Gall's Well That Ends Well

As you may have noticed, I didn't post at all last week.  I was super busy at work Monday and Tuesday.  Then, Tuesday night after dinner, I started to get what I assumed was indigestion.  The pain started getting worse, and it was spreading to the right side of my abdomen, so I thought it might be appendicitis.  It was bad enough that I went to the ER.

The "welcome" sign on the front desk in the ER said that the average wait time before being seen was 3-4 hours.  Surely that was meant to scare people with non-emergency-room-caliber maladies, I foolishly thought.  I checked in, went through triage 15 minutes later, and then went back to the waiting room.  The pain continued to crescendo until I was experiencing what was undoubtedly the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my life.  It felt like Mike Tyson was continuously punching me in the stomach.

The pain eventually got bad enough that I asked for some pain meds while I waited, and the nurses mercifully gave me an IV of anti-inflammatory meds, which seemed only to increase the pain.  A little while later, I began to feel like I was going to pass out, so I asked if there was anywhere I could just lie down while I waited (other than the floor).  There was not.  But there was an open double wide chair, and the nurse said she could bring me some blankets that I could use as a pillow.  I went over to the chair, curled up in the fetal position, and wrapped my legs around the chair next to me (since they're all connected to each other and can't be moved).  Over the next several hours, I tried to adjust myself, but no position was comfortable.  I puked twice -- loudly and violently, as that's the only way I know how -- much to the chagrin of the 30 other people in the waiting room.  I was confident my appendix had burst and I was on the brink of death, as it was undoubtedly poisoning my innards.  I tried to fall asleep, but was just basically lying there moaning like a dying goat.

Finally, at around 1:30 a.m., well over four hours after I arrived, I heard my name called.  I popped up as much as I could at that point, limped over to the nurse, and then was finally given a room in the ER.  The doctor that saw me almost immediately predicted that it was a gall stone, based on the location of my pain.  Most importantly, I got some morphine, which is, quite simply, a wonder drug.  Then I got a CT scan and then an ultrasound, and sure enough, I had an infected gall stone that was completely blocking the opening to the gall bladder.  So with that, I was admitted, set to have surgery to remove my gall bladder, ensuring the elimination of not only the stone, but any of its progeny.

By the time I was admitted, it was already past 7 a.m., and they couldn't schedule me for surgery until the following day because everything was already booked up, so I basically had a full day of just lying in a hospital bed and watching TV.  The Sox played a day game, and then there was a Die Hard marathon on AMC, and then I watched the very exciting Game 1 on the Stanley Cup finals, so it wasn't all bad.

During the course of the day, I was texting various people, and one suggested I name my gall stone.  As a man who lives for plays on words, this just made sense, so I took to Facebook to ask the hive what I should name my gall stone.  The suggestions were nothing short of remarkable.  My friends certainly answered the gall.  Here they are, in alphabetical order:

• The 1994 Montregall Expos
• Another Brick in the Gall
• Anthony Michael Gall
• Archie Bunker
• Austin Powers in Galldmember
• Battlestar Gallactica
• Better Call Gall
• Bile the Kid
• Biley Cyrus
• Boutros Boutros Galli
• Chagall
• Charles DeGall
• Conrad Dobler
• David and Galliath
• DeGall University Blue Demons
• Gall and Oates
• Gall Godot
• Gall Goodman
• Gall In the Family
• Gall Konerko
• Gall McCartney
• Gall My Children
• Gall of Duty
• Gall Rosenberg
• Gall State Cardinals
• Gall With the Wind
• Gallbert Godfried
• Galldfinger
• Galldylocks
• Gallileo Gallilei
• Gallimimus
• Gallipoli
• Gallnold Schwarzenegger
• Gallt Disney
• Gallter Payton
• Gally
• Gally Madison
• Jonathan Livingstone Seagall
• John Gallt
• Joe B. Gall
• Kids in the Gall
• Laura Ingalls Wilder
• Lauren Bagall
• Lavar Gall
• Legends of the Gall
• Liberté, égallité, fraternité 
• The Mad Bladder
• Persian Gallf
• Raphael Nogall
• Robert Dugall
• Sir Gallihad
• Steve
• Steven Seagall
• Svengalli
• Sylvester Sgallone
• Tigall Woods
• Two Galls One Cup
• Vincent Van Gall
• The Wolf of Gall Street
• Zooey Deshegall

At the end of the day, I went with none of them, and named it Willie Gallt, who met its fate Thursday afternoon, or so I assume, based on the scars on my abdomen.

I spent Thursday night in the hospital recovering, as the pain after surgery was just about as intense as the pain Willie Gallt caused me Tuesday night.

The most pressing issue -- other than the extreme physical pain I was in -- was that I had tickets to see The Strokes at the Metro Friday night.  It was a special fundraising show for a local congressional candidate, and it was supposed to have been May 30, but then one of the guys in the band got COVID, so they had to reschedule.  I was very pumped for the show, as I assume I won't have the chance to see The Strokes in such a small venue ever again.  But given how much pain I was in Friday morning still, I was becoming pessimistic that I would be able to go because if anyone bumped into me at the show, I would have fallen to the ground in pain.  Then my lovely wife emailed the Metro and got me on the list for the ADA section.  Even though I didn't have the best view, it was still a fantastic show.  Presumably as a nod to my choice to attend, the band's first song was "Bad Decisions."  They sounded amazing, and I am glad I muscled through it, coming out unscathed by any errant elbows or shoulders.  My only gripe is:  what the fuck is with millennials needing to record every single song at a concert?  Just enjoy the fact that you're there and have an organ that produces bile, for Christ's sake.

For the next 4-6 weeks, I'm not supposed to do any heavy lifting (so I have to sit down when I pee), and I can't submerge myself in water.  The pain has dulled into more of an ever-present discomfort now, as I'm just waiting for the post-surgery swelling to subside and the scars to heal.  Now I begin the next phase of my life, which I call:  What can I eat that won't cause me to shit my pants?

Tuesday Top Ten: Disgusting Facts About Ancient Roman Life

I was too busy today with work, eating, and going to my Incredible Hulk nightmare support group, as I do every Tuesday night.  Thus I didn't have time to come up with my own Tuesday Top Ten this week.  Thankfully, I happened across an article (if you can call it that) linked from Yahoo's homepage entitled "10 Truly Disgusting Facts About Ancient Roman Life."  Some of them aren't really "disgusting" -- such as the fact that there was erotic art in Pompeii -- while others really are quite disgusting, like the fact that some Romans used urine as mouthwash (it is sterile, after all), they liked to use dead gladiators' blood for its healing powers (makes sense), and they shared a shit sponge to wipe their asses (no defending this one).  

These are things to think about next time you really want to stick it to your jerk friend who is always talking about how awesome it would be to go back to ancient Rome.  "Yeah, good luck with the pubic lice, you ill-informed pagan."  That's what you would probably say.  And then he would be all, "Dude, I'd just take some pubic lice shampoo with me, so it wouldn't be a problem."  And then you'd be all, "Yeah, and totally change the course of history?!  Your egotism is only eclipsed by your short-sightedness.  Not me, though.  I'd go back to the Sunset Strip in the mid '80s and literally fuck every woman I saw.  Try and stop me, Maximus.  Yeah, that's what I thought."

Retro Video of the Week: "Rio" by Duran Duran

Many apologies for not posting a Tuesday Top Ten yesterday.  I have been battling Olympic Fever all week, and the only cure is more Olympics.  Did you know that today is Duran Duran Appreciation Day?  Neither did I, until a local disc jockey told me so this morning.  My health problems and the day's festivities have come to a glorious intersection, as Duran Duran has perhaps the most perfect song for these Olympic Games.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you "Rio."

Tuesday Top Ten: Diseases I'm Glad I Don't Have

Apparently, it's World Hepatitis Day.  One of the things I'm most happy about in my life is my lack of deadly and/or communicable diseases.  Aside from all forms of hepatitis, here are the ten diseases, illnesses, and medical conditions I'm most glad I don't have (not including diseases and illnesses for which my parents were kind enough to ensure that I never contracted, thanks to common childhood vaccines):

10.  Halitosis

9.  Gigantism

8.  Dwarfism

7.  Ballanital chancroids

6.  Pregnancy

5.  Anal leakage

4.  Conservatism

3.  That condition where you're born with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a horse

2.  Distemper

1.  ED

Tuesday Top Ten: Ice Bucket Challenge Fails

If you have been anywhere close to a TV, computer, or mobile device in the last week or two, you know that the internet (particularly Facebook) is inundated with videos of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.  

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, I find it strange that you would be on the internet reading this post, but have no idea about the Ice Bucket Challenge.  Nonetheless, thanks.  I appreciate your loyalty and ability to compartmentalize your internet viewing.  The Ice Bucket Challenge goes like this:
1.  A person takes a video of him- or herself dumping a bucket of ice water on his or her head in the name of Lou Gehrig's Disease.
2.  The person then challenges three friends to do the same thing within 24 hours.  
3.  Those three people are then supposed to do the same thing (i.e., recording themselves doing the challenge and then challenging three others to do it).  
4.  If you get challenged and do it, you're also supposed to donate $50 to ALS research, and if you don't do the challenge, you're supposed to donate $100.  

It's essentially a pyramid scheme for a really good cause.  Some people have complained about it, since, God forbid, their Facebook feeds, for once, are not consumed by ill-informed political rants, pictures of friends' cats, and George Takei reposts.  Personally, I think it's an ingenious and humorous way to raise money, and it has clearly worked, since it has raised over $13 million for the ALS Association in the last few weeks.  Some of my friends have also found more creative ways to do the challenge, such as: dumping a bucket of ice water over his head while dressed in a suit and standing in the middle of Michigan Avenue; belly flopping into a kiddie pool filled with ice water; and taking a shot of Jack while dressed in a Buzz Lightyear suit before dumping a bucket of ice water on his head.

Of course, with any internet video sensation, there will be failure.  Leave it to Buzzfeed to find and compile said failure in a post entitled "22 People Who Have Definitely Not Taken the Ice Bucket Challenge" (thanks to Gregerson for the link).  There are some pretty funny ones in there.  I especially liked #17, #18, #19, and #21.  If we learn anything from this, it's that you should never let someone with a heavy bucket of ice water stand directly above you, particularly if they are leaning the bucket on a railing of some sort.  Most disturbing, however, is the percentage of these videos filmed in portrait orientation and not landscape.  Dear God, people, turn your phones sideways when you film videos.

Watchin' Weight

Every now and then, I feel the need to toot my own horn, and this is one of those times.  One year ago today, I made the decision that I need to lose some weight.  My chin was beginning to double, my pants were tight, and too many of my t-shirts were in the "maybe someday" pile.  I have since lost about 25 pounds.  My neck is thinner, my pants are falling off my hips, and I can wear t-shirts I haven't worn in probably 7 or 8 years.  I feel virile, lethal even.  People always ask me, "What's your secret, GMYH?  Did you get the Fuckout?"  To which I respond, "No, man, that's not an actual workout.  I just did Weight Watchers online."

I chose Weight Watchers because a friend of mine had lost a bunch of weight using it.  In my mind, I had mixed up Weight Watchers and NutriSystem, thinking that Weight Watchers involved buying pre-made meals, which it doesn't.

Once I straightened that out, I signed up to do it online, and then downloaded the mobile app.  I lost 7 pounds in the first two weeks, and lost weight pretty much every week thereafter until I leveled off at about 25 pounds a few months ago.

It is extremely easy to lose weight with Weight Watchers, and frankly, I don't know why everyone trying to lose weight (aside from the anorexics and bulimics) doesn't do it. 

The gist of it is that you get a certain number of points per day to use, and you can eat whatever you want to get to that point total.  When I started I was given 41 points per day, but as I have lost weight, that has been dropped to 36.  You also get 49 bonus points each week, which can be used if you go over your allotted daily total.

Foods are assigned differing point values depending on their fat, protein, carbs, and fiber.  For instance, most fruits and vegetables are 0 points.  On the other hand, a large Domino's hand-tossed cheese pizza is 61 points.

Also, doing physical activities (even walking) gains you points each week, and the amount of points you get for each activity varies depending on your weight.  For instance, when I started, I think 18 minutes of walking got me 2 points, but now it takes 20 minutes to get 2 points.  You can use those activity points after you have burned through your daily points and/or your weekly bonus points.  So, the more you exercise, the more you can eat or drink.

In addition to tooting my own horn, the other purpose of this post is to hopefully give you a boost if you're looking to lose some weight.

Here are the most important takeaways from Weight Watchers, in my opinion:

1.  I lost 25 pounds essentially without working out.  That's right, apparently, eating healthily and portion control equates to losing weight, and you don't have to work out to shed pounds.  For me, this was great, because I generally don't have a lot of extra time to workout, and I am very lazy.

2.  I lost weight without really changing my drinking habits.  Sure, I drink light beer more often now because regular beer has more points (5 vs. 4 per 12 oz.), but Weight Watchers allows you to craft your diet on a particular day to allow for the consumption of alcohol (or a big meal, if you're not a borderline alcoholic).  Whereas in the past, I would not change my diet if I knew I was going to be going out drinking or going out to dinner, now I eat a lot of fruit during the day if I know I'm going to be drinking or having a big meal at night.  Yes, I realize I am allowing myself to drink more, but I'm also consuming a lot more fruit!

3.  It is extremely easy to do.  You just enter the food and drinks you've consumed (or activity you've done) into the online tracker or your mobile app, and it tells you how many points you've consumed (or acquired by exercise) and how many you have left.  Just about any food you can think of, as well as menu items from most national restaurants, are in there already, and for any food not in the database, you can enter the grams of protein, fat, carbs, and fiber, and it will calculate a point total for you.  The mobile app is really easy to use, and pretty much gives you no excuse not to keep track of everything you consume.

4.  You don't have to answer to anyone except yourself.  Basically, with the tracking system, you have no excuse not to lose weight because you are responsible for entering everything you eat or do.  If you want to cheat and not enter foods that you eat, you're only cheating yourself, and you won't be getting any skinnier.

So, get out there, starting drinking, quit working out, and start losing weight.

The Fuckout

It's a fact:  people hate working out.  The only reason anyone has ever worked out in the history of mankind is to be more appealing to the opposite sex (or the same sex, not that there's anything wrong with that), to increase the chances of having sexual intercourse.

What if I told you there was a fitness plan that allowed you to burn calories without stepping into a gym, running, or lifting a weight?  You'd say, "That's impossible, GMYH." 

And what if I told you there was a fitness plan that contained no dietary restrictions?  You'd say, "Come on, GMYH, you're pulling my leg."  And what if I told you that there was a fitness plan that would guarantee you have more sex.  You'd say, "Seriously GMYH, get the fuck out."  Exactly.

Introducing the Fuckout®, a revolutionary new fitness plan that gets you in shape by doing nothing more than the thing you most want to do: it.  Why get a workout when you can get the Fuckout?

Tired of waking up early to workout?  Get the Fuckout.

Sick of waiting to use the abductor/adductor machine at the gym?  Get the Fuckout.

Can't afford those costly gym memberships?  Get the Fuckout.

Haven't been having enough sex lately?  Tell your partner to get the Fuckout.

"Hold on a minute.  Are you telling me I can have sex instead of working out?"  Yes.

"But how does the Fuckout benefit my health?"  You rarely see a fat prostitute, and there's a reason for that.  30 minutes of sex burns at least 85 calories, and much more depending on your position, amount and intensity of foreplay, the vigor with which you thrust or bounce, and/or level of freakiness.  And burning calories isn't the only benefit of taking the skin boat to Tuna Town. According to a WebMD article:

-People who have sex are less stressed and can better handle stress.

-More sex means lower blood pressure and better immunity (unless you have HIV, in which case, I beg you not to get the Fuckout).

-Sex reduces the risk of heart attacks, strokes, and prostate cancer.

-Sex boosts self-esteem.

-Sex improves intimacy.  Couples that play together stay together.  And by "play," I mean "get the Fuckout."

-Sex reduces pain (unless you're into that, of course).

-Sex strengthens pelvic floor muscles in women.

-Sex helps you sleep better.

"Whoa whoa whoa.  I don't understand all of that medical mumbo jumbo.  Plain English, please."  Everyone loves to have sex, sex makes people happy, sex makes you thinner, and sex prevents death.

"But if I run or lift weights, I may burn 200-300 calories in 30 minutes.  That's 600-900 calories burned if I workout three times a week.  So why would I want to get the Fuckout if I have to have sex 7-10 times a week to burn the same number of -- nevermind.  As I was asking that question, I realized how stupid it sounded."  That's right, it did sound stupid.  Would you rather workout three times a week or have sex everyday?  No contest.

"What if I'm not good at sex?"  I want to let you in on a little secret, and it may shock you.  Nobody is good at sex.  In fact, a recent study showed that there are only four people in the world who are truly good at sex, and all of them live in the San Fernando Valley and/or have full-blown AIDS.  But the Fuckout is like any exercise routine. The more you do it, the better you become, the longer you last, and the more calories you burn.

"When can I get the Fuckout?"  There is no bad time of day to do it.  You can get the Fuckout morning, noon, or night.

"What if I like working out?  Can I still get the Fuckout?"  First, let me just say I think you're weird.  Second, the beauty about the Fuckout is its flexibility.  You can use it as a stand-alone plan, or you can use it to supplement your current workout routine.  I've even seen videos where particularly ambitious couples do both at the same time.

"Where can I get the Fuckout?"  You can get the Fuckout anywhere:  at home, at the office, in a motor lodge, on a plane, in a car, on a boat, in a field, in the men's room at The Aragon, in the butt.

"Can I drink alcohol and get the Fuckout?"  Absolutely.  If anything, the Fuckout becomes more effective with alcohol because alcohol often prolongs the Fuckout.  Of course, if you drink too much alcohol, you may experience what doctors call "whiskey dick" or, in women, "wine vagina," which negatively affects your ability to effectively engage in any sexual activities.

"How much does it cost?"  Absolutely nothing.  You can get the Fuckout for free.  (Note:  While getting the Fuckout does not cost anything, if you fail to use effective methods of birth control or fail to have safe sex, it may end up costing you several hundred thousand dollars and your livelihood.)

"Are you a doctor?"  Shit no.  I'm just a guy who likes having sex.

"I'm pregnant.  Can I get the Fuckout?"  Sounds like you already did!  All kidding aside, you can have sex well into your third trimester.  In fact, there's an old wives' tale that having sex can induce labor, so if you're a few days overdue, tell your husband, live-in boyfriend, or paramour that it may be time to get the Fuckout.

"I don't want to get pregnant.  Is the Fuckout right for me?"  Of course it is.  All you have to do is use one or more of any number of birth control options available at your local pharmacy.  Or, if you're really committed, you can get your tubes tied and get the Fuckout the rest of your life with no consequences (aside from the occasional venereal disease, of course).

"How can I get the Fuckout?"  That's the beauty about the Fuckout.  There is nothing to buy and no equipment to use (unless you're into that).  In fact, you don't even need clothes to get the Fuckout.  All you need is a willing, preferably disease-free sexual partner who is at or above the age of consent in your jurisdiction.

So there you have it.  Now, instead of working out to increase your chances of having sex, all you have to do is have more sex to increase your chances of having sex.  Forget that gym, those weights, and those treadmills and ellipticals.  What are you waiting for?  Get the Fuckout tonight to ensure you have a Happy Valentine's Day.

Tuesday Top Ten: Most Common Occupational Illnesses

I'll just come right out and say it:  I'm busy.  I spent most of the 4th of July not celebrating our country's independence from King George III by igniting small man-made rockets, but rather by sitting on my increasingly bulbous ass and working.  That's not what Thomas Jefferson would have wanted.  


Anyway, what this means is that I haven't had the time to write a Tuesday Top Ten this week, but the thought of leaving you fair readers without something to read late on a Tuesday night makes me sick to my increasingly large stomach.  Thankfully, the jackasses at OnlineCollege.org sent me a link to their article "10 Most Common Occupational Illnesses in the U.S."  Surprisingly, crushing one's soul is not on the list.

Gargoyle and The Full Monty

Fair readers, you have spoken, and by a 67%-33% margin, you believe Appetite for Destruction by Guns N' Roses is a better album than Nevermind by Nirvana. I agree. Thank you for appeasing me.

On the third of July, I attended a social gathering. Several hours before drinking Night Train while listening to "Nightrain," I was talking to a couple friends, debating which nearby buildings we thought we could hit with a baseball. As is often the case, the conversation turned to defecation in the workplace. The Brothers Weeser* (minus Greg and Dan, expectedly), aka Creature, had two of the funnier stories I've heard about dumping in the company well.

The first happened several years ago when he worked at a very nice restaurant that has since retired. The men's room was a one-man operation. Creature opened the unfortunately unlocked door to see one of the servers sitting on the pot buck naked. His clothes and shoes were in a pile on the floor. The Full Monty. I found that odd, but not as odd as the other story he told.

The other one occurred more recently at a very nice restaurant where Creature currently works. The men's room there is also a one-man operation. One of Creature's co-workers opened the door and walked in on The Gargoyle. The man who was apparently pooping was perched on top of the toilet seat, squatting, with his arms outstretched, bracing himself with both walls. Presumably, he had taken off his pants and any undergarment, or else things not only would have been far too weird and gothic, but also very much covered in feces.

I think the moral of these stories -- other than stop being psycho -- is to lock the bathroom door.

All of this shit talk got me thinking about other comical positions that I'd like to hear about people walking in on, but never actually see myself:

The Karate Kid
The Raj

The Chuck Berry
The Parallel Bars
And last but not least, the most difficult and dangerous of them all, The Keg Stand

Cell Phones in Flight

I don't have time this week for a Tuesday Top Ten, but here is a link to an interesting and relatively terrifying ABC News video about the dangers of turning on your cell phone on a plane, especially during takeoff or landing.

In other horrifying news (for you, not me), I am out of town this Friday and next Friday, so I am likely not going to be able to post the first ten hair band songs I listen to each of those Fridays. Calm down. Here's what I want you to do in my absence: take a Valium, take another, take another, listen to my Hair Band Friday station on Pandora, down a bottle of Jack, eat some carrots (good for the eyes), get some chicks (or dudes) in your office to take their tops off before they are allowed to enter your office or cubicle, and rock out like you're in a band with an umlaut in the name. I'll be doing the same, just in different locales, and without the carrots.

Winged Resolutions

So, the holidays are over, unless you consider Epiphany to be a holiday, in which case you are not likely reading this, since you live in a convent. I took the week off between Christmas and New Years, which I highly recommend. Nothing like a week off around the holidays to remind you why college was awesome. I watched movies during the day, played video games, went to concerts, drank many winter beers, and ate what I now consider to be an unhealthy amount of chicken wings and related food products containing buffalo wing sauce. I may have ralphed up wings at one point, which was, amazingly, not alcohol related.

On the bright side, I weigh exactly 1.4 pounds less than I did a year ago. At this rate, I should be down to my high school graduation weight at some time in March 2037. As with pretty much each of the previous five years, I was disciplined for the first six months, and then worked out sporadically (if at all) for the second six months of the year. I really need to find a job that pays me hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to work out. I feel like that would get me in shape.

I heard back from the data recovery people who currently hold every memory I have of Daughter from her first year. They can recover the data on our deceased laptop, but it won't be completed for 8-10 weeks. Thus, you will have to wait until late February or early March for the exciting conclusion of American Werewolves in Munich.

Speaking of assholes, while I am not at all surprised about the fact that 5 O$U players were caught breaking NCAA rules, I am still baffled that they were able to play in last night's Sugar Bowl. Here is a pretty good article on the absurdity of the situation. I see no reason why the players have any incentive to uphold their "agreement" to come back to school next year.

Speaking of things that have nothing to do with one another, here are my resolutions for 2011:
1. Work less
2. Write more weekend recaps
3. Work out more than ten times between July 1, 2011 and December 31, 2011
4. Win over $100 million
5. Sell 2008 Big Ten Championship ring back to Terrelle Pryor
6. Buy more new music
7. Get Daughter into calf roping
8. See more movies made within the past year
9. Get viral (preferably, not stomach viral)
10. Figure out what makes Bruce Vilanch tick

An Apple a Day May Kill You

I came across an interesting article today about the relationship between pesticides and chemicals and weight loss (or gain, as it were). It's a good read. What I get from it is that it's not the beer that's making me fat, it's the fruits and vegetables I'm eating and the water I'm drinking. Message received.

Sorority House Fashion Massacre

So I'm minding my business on Yahoo's homepage last week, about to search for some work-appropriate literotica, when I see a link (this is one of Yahoo's top four stories at the time, mind you) called "Secret sorority style rules." Thinking I might have found what I was looking for, I clicked on the article. While it wasn't what I had hoped, I did learn that the Pi Phi house at Cornell has a "style guide" for its pledges, authored by the rush chair.

This got still-bitter GDI Jennifer Romolini's panties (Hanes, no doubt) in a bunch, enough so that she wrote an article lambasting the well-groomed and immaculately dressed women of Pi Beta Phi. It's as if Romolini is completely shocked that a sorority (at an Ivy League school, no less) is superficial, elitist, and vain. From what I could tell, that's pretty much why sororities exist: to further the cause of elitism and vanity on college campuses. Hell, there were sororities at IU who would make their pledges do sit-ups before dinner each night. It's too bad the Pi Phis at Cornell aren't as concerned about the physical health of their pledges as they are about their clothing and upper lip hair.

Let's take a gander at some of these allegedly horrifying fashion suggestions (for the full "guide," click here):

Clothes and accessories

No watches with timers or any kind of Indiglo light are allowed. ("I will have the time to keep you informed, so unless your watch is a piece of jewelry, you don't need it. Put on a bangle.")
But what if the pledges want to have a 600-yard dash? How will we know who's the best? Also, I assume the second sentence meant "The Bangles" and not "a bangle." Manic Monday, indeed!

Pi Phi members should not wear satin unless they weigh under 130 pounds or the piece is from Dolce & Gabbana or Betsey Johnson.
Frankly, I think they could have just stopped after the word "satin." I don't know who Betsey Johnson is, but she must be the chick in the house with the classiest satin dresses. I am concerned about the implication that Pi Phi has members who are over 130 pounds. Perhaps they need Jillian Michaels more than they need advice about wearing satin.

No American Apparel leggings.
So they don't want their pledges to look like undernourished, sullen, vaguely foreign models who bend over in front of mirrors?

"No cropped pants. Ugh."
Aren't all pants cropped at some point? I guess it would be hilarious to see a bunch of 129-pound chicks walking around campus, tripping over really long pant legs that hang down under their satin dresses.

No "frumpy" clothes or "muffin top."
No one likes 19-year-olds who dress like 50-year-olds, and, likewise, muffin tops are generally uncouth, unless, of course, she is talking about the food. In that case, they are surprisingly high in calories.

"Booties ok if you can pull them off, aka probably not."
Thank you! Someone realizes that women look ridiculous in boots. Uggs are an abortion.

"I expect everyone to be wearing accessories. This is an important part of every outfit and can make or break any ensemble."
"Accessories" is pretty vague, and this could be construed by some literalists as a command to wear people who have aided in the commission of crimes. That would definitely break an ensemble.

"Bangles need to coordinate."
Of course Susanna Hoffs and Vicki Peterson are going to coordinate. Otherwise, the harmonies on "In Your Room" would seem forced.

"I'm not saying you have to wear a Harry Winston wreath, but I am saying I won't tolerate any gross plastic shizzzz. I love things on wrists and I demand earrings if your ears are pierced."
Who the fuck wears wreaths? Is Harry Winston a local Ithaca arborist? This all seems a little too Christmas-centric for me. Then again, I doubt Pi Phi lets in Jews (or any non-Anglicans, for that matter). And what's with the "shizzzz," Snoop Dogg? Sounds like someone's been hanging out in Kings County! You know who else loves things on wrists and demands earrings? Hitler. And Andy Bernard.

Makeup and grooming

No chapped lips or mustaches.
I can't believe a sorority wants its members not to look like dudes with bloody lips.

"Blush is not optional."
This reminds me of something my pledge trainer O'Shea Jackson once told me: "Pimpin' ain't easy, but it's necessary." Same concept.

Hair must be "freshly colored."
I can understand that a sorority would not want its members to have green or purple hair, or any other color popular in the devil-may-care 1980s, although this seems somewhat at odds with this chick's Bangles fetish.

"You best have a mani/pedi when you get to Ithaca."
After all, Ithaca is gorges. Ah-thank you!

I think the best part is the university's response. When alerted to this attempt to beautify the campus, the university more or less said, "Who fucking cares?" Agreed.

Can you please pass the placenta?

So this weekend, Jester and I went to our friend Amanda's family's lake house in Michigan. Joining us were Amanda (as you might guess) and her husband Adam (of 30 in 8 fame), Alex, and Alex's anonymous wife. Originally, there were several others who were supposed to come, but had to back out for various (and surprisingly legitimate) reasons at the last minute. Thus, the food and drink that Alex and his anonymous wife had purchased was enough for 9 to 10 people. Needless to say, it was a weekend of gluttony. The motto for the weekend was "You're Never Not Hungry."

We each likely gained several pounds over the course of 48 hours, but that's beside the point. Friday night, we were sitting around the fire pit, telling scary stories and the like. Predictably, the conversation turned to placenta. As I'm sure we're all aware, placenta is the organic mass that supplies fetuses (or is it feti?) with oxygen and food while in the womb. I will spare you a picture of the placenta, but if you're curious, click on the Wikipedia page and scroll to the bottom. Remember that image as I tell you the rest of this tale.

Alex's anonymous wife mentioned one of her acquaintances is pregnant. This other woman -- we'll call her Crazy -- is, from what Alex's anonymous wife describes her, kind of, well, crazy. For example, Crazy cut out an article -- presumably from Crazy Ass Pregnant Voodoo Chick Magazine -- for her husband to read. The article was about keeping and, gulp, eating the placenta. And just to calm you down, Crazy's husband is not Crazy nor crazy, so he dismissed this as an option, although in her defense, Crazy supposedly claimed she never actually intended to eat her placenta. Nonetheless, this is something some apparently people do. I'm sure every single one of us would be lying if we said we haven't been at least somewhat interested in what pan-seared human flesh might taste like, but this seemed a little savage to me.

As a True Blood fanatic, I immediately imagined something along the lines of the Hunter's Soufflé that Maryann recently prepared with a human heart, resulting in an unknowing Tara and Eggs going crazy and punching each other in the face. Curious, I asked how one might eat placenta. Is it sautéed? Baked? Deep fried? Cubed and skewered, kebob style? No, no, hell no, and no. Get this: it is pureed into an afterbirth smoothie and then drunk. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This, of course, begged the question: does eating your child's placenta give you superhuman powers, sight beyond sight, or everlasting life? The answer might astound you: No. This means that there is literally no good reason to eat your (or anyone else's) child's placenta.

The rest of the weekend involved a lot of food consumption, a small bit of rain-soaked golf, some horseshoes, a lot of fire watching, some Swisher Sweets, not enough beer consumption for how much was purchased (apparently 132 beers is too much for three guys and one drinking gal to consume in a two-day period), mosquito bites, sleep watching, and zero discussion of how to prepare human placenta.

Silent Weekend

This weekend was a relatively quiet one. It started out with a bang (not literally or figuratively) at Gregerson's place Friday night with a little Rock Band. I had never played before. Needless to say, I was all over "Ballroom Blitz." What I found odd, though, is that they listed some band called Sweet as the group who sang it. I guess they must have covered Crucial Taunt. In other news, I am a fairly terrible drummer. In unrelated news, I was motherflippin' shocked to learn that neither Alex nor his anonymous wife had heard of Flight of the Conchords (by the way, the new season starts on HBO this Sunday, 1/18, at 10 p.m. EST/11:30 p.m. NST, or Monday at 4 p.m. in New Zealand).

Saturday was spent doing pretty much nothing. I recently purchased some of those adjustable dumbbells, so I worked out for the first time in four or five months, or maybe a year. According to certain health rags, women I share a bed with, and photographic depictions of me, I've put on an unhealthy bit of weight in and around my stomach, neck, face, ass, back, and, oddly, my elbows. Ergo, I have started a training regimen that should have me back down to my playing weight within three or four years, if all goes well. This, of course, assumes that I have enough room in our second bedroom to do jump squats, that I can join a high school football team, and that I am able to obtain one of those vibrating weight-loss straps for my midsection. Regardless, after my first workout, lactic acid is not my friend, but then again I was benching almost 20 pounds. PER ARM. My elbows will thank me later.

Saturday night Jester and I stayed in and watched The Darjeeling Limited, the latest Wes Anderson creation. It was quirky and cinematographically interesting, but not as funny as his other flicks.

Yesterday, Jessie and I performed our two-person musical version of "Harley Davidson and The Marlboro Man" for, appropriately, Harley. It was met with mixed emotions and a decent amount of rawhide chewing. We decided to leave Harley alone with her thoughts and head to Target via The Blaab, which was plowed into a parking spot on our block. After some shimmying, I pulled off a maneuver that I have never pulled off or seen pulled off before. With the windows rolled up and Jessie inaudibly screeching at me from the middle of the street, I turned the wheel all the way to the left and floored it. The result was nothing short of astounding. The Blaab performed a complete 180, as if its back wheels were on an immovable axis. It was as if Buddha himself picked up my car out of its parking spot, and set it down right next to where it had been, facing the opposite direction. It was awesome. And with that, Jessie got in while laughing in disbelief, and we went around the block because we were now facing the wrong direction.

To top it off, with victories by the Eagles and the Steelers, my bracket in J-Diza's Super Bowl pool is perfect. If -- no, when -- the Ravens beat the Eagles in the Super Bowl (the first Super Bowl pitting two 6-seeds against each other), then you will know my name: Nostradamus.

Sarcasm Cures Dementia

Today I discovered the hard way that the neck fat I've been growing over the past year doesn't provide the insulation I had expected when the windchill dropped into single digits. Eleven months of sloth down the shitter.

In unrelated news, apparently you can tell if someone has dementia if he or she doesn't respond to sarcasm. No shit? In the back of my mind, I always kind of knew that I could diagnose dementia. For instance, I once told my grandpa, "I think Steely Dan is the greatest, least-pretentious, most-influential, least-shitty rock and roll band of all-time." He asked "who?" and didn't laugh at all. So then I was like, "Why aren't you laughing, old man? Oh let me guess: you have a severe and debilitating mental condition that prevents you from picking up on the significance of my vocal intonations." Again, no laughter. Ten years later, he began to confuse things. It all made sense. Rest in peace, Basil.

Couldn't Stand the Weather

One of the many things I love about the Midwest, and Chicago in particular -- and one of the things I think makes Midwesterners more even-keeled and better-equipped to deal with adversity than people in other parts of the country -- is when the weather drops faster and more violently than Barbaro at Pimlico. Take today, for instance. As I write this (at 1:18 p.m.), it is 49° -- relatively balmy for late January. This afternoon the temperature will drop, after some snow of course (because God's funny like that). The low today will not be in the lower 40s, or even the 30s, 20s or teens. No, the low today will be 2, and wind chills are expected to be in the 25-30 below range tonight (for you assholes who live in warmer climates or those of you who have a marginal understanding of context or the English language, a "wind chill" is what the already-frigid temperature feels like when adding wind). For you non-math speakers, that is a potential difference of 79°. While I wouldn't necessarily want a heat index of 128° (i.e., what it would be if it went up instead of down), at least 128 would vaporize the various viruses, bugs, and bacteria that are spreading across my body like Mormons. 128 would be the New York, Ohio, Illinois, and Missouri to -25's Utah. Too soon? Seriously, though, I think I have a fever, which may be the first time since grade school. I'm falling apart in my old age. It feels like Magnus Ver Magnusson and Bill Kazmaier are trapped in my cranium, back to back, pushing as hard as they can with their arms and legs in an attempt to cause some sort of fissure from which they can escape. Despite what Bruce Dickinson would lead you to believe, the cure is not more cowbell. So far, it's actually only made things worse.