So What Did You Do Yesterday?

Headbutt.

Let's get this out of the way: are you kidding me?

Normally I don't write on the weekends, and for a couple of reasons. One, it's very hard to type when your eyes are all blurry. Two, I don't want. And F, you don't care enough to expect me to write on the weekends. But for this one I'm making an exception. Plus, look at the time on this post. Damn what am I doing?

So tonight, I had a friend come over. No big deal. Watched two movies, said goodnight, blahblahblah. Fifteen minutes later I get a phone call, blahblahblah. The conversation evolves, and I ask her that famous question that just so happens to headline this post: so what did you do yesterday?

And the answer I got? I quote, "I was up real late smoking a bunch of pot on a balcony."

Why don't you read that again.

Seriously. Humor me.

Now, I don't smoke pot. Never have, never will. But I'm not against it. We all need a way to kill those pesky excess brain cells somehow, and if that happens to be your soupes d'jour, go for it. Light 'em up and puff away.

But is that really the most significant thing you can come up with for what you did on a Friday? Really? Out of the twenty four hours that existed as Friday, you decide to tell me that the answer to "what did you do yesterday" is that you stayed up until 3 or 4 in the morning smoking?

Am I missing something here? At first I thought she was kidding, because you know, she's Polish and Polish people have this crazy odd sense of humor that sometimes befuddles even me. But she wasn't. Is there some kind of mystifying thing about smoking up that would make it THE highlight of your Friday that I do not understand? Do you get to see all kinds of pretty shapes and whatnot? Are monkeys somehow involved in this process? Ligers?

The first person that explains this to me, in detail, and to my liking so that I completely understand this phenomenom, will get $20. No hooks, no strings attached. (Warning: that link is kinda gross. Don't say I didn't warn you. And also don't say anything bad about me anymore. What did I ever do to you? I'm a nice enough guy. Don't make me get the dwarf that spins the color wheel in the TV to come out and find you. He's dangerous, although he does know life-saving techniques. Anyway, I digress.)

In the words of Josh Wander, looks like someone is getting "the chop" (but I refuse to make the chopping motion. I just won't do it, and you can't make me.)

K bye.

My Secrets Revealed

Headbutt.

Let's get this one out of the way: no way.

After suffering through some serious writer's block (it was more like writer's "fat guy sitting on me". There was a fat guy sitting on me, and all I could think about was, "when the hell is this fat guy going to stop sitting on me?" Same thing with writing, I thought, "when is this fat guy going to stop sitting on me so I can write?"), I had a breakthrough (Nate Foster, always our hero).

I came up with a great idea last night. It was going to be my defining moment. My "Shot Heard 'Round The World." My "Gattaca". It was awesome, and I was so excited.

Then I went to sleep, woke up this morning, and forgot what it was.

But I came up with another idea. Apparently my readership has grown from a healthy 5 to a more robust and even sounding 8. But there are a lot of you out there in Readership Land that don't get my references. You don't get the insider stuff, and you wonder about Summer Sanders and Inside Stuff (the only reason I watch that show when it's on. There are a lot of shows like that. Lesson: a cute host brings in ratings). I get questions like, "what's the 'headbutt' about?" or, "who the hell are you?" and the like. So I was thinking, "gee golly Lassie, maybe after we save Timmy from that burning barn, I should explain some of these references to everyone."

Well you know what?

Not a chance.

There's no way in hell I'm explaining my stuff to you. That'd be like a magician telling his secrets, or finally seeing that cute blonde next door with the dimples start to undress as you stare at her through your window. Well, I've got one word for you.

Pervert.

If I explained my stuff to you, the magic would be gone. There would be no more mystique, no more intrigue. It'd actually be less funny for everyone. The people who don't get it would now get it, and wouldn't wonder, "why is this kid so weird? I must continue reading!" And the people that do get it wouldn't have anyone else to laugh at, saying, "those fools! How can they not get it? That kid is so weird, yet in a very likeable (lovable if you are a female) way. He deserves a high-five and some Twizzlers, but not the peel and eat kind because those are gross."

If you really must know my secrets, then you have no choice but to bribe me. I take cash, checks (with a valid ID), and most major credit cards. I also except food, women, and small, shiny trinkets that make me giggle.

K bye.

P.S. The interesting thing about that shiny photo: how in the world is her head upside down, yet her hair remains perfectly in place? I'll tell you how. Pantene Pro V. Amazing stuff.

Bats! I Hear Bats!!! Drink!!!

Aaaaaaannnnnnnnd.... headbutt.

Let's get this out of the way: goooooooooooood times.

I haven't done a weekend update in awhile, mostly because the weekends have been reduced to nothingness because I've been poor. But now I'm not poor, so on with the certifiable, veritable wackiness.

Friday:
-Leave work early, and thank god. After a stop at Dick's to get darts (and snazzy soccer goals), and a stop at Total Wine to grab a keg (or "attempt to grab a keg and realize I need to go to the gym more often"), it's home to spend the next 3 hours painting the table. Have you ever used a razor blade to paint? What about a spray-painted plate? Because I have, and it's no fun. You get paint on your ears.
-Spend the next hour water-proofing the table. Good lord we are going to extremes, and I love it.
-Spend the next 17 seconds tearing up because the table is so beautiful.
-Sniffle.
-Various cleaning around the house, some dinner, blahblahblah.
-Time to christen the table! Whatever random cans of beer we had in the house prior to this time, they aren't there anymore. Almost 3 hours of games. It was good times, and it was awesome.

Saturday:
-Wake up, and times last night weren't so awesome. The legs feel atrophied and I look like Mark Bellhorn does every single day of his life (strung-out). Time to get cleaning.
-People slowly show up. Two good moments: my brother arriving with Garrett, and Tom showing up with Polish girls. I thought he was kidding on Friday. Tom: I love you.
-Tom leaves, Polish girls stay. Money.
-"Dude, if you pull this off, you're my hero. You so have a chance."
-Polish girls see Turb's puke bucket. Immediately run for the door, only to be fought off by the white tiger keeping everyone at the party.
-Bats!!!!!!!!
-Numbers baby, straight numbers.
-Piggy back rides up the stairs for Alexis. This is before she turned into Houdini.
-Time for the fight. The main event sucked, and Bernard got robbed. The fight should have been a draw, but even still, it was worth only about $34, not $60. There was an undercard fight that was more entertaining than what we saw.
-All these sketchy people are outside on my deck smoking. They won't leave. Nobody knows their names. I'm going to bed.

Sunday:
-Thank god the TV is still there...
-Silver Diner for some grease. Thank god for grease.
-K bye people that slept over. Thanks for coming.
-NCAA 2006. This game hates us. We got crushed by the 1946 Army Black Knights before we turned it off.
-Take that Jacksonville State!!
-Back down to the table. I swear, it will be the end of all three of our lives. At least I recorded 5 knockouts before turning pro.

Once again, proof my weekends are better than anything you can throw at me. Anything! Now let's go headbutt some kangaroos.

K bye.

Have You Seen My Stapler?

Headbutt.

I'm going to throw this out there, let's see what you think about it: Home Depot is not a place for you to make out. Ever.

And let's get this out of the way: cree-py.

A new guy got hired at work. What's the big deal, you say? It happens all the time. So what?

Except this guy looks, sounds, and acts like Milton. Yes, that Milton, the "it's a red Swingline", "I was told I could listen to the radio" Milton from Office Space. It's creepy. You think it might be a little bit cool, but it's not. It's really creepy.

To make matters worse, he's annoying. He's married, probably 15 years older than I am, and yet he uses "sweet" and "cool" constantly. It's borderline embarrassing. He asks questions all the time. I don't mean a lot, I mean all the time. Poor Hoodi can't get any work done because this doofus needs to be lead around by the hand. The other day this guy, in reference to being young, told me to "drink your beer, chase your women, and smoke your dope." First, who uses that phrase anymore, and second, who says that at work? He used it again today. Who honestly does this?

If you think I'm being mean, or you happen to be a coworker of mine and you're wondering, "how can you say this about a fellow employee?", I say this to you: public domain bitches. We all know how I feel about public domain. I can share my opinion, I can blast someone. You can't hold me down. You can't even contain me.

Wu-tang.

K bye.