Mr. 1000

***This is a fake biography. It is purely satirical and devoid of truth. Any names, places, events, etc. discussed in the following biography are not real and are purely coincidental to and have no connection whatsoever to any names, places, events, etc. that may exist in the real world.***

Defining moments come along every so often in a man's life: birth, first day of school, first BJ, college graduation, marriage, the 1000th visitor to GMYH. At least three of these things have happened to Marc Wiescinski.

Born in Oak Hill, West Virginia, in the heart of coal-mining country, in May 1977 at the hospital that was mere blocks from the all-night service station where Hank Williams was discovered dead in the back of a Cadillac only 24 years earlier, Marc was destined for greatness. His father, Cletus Jefferson Wiescinski ("CJ"), ran the local mine's general store, while his mother, Sally Mae Wiescinski was a teacher at the local K-12 school, where she taught all grades at one time. Marc's birth, Sally Mae's first, left her completely barren.

At an early age, Marc displayed an affinity for music, and was strongly encouraged by his parents to pursue his talent. CJ always used to say, "Boy, if you ain't got Hank Williams's soul in ya, I don't know who does." These types of references to reincarnation were not greeted well in Oak Hill, a town comprised of over 100% fundamentalist Christians. Nonetheless, the town folk let it slide if it meant hearing Marc play the jug and sing. Soon enough, it wasn't only the townspeople who noticed Marc's talents. Word started to spread, and before too long, legendary Steel Polecat Records A&R man Slim Lehart, known around West Virginia as "The Wheeling Cat," made an unannounced stop in Oak Hill for the annual Coal Carnival, at which Marc was the featured act.

Lehart recalled: "I had heard that Oak Hill had a kid that played the jug like Curly Owens, stomped his feet like Clarence "Brickhouse" Hatfield, and sang like Cooter Lee. Now the good Lord knows I don't believe in all that voodoo reincarnation hooey phooey, but I tell you what--I'll be damned if I wasn't lookin' at a six-year-old Hank Williams up on that stage."

With his parents' blessing, Marc signed with Lehart to be a part of the country and skiffle band, The Blazin' Bituminous Brothers. Comprised of the region's biggest up-and-coming young stars, The Blazin' Bituminous Brothers were Southwestern West Virginia's answer to Menudo. The year was 1983. It would be his first foray into music, but certainly not his last.

The Brothers were a smash, thanks heavily in part to the subject matter of their music. Songs like "Mine is Yours," "Wildcat Strike Shuffle," "A Scab is a Scab, But That Scab is My Dad," "Coal Miner's Daughter's Daughter," "My Canary Up and Died," and "Black Lung Boogie" spoke to the hearts and souls of Southwestern West Virginians like no one had ever done before. Their tours were legendary. If you can name a city, they probably played there. Ansted, Fayettsville, Iaeger, Pinesville, Welch, Williamson, and yes, even Beckley, to name a few. A particularly wild evening, though, would lead to changes that Marc never could have envisioned.

Marc's excesses eventually caught up with him on March 17, 1984. After a St. Patrick's Day show in Delbarton, Marc drank 15 cans of Tab and was found backstage licking Lik-M-Aid Cherry Fun Dip powder off of the exposed knee of a 9-year-old Delbartonian girl. Unfortunately for Marc, the girl's father had media connections, and the next day's headline in the Mingo County Times-Review read, "Delbarton Girl Nearly Raped and Murdered by Rock Star."

Marc was mortified, even though he had no idea what "raped" meant. CJ and Sally Mae took the news even harder. Sally Mae recalls, "We just had to get Marc away from that party lifestyle. We had looked the other way when it came to a lot of stuff: ice cream, Coke, Sprite, Root Beer, Mountain Dew, cookies, brownies, candy bars, and hookers--dozens of 'em. Enough was enough. We needed to make a fresh start somewhere else. And that's when CJ found out about a general store in Bay City that didn't have a manager."

CJ, Sally Mae, and Marc packed up their 1973 Chevy pick-up and left Oak Hill for Bay City, Michigan in the middle of the night on March 20, 1984, and they have not set foot in West Virginia since. CJ found a job managing the local 7-11, while Sally Mae, suprised to learn that a college degree was a requirement for teaching in the state of Michigan, enrolled in the local community college so that she could one day teach again.

It was in Bay City where Marc would discover a musical world outside skiffle and country. The transition, though, was not seemless. Marc was ridiculed on nearly a half-hourly basis for his rat tail and heavy drawl. It would be years before he would pronounce "wash" without an "r" in the middle. Those of his classmates that were not giving him wet willies, grundies, and Indian burns, though, turned Marc on to hard rock, death metal, punk, and hardcore rap.

In addition, Marc discovered the joys of television, something only seven families in West Virginia had, and motion pictures, somthing he had only dreamed of seeing before. He fell in love with the cyber-techno-drama, "Tron." Soon his life was consumed with Tron: Tron sheets, Tron blankets, Tron shoes, Tron shirts, Tron action figures. If it had to do with Tron, Marc had to have it.

It was this obession that would lead to tragedy. On the night of December 18, 1985, Sally Mae was at a local Meijer, searching for any sort of Tron-related gift to get for Marc for Christmas. She spotted a limited-edition Tron nightlight. It was the only one left, so she made a move to get it. She, however, was not the only one with her eye on that nightlight. Carol Childress, an out-of-work seamstress from nearby Saginaw, needed that nightlight for her son Ricky, and she would stop at nothing to get it. Sally Mae's drawn and quartered body was found in a dumpster outside a Farmer Jack grocery store in Flint. To this day, Marc refuses to use a nightlight, out of respect for Sally Mae.

At Bay City High School, he excelled both in and out of the classroom. His 3.5 GPA earned him a place in the National Honor Society, and his 14-2 record as a starting pitcher for the Rollers' baseball team earned him a scholarship to Michigan State University. Marc, however, turned down the scholarship to MSU after he was drafted in the 38th round of the Major League Baseball draft by the Cleveland Indians.

After several unsuccessful seasons in the minor leagues, Marc had slipped back into his old habits he learned on the road over a decade earlier in West Virginia. He was destitute, having spent nearly all of his money on booze, heroin, and high-priced call girls. Desperate to make ends meet, Marc was forced to turn to a dark, odorous place: gay porn. Using the pseudonym Slider Stevenson, Marc starred in several baseball-themed gay films, "Rounding Third and Heading for Hole," "Bat Boys," "Gayngels in the Outfield," the "Foul Balls" series, and of course, "Backdoor Slider," which earned him an AVN Award for Best Male Performance.

Broken, ashamed, and sore, Marc had made enough money that he decided to end his baseball and gay porn careers, and head to MSU to get his degree. It was in East Lansing where Marc would find the next of his life's passions: packaging engineering. Coasting through school in a record 5 semesters with a 4.0 GPA, Marc had no problem finding a job with the world's number one consumer goods company, Procter & Gamble. In yet another cruel twist of fate, though, Marc was not placed in Cincinnati, where the company's headquaters were located. Instead, he was placed at the Iams Company, which P&G had purchased a few years prior, in Dayton, Ohio, the birthplace of aviation.

After living in Dayton for a couple years and earning a living designing some of the most sought-after dog- and catfood packages in the world, Marc learned that the music bug is a tough one to swat. Taking the stage name Tron 3000, he teamed with John "$2 Dolla" Ashcraft (formerly of San Diego-based Sun Drubbas) and Andrew "Lysol" LeMar (formerly of the curling-themed Stone Throwaz) to form the Blue Gate Killas, Dayton's first successful hardcore rap group. After locking themselves in a Scottish castle for 3 months with nothing but recording equipment, 32 cases of Courvosier, and 45 pounds of Bahama Mama, the Killas enjoyed a period of extremely prolific song-writing and recording, the result of which was their debut double-album, "Five Inches of Limp Dick." Behind the Top-40 hits, "Zamoralized" (a staunch pro-condom song), the catchy "Ding Dong Bitch," and the fun-loving "FUPA Bitch" and "Angry Pirate," the album went quadruple platinum in the first six months. No song, however, was as popular as "Daugther Got Abducted," which spent an amazing 15 weeks at No. 1. The lyrics show exactly why is was so popular:

Verse 1 (Tron):
"Check it out, it's the Killas back up from the Gate
All the playas know Tron is the one dad's hate
I steal bitches like my last name was Rider
If you have a daughter, you better go and hide her
'Cause I'll take her out to dinner
And treat her real nice
You think that I'm a winner
Until I roll the dice

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man with no tan and a white Cadillac
Who told you by 12 he'd have your daughter back

(Tron, yelling in the background): $2 Dolla, tell that fool what he don't already know

Verse 2 ($2 Dolla):
The name's $2 Dolla and I play a lotta craps
Bitches think I'm crazy 'cause I don't take naps
But your punk ass is the one who should sleep with one eye open
'Cause I'll flash my guns and snatch your daughter like I was hopin'
We'll fly out to Vegas on the $2 Dolla Express
And I'll bet your daughter when my cash gets pressed
Now she's makin' purses out in Singapore
Makin' 12 cents a day, all because she's a whore

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man from Cali who rides like Sally
Who lost your daughter to an Asian man at Bally's

($2 Dolla, yelling in the background): Lysol, clean this man's motherfuckin' clock

Verse 3 (Lysol):
I came into this world with a chip on my shoulder
I'll take all of your daughters, even if their older
I'll make you think I'm the one she's gonna marry
When actually I'm gonna sell her to this guy I know named Gary
I can't help it if I didn't roll a seven
Next time you'll see your daughter will be in heaven
Until then, she'll have a pill stuck in her throat
Oh wait, that's my dick, I don't mean to gloat

Chorus:
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
A man with a tat of a lizard on his back
Who let some dude put your daughter in a sack

(Lysol, yelling in the background): Break 'em off some up in h'ya

(lengthy guitar solo)

Chorus (x2):
Uh oh! Your daughter got abducted
Uh oh! You never should have trusted
3 men from the 'ring who don't know how to sing
Who took your daughter from you, but you can't do a thing."

The Killas went on to sweep all major music awards in the rap categories in 2004 (shown here after taking home 5 Grammys). They are now working on their second album, due out in Spring 2006, tentatively titled, "As Deep As It Goes." The first single, "Pocket Fulla Pussy" is set for a December 2005 release.

Things have come full circle for Marc, who now resides in a 40-bedroom mansion in the Mt. Lookout neighborhood of Cincinnati. On October 12, 2005, while visiting the wildly popular weblog "Give Me Your Handrew," Marc realized that he was the 1000th visitor to the blog, thus earning him the opportunity to have his story told for all to see.

Bosses, Hosses, and Losses

So yesterday I learned that this coming Monday (10/17) is Bosses Day. Isn't every day Bosses Day? Isn't that kind of like having a White History Month?

Additionally, yesterday a surprise interview was sprung on me when someone else had to meet with a client or some shit like that. I don't do well unprepared and under intense pressure. I tend to forget what I'm legally allowed and not allowed to ask people. So the interviewee gets led to my office by the previous interviewer. I introduce myself, tell her to have a seat, close my door, and sit down at my desk. The conversation goes something like this:
Me: I gotta be honest, I haven't had much time to look over your resume, so I'm going to look it over briefly while you're in here.
Her: Okay.
[I stare intently at her resume without blinking or moving at all for 15 minutes. After that, I look up and smile]
Me: Very impressive resume. Top 5%, law review, president of the student bar asso--
[I stop mid-sentence and stare at her gut for a few seconds with a look of confusion.]
Me: I see you're carrying. Congratulations.
Her: Uh, I'm not pregnant.
Me: You sure? Looks like twins to me.
Her: Yeah, I'm pretty sure.
Me: Well, you might want to get it checked out just in case. Either way, it reminds me--we have great health benefits here and we just built our own exercise facility in the basement of the building. Although I gotta say, you'll probably be fired if you do get pregnant, especially with no ring on that finger. No one likes a leech. And it's not like your gettin' any younger. Anyway, let's move on.
Her: Yes, please, let's move on.
Me: What kind of last name is that? Frog? Kraut? Dego?
Her: Uh, it's Bulgarian.
Me: Ahh, a bohunk, eh? That's funny. We don't have any of those here, except for the cleaning staff of course. So you're probably some sort of fucked up bohunk religion, too?
Her: No, just Catholic.
Me: Okay okay, stop trying to press your old-world views on me. Alright, maybe you can answer this for me. My buddy and I were having a conversation, and he said that law school chicks are easier than undergrad chicks. I know I definitely fucked more in undergrad than I did in law school. Since you're obviously a lesbian, maybe you can give me an answer from both perspectives.
Her: I'm not a lesbian, and frankly, I'm a little bit uncomfortable with the questions you're asking. Can we just talk about what's on my resume?
Me: A case of the interview day jitters there Ellen? We've all had them. Want a nip of the hair of the dog?
[I pull out a flask, take a long swig, say "aaaahhhhh" really loudly, hold it out for her, and smile creepily while raising and lowering my eyebrows.]
Her: No thanks, I drove here, and plus, I really don't think it's appropriate to drink during an interview.
Me: Okay Carrie A. Nation, I get the hint, and while I'm very flattered, I'm also very married. And just to cut off your next question at the pass, no, we are not swingers. Let's move on. How do you think your experience working for a couple years in between undergrad and law school will help you as a lawyer? And so help me God, Lolita, if you say that you learned how to sleep your way to the top, this interview is over.
Her: Well, I was in sales, so I learned how to deal with many different kinds of people, and I learned that certain things please certain people while other things please others. I also learned how to make clients happy, not only by telling them what they want to hear, but also by making sure I could follow through on their requests.
Me: For shit's sake, were you in sales or hooking?
Her: What?!
Me: It's a simple question: were you a saleswoman or a hooker?
Her: Okay, this is getting ridiculous. Obviously I wasn't a hooker.
Me: Well you never know. Some guys prefer fatties. Moving on, I'm one of the younger associates you're interviewing with today. Is there anything you want to know about working here that you might not want to ask one of the partners?
Her: Yeah, what can I expect working here as a first-year associate?
Me: Well, I'd be lying if I said it's a walk in the park. Billables are 1900. You'll be working anywhere from 7 to 8 hours a day. You can have all the free pop you want. And you can pretty much take any day off you want as long as you send out an email that says you're going to be out of the office.
Her: That actually does sound like a walk in the park.
Me: You didn't let me finish. To get it that easy, you have to do 3 of the following 6 things in your first week: (1) kill a homeless man (not a woman--they're easy) with the firm's battle axe without getting caught; (2) go down on every partner, male or female, which I guess shouldn't be an issue for you; (3) go over to Thompson Hine and take a shit in the middle of the bathroom floor; (4) run a 4-minute mile; (5) wear only oversized diapers to work and drink only out of a formula bottle for a week; or (6) instead of speaking, you have to sing everything you say. If you can't do 3 of those things, then you're pretty much screwed because you have to pick up the slack for everyone who was able to do 3 of those things. We can pretty much count you out for the 4-minute mile, and it doesn't look like you're wily enough to kill a homeless man. Lord knows no one wants to see you in daipers, so warm up those vocals chords, relax that sphincter, and get used to sucking old dick and munching some hairy old poon.
Her: You are so fired. I'm going to tell your boss everything you've said and report you to the EEOC.
Me: Ah ah ah, sing it, don't say it.
Her: I'm outta here.
Me: Well, your time is up anyway. Thanks for coming in. Here's my card. Give me a call or email me if you have any questions about working here, and no question is off-limits. Seriously. Hmm, I just noticed that you went to IU undergrad and that you're from Chicago. We could have had a lot to talk about. Nice meeting you.
Her: Go to hell.

She walked out and headed straight for the elevators. Needless to say, I recommended that she be hired. Fiesty, doesn't take any shit, and a surefire instant starter on our firm rugby team, if such a team existed.

In more disturbing news, the Sox are down 1-0 to the Angels in the ALCS, which is obviously not a good thing. They certainly screwed up some opportunities. Podsednik not only got caught stealing, but then he royaly messed up what should have been a sacrifice bunt (and if he would have gotten it down, they could have scored the tying run on Dye's single a couple batters later). It's never a good idea to have AJ Pierzynski attempt a stolen base, but he did, and whoever was at bat messed up the hit-and-run. Rowand scorched what should have been a sac bunt to third base, which meant the runner was out at 2nd. Maybe the couple days off made the Sox lazy. Whatever it was, they need to pick it up tonight and get their first ever home win in the ALCS (seriously).

Astros/Cardinals start up tonight. Go 'Stros.

Lemme Holla at Ya

Well folks, we're getting dangerously close to GMYH visitor #1000. If you in fact are lucky #1000, please let me know, so that I can write a detailed, semi-accurate biography of your life and exploits. I will post in on the World Wide Web somehow.

Since I have very little to talk about today, I posted some more games under the games links on the right, courtesy of the Kilroy's Sports Bar website. The Widmer Bros. Beer Golf game is particularly addictive. My best score so far is a 50. Beat it. Seriously, do it.

Big game tonight for the White Sox as they kick off the ALCS at Comiskey. Coming off their first playoff series win since 1917, the South Side Hit Men need to go for the jugular of Disney's Los Angeles, California Angels of Anaheim, California Angels, who are coming off of about 4 hours of sleep after their win over the Yankees last night. As usual, as a Sox fan, I am wrought with a guarded optimism that only Chicago baseball fans can truly understand. As such, I cannot make any predictions, but only hope that the Sox continue to play well. Go Go Sox!!

Fantasy Update:
-Corn Hole'ers (1976 Tampa Bay Bucs): 1-4 (T 7th out of 8)
-FIC You (Car Ramrod): 1-4 (9th out of 10)
-Glenview Gridiron (Angry Pirates): 4-0 (1st out of 12)
-League of Extraordinary Gents (Angry Pirates): 3-2 (T 2nd out of 10)
-Pigskin 2005 Pick 'Em (Angry Pirates): 6th out of 17 (11th this past week)

If that gumpy mother bitch Peyton Manning doesn't throw for 300 yards and 3 TDs against the Rams this week, I will trade him, Marvin Harrison, and Reggie Wayne. For Car Ramrod, a 1-4 start is expected, since I start 3 Arizona Cardinals, but the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs can only take so many shitty games from all three Colts (who have done about as good a job helping me defend my title as Dave Wannstedt has for Pitt's national title hopes).

Brother LeMar's Traveling Salvation Show

A Happy Thanksgiving to GMYH's Canadian readers, and a Happy Columbus Day to those of us who don't eat back bacon on a regular basis. I gotta tell you, I had a hell of a weekend, so get ready for a long post.

One of the main goals of today's post is to make all the IU grads who didn't come back for Homecoming more jealous than Purdue grads are of people with non-farming jobs. Hence, I will recap Friday night, Saturday during the day, and Saturday night in meticulous fashion. (I apologize in advance to those non-IU GMYH readers, but maybe you should have gone to IU.)

Friday Night
At approximately 6:03pm Eastern on Friday, my lovely wife Jesterio the Magnificent (light magic and card tricks at half the price of a regular magician), my half-insane dog Harley "Silent Puma" LeMar (note: "puma" in this instance is pronounced like Principal Skinner pronounces it, "pyuma"), and Holt "Give 'Em Hell" Hedrick headed out of Dayton to Bloomington, with hopes of arriving before the fortnight. We piled into my pimped out '91 Accord, Rhonda, and thanks to Holt's XM radio, we listened to the White Sox sweep the Red Sox with a "what, you think I sold 'em all?" win at Fenway, thus giving a massive FU to all the "experts" who predicted the Red Sox would win. It was a great start to a great weekend.

Upon our arrival in B-Town, we headed to my dad's new condo down there, which is currently completely empty, as he is trying to rent it out for a few years before he retires to it. Anyway, we plopped down our air mattresses and left the dog with my dad (who was also down for the game) while we headed out to the greatest bar on Earth, Nick's. By the time we got there it was too late for us to get a table to play Sink the Bis', but we had a good time anyway. A couple of Holt's buddies showed up and the 3 of them proceeded to do shots like they were the Bush twins.

Jester and I headed over to Kilroy's, the bar I spent the most time in as an undergrad. Walking out of Nick's, I saw none other than Todd "The Governor" Gard. We exchanged pleasantries and wished each other a happy birthday in a couple weeks (we're both Oct. 29 studs). Jessie and I continued to Fratroy's, where we were going to meet "Pistol" Chris Stoll and Mike "Manderson" Anderson. It was Pi Kapp central in there, with about 25-30 alumni getting ripped like the old days. The best part was that they had planted themselves in the area to the left when you walk in the front door. This strategy was both prescient and ingenious, not unlike Washington's battle strategy, since it avoided unnecessary carnage by preventing any need to go through the nightly clusterfuck that we all know and love as "The Birth Canal." As usual when you get 30 frat guys together, it was a drunkfest. Even though I was the oldest damn alum there, people were buying drinks for me, which is always nice. Highlights included everyone standing on the chairs and tables when "Living On a Prayer" came on the jukebox (see the excuse for a photo to the left) and hearing a group of Bengal fans singing the "Who Dey" Bengals fight song. When will people from Cincinnati realize that they have nothing to live for?

After a few drinks, Jessie and I headed over to the Bluebird to meet up with Holt and his buddies. Legendary local band Dave & Rae were playing to a packed house (the photo is not great, but yes, that is Rae). 32oz beers were flowing, hot chicks were dancing, and I was watching. My only complaint is that I wasn't there for their version of "Jack & Diane" when Dave says "trill" instead of "thrill." Holt's friends inexplicably left, and then after a few more songs, Jessie, Holt, and I headed next door to get some Rocket's pizza before calling it a night.

Saturday Day
I got up at 7:30 in hopes of being at the tailgate fields by 8, since the game started at 11. Of course Jessie and Holt were not as mentally or physically prepared as I was at that point, so we didn't get over there until about 8:45 or 9. Since it was Homecoming, the boys from PKP (who were paired with the lovely, yet predictably and noticeably absent, ladies of Chi Omega) rented out a huge tent in the corporate field, right next to the IU Credit Union. They hired Kilroy's to provide refreshments, since the rule is now that kegs at tailgates can only be served by 3rd parties. While I prefer to pump and pour my own beer, who am I to complain about free beer?

The alumni at the tailgate read like a who's who of guys who used to live in the same fraternity house as me: Jamie "Big Papi" Belanger, JR "Eehoc" Cohee, Kyle Miller "Time," Brian "Drunker Than You Are" Davidson, Nick "LeMar Didn't Know Until Saturday Night That I Have a Third Nipple" McCallum, Robby "DJ No Bose" Lewis, Jason "Kash Money Millionaire" Kashman, Tyler "I Hate Sarcasm" Kalachnik, Ryan "Romper" Room, and Scott "Life Has Finally Made Me a Little Less Cocky" Fankhauser. In addition, there was a plethora of younger alums to provide entertainment such as corn hole and tree climbing. As the music blared and sun broke through the clouds, my daily wish that I was still 21 returned.

Holt, Miller, and their friend Calvin went off to their seats. On their walk over to the game, they saw none other than Johnny Cougar rolling up to Memorial Stadium in his Range Rover. Unfortunately for them, Elaine was not accompanying The Coug. Cohee, Jamie, Jessie, Justin "Little" Hanig, and I later proceeded off to our seats. While we did not see any platinum-selling artists on our way in, we did see some dude that Jessie knows who gave me a free cheeseburger.
The game itself was excellent, with IU pulling away in the 2nd half for a resounding 36-13 win over the Fighting Zooks. In years past, the Hoosiers would have either eked out a close win or somehow found a way to lose a game like this. But alas, these Hoosiers are not the ones that the rest of the Big Ten has come to know and love. IU QB Blake "Max" Powers has already set IU's single season TD record with 18 in his first 5 games, surpassing none other than Pittsburgh Steelers wunderkind Antwaan Randle El, who tossed 17 in 1999. Redshirt freshman man-child WR James "Taller Than You Are" Hardy continues his quest for Big Ten Freshman of the Year, racking up another 110 yards and 2 TDs. It was nice to see Coach Hoeppner head into the student section to sing the fight song with the students after the victory.

After the game, Holt, Jamie, and I headed over to Assembly Hall to take a look at the new scoreboard. As you can see from this picture, they went for subtlety with this one. You put that thing up against Mothra, and I'm betting on the scoreboard. For you Illinois and Purdue fans, I also took a picture of IU's 5 NCAA championship banners, since I know you guys have never seen one.

Saturday Night
For dinner, Jessie, Holt, and I went to Macri's, where we enjoyed some college football and delicious sandwiches. Nothing quite like an Old Chicago sandwich from Macri's on a fall afternoon after an IU victory. Purdue lost at that glorified high school stadium they call Ross-Ade. So now, not only does Purdue's campus stink like a combination of chemicals, failure, burning metal, and women who eat too much pork, but Purdue also has a losing record (2-3, 0-2 in the Big Ten). Why the hell would anyone not wanting to kill themselves ever go there?

But I digress. We went back to my dad's place to freshen up for the evening. Holt and I then went to Ellettsville (for those non-IU people, Ellettsville is the town next to Bloomington), where one of Holt's friends lives. A group of 5 of us went to a local townie dive bar/restaurant ahead of another group of about 7 girlfriends/wives and relatives who were meeting us there. We get to this place, and I shit you not, the bouncer says, "Seven dollars." We all thought he was joking. After all, it's FUCKING ELLETTSVILLE, where $7 buys you a 2BR house. Then some other bouncer/bartender who looked like Bam Bam Bigalow with hair comes up and says, "Yep. Seven dollars. Duke Tomato is playing tonight" ("tomato" of course was pronounced "tomater"). So we had to pay $7 to sit and drink at this place and the band was still well over an hour from playing. Everyone else shows up and they don't get charged because they just say they're eating. This was more annoying than that same homeless guy you walk by every single day on your way to work. Even better, Holt and I left after a beer to go back and pick up Jessie and then go out in B-Town. On my way out, I said to the bouncer, "So I don't suppose there's any possibility of getting that $7 back since the band hasn't started playing." He of course said no, to which I replied, "Well, that was the best $10 beer I've ever had." He mumbled something along the lines of, "Keep walking, asshole." I chose to bite my tongue, since I'm positive he could have shot me with the gun that he keeps in his American-made pick-up truck.

Anywho, Jessie, Holt, and I went to Nick's. We got there in time to wait in line for a half-hour behind some band geeks (who wears a hat that says "Indiana Band Alumni"?) and some drunk meatheads. Upon our arrival into Nick's, we went to the new part upstairs where it was once again Pi Kapp central. Miller, his fiancé, and Cohee were anxiously awaiting our arrival at a table they snagged in the back corner, which was awesome because it was positioned such that there was very little traffic going by. Since Sink the Bismark calls to me like formula to an infant, I went to the bar and got a bucket and 2 pitchers. Our livers entered the kind bloosdhed only seen by the English at Bannockburn in the year of our Lord 1314. Only plastic cups were available, which meant that the skill level upped itself tremendously. Cohee, Miller, me, Holt, and later Calvin (clockwise) beat the piss out of each other. When it was all said and done, I sure as hell didn't like anyone of them, but I'll be damned if I didn't respect the hell out of each of them.

The most shocking and personally disappointing moment of the weekend occurred during our stay at Nick's. Somehow, despite knowing the guy for 7 years, living with the guy for a year, and giving him shit about anything and everything, I had no idea that Nick McCallum had a third nipple. A third fucking nipple! How did this slip past me? 3N, as he will now be called, did a hell of a job keeping this quiet until he was out of shit-giving range. Touché 3N, touché. I almost don't want to give him shit about it. But I will. For the rest of his life.

After Nick's, we sauntered over to the always sweaty Upstairs Pub. Luckily, on the stumble up the stairs, I realized I was too drunk for my previously planned AMF (for those who don't know what an AMF is, it's a blue drink served at Upstairs that has 8 shots in it, and appropriately stands for "Adios Mother Fucker"). Instead, Holt, Cohee, and I nursed a beer each before realizing that LaBamba was a necessity. On the walk to Bamba's, Jessie got a hot dog from the guy who's always outside of Kilroy's, which she followed up with a burrito. Well done, hon. Myself, I got a combo burrito for the first time, but not the last. While inside Bamba's, we saw some dude who had to be the human incarnation of the devil. You'll know him when you see him: shifty eyes, a goatee, cloven hooves, pitchfork. He was a spitting image.

Sunday
We left Bloomington around the time the first round of NFL games started, which meant that I didn't get the pleasure of witnessing the Bears losing to the Browns. However, on the drive back, we made a stop at the McDonald's in Martinsville. Yes, the very same McDonald's where on June 27, 1996, I witnessed the now-famous Lobstress (if you have no idea what I'm talking about, I'll save it for a "classic" post because it's a long story--suffice it to say that I saw a woman with lobster claws for hands).

We got home in time yesterday to see the 2nd 9 innings of the Astros/Braves dogfight. Good Lord, that was a hell of a game: 18 innings, 5 hours and 50 minutes, 42 players used, 120 at-bats, 14 pitchers used, 553 pitches thrown, 3 innings of relief for Roger Clemens, 2 grand slams, 1 walk-off home run. Does anyone else out there equate the Braves to the early '90s always-a-bridesmaid Buffalo Bills? For having won 14 division titles in a row, one World Series title in that span seems pretty pathetic. Then again, my 2 teams have won a total of 2 World Series and have won none during mine or my parents' lifetimes. Regardless, I'm shitting myself over the fact that both of my teams are in their respective LCS.

All in all, it was a hell of a weekend. My liver and kidneys have kindly asked me to take it easy this weekend. Kids--so adorable.

Hey! You're Talking to My Boy All Wrong . . .

It's the wrong tone. Say it again, and I'll stab you in the face with a soldering iron.

"I'm Your Ice Cream Man, Stop Me When I'm Passin' By"

It's Hair Band Friday once again here in my office. G 'N' F'N' R's shit-kickin' debut "Appetite for Destruction," Def Leppard's underrated sophomore release "High 'N' Dry," and Van Halen's eponymous debut are currently blaring from my speakers. There's a lot of energy floating around today. The booze is flowing like the Mississipp' and the groupies are out of control. It's like Sodom and Gomorrah in here. Mothers and daughters performing sex acts on each other just because I dictated a letter to opposing counsel. One of several girls named Amber came up to me and said, "If you keep reviewing documents like that, I'm going to leave a wet spot on your Black's Law Dictionary." I don't even know what that means. This girl named Jade approached me with an odd request: "Edit that motion to exclude with a red pen while I simultaneously pleasure and choke myself with my pet boa." Rather than ask why, I took out my red pen and started rearranging some arguments. Another tawdry little number named Candi just came up to me and said, "The way you move your fingers when you type memos is so fucking hot. Is the space under your desk being used?" It most certainly is not. Hey, I'm just doin' what I'm doin', workin' my heart out every day. And if even just one kid out there looks at what I'm doin' and says, "Hey, I wanna be a lawyer," then everything and everyone I've ever done has been worth it.

Well, the weather has officially changed from fun and saucy to cold and disturbed. I had to wear a jacket for my walk to work this morning, as it was 52 degrees and drizzling. What that means here in Dayton is that I will see the sun approximately 7-10 times from now until April. I guess that'll happen when God shits on your city.

I'm heading to Bloomington this weekend for Homecoming, which is always sunny and always a good time. The Hoosiers will be taking on the Fighting Illini, or as a guy in my office calls them, the Fighting Vagini (haha--get it? Vagini). A win takes the Hoosiers to 4-1, which means that we would need only 2 more victories for that Motor City Bowl birth I have been creaming over for the past 11 years. I would love for IU to win by at least 3 TDs. We haven't blown out a Big Ten team since the nearly successful Antwaan Randle El led the Hoosiers to a 56-21 throat-stomping of Northwestern on 11/3/01. I'd pay at least another $5 to see a 63-0 IU win.

Homecoming also guarantees that I'll see a ton of people I haven't seen in years. This is a good thing at IU, unlike when you see people you went to high school with who you really don't want to talk to, but you do anyway, resulting in an extremely awkward conversation ("So, what are you up to these days?" "Nothing much, just working at Osco. I'm up to assistant night manager. Still living with my folks, but I'm thinking about gettin' my own place here pretty soon. What about you?" "Uh, I'm a lawyer." "Oh, that's cool." "Yeah, it's alright." "Remember that one time in Mr. Larson's class when Jim Munoz tipped over in his desk because he was stoned?" "No.").

Meanwhile in Bean Town, the White Sox are going for the sweep tonight. Again, as a White Sox fan, I won't be convinced until they are ahead with 3 outs in the bottom of the 9th, especially considering Boston's recent come-from-behind playoff success. It would be nice, though, for the White Sox to win a playoff series for the first time since the Wilson Administration (for those of you that went to Purdue and "dint have no his-tree clayses," that's Woodrow Wilson, who was our nation's 28th President, holding office from 1913-1921). As for the Astros, they head back to H-Town for 2 games at the Astrodome, er I mean Enron Field, er I mean Minute Maid Park, tied 1-1 with the Braves. While I'd obviously rather have them up 2-0, I'll take 1-1.

What the shit is that, you ask? It was found in the Everglades a couple weeks ago. It's the carcass of a 6-foot gator busting out of the mid-section of a 13-foot Burmese python, which "tried to swallow the gator whole and literally exploded -- killing both animals." The article also said that the gator might have pawed at the snake's stomach as the snake tried to swallow it. There's 2 ways to look at this: (1) That's a badass snake, full of the same blind ambition that allows the porn industry to succeed, or (2) How weak/dumb of an alligator do you have to be to get eaten alive by a python? And how the fuck did a python make it to Florida all the way from Burma (or Myanmar, depending on whether you are in cahoots with General Than Shwe and the military junta)?

For a little humor heading into your weekend, Mike "Obi" Malangoni sent me this link that analyzes the 10 worst album covers of all-time: http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=13236. To pique your interest, I've put my 2 favorite below. Enjoy.

Wordtoberfest?

So today is some sort of national wear-jeans-to-work day if you give $5 to the Susan Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Of course I donate my $5 a couple weeks ago, only to realize yesterday that I have a fucking bar association committee meeting today, which means that I have to wear a suit. As you can see from the picture, the tension in my office is palpable. This is more annoying than vanity plates with the person's name/initials and/or the model of the car (no shit, that's EDS BMW?).

Having already named posts Soxtoberfest, Rocktoberfest, and Shocktober, and having already come up with the name of an Oktoberfest-themed porn, Fucktoberfest, I decided to take Oktoberfest word combinations to the next level. Feel free to bust one of these out in your next water cooler conversation:
-Archtoberfest: Oktoberfest in St. Louis
-Bachtoberfest: (1) Oktoberfest in Brandenburg; (2) Any party prominently featuring the music of Skid Row
-Brachtoberfest: (1) An orgy of hard candy; (2) An Oktoberfest party sponsored by former Cossitt Elementary School 1st Grade teacher Mrs. Brach.
-Chicagtoberfest: One of many Oktoberfests taking place within the city limits of Chicago
-Cocktoberfest: Oktoberfest in San Francisco (synonym: Dicktoberfest)
-Coptoberfest: (1) An Oktoberfest at which there are an uncomfortable number of police officers; (2) An Oktoberfest featuring helicopter rides
-Croctoberfest: Oktoberfest featuring the lovable comedic stylings of Paul Hogan
-Doctoberfest: The AMA's annual Oktoberfest
-Frocktoberfest: Wine, altar boys, members of the Boston Archdiocese--you get the picture
-Glocktoberfest: Oktoberfest in Compton
-Jocktoberfest: A celebration of the life of Albert Clifford Slater
-Kentucktoberfest: (1) Oktoberfest in Louisville; (2) A term used to describe an openly incestuous family reunion
-Marctoberfest: Any party celebrating the lives of Marc "Tron" Wiescinski and "Double Dare" host and ironically OCD-stricken clean freak, Marc Summers

-Marktoberfest: An annual party celebrating the careers of "Hangin' With Mr. Cooper" star Mark Curry, "Summer School" star Mark Harmon, and "Kids in the Hall" member Mark McKinney

-McToberfest: Any gathering featuring heavy drinking, the breaking of bottles over another's head, incoherent signing, the absence of contraceptives, or other tenets of Irish behavior. Common usage: "I went to a party the other night that started out low key. Next thing I know, it turns into a complete McToberfest and now Jimmy's in the hospital pissin' blood."
-Miketoberfest: A party at which there is more than one person named Mike
-Mocktoberfest: A fest holding itself out to be an Oktoberfest when, in actuality, it is not
-Ricktoberfest: Any party celebrating the life and music of Rick Astley

-TheRocktoberfest: A party at which highlights of the 1991 Miami Hurricane national championship season is shown, as well as the following movies: "The Mummy," "The Scorpion King," and "The Rundown"
-Sockhoptoberfest: A party at which only music from the 1950s is played AND German beer is consumed
-Stocktoberfest: The incredibly lame attempt of an assistant manager at Walgreen's to apply a "fun" name to an all-night inventory accounting
-Sucktoberfest: An extremely disappointing Oktoberfest
-Trucktoberfest: The limited-time event associated with the slashing of prices on all new and used Silvarados, Blazers, Suburbans, and Tahoes.

I encourage you to come forth with your own combos as well.

I've said it before and I'll hopefully say it again: how 'bout those White Sox? Special thanks go out to former White Sock Tony Graffanino, who booted a routine double-play ball last night, helping the White Sox score 5 runs in the 5th. Question: In a turkey-eating contest, who would win between David Wells and Bobby Jenks, and how many turkeys would the winner eat? Wells give up about 20 pounds to Jenks, but Wells has more eating experience. I'd take Jenks in a close one. 5 turkeys to 4 for Wells. On a pleasant note, I got a call from an elated Adam "Troy" McClure and Tony "Firefox" Zumpano as they headed home from Comiskey. Must be nice living in a city where your favorite sports teams play. Now the Sox travel to Fenway, needing one more win to move on to the ALCS. Boston had the best home record in baseball and the White Sox had the best road record in baseball. Something's gotta give, and I hope it's not the seams on Bobby Jenks's pants after eating 5 turkeys.

Another "how 'bout them" goes out to the Astros, who manhandled the Braves in Atlanta to take a 1-0 lead. My dream is getting closer.

It's Hair Band Friday in my office tomorrow. I'm gonna get so lit I might even wear jeans to work (black jeans of course). If anyone gives me any guff, I'll just lie and yell, with a fake tear or two trickling from my eyes, "I'm a breast cancer survivor, you insensitive, cum-guzzling ass clown! Rock & Roll!!!"

Shocktober

Last night a group of us got together at our hizouse for the reinstitution of an old D-town tradition: movie night. For October, the plan is to watch only horror movies. The cast of characters read like something out of Young Dayton Socialite Magazine, if such a publication existed: The Belanger Family (Jamie, Amy, and AC), Kim "Liquor? I Don't Even Know 'Er" Byrum, Casey "Hold The" Mayo, Holt "The Mayo" Hedrick, "NaviKate" Rohrer, and Jenn "Rookie" Weisgerber. After a delightful mix of tacos and German beer, we watched the original "Amityville Horror" (not 2005's madcap, comedic remake starring Van Wilder himself, Ryan Reynolds), a true story (see picture of real house to the right) of a family that moves into a haunted house on Long Island where a kid murdered his family a year before. Note to GMYH readers: don't become enamored by a house's extremely discounted sale price when mass murders that have taken place there. If a house ever tells you to "get out," listen to the house. If your house ever causes a priest to go blind, go ahead and sell it. If you ever wake up at 3:15am, resist the urge to get out of bed and explore your haunted house. And if you've ever had a 1982 Camaro on cinder blocks in your front yard, you might be a redneck.

I was particularly impressed by the performance of Margot Kidder, playing Kathy Lutz, at one point nearly exposing her bosom before getting railed by James Brolin on the bedroom floor. The role of a confused, freaked-out, bosom-exposing woman who mistakenly thought her husband was trying to kill her seemed to suit this temptress from Yellowknife (yes, THE Yellowknife). You may recall several years ago when a paranoid Margot faked her own death after somehow convincing herself that her first husband was trying to kill her. No one actually noticed that Margot was missing until someone found her naked and babbling incoherently to herself while hiding behind a big rock on someone else's property. I guess those royalty checks for "Superman IV: Quest for Peace" weren't enough to cover the cost of psychotherapy sessions.

There were also some interesting movie connections made. Jamie noticed that Meeno Peluce, who played Kathy Lutz's fun-loving, always-up-to-something son, Matt, starred in the short-lived time-traveling TV show, "Voyagers!" in the early '80s. How Jamie even remembered that this show existed is explainable only by the fact that he grew up in Canada, so it was probably very popular both originally and in reruns on account of the fact that it was one of 4 non-hockey-related shows airing on the CBC. In addition to Mr. Peluce (as he's now called by his history students at Hollywood High--thank you imdb.com), KC Martel, who played the mischievous yet affable Greg Lutz, went on to star as Kirk Cameron's crony Eddie in "Growing Pains." I can only hope and assume that KC had a small hand in driving Tracey Gold to anorexia.

An even more interesting connection made only through the useful knowledge propounded on imdb.com is that two actors in the movie went on to do behind-the-scenes work in the soft porn "Body Chemistry" series. Meeno Peluce worked as a camera intern on "Body Chemistry 4: Full Exposure," and Marc Vahanian, who played Jimmy in "Amityville Horror," was a trainer in "Body Chemistry 3: Point of Seduction." I'm not sure what a trainer in a soft porn does, but I know that I'd enjoy it.

There was also talk amongst the movie viewers of making a stag flick called "The Amityville Whore." It will be a fairly easy transition. The last name Lutz is easily changed to Slutz. And instead of a family living in a haunted house, it's a group of horny coeds who form a bordello to try to make ends meet. A lion-maned, bearded James Brolin would still be the leading man. The house would still be haunted, except instead of telling people to "get out," the house would tell people to "get off." Instead of the ghost of Jody DeFeo telling Amy to lock her babysitter in the closet, the ghost will tell Amy and the babysitter to get naked for a paranormal lesbo three-way. Instead of the basement housing the portal to hell, it will house the portal to Eddie's Erotic Emporium. It practically writes itself.

How 'bout them White Sox? I understand that it's only one game, but I'm still excited about the 14-2 shellacking they laid upon the Red Sox yesterday. Now if we can only keep that up for the rest of the month.

627 Reasons Why I'll Be Working Out Tonight

So Jessie and I were watching this show on TLC last night about this 627-pound woman in North Carolina. Her Body Mass Index was 103. A BMI of 50 puts you in the "super morbidly obese" category, which I didn't even know existed until last night. Up until what looked like her 30s, she was a normal weight, but she had some surgery that deprived her of solid food. Upon her return to consumption of said food, she gained 150 pounds in 2 months, and then decided to do herself one better and more than double that. She was so fat that Duke Medical Center refused to do a gastric bypass on her because they thought she wouldn't survive the surgery. So she was transported via flatbed to some doctor in Richmond, VA who did it.

In case you're eating right now, there was a hole about 2 inches wide and 5 inches long in her sternum where the doctor had inserted both hands to perform the operation. While it was healing (and before it had closed), it became infected, and they showed nurses cleaning the puss out of it. If I ever need a thought to prevent me from becoming sexually aroused, that's the winner, hands down. And I just puked all over my keyboard.

Anywho, this once again brought up the age-old question: if you're more than 50% fat, are you considered to be a fat, rather than a human? Jessie felt that someone who is more than 50% fat is still a human, but just one with a lot of fat. I take a more scientific approach. I say that if someone is more than 50% fat, then he/she ceases to be a human in the literal sense and is in fact a piece of lard that has characteristics resembling those of a human. Now I realize this may upset the over-50%-fat GMYH-reading crowd out there, but it's just how I feel, and if you're in that demographic, then you're probably having this read to you anyway (on account of the inability to move), so the person reading it to you should've read ahead and chosen to edit what they relayed to you.

MLB playoffs start in a couple minutes at 1pm Eastern with the Cardinal taking on the Padres, who had the worst record of any team to ever make the playoffs (82-80). Sox/Sox play at 4, and then the Yankees/Angels at 8. Astros/Braves start tomorrow. Here's how it happens in my perfect world:
-ALDS: White Sox over Red Sox; Angels over Yankees
-NLDS: Astros over Braves; Padres over Cardinals
-ALCS: White Sox over Angels
-NLCS: Astros over Padres
-World Series: White Sox and Astros share title

Fantasy Update:
-Corn Hole'ers (1976 Tampa Bay Bucs): 1-3 (T 6th of 8)
-FIC You (Car Ramrod): 1-3 (T 6th of 10)
-Glenview Gridiron (Angry Pirates): 3-0 (1st of 12)
-League of Extraordinary Gents (Angry Pirates): 3-1 (T 1st of 10)
-Pigskin 2005 Pick 'Em (Angry Pirates): 6th of 17 (11th last week)

Speaking of the NFL, the NFC Norris is making a Lance-Armstrong-in-the-mountains type run for the title of worst division ever. So far, the Bears, Lions, Vikings, and Packers have a combined record of 3-11 (with 2 of those wins coming against fellow division foes), led by the Lions and Bears tied for the lead with 1-2 records. I take back my previous prediction that 7-9 might win the division. 6-10 has a pretty damn good shot. On an extremely related note, rather than working on his arm strength and timing in an effort to improve the Bears' 29th-ranked passing attack, Bears QB Kyle Orton decided to chug Jack and become ornery towards his fellow patrons at a bar in Iowa City this past weekend. Good thinking Kyle. Then again, he did go to Purdue, where "they dint have no purty womens," so he probably just didn't know how to act at a college campus with women who don't have to wear pants with elastic waistbands to bars.

Rocktoberfest

Well, the weekend is done and done, and I'm back at work trying to figure out ways to waste my time, as well as yours. Friday night was spent anxiously awaiting the arrival of Ari "Sister-in-Law" Pope and Ryan "Pissed Off" Christoff from the fair Windy City. I bided my time by watching the movie that catapulted Nancy Travis and Anthony LaPaglia into superstardom, "So I Married an Axe Murderer," "Breaking Bonaduce" (which I highly suggest watching, or TiVo'ing, since it's on at the same time as "Family Guy" and "Desperate Housewives"), as well as HBO's delightful little dish, "Cathouse," which is a reality show about the Bunny Ranch in Nevada. The episode was about how the owner basically does whoever he wants at the ranch and the "ladies" love it. The girl who's dumb enough to think that she's his girlfriend is a porn star who also works at the Ranch. My theory is that she must need some extra income because she is a shitty porn star on account of the fact that she has the biggest nose bridge I've ever seen. Her eyes have to be 4 or 5 inches apart. Great peripheral vision, though.

Anywho, so Ari and Christoff arrive round about 1am, and Christoff and I forced ourselves to stay up and drink a couple beers and watch some "Family Guy" reruns on TBS. After about 7.62 hours of slumber, everyone awoke to greet the day with zeal. We went to this dive bar called Kramer's to watch the IU/Wisconsin game (IU lost, but hey, I'll take 3-1). Kramer's has the best pizza in Dayton, and the beer comes not in draft form, but in 32oz and 40oz bottles, which I respect immensely. It's always an odd smattering of college-age or near-college-age kids, families (at least around normal meal times), and 80-year-old winos drinking their 40s of Old Milwaukee while smoking a pack of Dorals. On this particular day, there was an 8-year-old sitting at the bar with his dad. Not sitting at a table in the bar, but actually sitting at the bar. Don't worry, though, because his mother (or at least his dad's girlfriend) came in to the bar soon after. She apparently didn't get the memo that there is an "and purge" after "binge" because her spectacular spare tire was showing through her t-shirt, which was about 7 sizes too small for her and said something along the lines of "I'm good. Just ask your boyfriend." The eyebrows had been plucked in such a fashion that she looked like some sort of a fat, angry clown slut. I didn't know whether to laugh or puke, but it angered me that she might not be sterile.

The Oktoberfest party Saturday night went mostly swimmingly. For reasons unknown, kegs are only available from distributors in Ohio, so I had to get the keg before the distributor closed at 1pm. Upon my arrival back at my haus, I did what any decent human being would do with a keg: put it in a tub and covered it with ice. When I went to tap it at approximately 7pm, I came to the horrifying realization that the woman at the distributor, who I will refer to as Georgia O'Queef, gave me the wrong fucking tap. So there I was with a worthless quarter barrel of Spaten. Luckily I had a bunch of other German beer in bottles, and my lovely wife and Ari went out to get some more. The rest of the night was an orgy of hefeweizen, dunkel, cheddar wurst, potato salad, German beer hall songs, pretzels, and apple streusel. On a random note, I just thought of a great name for a Munich-themed orgy porn: Fucktoberfest.

The list of out-of-town guests read like a who's who of my Yahoo address book. I've already mentioned Pissed Off and Sister-in-Law. Additionally, Tony "The Artist Formerly Known as T-Diddy" Green came up from Louisville and made the announcement that his nickname was officially changing to T-Money. He also ordered the Jones-Tarver fight and forced others to give him $5 to give to me to cover the cost. That $35 will come in handy when I get the $50 charge on my next bill. John Ashcraft hesitantly returned to the spot of "The Hamburger Helper Incident" to make amends (see "Ashcraft Puking" post below) and to show his girlfriend, Erin "OC" Campbell, the site of his life's most dastardly vomit. Marc "Tron" Wiescinski entertained everyone with his shadow puppets and balloon animals. A noticeable absence was that of Adam "Matthew Spring" McClure, who was supposed to make the trip down from Chi Town, but was too busy popping Vicodin after he threw out his back carrying his fiancé over a couch in some sort of semi-erotic fiancé-tossing competition.

All in all, I think the party will go down as one of, if not the, greatest Oktoberfest party I hosted this month.

Yesterday I did a good deal of sitting. Sundays in the fall seem to lend themselves to that. My prediction about my fantasy football conundrum came painfully to fruition yesterday. I benched Peyton Manning in favor of Michael Vick. Manning had 264 yards, 4 TDs, and 0 INTs. Vick left the game in the 2nd quarter with a sprained knee after throwing for 47 yards and a TD. Thanks God.

Congrats are once again in order for the Chicago White Sox. With nothing to really play for this weekend (since they had clinched the best record in the AL), they stomped on the necks of the Cleveland Indians, sweeping them and thus preventing the Indians from going to the playoffs. More importantly, all of the douche bag Indians fans, both in and out of my office, have become deathly silent, perhaps having choked on their own self-righteousness.

Congrats are also in order for the Houston Astros, who clinched the NL Wild Card yesterday, thus becoming the first team since the 1914 Boston Braves to make the playoffs after being 15 games below .500 (the Astros were 15-30 after their first 45 games this year). This will mark the first time ever that the Astros and White Sox are in the playoffs at the same time. I've been asked several times who I would root for if they both make it to the World Series. If this highly unlikely series were to play out, I would root for whoever was at bat. I would also have one of those hideous half-and-half jerseys made (which I can only assume would be the first time a White Sox and Astros jersey would have been melded together). For the Astros side, I would go with the classic popsicle uniforms of the late '70s and early '80s. For the White Sox Side, I would go with the collared uniform that Bill Veeck made the team wear in the mid '70s (with shorts sometimes--ouch). My only concern would be what I would call the jersey: the Chicagston Astrox or the Houstago White Stros?