Mr. 4000 On His Way and Weekend Update Complete

Mr. 4000 will be coming within the next day or two. In the meantime, I've finally completed the update from last weekend, including what I will be deeming The Bachelor Party Manifesto, which is in Saturday's recap.

Tact

One of the perks of having my office close to a conference room and next to a vacant secretary station is that when depositions are held in said conference room, during breaks in said depositions, opposing attorneys LOVE to talk on their cell phones right outside of my office in said secretary station. Right now, some fembot has been talking rather loudly, unaware that I can hear every worthless, piece-of-shit word that is coming out of her mouth right now.

Minute 3: Hmm, curtains seem like an appropriate topic of conversation while taking a break from a deposition. While I've never taken, defended, or been the witness in a deposition, I can only assume that when I do so, I will be rushing out of the room during breaks to talk to someone who I assume is a complete moron about curtains.

Minute 10: She's honestly been talking about curtains for 10 minutes. For Christ's sake, just go with the white ones. After all, they fit the windows perfectly and they go well with the color of the wall.

Minute 13: Good Lord, I thought it was over, but now she's talking about shower curtains. I can't believe she decorated her parents' whole bathroom around a shower curtain, especially considering the fact that dad "couldn't stand" the thought of throwing away his bath mat! What in this woman's mind made her think, "Hey, I got some time before I need to get back to that depo. Maybe I should annoy the shit out of the guy in this office."

Minute 18: Shit, I think they might have broken for lunch, which means I could have a full hour of this. Isn't this woman hungry?

Minute 22: Oh good, she finally left.

Minute 24: No, no, wait, she just went to the bathroom, and apparently didn't end the conversation while in there (not sure how she did that exactly, but I'm actually kind of turned on). And now she's back at the vacant secretary station yakin' away. Stop talking about your dad's bathroom! For shit's sake, we get it--he didn't want you to change it, but you did.

Minute 25: Okay, I finally don't hear anything. Maybe she's gone, or better yet dead.

Minute 27: I'm not even kidding--she just came out of the bathroom again while talking on the phone. This woman is about to get stabbed in the mouth. Luckily, she just said "okay, bye," closed her flip phone, and walked past my office toward the elevators and conference room. I'll keep everyone posted if she returns, which is a near guarantee given the conversation I just had to listen to.

Thanksgiving Weekend 2005: Goats, Booze, and Hookers

Rather than have one long post about every mundane detail of my life over the past five days, I'll break it up into a post per day. So look for various posts over the next 24 hours regarding each day's events. And for the love of God, be good to each other.

Sunday: Retard Sandwiches

Due to nearly every other driver's apparent lack of ability to not get into rear-enders on the highway, it took us 7 hours to get back to Dayton. Sweet.

Saturday: Hockey and Hooligans

Saturday was the bachelor party of Ryan "The Great Dane" Knudsen. The evening started out as all bachelor parties should: drinking in the parking lot of a Hilton.

Then we all went to the Chicago Wolves game. For those who don't know, the Wolves are Chicago's minor league hockey team. On this evening, the Wolves' opponent was none other than the Omaha Ak-Sar-Ben Knights. Behind only the Cleveland Browns, this is the worst name in professional sports. My hatred of their name is not as deep as my hatred for their goalie Brent Krahn. That smug son of a bitch. Despite my incessant attempts at getting into his head, with such total burns as "go back to Omaha," "you suck Krahn," "this ain't the 'Wrath of Krahn'," and "hey Krahn, I've obtained your address, and currently there are four masked men holding your wife hostage until you start letting up more goals," he only let up 2 goals. His wife's body is currently desolving in a bathtub full of acid in Hell's Kitchen.

Then we went to some bars in Naperville and got lit.

Unknown female sources expressed their displeasure about the possibility of Ryan going to a strip club during the evening. As my boy Snoop might say, a bachelor party without strippers is like Harold Melvin without the Blue Notes: you'll never go platinum.

Ladies, listen up and listen up good. The following rant is meant to inform you about the goings on at strip clubs so that you can rid yourself of any irrational fears or concerns you might have about your man going to a strip club. Myself, I'm lucky enough to have a wife that doesn't care if I go to a strip club every now and then (granted, she might start to get pissed if I went there all the time). She's been to strip clubs, and therefore, she doesn't see what the big deal is when other women flip out about them. Hell, she's even called me from a strip club. That's when I knew she was the one.

Forbidding your man from going to a strip club is essentially telling him that you don't trust him. All it does is create resentment. Guilt trips may work when it's just a matter of him going to a bar to watch a game with his buddies, but trying to tell a friend that you can't go to a strip club at his bachelor party because your girlfriend/fiance/wife doesn't want you to is such a kick in the dick. He's not going there to blow his load, sexually or financially. In fact, if he's going there for a bachelor party, his main goal is to make sure the bachelor has a good time.

If he is the bachelor, for shit's sake, just let him have one last night of debauchery. It's a rite of passage--a male bonding experience. His friends take him out, get him liquored up, and then take him to a strip club. A guy's bachelor party is the one day where his buddies pay for everything and the one day he gets to feel like a king before he gets married. Even worse than having to tell your friend that you can't go to a strip club at his bachelor party is being the bachelor and trying to tell your friends that your fiance doesn't want you to go to a strip club. It's completely emasculating, or so I would assume. He's not going there for some last-minute fling. If he wanted to have sex with someone other than you, he would get a hooker or an ex-girlfriend.

Anyway, here are what I perceive to be the concerns (correct me if I'm wrong) of those women who refuse to "let" their boyfriends/husbands/fiances go to strip clubs, and the truth regarding those concerns:

Your Concern: If he goes to a strip club, it means he's some sort of sexual deviant.
The Truth: It's just a form of entertainment.
It seems to me that many women think that strip clubs are some sort of bastion of sexual perversion. From what I've heard, male strippers are pretty aggressive and often times inappropriate, so maybe that's where this concern comes from. Female strippers, on the other hand, are rarely aggressive because they don't need to be. If they come over to your table and ask you if you want a dance, they don't care if you say "no" because someone else in the club will say yes. In the end, though, a strip club is just entertainment. You see some girls dancing and maybe throw a dollar or two on the stage if you're particularly impressed. And what's not entertaining about watching a woman slide down a pole upside down while licking her own boob?

Your Concern: He's going to a strip club because he wants to get off.
The Truth: Guys don't go to strip clubs for sexual reasons.
Guys go to strip clubs knowing damn well that it is a touch-with-their-eyes-only situation. I can't stress this enough: there is no touching at strip clubs. Guys aren't allowed to touch the strippers. No touching, no kissing, no sucking, no fucking. Not on the floor, not in the lap dance chairs, not in those dimly lit couches in the corner, not even in the VIP room. There are big bruising bouncers all over the club watching you like hawks to make sure that you do not touch anything but the chair you are sitting in and your wallet.

Your Concern: He's going to a strip club because he doesn't find you attractive.
The Truth: That has never once crossed his mind.
Be rational. He wouldn't be with you if he didn't want to be. The fact that he goes to a strip club now and then with his buddies doesn't change that fact. While most strip clubs do feature attractive women (hopefully), he loves you and loves the way you look. If he wanted fake boobs in his face everyday, he would ask you to get them. At the very least, he sees a couple good-looking girls and forgets about them as soon as he walks out the door. At the very most, he has some harmless masturbation fodder that he will forget about the next time he sees you naked. But rest assured, any day of the week, he would rather give you the ol' pickle tickle than pay money to look at some 22-year-old silicone-injected stranger with two kids.

Your Concern: He will try to pick up a stripper.
The Truth: He has no plans or hopes (or even a legitimate chance) of trying to bag a stripper.
In fact, if anything, he probably would rather that a stripper's genitals stay as far away from him as possible (or at least 3-6 inches away). Strippers don't want a guy's dick; they want his money. A guy has a better chance of picking up a girl at a bar than he does a stripper at a strip club. Hell, he has a better chance of eating his own shit out of an ice cream bowl on a dare by a half-in-the-bag Boris Yeltsin than he does of picking up a stripper.

Your Concern: He's going to spend a ton of money.
The Truth: He's not going to spend much more than he would if he went to a bar.
First of all, many strip clubs do not sell alcohol, and the pop, water, juice, etc. is included in the cover price. And the clubs that do sell alcohol often include the less expensive drinks (domestic beer bottles, well drinks) in the cover price. As far as paying for dances, there is no requirement that anyone get a lap dance or a private dance. A lot of guys just go to a strip club and watch the girls on stage without giving any stripper a dime. For most of us, it's a rare chance to hang out with "just the guys." That's not to say that some of us don't get a lap dance now and then, but as explained above, it's just entertainment. And I'll be damned if there's anything wrong with buying the bachelor two songs in the VIP room. Granted, if your man is going to strip clubs alone or spending hundreds of dollars every time he goes, then you are probably right to worry. But those kind of guys are usually 50-year-old single men who actually think that the strippers like them. 99% of guys realize that all they are paying for is intangible entertainment that provides them with momentary enjoyment, and therefore, they will not be dropping cash left and right to look at something that they can touch when they get home.

The bottom line is that going to a strip club is a lot more innocent than many women make it out to be. Most men who go to strip clubs are not sleeze balls. They're not going to hook up. They're just going to have a good time with their friends. Don't chastise your man for it. Give him a boys-will-be-boys toned statement like "don't go falling in love" or "don't spend too much money." You can rest easy knowing that he's not going to do either. Better yet, you'll now be considered one of the "cool" girlfriends/fiances/wives among his friends. And to top it all off, your man will respect you even more so than he already does because he will know that you trust him and that you think he's capable of making his own decisions.

Guys (and liberated gals), please forward this to every woman you know, and every man whose girlfriend, fiancé, wife, mother, sister, aunt, grandma, maid, or waitress may be misinformed about strip clubs.

Friday: More Turkey and More Beer

Aside from the constant nagging, one of the many perks of being married is having two Thanksgiving feasts. After a solid 10 hours of sleep Thursday night, I was rested and energized for Round 2. Jester, Harley, and I packed up Rhonda (my total g-ride '91 Accord) and headed to the southwest suburbs of Chicago. The best part about having two Thanksgivings in one year is that I got to double my Thanksgiving-turkey-shirt-wearing time.

We had Thanksgiving Dinner #2 at my dad's house. He has two cats that are allegedly one of the breeds that is non-allergenic. In this case, however, "non-allergenic" means "causes Jessie to cough and Andrew to sneeze." Aside from the constant misery from those piles of dander walking around the house, dinner was good.

After dinner, Jester and I went to Palmer Place, a bar in LaGrange with the largest beer selection in the Chicagoland area, to enjoy a few ales with some compatriots. The list of fellow attendees read like a who's who of people I know extremely well from growing up in LaGrange: Adam "Troy" McClure, his fiance Katie "The Tooth Murderer" Wegner, Tony "T Dawg" Zumpano, Sean "Hurricane" Riesenbeck, his girlfriend Bridget "Tropical Storm" Spanbauer, Ryan "King Canute" Knudsen, his fiance Carrie "Soon To Be Married to a Fucking Dane" Bunting, Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, Kurt "I Once Was Molested by a Wire-Haired Man-Goblin" Johns, the Brothers "Weeser" Veeser, Reed "Peed" LeMar, his girlfriend Sara or Sarah or Serah or Sera, David "House of" Payne, and his girlfriend Lisa.

Overall, the night was just delightful. The topics of conversation were like something out of one of those fancy Hollywood moving picture shows. We talked about nearly everything: fantasy football; beer; the Bears; autoerotic asphyxiation; the White Sox; how we were sure one of our junior high health teachers probably touched little boys and girls (and interestingly, how it wasn't the one who was accused of doing so); the time Kurt visited IU and was knowingly molested by a wired-haired man-goblin; the types of establishments we wouldn't be patronizing for Knudsen's bachelor party; and of course, dancing.

I met my brother's new girlfriend, Sara or Sarah or Serah or Sera. I think I freaked her out, but that will happen when your introduction to your boyfriend's brother is during an all-too-frank discussion about masturbation he is having with guys he's known for 15-20 years. I just have this feeling like she came out of it knowing a lot more about me than I did about her.

The night ended just as I would have expected, with me doing the in-and-out-of-sleep head bob with a half-full wine glass in my hand while watching Shaun of the Dead at the Veesers.

Thursday: Turkey and Football

I ate turkey and watched football. What the hell did you expect?

After I was awoken by the sound of Harley and Mitzie rumbling, I trudged upstairs where my mother-in-law offered me up a Tom & Jerry, which is a pure Wisconsin drink comprised of brandy, dark rum, and hot water, with a whipped sugar type topping. No better way to start your day as far as I'm concerned. After a couple Tom & Jerrys, I went with Jessie, Ari, and Lizzie to try to find an open restaurant in Roanoke or Huntington to get some breakfast. We were about as successful at that as Dahmer was at not luring young gay Milwaukeeans into his apartment for sex and attempted zombification.

Later in the day, I was introduced to the newest family pets: two goats named Frederick and Bernard. As you might imagine, they are kept in a pen, since they will eat anything and have been known to play a wicked game of King of the Mountain on any car in sight. I was also informed that they like to perform various flying ninja kicks. Anyway, here's a picture of Jessie holding one of the goats in the midst of gale-force winds.

Jessie's stepdad Pat cooked one hell of a feast. In addition to the normal Thanksgiving fare, there was the added touch of deviled eggs, an idea so ingenious that it should be outlawed in southern states.

Every Thanksgiving I wear this totally sweet short-sleeve button-up shirt I got at Goodwill or Salvation Army for a fraction of its worth. It's covered with little brown turkeys. Nothing like your first Thanksgiving with the in-laws and looking like a complete jackass. Here is the first known picture of me, Jessie, and Harley all sitting still at the same time. As you can see, Harley's general disposition is that of disinterest and contempt.

After watching the day's football games, the evening was capped off by my usual domination of Trivial Pursuit, followed by my first victory ever at Yahtzee. Holla.

Wednesday: Dogs and Beer

After puking all over my keyboard upon seeing the picture of the world's ugliest dog, I got the hell out of my office before anyone noticed. I guess that's why we have janitors anyway.

Jester, Harley, and I headed up to her family's house in Roanoke, Indiana. You may be saying to yourself, "Roanoke, Indiana? Where the hell is that?" To that, I say, stop interrupting me and don't even worry about it. Anyway, Jessie's family lives on several acres and has a plethora of pets: 3 dogs, 2 birds, at least 6 cats, and 2 goats.

If that gargoyle in the post below is the world's ugliest dog, then Mitzie, one of the in-laws' dogs, is the most annoying dog in the world. As cruel fate would have it, Mitzie (shown here being forcefully restrained by Ari) hates me for no reason at all. From the moment I step into the house until the moment I leave, this damn dog is barking at me. Jessie and I slept on an inflatable mattress in the basement, and we actually had to shut off all access to the basement because otherwise Mitzie would bark at me while I was sleeping. In addition to its constant nature, her bark is high pitched and angry. If Fran Drescher barked, that's what it would sound like. Plus she's an ankle biter, and that's not stretching the truth in any way--the little fucker actually bit my ankle. It's hard to hate a dog, but I'm pretty sure I hate Mitzie.

Anyway, Wednesday night several of us (Jester, Ari, Lizzie, their friend Liz, and I) went on a Huntington/Roanoke bar crawl. You may be saying to yourself, "Huntington, Indiana? Where the hell is that?" To that, I say that it's the county seat of Huntington County and the closest town over 3,000 inhabitants to Roanoke. Jessie told me to wear my argyle sweater for some reason. We started off in Huntington, or H-Town as it's known colloquially. The first place we went (the name is escaping me at the current time) was playing an extremely loud and odd assortment of music, ranging from country to hip hop to classic rock to '80s. Additionally, there was a haze of smoke there thicker than Mama Cass's thighs.

From there, we went to JD's, a much more low-key place where the ladies knew just about everyone in the bar. Aside from a plethora of IU memorabilia on the walls, an excellent jukebox, games of chance, pleasant and friendly service, and reasonable prices, JDs had something to offer that I have never seen at a bar (or anywhere) before: a 5-foot-tall animatronic, Santa-suit-wearing bear with an attached microphone that allowed it to dance and move its mouth when someone sings along with the jukebox through the mic. Pure genius. Local funny man Brant (pictured) wowed the crowd with heart-rendering incantations followed by timeless gags.

After JDs, it was off to Roanoke. First, we went to the Lock, a saucy little bar where patrons who are too drunk are given a glass boot filled with water. The highlight of our time there was when the bartendress almost had last call about an hour and a half early because some pranksters were throwing coasters at each other from across the bar.

From there, it was to Paragraph 96, affectionately known as the Paragraph. It is a glorified double-wide trailer named after a clause in a GM collective bargaining agreement that allowed people from GM's Janesville, Wisconsin plant to have seniority over those from all other GM plants when GM built its Ft. Wayne plant. Like at the other three bars, I was the only one wearing an argyle sweater. As shown by this picture, my disdain for Jessie was palpable. Luckily all was cured when Lizzie used her turbo connections with the bartender (who had previously told me that they were out of pizza) to get us a couple pizzas, which were surprisingly good. On another note, anyone with a union card can sign the ceiling, as you can see by Ari's signature from 2001 when she worked at GM and went against her UAW brethren and sistren by organizing the largest non-sanctioned strike in Big Three history. Her hard bargaining and questionable picket-line tactics earned her the nickname Ari "Wildcat" Pope. You should have seen the way people cowered in fear when she walked into the Paragraph.

From there, we went home and I had to sleep with one eye open on account of Mitzie's quest to end me.

Mascot for the Zags

Talk about a Thanksgiving Eve miracle!! I found the perfect ugly mascot for the Gonzaga Bulldogs men's basketball team (see post below detailing why they are the ugliest team in college basketball). Anyway, this little ball of good looks is a pedigreed Chinese Crested Dog (yes, this is an actual breed of dog, although it appears that not all of them make you want to vomit upon seeing them). Unsurprisingly, it's a three-time winner of the title of World's Ugliest Dog. Now that it's dead, there's nothing stopping Gonzaga from stuffing it and using it as some sort of false idol to which they pray before games.

Honestly, who could love that? It looks like the love child of Stripe the evil Gremlin and a 90-year-old leper crossed with the love child of the alien that busts through that guy's chest in Alien and Freddy Krueger, who was dipped into a vat filled with a combination of radioactive waste, ash, shit, disease, evil, dip spit, used syringes, and tar, and then eaten and regurgitated by a tyrannosaurus rex who was burning to death in a lava pit. I guess we can be thankful that there is no longer a possibility of seeing it, and we can all hope and pray that all dogs do not go to heaven.

Go Zagly Early

Last night, we had a pleasant surprise. Dave "Flounder" Shepley and his wife Kim were making a pit stop in Sunny D on their way up from NC for Thanksgiving. So, the Shepleys, the Belangers, and Jester and I went out for dinner and had a grand ol' time discussing current events and the various rubes who were dining around us.

After dinner we all went back to the Belangers' hizzie to converse and such. We started watching the Michigan State/Gonzaga basketball game when there were still about 2 minutes left in regulation (Gonzaga ended up winning 109-106 in 3OT). Over the next hour, I came to a realization that I've been fighting for so many years: Gonzaga is the ugliest college basketball team in America.

Led by Mark Few, who comes across as an angry half-leprechaun, half-Skeletor, it should come as no surprise.

The unnecessarily hirsute and mustached Adam Morrison, Gonzaga's star player who set a Maui Invitational record with 43 points, looks like a cross between Russell Hammond, guitarist of the fictional band Stillwater from "Almost Famous," and satanic serial killer Richard Ramirez, who won the hearts of southern Californians in 1985 as the "Night Stalker," with a string of break-ins, abductions, rapes, and murders.

Meanwhile, Derek Raivio is a feisty guard, with ice water running through his veins. He also looks like a Ukranian prostitute with a shaved head. "Forty hryvnias for you to have love make with me for all of the night long." Alternatively, I'd be hard-pressed to find anyone else on Gonzaga's campus that could hold a candle to Raivio in a Sinead O'Connor look-alike contest.

Colin Floyd, a rarely used senior guard, is listed as being born on June 21, 1983, when in fact he was born on June 21, 1963. He has been running Floyd's Feed and Supply Store in downtown Spokane for the past fifteen years. Come on Gonzaga, everyone knows that. Hell, he sat on Spokane's City Council from 1998 to 2002.

The pumpkin-pie-haircutted Nathan Duodney not only looks like he will molest children and various domesticated animals in less than five years, but he also has the least intimidating nickname on the team: The Duodenum.

What you may know about David Pendergraft is that he is an affable sophomore guard on Gonzaga's basketball team who likes listening to records and taking girls to the A&W. What you may not know is that in the early '90s, his family emigrated to Brewster, Washington from New South Wales, Australia, soon after changing their last name to Pendergraft from Serious. His father, Yahoo Pendergraft (shown to the right performing with the New South Wales Symphony Orchestra in 1990), teaches both music and theater and drama at Brewster High School.

Erroll Knight lost his eyebrows at age 17 in a freak accident involving sparklers, Bacardi 151, and a double dog dare. Since then he has been unable to paint them on in a way that doesn't make him look like Endora from Bewitched, often using a headband to mask them. By day he is a guard/forward on the Gonzaga basketball team. By night, he is The Fabulous Desdemona, Spokane's most popular psychic drag queen.

Please be on the lookout for Sean Mallon, aka Mega Mallons, aka The Marshmallon Man and Stephen "Shaggy" Gentry. They were last seen on Monday in the parking lot of Floyd's Feed and Supply, forcing a mother and her two children into a silver mid-to-late 1980s Dodge van with Idaho license plates. Mallon is a white male in his mid 30s, with long light brown hair, standing between 6'8" and 6'10" and weighing between 217 and 219 pounds. He has a small tattoo of a bulldog on his left forearm. Gentry is also a white male. He is in his mid-to-late 30s, with thinning blond hair, standing between 6'1" and 6'3" and weighing between 174 and 176 pounds. Gentry has served time for armed robbery at the Washington State Penitentiary in Walla Walla, where he received several black jailhouse tattoos, including a "509" on his right bicep, the initials ACAB below the knuckles on the fingers of his left hand, and a bullseye on his lower back. The mother has been identified as 32-year-old Jennifer Hochman of Spokane, and her children are 6-year-old Bradley and 4-year-old Jennifer, Jr., or JJ. The van was last seen heading east on I-90. Mallon and Gentry are armed and considered extremely dangerous. Both men are highly unstable and have been known to harm complete strangers. If you see them, do not confront them. Instead, immediately call 9-1-1, the Washington State Patrol at 1-800-POL-WASH, or the Idaho State Police at 1-800-NO-UDAHO.

GMYH will be taking a haitus for several days, so go eat some turkey and watch some football. And be thankful that you're not a member of the Gonzaga men's basketball team.

I Think I Meant Copper

Last night, as I was in the midst of my wildly unsuccessful nightly attempts at seducing my wife, I came up with a sweet pickup line that is guaranteed to work as well as it did for me: "Baby, you're like a magnet, and I'm like every metal but nickel." I have come to find out that this is a horrible pickup line for many reasons. First, Jessie laughed her ass off, but did not take her clothes off, instead giving me a that's-adorable-but-you're-not-getting-any "good night." Second, it turns out that nickel is in fact magnetic, so the pickup line makes no sense whatsoever. Third, even if it did make sense, it has already been deemed by one woman I used it on last night to be "the worst pickup line of all-time." She actually asked me if I just came up with that, thinking that there's no way I could have possibly come up with something that horribly ineffective on my own. Use it at your own risk.

On a completely random note, is anyone else confused about the Ford F150 commercials where token redneck pickup truck driver Toby Keith asks viewers if we're "ready for a throwdown?" My answer would be a resounding "no" because I don't even know what there is to fight about, and even if I did, I can't say for sure that I would be ready for it.

That's all I got today, so check out this flippin' sweet picture sent to me a couple weeks ago by local pedophile and Napoleon Dynamite fan Kim "By and" Byrum, who kidnapped this young, gay, anglo-hispanic couple, forced them to dress up like Napoleon and a young Geraldo, and then took them to the woods where she took pictures of them looking completely disinterested and downright self-righteous, respectively. Kim, you're sick.

Let's Put an End to Obesity Together

As I was wolfing down a mammoth, succulent smoked turkey leg at the shit storm called the IU/Purdue game on Saturday, I recalled the fact that I've gained 5-10 pounds (depending on when I weigh myself) since getting married in June, and I couldn't help but think of something I heard awhile back. I can't remember where I saw or heard this, but it's a good point: Why is it socially acceptable to yell at a smoker for lighting up, but it's not socially acceptable to yell at an obese person for dominating a Big Mac and large fries? We have a problem here in the US of A that I can only assume is reaching pandemic proportions: obesity. And it's no longer just reserved for truck drivers, computer programmers, and Mindy Cohn. You're too fat. I'm too fat. Britney's too fat. Hell, even the Olsen Twins are too fat (at least one of them).

Granted, anorexia is not always the solution, but laying off the Krispy Kremes and McMuffins can't hurt. Not everyone can be as strong, svelte, and street-savvy as, say, Chuck Norris, but at least we can try. People always bitch about how magazines, movies, and TV portray an ideal of skinny men and women, and it's not fair because not everyone can be that skinny, blah, blah, blah. To me, that's always come across as fat people speak for "I'm too lazy to work out or eat right." Well America (or at least the 26 of you that will read this), it's time to start doing something about your gut and cankles. I issue you the following challenges:
1. Stop eating so damn much.
2. Eat better. And don't be a moron about it. You know damn well that a diet that says you should eat bacon and steak, but steer clear of fruits and vegetables, cannot possibly be healthy.
3. Whenever you see someone who's fat eating something fatty, say "you know, eating that can kill you" in the same I'm-pretending-I'm-the-only-one-in-the-world-who-knows-what-I'm-about-to-tell-you tone that people use to tell smokers "you know, smoking can kill you." When the fat person reacts negatively, punch him/her in the gut and say, "Try and catch me. Bet you can't." Then start running circles around them.
4. Have more sex. Research has found that the more sex someone has, the thinner they are. Even if that's not true, at least you'll be having more sex.
5. So help me God, if you are on the first or second floor of a building, take the fucking stairs up (and certainly down) instead of the elevator. Because if I see you taking the elevator, I will kick you in the shins.
6. Holy shit, join a gym. If that's not an option, start jogging or riding a bike. "But GMYH, it's too cold outside." Okay asswipe, then do Tae-Bo or Pilates. "But GMYH, can't you see that I'm too much of a man to do Tae-Bo or Pilates? You can't even imagine how bad my rep would suffer if that got out. I would absolutely die." Okay Stallone, buy a couple dumbells. Get a subscription to Men's Health--they always have plenty of workouts you can do at home while watching those Simpsons and Seinfeld reruns you absolutely can't miss each night. Do something for Christ's sake.
7. Sleep more. Mesopotamian researchers have discovered that you can't eat while you're sleeping.
8. Tell your friends and family to punch you in the peen or poon whenever they see you eating fast food or something fried. Good old Pavlovian conditioning should take its course rather quickly.
9. Run, don't walk. If you think walking will really give you as much benefit as running, then you probably also think you can lose weight by eating bacon instead of vegetables (see Challenge #2). Anything that doesn't make you sweat or breathe heavily probably isn't going to help you lose as much weight as something that does.
10. Make working out a regular part of your daily routine. "But GMYH, I just don't have time." Stop being such an ass clown. Everyone has time. America's the fattest country in the world, in part because of you. You owe it to me, you owe it to you, you owe it to everyone who has to look at you, and most importantly, you owe it to George Washington to make time.

Granted, this rant is a bit selfish. I would love to see fewer morbidly obese people in line in front of me at Wal-Mart. Hell, I would love to see a skinnier dude in the mirror every morning (and by "dude," I am referring to me). Personally, I'm fed up with every fatty's excuses about why he/she can't lose weight. We all make excuses, but the truth is that anyone can lose weight. For shit's sake, Jared lost 240 pounds by eating sandwiches and walking. The least you and I can do is take off 10-20 by having sex, eating vegetables, and running. "But GMYH, you can't possibly be referring to me because I'm already skinny." No, you're not.

"When You're Playin' With Fire, You're Bound to Get Burned"

Hair Band Friday is off and running once again. Today we're a little bit more lighthearted than usual, probably on account of the copious amounts of weed we've been smoking. Anyway, we're playing hair band songs that made or should have made VH1's 40 Most Awesomely Bad Metal Songs. For instance, the last three songs that weren't blaring out of my speakers as loud as songs in past weeks have been were the following: "Love and Affection" by those blond-locked twin sons of Ricky Nelson, Matthew and Gunnar, aka Nelson, "Don't Treat Me Bad" by the group that somehow beat out Nirvana for Best New Hard Rock/Metal Band at the 1991 AMAs, Firehouse, and "When the Children Cry" by those Danish-led SOBs, White Lion. Needless to say, we're just keeping a low profile today. I'm not even writing any major motions or memos.

Last night was yet another great episode of The OC (as if it's possible to have a bad episode). Sandy's complete lack of business knowledge is running the Newport Group into the ground. Taylor Townsend is smitten with Seth, much to Summer's dismay. Julie Cooper-Nichol thwarted Charlotte's plot to dupe Newport's wealthy philanthropists into donating money to a fake charity by telling them to donate the money to a real charity instead. Johnny has yet to get even one hair on his head cut. Marissa was not seen eating anything. Dean Hess is apparently on sabbatical, which no doubt involves cock chugging.

The biggest part of the episode was that Volchok (i.e., Eastern Bloc street tough turned SoCal surfer, who will soon be starring in the sequel to Cool As Ice) kidnapped Marissa in order to force Ryan to fight with him. Bad move, considering Ryan can, at the drop of a hat, enter a mental state where he is devoid of logic, accountability, and the inability to kick ass. So Ryan and Johnny head down to below the pier, where Volchok and his hulkish girlfriend and Gavin-Rossdale-looking buddy are holding Marissa. Ryan tells Johnny on the way there that he's not going to fight Volchok, but rather he will use his mind to get Marissa back. Once they get there, Ryan picks up a wine bottle, shatters it against a wooden post, hands Volchok a 2x4, and says something along the lines of, "Please attempt to hit me with that piece of wood, thus giving me the opportunity to gut you from head to toe with this broken bottle." The crazed look in Ryan's eyes (seen in this picture) made Volchok rethink his station in life, knowing that if they fought, Ryan would be eating Volchok's heart within 4 seconds and wearing a Volchok pelt within 12. So Volchok gives Marissa up without a fight. Ryan and Marissa go back to Ryan's pool house, where they talk about various inconsequential things and Marissa does not give Ryan an on-screen BJ. As the episode ends, we are left with the image of Ryan beating on his punching bag until his hands are bloody and tears are welling in his eyes, leaving the viewer wondering, "holy shit, what if that had been Volchok's face?"

We are left with these questions to ponder for the next two weeks:
1. Now that Julie had a flash of morality and prevented Charlotte from stealing all that money that was to go to a fake charity (i.e., Charlotte's pockets), how will Charlotte punish Julie? Whips? Tongue bath? Ever-so-gentle breast massage?
2. Will Taylor pull a Summer-esque transformation from turbobitch into likeable saucy tart?
3. In a related question, is Taylor's newfound vulnerability and seemingly intense crush on Seth just part of a Single-White-Female-esque plot kill and/or take the place of Summer?
4. Now that Dean Hess has been absent from two episodes in a row, will the number of cocks he chugs in the next episode double to make up for lost time?
5. Seriously, Marissa, will you please eat something? A cranberry? A dollop of mashed potatoes? A bite of turkey? We can even make it white meat if you want.
6. Now that Ryan's pure intimidation with a broken bottle caused Volchok to cower in fear and give back Marissa, how soon before Volchok dismantles into five lion-robots? Oh wait, that's Voltron.

So I'm heading over to B-town tomorrow for the Old Oaken Bucket game. As Mark Hess might say, I hate Purdue more than AIDS. To the state of Indiana, Purdue is like that ugly, fat, surly, never-married, mildly retarded loser Uncle Gene who can't hold a regular job (and when he does have a job, it usually involves him coming home smelling extremely greasy). He doesn't take regular showers and lives in a complete shithole efficiency apartment where the heat rarely works and brown water comes out of the faucets. No one really wants to go visit him. IU, on the other hand, is like the state of Indiana's hot step-cousin. She's smart, but down to earth; she's nice, but not too nice; she likes to party, but isn't trashy. She smells like roses and sex, has perfect skin and a killer body, always flirts, and is not a blood relative. She exudes hope, promise, happiness, and success. Everyone yearns to visit her. Sadly, she just isn't everyone's step-cousin. Some poor, unfortunate souls have to go visit Uncle Gene because he's the only family they have.

The Ushering in of Christember

Ah yes, the Mighty Midwest. Nowhere else on this Godforsaken planet can it be 70 degrees one night and a 16-degree wind chill the next. Awesome. Thanks Jesus.

So last night was Movie Night at our place. Jesterio the Magnificent made spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and an angel food cake. As if that wasn't enough, she whipped up some chocolate chip cookies after dinner. Why? "'Cause I fuckin' felt like it" (her words, not mine). After a rousing Shocktober, which featured only horror movies on Movie Night, and a debate between the men and women as to whether it would be Shockvember or Lovember, we decided to extend the beginning of Christember into November in order to accommodate the many excellent Christmas movies available for viewing. Last night's selection was Elf, a delightful tale of chicanery and tomfoolery that teaches kids to trust adults who are dressed up in funny costumes and like candy. The list of attendees read like a murderer's row of Daytonian movie watchers: Jester, Jamie "Mountie" Belanger, Amy "Bartlett" Belanger, AC "Lungs" Belanger, Holt "Loves to Get" Hedrick, "NaviKate" Rohrer, Marc "Tron" Wiescinski, Jenn "Finally No Longer a Rookie" Wiesgerber, and Jim "Rookie" Gobrail.

You ever notice how some rednecks refer to what you and I call "grandma" and "grandpa" as "memaw" and "papaw?" If not, I invite you to visit any of the Bob Evanses, Wal-Marts, or Ponderosas here in Southwestern Ohio. It's eye-opening. But anyway, in honor of these cancers to society, Jamie and Amy decided that I will be referred to as AC's "Uncle Papaw." So whenever I see AC (shown to the left 18 years from now), I constantly refer to myself as Uncle Papaw, in hopes that his first word will be wither "uncle" or "papaw." Apparently the kid has noticed me. He can't speak yet, but I'll be damned if he hasn't mastered writing already. As you can see, he made (and wore) a shirt in my honor, and I have to say, his penmanship is excellent for an 88-day-old.

By the way, what the shit is Fox thinking canceling the Emmy-winning Arrested Development? I guess the humor was too subtle and high-brow for the many Americans who call their granparents memaw and papaw who are apparently watching Wife Swap instead. In related news, Stacked somehow remains on the air.

Mr. 3000 - Greg Weeser*

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Holt Hedrick is Marc Bulger

Thanks to the steadfast research efforts of GMYH super sleuth Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff, I have come to a startling realization: Holt Hedrick is in fact St. Louis Rams quarterback Marc Bulger. It all makes perfect sense now: the fact that I've never seen him on a fall Sunday, the random cheering for West Virginia, the fact that he cries when I bench him in fantasy, the obsession with the number 10, the daily trips to St. Louis, all those people calling him Marc. Everything is so clear now.

Kate Loves Peen

Sorry this is so late in the day. Meetings suck, especially non-billable ones.

Well, I gotta say, I had a very pleasant and satisfying weekend. Friday, Jester I and ventured over to the Circle City for the wedding of Andy "Spawn" Southard. It was a good time. The list of attendees that I knew read like a who's who of Pi Kapps that Spawn knew extremely well: Brad "Grandpa" Andrews, Brent "Lando" Landry, Garrett "GMC" McNally, Justin "Spider" Webb, Scott "Giant" White, and Jeremy "Uter" Widenhofer (as shown here eating an imaginary mettwurst). Their reception was at the headquarters of CMG Worldwide, which is a publicity rights agency that owns the publicity rights to such dead stars as Elvis, Malcolm X, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Babe Ruth, Flo Jo, and many others, and is for some reason located in Indianapolis.

Afterward a bunch of us went to some bar in a strip mall called Lulu's, where Garrett and I did some shots, the girls talked to each other, Brad smoked some cigars, Landry regaled us with tales of convincing a Canadian bar's kitchen staff that he was a health inspector and therefore needed a pizza to be made immediately, and I had to leave before saying bye to anyone because my cab arrived while they were arguing with the waitress about the bill.

Jessie and I got back to Sunny D on Saturday just in time to catch the 2nd half of the IU/Michigan game (IU lost 41-14), after listening to the 1st half on the radio. Listening to and watching this game was about as fun as watching Johnny Knoxville give himself paper cuts between his toes in the Jackass movie. At least the Hoosiers outscored the Wolverines 7-0 in the 2nd half. The loss knocks IU out of bowl eligibility. At least Purdue is also out of bowl eligibility, so the battle for the Old Oaken Bucket this Saturday will be as it has historically been: completely meaningless outside the state of Indiana.

Saturday night, a bunch of us went on what was deemed the Dirty Dayton Bar Crawl. It was organized by Jenn "Not a Dirty Dayton Rookie" Weisgerber, and included such D-town legends as "NaviKate" Rohrer, Jim [last name unknown] (Jenn's boyfriend), Chris & Trisha [last name unknown], Holt "" Hedrick, Jessie "Wife" LeMar, and myself. We went to many purveyors of spirits where the patrons would have no idea what "purveyors of spirits" meant. They are the kind of bars that have huge signs that say "cash only," that serve beer in cans, and where a "rum and coke" is a glass of rum with a splash of coke and only costs you $2.25. Here is a bar-by-bar account:
Kramers - We started the night at Kramers, which is a favorite of ours. They have the best pizza in Dayton and serve 40s. It's absolutely impossible to go wrong with that combination. Holt and I went all Mama Cass on the pizza, eating enough to make us drink a lot more than usual before getting drunk.
Somewhere Lounge - From Kramers, we went to The Somewhere Lounge (or as Jim called it, the Nowhere Lounge), and the "somewhere" in this case was a strip mall. The astute GMYH reader will notice that this was not the first time this weekend I had been to a bar in a strip mall. It was karaoke night at Somewhere, which meant that Dayton's finest mullet-clad men and overweight women got up and sang country songs I had never heard before. Country music makes me uncomfortable, especially when I'm one of three people in the bar that doesn't know all the words to every song. We were getting some weird looks in there, probably on account of the fact that we were complaining loudly that the only TV in the bar was showing the Mark Harmon vehicle NCIS and not the Auburn/Georgia game. Oh yeah, and because we had college educations.
Taggart's - This was the closest to a non-dive that we experienced. It could easily be on the South Side of Chicago, except for the fact that it's a self-applied Cleveland Browns bar (seriously). It was here that Holt encountered one of his neighbors, who has a 38DD chest. For some reason, she was being very "friendly" with Holt, which was confusing to all of us because she's getting married in a couple weeks and her fiance was standing 5 feet away. Alas, Holt's dreams of being part of a Wobbly H that night disappeared when they left. My only beef with Taggart's was that they had a bunch of old concert posters, including one from some sort of all-star concert in 1965 featuring, among others, Chuck Berry, Donovan, The Temptations, and Buddy Holly. Yes, the very same Buddy Holly that died on February 3, 1959.
Side Room - As the title implies, the Side Room is about as big as someone's side room with a bar in it. The light wood paneling and plethora of dart tournament trophies said mid-'70s small town Wisconsin, and the cans of Bud Light said high school party in Mike Vesperman's basement. Jessie and I had an epic Silver Strike Bowling match-up, in which I eeked out a 145-144 come-from-behind victory. Much to my chagrin, it was the only point during the night where I would be coming from behind Jessie. After all, she beat me handily the next several games (get your minds out of the gutter).
Partners - Partners was a delightful dive that felt like it might belong on a lake in Wisconsin or Minnesota. Dark wood accents and a rockin' jukebox made me feel like I was meant to spend eternity there. It was there where I discovered that Chris shared my affinity for the finest trilogy in cinematic history: the Sleepaway Camp trilogy. We discussed Angela Baker, aka the Angel of Death, and her meteoric rise from Camp Arawak camper/murderer to Camp Rolling Hills counselor/murderer to Camp New Horizons pseudo-camper/murderer. It's my theory that you should watch them in reverse order because the very last scene of the first movie is one of the more disturbing scenes in movie history and really should be viewed only after seeing Angela's carnage in the other 2. That way, you're not exactly sure why she's killing people with giant drills and firecrackers in the nose while you're watching the first 2, and then all of your questions are answered with one horrible visual at the end of the first one. It's really quite cathartic.
The New Shroyer Inn - This is where the night ended for us, and it was pretty decent. Apparently Kate had been there before because her love of peen was scrawled in all caps on one of the chalkboards. Upon arriving, I decided to order some drinks, as is the custom in these parts. While I was doing so, a bearded, incoherent 75-year-old man who I can only assume sleeps on a park bench very near there asked me if I was "fucking with [his] head." It's my theory that he drank an entire bottle of Evan Williams whiskey (as he has done every day since his wife left him, 43 years ago) because it took him 14 tries for me to understand what he was saying. Confused myself, I said "no" and turned back toward the bar, bracing my kidneys for the inevitable shiv. He was later seen sound asleep in his bar stool. Like the Somewhere Lounge, the Shroyer Inn featured karaoke, although luckily it was less country-leaning. I must ask, though: What the fuck is wrong with America when is the song "Sin Wagon" by the Dixie Chicks is sung twice in the same night at different bars? I had never heard this song before Saturday night. Thanks to Lurlene and Brandine, I've heard it twice. Anyway, some pseudo-punks were very enthralled with karaoke, as was some limey bastard who was dressed in a suit (hey Nigel, here in America, we don't wear khaki suits to bars, especially ones where 90% of the clientele does not own a suit). We heard everything from "Regulate" by Nate Dogg & Warren G. to Elvis's "Jailhouse Rock" (sung surprisingly well by a guy wearing a Purdon't hat and a Denver Broncos' Rueben Droughns jersey who looked like Dewey from Malcom in the Middle) to "The Best of You" by Foo Fighters (sung by some girl named Beth with a butchy haircut, longer sideburns than most guys, looks and facial expressions that screamed "I'm not comfortable with dressing like a punk, but I will because the guy with ear plugs thinks I should," and who replaced every "best" with "Beth." Get it? The "Beth of you." How insanely clever.).

Afterward, we all went to our respective homes, knowing just a little bit more about Dirty Dayton and -- you know what -- a little bit more about ourselves. I'll post some pictures of the night as soon as Kate or others send them to me.

Be sure to tune in tomorrow for the biography of Mr. or Mrs. 3000.

"I Don't Need to Be the King of the World, as Long as I'm the Hero of this Little Girl"

Good news everyone. It's Hair Band Friday, and Candi and I made up. Turns out Candi made up the whole story about blowing Rikki in the firm library just to make me jealous. It obviously worked, but I showed her who's boss by doing a wicked marathon session of Lexis-Nexis research, and she pretty much came crawling back on her hands and knees, if you know what I mean. So today, it's a pretty sweet party going on in my office. The stripper pole is being used like it's goin' outta style, the Stoli is flowin' like it always does, and there's a mound of blow on my desk the size of small yak. To top it off, the speakers are blaring some awesome hair band tunes, the last three of which were The Scorpions' animalistic masterpiece, "The Zoo," Warrant's killer ballad, "Heaven," and the Crüe's saucy "Wild Side." It's looking like it's going to be one of those three day drug-and-sex benders that you can only dream of when you start law school.

Last night's OC was a mediocre episode (don't get me wrong, that still ranks it higher than the best episodes of all other shows ever). It was one of those episodes that sets up future storylines, kind of like the calm before the OC storm (and we all remember what happened last year when it stormed in the OC -- what some critics deemed the greatest episode in television history). Apparently McG and Josh Schwartz read GMYH because that cock-chugging queefball Dean Hess was nowhere to be seen in this episode. Frankly I needed a break from him. A viewer can only take so much cock chugging. So, here are the questions that we can only hope will be answered in the next few episodes:
1. Will Seth actually do Taylor Townsend? If so, will it involve some sort of weird trust game?
2. Will Johnny please get a haircut?
3. Why did Casey (Johnny's girlfriend whose teeth could bite through bone in a quarter-second) do Volchok (that scumbag surfer who is apparently originally from the Eastern Bloc) knowing that Johnny was in the next room? Or maybe the better question is why did Volchok do Casey (aside from Volchok's theory that it obviously made them "even" for when Johnny beat out Volchok for a surfing sponsorship)? Doesn't Volchok know that one errant head jerk during a BJ from Casey and he's Bobbittized? No man wants to bleed to death from their penis, which leads me to my next question:
4. Is Volchok really a man? They did some shady shit with hormones in those Eastern Bloc countries before the fall of communism. Just keep it in the back of your mind, and remember, boys don't cry.
5. Will Volchok give up surfing to star in the much-needed sequal to Cool As Ice? His picture to the right says "drop that zero and get with the sequal."
6. Will Casey ever get the periodontal work that she so desperately needs? She lives in Newport for shit's sake. We know she can afford it.
7. When Dean Hess does come back, just how many cocks per episode will he chug? My guess is 86.
8. Will Marissa eat something? A raisin? A baby carrot? An unsalted peanut? Anything?
9. During the impending fight between Ryan and Volchok, how many blows will it take for Ryan to concave Volchok's skull? My guess is one, if it isn't already concaved out of the sheer fear of Ryan Atwood raising his fist.
10. Now that Johnny has admitted that he nearly beat his dad to death with a baseball bat, how soon will it be before Ryan and Johnny square off in the octagon in a blind-rage battle to the death for Marissa? In a related question, who will Marissa choose to shoot this time?
11. Since Julie Cooper-Nichol now knows that "Charlotte" is short for "Charlatan," will Julie actually go along with Charlotte's plan to bilk hundreds of thousands of dollars from Newport's wealthy residents by holding a charity gala to benefit a fake charity? If so, how soon before these two new roomies get completely soused and make their own girl-on-girl skin flick? That's where the real money is.
12. How long will it take for Ryan to realize that he must follow his dream of being a longshoreman or a stevedore?

Tonight, Jesterio and I are heading to Indy to go to the wedding of Andy "Spawn" Southard. I'm sure it will be a good time, and for all you Pi Kapps out there not going, I'll be sure to report back on who was in attendance (rumor has it that the elusive Garrett "GMC" McNally will be there). An interesting stat to think about while you're buttering your bagel is that over 50% of the Sigma class has tied the knot since 2000 (at least 13 of 23), with no break-ups as of yet. Why, you ask? The answer is simple: The Sigma class purposely refused to lavaliere anyone (there were a couple exceptions, but those lavalieres took place after the people were engaged, so they don't count). We recognized the historical trend that a lavaliere was indeed the kiss of death, and we made it our mission to break the curse for those after us by boycotting the lavaliere. (For those who don't know what a lavaliere is, it's when a frat guy gives his best gal a necklace with his fraternity pin--basically an "engaged to be engaged" type of thing.)

As further proof that the Sigma class was the greatest class in the history of fraternities, here's a look at some of the non-Sigma lavalieres that occurred between the fall of 1996 and the spring of 2000 (i.e., the Reign of the Sigma):
-Matt "Boom Boom" Baker (chick's name unknown) - Soon after lavaliering his girlfriend of several years, they broke up. He ended up suing her because she refused to give him his computer back. Granted, he looked like he was 43, but that's no reason to keep his computer.
-Todd "Govy Gov" Gard (Shannon) - I'm pretty sure Gov lavaliered Shannon (whose nickname escapes me -- Wee Wee, give me some help here). They dated for most of college. I think she was from Alaska (but not an Aleut or Inuit), which should have tipped Gov off in the first place that she wasn't to be trusted. As a pleasant epilogue, Gov married a thinner, more attractive, cooler girl a couple years later, so the curse was a blessing in disguise in this case.
-Brent "Canadian" Landry (Cheryl) - Lando, in addition to being an All-Big Ten golfer, was the campus sex expert (not to be confused with Indiana Daily Student columnist "The Sexpert"). That's neither here nor there -- just a shout-out to Landry. Anyway, he and Cheryl went out for a couple years and occasionally banged in one of the second-floor bathroom shower stalls at the fraternity. But the shower banging stopped soon after the lavaliere, when they both realized that their relationship was based only on shower banging. As a pleasant epilogue, Landry also married a thinner, more attractive, cooler girl a couple years later, so the curse was a blessing in disguise in this case.
-Stu "One of the Meatheds" Neiswonger (Anne) - I'm not positive that Stu lavaliered Anne, but given what happened, I can only assume so. This one looked like it was going to work out. As undergrads, they had wild monkey sex in the cold dorm (on top bunks, no less). They got married, shat out a couple kids, and were seemingly the All-American couple. Until Stu found out that Anne was fucking one of his co-workers while Stu was out doing his job (sales) to provide for the family.
-Jason "I Can't Remember His Nickname" Pinter (Nicole) - Jason and Nicole had been dating for six years before he lavaliered her as a senior. She was a cold dorm regular and a fan favorite: a nice, good-looking girl going out with a smart, all-around nice guy. It turns out she was a total queef, as mere weeks later, she broke up with him because she wanted to "spread her wings," which is girl code for "get railed by other dudes in bar bathrooms."
-Chip "Chip is Actually the Nickname" Roeder (chick's name unknown) - There was a girl from his hometown in 'Sconsin he dated from high school up until some point in his senior year after he lavaliered her. I'm not sure who did the breaking, but I know Chip soon after started dating a Chi-O. So when you weigh a possible hot chick 6 hours away versus a definite hot chick 6 houses away, I guess this was really a victory in the end.
-Todd "Rak Daddy" Shirak (chick's name unknown) - Rak dated this girl for a couple years. In addition to being tall and blonde, she did his laundry for him, that is, until after the lavaliere when she realized she could do other dudes' laundry just as well, if not better.
-Chris "Don't Call Me During Yankees World Series Games" Sytsma (Laura) - They dated almost entirely through college. Chris lavaliered her, and bam, they break up. He has gone on to be a successful financial consultant. I can only assume that she has gone on to be a successful creative consultant for the WB's who-sucked-the-devil's-dick-to-keep-this-on-the-air show, Reba.
-Rick "Beware Kentucky Fans" Ternet (chick's name unknown) - This one may have actually started the curse. I think it was the first lavaliere I went to. They had dated all through college, he lavaliered her when he was a junior (and I was a freshman), and by the time they graduated a year later, she was suckin' other dudes' dicks for rock.
-Shawn "Shswalke" Walker (Bulimia) - Shawn and Bulimia dated in high school and through most of college. He lavaliered her and they got married before graduating (always a fucking brilliant idea). He knew her long before she became famous for eating more food at the house than any of the guys and then disappearing to the ladies' room in the basement with a spoon. For Christ's sake, you could shatter her femur by throwing a cotton ball at it. I saw Shawn several years later at a bar in Melrose Park, where I learned he and Bulimia got divorced after less than two years of marriage. It was just too hard for him to take care of her after she became paralyzed when the water from the shower crushed every bone in her body.
-Brian "Bonzi or Donzi" Wells (Sarah J) - I guess this post-lavaliere break-up was to be expected when Bonzi was the third Pi Kapp in less than a year that Sarah "dated." What's funny and sad at the same time is that, unbeknownst to Bonzi, he was not the only boyfriend she had on campus.

Have a good weekend everyone, and for the love of God, be nice to each other.

Have You Seen Saw? I Saw Saw

Last night was good ol' movie night here in Sunny D. This week it was at "NaviKate" Rohrer's hizzie. In attendance was a virtual who's who of Ohio's "40 under 40": Jamie "Still Canadian in His Heart" Belanger, Amy "Heir to the Bartlett Pear Empire" Belanger, Aiden "AC" Belanger, Kim "I Hate Scary Movies But I Really Wanted to See Saw" Byrum, Casey "I Can Eat More Dessert Than You Can" Mayo, Jessie "Domestic Goddess" LeMar, Jenn "I'm Too Busy at Work to Stay for the Movie, So I'm Still Technically a Rookie" Weisgerber, and of course me. For movie night, Jessie made some "Better Than Robert Redford" dessert, a delightful combination of pudding, Cool Whip, and some other shit. Since I have not yet had Robert Redford (in the biblical sense), I can't say for sure that it was better than Bob, but unless his sweat tastes like heaven on a plate, he'll have an uphill battle.

We saw Saw, a zany, laugh-a-minute, pick-me-up comedy about two guys trapped in a room who have to figure out a way to get out. If you're looking to laugh -- and I mean really laugh -- then Saw is the movie for you. And how could it not be hysterical with such comedy stars as Keeping the Faith's Ken Leung, Operation Dumbo Drop's Danny Glover, one of the many stars of Who's Harry Crumb? (Shawnee Smith), Mrs. Patch Adams (Monica Potter), and the man in tights himself, Cary Elwes? There was one part where one guy was getting a head-beating with a porcelain toilet tank cover and it actually cracked in half. I haven't laughed that hard since Mel Gibson wielded his hatchet and went all Gacy on that bastard Red Coat in The Patriot. Anywho, you guys should check it out. Just make sure that when you're watching it you aren't drinking anything you don't want coming out of your nose.

Speaking of Gacy, what a misunderstood guy!! I find it hard to believe that a construction-company-owning clown who loved to paint somehow sodomized and killed 33 teenage boys and then stacked their bodies neatly in his suburan home's crawlspace. Can anyone say "framed"? It's just a shame that he was executed before Illinois commuted all death sentences to life in prison. I think we all know that he would have been exonerated if he had the chance. Come on folks, he was a clown, which means he was incapable of inflicting harm upon anything.

I just read that a 1953 Mark Rothko "painting," entitled "Homage to Matisse," sold for $22.4 million at a Christie's auction, setting a record for post-WWII "artwork." Take a look at this painting and tell me it's not worth $22.4 million. I can only imagine what was going on in Rothko's head at the time he painted it. "Okay, how in the world am I going to show Matisse that I'm a totally huge fan and I would pretty much do anything for him to notice me? Maybe if I spread my own poop on a rectangular piece of canvas, then paint a navy blue rectangle on the bottom. Hmmm, that's a good start, but it needs more. Maybe I'll mix some white into the poop to make a slightly-lighter-than-poop-colored sqaure at the top. Now it's really starting to take shape. But it's still missing something. Silly me, of course! A blood red line between the blue and light poop boxes, because:
Sometimes poop is light, sometimes poop is dark,
Sometimes poop is bloody, and sometimes poop is art.
But I tell you this my friends, go tell your sons and daughters,
No matter what the color, poop should always fall into water.
I think Henri will really appreciate this. I just hope he sees this and realizes how much he means to me."

Needless to say, I think we all need to start painting because if this can fetch $22.4 million, imagine what a nice painting of a clown can get.

Interview Questions, Pt. 3

With the interviewing season winding to a close, I figured I would post one last round of questions I thought up. So here are my latest creations:

1. "How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" Assuming I get some attempt at a clever answer, in a disgusted manner, I reply, "Uhh, no. Three pounds." I them roll my eyes and mumble "idiot" under my breath before moving onto the next question.
2. [To female interviewees only] "So, what's your favorite porno flick?" No matter what they answer, I excitedly say, "Really?! Mine is 'The Ass Ceiling,' a laugh riot about a broad who wants to move up the corporate ladder, but she can't 'cause she's a chick, so she ends up screwing her way to the top. And bottom, if you know what I mean. Get it? 'Ass Ceiling'?"
3. "What's your favorite kind of glass?" If they say "stained glass," I respond by saying, "It's gonna be stained with your blood if you keep giving me shitty answers like that. I bet then you'll be wishin' real hard you said 'bulletproof,' huh?"
4. "Okay, a terrorist busts into my office right now and says he has to kill one of us, but the other one will be unharmed. Who should he kill?" If he or she says "me" (meaning him or her), I say, "We don't have much use around here for a dead associate, so let me just show you to the elevators." If he or she says "you" (meaning me), I shake my head, give a pissed off quasi-smile and say, "That's fine. As long as you can explain to my little girls just exactly why their daddy can't read them anymore bedtime stories or attend any of their dance recitals ever again, you fucking selfish bastard."
5. [To female applicants] "What's your favorite sexual move? Not position--move?" Halfway into her rant about how that's not an appropriate question, I interrupt and start talking over her as if she actually answered the question: "Huh, no kidding? That's interesting. Looking at you I never would've guessed. Cleveland Steamer, sure. Bucking Bronco, maybe. I could even see a Chili Dog. Anyway, mine's the Angry Pirate. It's a variation of The Houdini. I'm doing a chick from behind, right? Then I pull out and spit on her back. When she turns around, oops, pow, surprise! I give her an eyeful of baby batter--just one eye, though. Then I kick her in the shin and run away. When I turn around, what's running after me looks and sounds like an angry pirate." I then get up, close one eye, limp around, and yell "arrrggghh." Then I laugh hysterically, ask her over and over again if she gets it, then sit back down.
6. "With whose judicial philosophy would you say you most closely align yourself, that of a pre-1902 Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., that of Roger Traynor's later years, that of a a post-New Deal Louis Brandeis, or that of a young Wiley Rutledge?" No matter what they answer, I roll my eyes and say, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
7. [to male applicants, in a stuffy, aristocratic British accent] "Tell me exactly what your intentions are with my daughter."
8. [As soon as they get in the room and sit down, I close the door, shut all the blinds, turn off the lights, stand behind them, and pull out a mirror which I hold over their shoulder] "Say it with me, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candyman, Candym--." Assuming they continue on and say it the last time, I flip out and say, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!! He's coming! Get out of here! GET OUT!!" Then I run and hide under my desk.
9. "Why is it that every single time I send you and Murphy out there on the streets, someone ends up in a body bag?" When they say "what?" or "I don't know what you're talking about," I reply (in a heavy Brooklyn accent), "I keep giving you guys chances to nail Mancuso, but all you guys come back with is Chinese take-out and leads that end up goin' nowhere. I'm givin' you goof balls one more shot to prove that you still got what it takes. But so help me God, if you guys fuck this up, I'll have your badges. No, no, you know what? Fuck that. I want your badge right now." I continue to yell at them about giving me their badge until they actually give me something (anything). As soon as they give me something, I say, solemnly, "You're a disgrace to the force. Now get the fuck out of my office and go clean out your desk. And if you ever set foot in this station again, you will not leave walking. Capice?"
10. "I would like your best estimate of how many licks it would take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop." No matter what they answer, I say, "Alright, alright, alright" in a voice like Wooderson from Dazed and Confused. Then I toss them a Tootsie Pop and tell them to "get started because we only have 15 minutes left in this interview." I then excitedly count out loud for every lick. After the third lick, I say, "Wow, you're doin' better than that stupid-ass owl from the commercial. Keep it up. Four! Five! Six! . . . ."
11. [this would be a first question] "You know why I called you in here, don't you?" Assuming they say, "no," I say, "Don't play coy with me. I know the grapevine around here is pretty quick. You got the lead on the fucking Star City account. Everyone's been gunning for Star City since they came over here from Leo Burnett, and I think you're the [man/woman] to handle it." This leads me to my next question:
12. "So what kind of ad campaign are we looking at for Star City?" When they look at me extremely confused, I say, "Come on, seriously." When they say they don't know what I'm talking about, I press the situation, "Alright, enough of this bullshit. Seriously, what kind of campaign are you thinking about?" I continue this until they actually give me some sort of attempted answer. After they give their answer, I look at them and say, "That might have been one of the worst answers I've heard in my 25 years in the business. It's as if you have no training whatsoever in advertising. Now, I'll kindly ask you to get back to your office and have something better by the morning." Then I look down and start doodling stick figures having sex in a notebook. I look up 10 seconds later and say, "You don't think I'm serious? I could give this to Henderson in a second. Now I know neither of us want this account to go to that ass-kissing prick, but he does good work, so get outta here and make sure he doesn't get the chance."
13. "How long has it been since you had your sex change operation?" This would be a good first or second question. When they say that they haven't had a sex change operation, I say, "Huh. You sure?" When they say "I'm sure," I take out a pen, vigorously cross out an entire page of writing, and then say, "Well, I don't have any more questions. Thanks for coming in."
14. "If you could visit one city in Slovakia, what would it be, and you can't say Bratislava because everyone says Bratislava?"
15. "So, is it true or what?" Assuming they ask, "Is what true?," I make a disgusted look on my face and say, "How can you even look at yourself in the mirror? You know, true friends stab you in the chest." Then I start sobbing for the rest of the interview, occasionally stopping to mutter "I can't believe you would do that" or "you're not even human."
16. "If you could choose to live in Hitler's Germany or Stalin's Russia, which one would you choose?" No matter what they say, I respond by saying, "I think I'm going to vomit," throw a yarmulke at them, and storm out of the room. Alternatively, if they say Russia, I say (with a thick Russian accent), "Bozha moin! Welcome comrade! I've been expecting you." Then I pull out a giant map of the U.S., sweep everything off my desk, put the map on my desk, and explain in detail how we will take down the "regime of the capitalist swine."
17. [to male applicants] "Pretend for a half-second that you aren't a fag. Now, do you have any questions you want to ask me about the firm?"
18. [to female applicants] "Tell me the truth: Do these pants make my cock look enormous or what?" If they say "no," I tell them that they "don't have to be such a queef monger." If they say "yes," I call her a "slut," hold up my left hand, and point to my wedding band.

Well, that's all I got. If I think of any more, I'll post them. In the meantime, take a look at these two drunk college chicks making out in a bar. As far as I'm concerned, they earned that free beer they were promised by every guy in the bar.