them to me?"

Wife: "Well, you know, the Caspian Sea's not the same place it used to be..."

Husband: "Oh. Yeah."

Wife: "Yi got elected class treasurer last month."

Husband: "Did he? That's great. Way to go, bud."

Yi: "Thanks, dad."

Wife: "The Changs got a new donkey."

Husband: "How about that. I remember them talking about that."

Wife: "So, about those condoms. How many other women did you nail on you stupid extended business trip, huh?"

Ok, I am sorry. That was even awkward to write. I'm sure it was awkward to read, if you even made it through that crap. Whew. I'm uncomfortable now.

And then on the way home, our little Nepalese family is driving along...

When all of a sudden, a 600 pound cow comes screaming down from a 200-foot cliff and lands on their tiny hatchback, killing all three occupants.

See? Isn't a surprise ending better when you don't know it's coming? I mean, damn, that could practically be an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

I used to like him and I hate myself for it

Lance Armstrong playing the Dating-Age-Limbo Game. And winning.

"Ashley Olsen has been spotted exchanging affections with cycling champion Lance Armstrong, sparking speculation of a romance.

The unlikely couple-- with 15 years between them-- enjoyed an intimate evening at the Gramercy Park Hotel bar in New York on Monday night, according to reports.

A source tells Page Six, 'They came together with a group of friends. Ashley drank red wine, sat on his lap and they were making out all night. They left together around 2 a.m.'"

It's the latest in a slew of flings for Armstrong. "I really like those little bony chicks, you know?" said the Captain of Faggotry. "I mean, I knew her sister had the whole anorexia thing, so I'm hopeful we can steer her in the same direction."

Armstrong had previously cheated on his wife with apeish pop-squealer Sheryl Crow, who supplanted Armstrong's wife on the Tour de France stage. "Sheryl was great timing," said the retired cyclist. "I mean, my wife was the one who nursed me through the terrible battle with cancer, so after I got better, seeing her always reminded me of the bad times. I don't need that-- much better to chase some strange ass when you're on top of the world, am I right?"

Olsen was superlatively giggly of the attention. "I remember when he had that cancer, or HIV or whatever it was, because I was in fourth grade at the time, and my mom thought he was cute. Well, actually it wasn't fourth grade, because I dropped out after second grade to be a star." The impossibly whoreish Olsen smiled impishly to reporters, and continued, "I'm going back to school though, cause it's important, right? I mean, I know. So I'm gonna get that eighth grade diploma, hopefully sometime in 2020. Wait, is that a year? I thought that was like, vision or something."

Armstrong was confident of the pair's future. "I realized when I won my seventh Tour de France in a row that I can do anything, man. I mean, I really can. I dated this tennis chick for a while, sandwiched between Sheryl and Ashley-- I mean timewise (God, wouldn't that be nice)-- I can run the New York marathon, I can hang out with Matthew McConaughy and crush ass in SoCal, and yes, I can get with this 90-pound waif of a harlot. Don't doubt me."

The famous balding toolbag had only one worry. "Plus dude, I gotta pass on these genes however I can. Because I've only got one nut, dude. I better get crackin."

Experts speculate that the pair's potential offspring would have larger-than-average hearts, negligible intelligence, cadaverous eye-sockets and bounteous egos.

"Yeah, our kids would be the best man, the best. Especially cause of me," said Armstrong.

"What? What's that? An average baby weighs like, more than me, though, right?" said Olsen. "I don't think I could even vomit one out of my belly. Or wait, you don't poop them, do you? That would be sooo gross."

Armstrong didn't reply, just winked to reporters and put on really cool sunglasses before the two resumed canoodling.

Don't drink and dress

Yes! In your face, Cosmos! Now I have another great title for a post-- and a post to go with it-- or at least a question.

And that question is... Did I go out on Saturday wearing a left shoe and a right shoe from DIFFERENT PAIRS OF UNMATCHING SHOES? I'll give you three guesses.

You guess "no"? Wrong!

You guess "31"? Wrong!

You guess "anal beads... no wait, leotard!... wait no, Haiti..."

Wrong again. The answer, nitwit, is yes. But perhaps a little background is in order.

Friday afternoon I got home from work after my parents had already eaten dinner-- but my dad still had the food on the stove, and cooked up pasta just for me (they're both on the Atkins diet right now). Scallops, onions, red peppers, peapods, mushrooms and a disturbingly creamy sauce: phenomenal. So my dad made me dinner and sat with me at the dining room table and he had a glass of wine while I had a steaming plateful of food. and a glass of wine.

And then we both had another, and talked about various and sundry things until my mom got back. She told me that there was a lot to be done around the house, and that tonight was going to be a good night to stay in. I nodded and poured myself a nice vodka on the rocks.

A little later, a couple later, I was going out to buy some cigarettes, because I felt like it, and decided to call my brother who was down in the city. And right when I was talking to him, I happened to be crossing Harlem right next to 290, so it was the work of a moment to spin the wheel when he told me "sure, come ahead down," and I was on my way.

We went to one bar then another. Then one more, and then over to the cousin's apartment, where we listened to the loudest parts of the Fellowship of the Ring on his new, large sound system, and sucked down a tasty Tanqueray and Tonic. By the time I got home, it was 5:30 in the AM.

I woke up five hours later, maybe six, and I wasn't hungover. This was always a bad sign for my roommates and me in college. We'd ask each other, "you hungover?" as we stumbled out of our rooms and onto the couches in the living room to watch consecutive movies and eat greasy delivered food of one species or another... "Yeah, I'm really hungover-- it was a pretty tame night," you might say. But more typically, a cheerful "Nope! It was crazy last night, man!" Yes, I'm saying what you think I'm saying. I was still buzzed when I woke up Saturday morning.

So we all know how to handle that situation, don't we? I'll give you a hint: it starts with "Pour yourself a tall..." and ends "orange juice." Mmm-hmm, tasty. Oh yeah, and in the middle is "strong vodka and."

But I put too much ice in at first, so some of the vodka splashed out onto a piece of paper on the counter. Which, I shook off, blotted, and recognized as my to-do list for the day, prepared thoughtfully by my mother.

"Clean the back hall," the note said to me, insinuating that there might be dead mice hidden behind the galoshes. "And then clear out underneath the back porch."

"There's so much crap under there," I protested, but the note would have nothing of it. "It's just an old Christmas tree, recycling bins, kindling, and those two giant tarps that smell like old people," it said.

So I set to, shuffling items here and there, and drinking my screwdriver and having a fine time.

"Ah ah ah," the note scolded as I washed my hands at the kitchen sink. "Clean the laundry room, put down all the storm windows, and put away the grill and all the lawn chairs."

"Fine," I said, "I'll get the storm windows, and the grill and the furniture." And I did. "But I'm not going to clean the laundry room," I muttered under my breath, but the note didn't say anything. I think it was probably taking a nap, like all authority figures do in the afternoon.

Unfortunately, the Notre Dame game went to triple overtime before they lost (surprise, surprise), and I had time for one less nap and two more beers than I had planned.

So I guess it's not surprising that when I changed after dinner, I ended up putting on shoes that didn't match. And didn't notice when one shoe clicked and the other shoe landed softly the rest of the night.

Then on Sunday, I don't know why, but I farted pretty much the whole way to church. I think if I had had a skatboard and a lighter, I could have saved my legs a lot of effort. But I probably would have burned my pants.

And now, for the award of the weekend: Best response to the question, "Hey idiot, why were you just making out with that chubby girl over there? Are you in love?"

"I was getting pretty hungry, and I mistook her for a pork sparerib."

NaBloPoMo

So I've officially registered for NaBloPoMo, a day late, but I posted yesterday, so I'm still in good standing (I think-- if not, whatever). I had actually thought of trying NaNoWriMo, which is the inspiration for NaBloPoMo. In fact, I had a really great plan to shift my working hours, take up smoking at least a pack a day, grow my hair really long or wear a wig, and basically pretend I was an author for a month. But Apathy is my middle name. I was actually going to get my middle name legally changed to Apathy, but then, ... eh.

What I've discovered is that since the NaBloPoMo is still pretty small-ish, people hitting 'next blog' or 'random blog' or 'waste more time' or whatever the button is get to my blog a lot more frequently than from Blogger. In the last four hours, for example, I have had IPs check in from locales as various as Chicago, New York, Sprinfield, IL, Springfield, VA, Beltsville, MD, Victorville, CA, San Antonio, Arlington, VA, Ann Arbor, MI, College Station, TX, Grand Rapids, MI, Mesa, AZ, Portland, OR, Washington, D.C., Phoenix, AZ, Manila, Philippines, and Prior Lake, MN, among others.

Why do you care? I'm sure you don't. It just surprised me a little bit. Usually I just get a very few regulars and anyone who googles "europeans with immodest undershirts," or "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon," both of whom I hope were disappointed. I mean, jeez, I don't even know what that means. I'm getting the heebie-jeebies just imagining someone hunched over a computer googling this, let alone imagining a "thick laid-back softball merkin sucking bacon." Gross.

Much more reassuring to think about things like this: A judge who ordered a woman to drop her pants and decided a custody dispute by flipping a coin was removed from the bench by the Virginia Supreme Court on Friday.

"a black lacy thing," the judge said of the mental patient's underwear. "... it looked good, didn't it?"

Whatever you say, your honor.

The Exes and Owes

A quick note for your consideration. When we sign off a message with “hugs and kisses,” we write xoxo, x for a kiss, o for a hug. When we draw a dead stick figure, we put x’s on his eyes (as opposed to the more realistic flat lines, which are used for the eyes of stick figures who are asleep or Asian… or both). Coincidence? Ever heard of the kiss of death? Ok, fine, it makes no sense. Forget I said anything

Top two things that are quick and dirty:

1. The draft I have prepared for a new article.
2. Break-up sex.

All right, I admit, I really didn’t have anything to write regarding the title of this post, but I had to write something, because, come on, how awesome is that title? I guess I’m in debt for college loans, but I don’t have collection agencies on me about it, let alone much fiercer creditors like my friends. And I don’t have any exes, because either I’ve never had a relationship, or they’ve all ended in murder. Awkward silence.

Anyway, I might need to hire someone who’s more familiar with the subjects, like I don’t know, Kevin Federline or Joey Tribbiani.