"It's Just Monkey Business"

I'm a bit out of sorts this Hair Band Friday. I don't have much to say, but this: be careful when mixing mescaline, cocaine, and cheap wine with six strippers while typing deposition summaries. One minute I was totally rocking out to "Monkey Business" by Skid Row, "There's Only One Way to Rock" by Sammy Hagar, and "Wild Side" by Motley Crue, and the next thing I knew, I was awakened by a whip to the shins from a dominatrix named Ursela who claimed to be heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, and I was strapped to a bed with the tattered rags of the clothes I had previously been wearing, with my nipples hooked up to a electroshock device, and I would get shocked if my sentences were not spoken in an "a-b-b-a" rhyming format. Of course no one explained that to me, but you'd be surprised at how quickly you can figure that out when your nipples are getting charred, forcing you to say things like, "Please stop shocking me. I don't know who you are. Did you steal my car? Why won't you let me be?"

Last night was a mini IU PKP reunion here in Chicago. The list of attendees read like a veritable list of guys who once lived in the same fraternity house as me: Huffman, Hartman, Haas, Richie (little), Zelvy (little), Gentry, Sytsma, Popper, and McNally. Good times were had. Too good. It's never -- and I repeat, never -- a good thing when you're fairly (read: unnecessarily very) intoxicated at a late night bar and look at your watch only to realize that you have to work in 5 1/2 hours. The slice of pizza I got on the walk home provided nothing more than a fleeting moment of satisfaction, followed by the stark realization that I need to make some changes.

Relatedly, due to a parade of bad decisions (not unlike those made by Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff), poor eating habits, total lethargy, and overindulgence in alcohol over the past several weeks, my health has been in a steady state of decline. Last night did nothing to improve my already waning physical condition. Unless your job is Jager Bomb Taster, it's never -- and I repeat, never -- a good sign when you're at work and your burps taste like Jager bombs. I desperately need to join a gym.

Somewhat relatedly, every now and then, moments that are otherwise disgusting can turn into moments of outright pride. This morning around 10, I went to the bathroom to "drop the kids off at the pool," in the parlance of our times. There is one men's room on my floor, which several offices share. It has 2 urinals and 2 stalls. Apparently I had made the air a bit dense in there. One guy walked in, said "oh man," and walked right back out. When I emerged from the stall, another guy was covering his nose and mouth with his free arm while taking a piss. In one quick motion, he swiped his hands under the faucet, grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, threw the paper towel away and got the hell out of there. Again, I'm well aware of the disgusting nature of this paragraph, but let it be a lesson to all of those who think it's a good idea to go drinking until 3 and eat late-night pizza on a work night. At least I have my bar review class this afternoon to look forward to.