4Skin, Gettin Up In Ya Again....Again?

Many of you may not be aware of this, but I used to be in a boy band with three of my closest friends. Well, as close as you can be to three random people that were assembled by a fat, sleazy record producer. But as far as random guys go, they were the best.

We were called 4Skin, and our sound was Backstreet Boys meets N.K.O.T.B with a little slice of Marky Mark (mostly for the bunches of funky) and an N'Sync twist. Here we are with our primary tour care physician, Dr. Greasycheeks.If you can't tell, I'm the cute one. And yes, I realize that wearing a sock on my right arm is completely dumb. Everyone knows that the left arm is the common sock-adorning arm. I caught some major heat from our PR Ho for that one.

Other group members include Lil' Burn One (he's the floating torso), B-Rad (with the upside down, sideways visor that the ladies loved) and J-BallaDawg (the urban cowboy). Together, we collectively ushered many girls into womanhood by implanting thoughts into their heads that would make even the horniest ho blush. This was accomplished through our two biggest hits.

Our first single really got the word out about who were were. "4Skin (Gettin' Up In Ya Again)" hit the airwaves in the summer of 2000 and the public couldn't get enough of us. We toured the world on the strength of that single, but then we dropped a lyrical bomb on the world that changed the face of music forever.

The tender, yet rigid ballad "Circumcise My Love" really ushered us into the stratosphere alongside such powerhouse groups as 98 Degrees, All Saints, Youth Asylum and The Rolling Stones. Here's a sample:

I think we may be infected
And I may have to do something rash
You thought our love was unflappable
But I think we should cut it off and throw it in the trash

(Chorus)
Circumcise my love for you
Baby, you don't know how I feel
Circumcise my love for you
There's no way that I can conceal
The way I feel
Is real
So, here's the deal
Just grab that knife and start a new life
Just circumcise my love.

Then there was a sweet-ass guitar solo by Eric Clapton. He didn't want anything to do with us, but something about a contract loophole and he had to. It was pretty rad. We credited him as E-Clap in the liner notes.

But as time went on, the boy band craze faded. It was hard for us to book gigs (that's industry speak for lip-synching on a stage while we're dancing) and we went our separate ways. But we had a nice career and changed the way people think about music. It was the best two months of my life.

And now, we've been talking again and some of us actually learned to play instruments. I hear Lil' Burn One plays a killa harmonica and B-Rad's been taking triangle lessons. Even I'm up to three different chords on the guitar. Or as we in the industry call it, The Axe.

So I'm thinking of a 4Skin Reunion Tour. We'll start off small until our new single "Beatbox Briss" gets off the ground. But once it does, look out world. You may have circumcised the 4Skin once, but it's back. And it's more beautiful than ever.

Brain Matters Vol. 6 - Monday Spectacular

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There is no one more socially awkward to be around than the person who looks at you for joke approval. You know him. You've maybe even somehow managed to be friends with him for an extended period of time. But at some point, you just can't take it anymore and you have to get away from him.

He's the guy that says something that only he thinks has any semblance of humor in it, begins laughing and looks at you with his unfunny, puppy dog eyes. He needs some sort of approval or he'll just keep staring at you endlesssly, salivating at the thought of making the water you're drinking come out of your nose. But in reality, you just want to spit it in his face in a last-ditch effort to end the utterly ridiculous awkwardness of the situation.

So you smile and say, "Yeah." Or even worse, he forces you to give a fake chuckle (or as it's more humorously known, a "fuckle.") and say the one phrase that automatically means that something isn't funny. He forces you to say "That's funny." See, the thing about jokes and funny situations is that you laugh at them without being aware it. But when something isn't funny and the guy wants it to be, you have to throw him a verbal dog biscuit, pat him on the head and wait. You have to wait for the next completely uncomfortable moment when he references some ancient show or movie that no one cares about, then goes on to explain the scene and why it's hilarious.

And if you don't laugh, he has to inform you of how you just didn't "get" the joke. No, I "get" it. I "get" that you're not funny, but somewhere during your life you actually said something that made someone laugh, and now you think you're Don Frikkin' Rickles.

So, you end up having to laugh, even though you wish you could just tell him to fuckle off.

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The Grammy Award nominees were announced last week and Mary J. Blige garnered an actual butt-load of nominations. But I ask this....Why?

I didn't even know she had a new CD out. Yet all of the sudden she's all over the place. Everyone respects her and gives her standing ovations, but no one owns anything by her.

It's a musical mystery. Who's purchasing these things? I bet if you went to Ms. Blige's house and opened up her garage, millions of her own CD's would come tumbling out.

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How come a tiny-brained rat in a maze can learn to not go a certain way because it receives a small jolt of electricity when it takes a wrong turn, yet I shock the everlovin' holy hell out of myself every single time I get out of my car?


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If I were rich, I'd save most of my money, but set aside a small amount to spend on completely ludicrous shit that makes me look a little insane.

For instance, I hate the way jeans fit the first time you wear them after you wash and dry them. They don't really settle in and get comfortable again until after one wear. But I hate having to get that one day out of the way. Therefore, I would employ a guy to wear my jeans for one day after they get washed. I'd make sure he had on some longjohns and a couple of pairs of boxers for sanitary reasons and to help stretch out the denim a little bit. Then, he would follow me around whenever I had to go out in public. People would ask me who he is and I'd say "Oh, that's my Pants Man. Those are the pants I'm going to wear tomorrow, but he's wearing them today. I can do shit like that, because I'm rich, so it's not weird, it's just eccentric."

Then I'd go to get in my car, shock the crap out of myself and slap my Pants Man in the face out of frustration. Because I'd be rich and, if you can't slap your Pants Man in the face every once in awhile, then why bother having a Pants Man at all?

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Every day at work, my Spam filter sends me an update of emails it's blocked. Once every few days, one of the blocked emails is actually the Spam filter report from the previous day. It actually blocked itself. My Spam filter is trying to protect me from my Spam filter.

Now, I don't know a lot about computers (although I can snicker at some of the sexually suggestive names associated with them, like RAM, hard drive or Intel Celeron Processor) but I'm pretty sure my Spam Filter is going to try to kill me.

If you don't hear from me for a few days, check my inbox. There will probably be a ransom note. You'll know who sent it because it will look like this:

01001001 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01010010 01101111 01110111 01100100 01111001 00100000 01000010 01101111 01110111 01100100 01100101 01101110 00101110 00100000 01001001 00100111 01101101 00100000 01101011 01100101 01100101 01110000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101000 01101001 01101101 00100000 01110111 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100111 01101100 01101100 00100000 01101110 01100101 01110110 01100101 01110010 00100000 01100110 01101001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101000 01101001 01101101 00101100 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101001 01100011 01101000 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01100110 01100001 01110010 00100000 01100001 01110111 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100110 01110010 01101111 01101101 00100000 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01110010 01101110 01100101 01110100 00100000 01110000 01101111 01110010 01101110 00101110

Translation: I have Rowdy Bowden. I'm keeping him where you'll never find him, which is far away from internet porn.

That's right. I made a binary code "joke." I'm not proud of it, but it's funny, right? I'm looking right at you and waiting for you to laugh. I'm not going to quit staring at you until you see how humorous my joke is. I could do this all day. Seriously. Come on. Give me that sweet, sweet approval. No? Nothing? Not even a fuckle?

Well, you obviously didn't get it.

Always the Guinea Pig. Never the Guinea.

Last week, I attended a focus group. I sometimes do these to earn a little extra cash and sleep soundly at night knowing I helped a business find out about its consumers. But mostly it's for the money. Actually, it's all for the money, but at least they're sometimes interesting.

I walked into the research center (i.e. - an old office building with one potted plant decorated with christmas lights from 1972) and sat down alongside 50 other schmoes just trying to make a dolla outta fifteen cents. But, as I so often do, I happened to pick the seat beside the most annoying, socially inept person in the room.

Allow me to explain a conundrum I face on a daily basis. Whenever I am in any sort of social situation alone, the dumbest, freakiest or most homelessiest person within a 5 mile radius must speak to me. I believe I emit some sort of pheromone that attracts life's lowest forms of humanity. Unfortunately, this power I possess only works one way. It doesn't seem to draw in women with no communicable diseases and all their teeth. Hell, I'd feel lucky if it attracted a girl with a dental plan. At least then I'd know there was hope for her orthodontic future.

So I sat down next to a middle-aged woman who looked harmless enough. She's grading papers. "Must be a teacher," I thought. At least her being busy means we wouldn't have to engage in the mindless chatter that so often begins in awkward social situations. But I was wrong. Oh so very wrong.

She begins coughing uncontrollably and I see her face, which looks like the female Gremlin from "Gremlins 2: The New Batch." Yep, she's weird enough. Here comes the conversation. Sure enough, she begins to inform me that I shouldn't worry about her cough. It's not contagious because it's settled far enough in her lungs that it's not going anywhere. I even snapped a picture of her with my camera phone.


Hmm. Thanks for your entire medical history, Gremlette. Here's hoping you also have some sort of strange disease that causes your mouth to stop opening and closing while spewing nonsense about the kids in your class. I don't care if little Billy is gifted unless little Billy will one day go on to create a cure for the common hangover.

Finally, the focus group begins and all 50 of us are ushered into a room. Of course, there is only one seat left, which I am forced to take it. And it just happens to be beside a woman who is so migraine-inducingly annoying, she makes Gremlette look like a fairy-tale, lollipop, bunny hopping, sunshiney day.

The point of the focus group is to have the mediator show us possible new OnDemand cable channels and then we circle on a questionnaire if we'd be interested or not. Don't talk, because it could sway other people's opinions. Don't flip ahead. Just fill out the form and listen. It's so easy, Gremlette's extremely ungifted students could muster the brainpower to complete the simple task at hand.

Yet this woman refuses to shut up. She talks under her breath about how the channel ideas are stupid. About how her kids would never watch that. About how she'd never let her kids watch that. It's actually a wonder that she has kids, because I don't know how or why any man would get her to shut up long enough to impregnate her.

She goes on to yell out things to the moderator about how he's wrong in how he's presenting things to us.

I begin to imagine her husband. He must be a blind, deaf man with no sense of touch. It's the only explanation.

She points to a pencil on the floor at mumbles something at me. I show her my pencil and say, "I've got mine. Thanks." More mumbling about the pencil. I repeat that I have one. She then reaches down and grumbles "It was my pencil. I wanted you to pick it up." Then she lets out a frustrated breath.

My blood actually begins to boil. Steam might have exploded out of my ears as if I was in a Looney Tunes cartoon, but I was so blind with rage that I can't say for sure. I have now decided there is no husband. She was artificially inseminated by Hitler's frozen Nazi-sperm.

A few minutes later, we take a short break and I decide I'll be the better man and let Hitler's baby factory apologize for being so rude. "You know, I couldn't understand what you were saying about the pencil earlier," I say, in my most cordial manner. She responds with "Well I guess if I had to say it over again, I'd talk to you like I talk to my kids so you'd understand."

Now, I would never, ever, under any circumstance even begin to think of hitting a woman, but at this point I'm wondering if strangling one is ok. You know, not enough to kill her or anything. What's a little strangulation between suddenly mortal enemies?

"That is the rudest, most condescending thing I have ever heard in my life." I reply, mostly because if I wasn't trying my damndest to be semi-polite, that whole strangulation thing might have become a reality. But she just ignored it (I presume because "condescending" was a little too polysyllabic for her) and turned around to annoy some other poor soul.

Then, as if the Stupidity Fairy had been flying around the room and sprinkled her with Moron Dust, Gremlette raises her hand and asks if the OnDemand IMAX Channel we're rating is actually going to be in IMAX if she got it at home, because things like that make her nauseous. The moderator seemed shocked that anyone could be that dumb and answered, "Ma'am. Unless you have an IMAX screen in your house, I think you'll be o.k."

At least I can laugh at stupidity. But much like a loaded up chili dog, absolute rudeness doesn't sit so well.

The moral of the story? Just be nice. And if you have to talk to someone you don't know, make sure they actually care to hear what you're talking about. Know when the conversation is over and let it end naturally.

And most importantly, stay away from Nazi-sperm.

My Transgender Phone.

I was going to write about the UGA/Ga Tech game that I attended over the weekend, but it was pretty uneventful. Another year, another loss for the nerds. Moving along...

About three years ago, I decided it was time to upgrade my phone. At the time, I had the giant blue Nokia phone that everyone had, except by this point most normal human beings had moved on to smaller, cooler ones. I got tired of lugging around a cellular device that would put Zack Morris' behemoth to shame. Plus, small children with plastic cell phones full of bubble gum were making fun of me.

So I headed to the Cingular store with a few requirements.

1) I wanted it to be small enough to fit in my pocket.

2) I wanted to be able to see who was calling me without opening it.

3) I didn't want to spend a lot of money.

I found a really small Samsung phone with an outside screen that was fairly cheap, so I bought that badboy and brought it home.

Little did I know, that badboy was actually a girl. Remember the episode of Seinfeld where George buys glasses with ladies' frames? Yeah. That was pretty much what happened. Except one of my friends didn't shout racial slurs from a comedy club stage years later. But other than that, pretty much the same.

That outside screen that I wanted so badly? Well, it happened to double as a mirror. Probably useful for applying makeup. Not so useful for doing manly things, like trimming nose hairs or getting girls to actually speak to you.

The small size? Well, it turns out it wasn't just small. It was cute. Every tiny fiber of this phone's being was built to be cute. It rings and purple, blue and yellow lights flash on the screen. You charge it and a tiny duck walks across the screen, announcing the extremely high dosages of estrogen emitting from my little silver friend.

Perhaps I could redeem myself with normal ringtones and wallpapers? Nope. It's all yawning bunnies with tulips behind their ears, kittens on tricycles juggling even smaller kittens and happy little songs about puppies and weddings and puppy weddings.

I had to spend half a fortune injecting my phone with some semblance of manhood. For three years, my ringtone blared "Feelin' like a pimp, then go on brush ya shoulders off." As if to scream to the world, "I am a man's phone! Treat me as such!" I was afraid to change songs, because if I did, any slight dip in testosterone levels might have caused my phone to actually grow breasts.

I downloaded UGA-related wallpapers for my background to take the place of happy sunshine-covered daisy fields. I was essentially giving my phone a sex change, whether it wanted it or not. And we were ok with it. It wasn't always easy, but I actually grew to like my phone. Even though it was confused about its orientation, it held up well. That is, until last night.

I know it's gone to a better place. A place where people won't judge it. A place I hope we can all go one day.

And now it's time for a new phone. And you can rest assured that I won't make the same mistake twice. My contract is over, so I can choose from a plethora of free phones, which is good, because I'm a cheap bastard. I have my pick of tons of phones that even Paul Bunyan would consider a little too manly.

I've made up my mind that the RAZR is the way to go. It has everything I'm looking for. It knows exactly what it is. And as I now go to the Cingular website to order it, I see that the free RAZR I want is available in only one color...

Pink.

Thanksgiving = Funhaving

On my MySpace page, I opened up the floor to suggest a topic for today's column. I received an overwhelming number of responses. And for the record, I consider two responses to be overwhelming, since I can't count beyond one. But, since I'm so accommodating, I'll be writing about both.

Danny's topic of the University of Georgia VS Georgia Tech game this saturday will be a later posting, since I'm going to the game and I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about after that. Here's hoping I don't get pulled into any fervent Yellow Jacket tickle piles.

But for today, we have Emily's suggested topic: the top ten things to do while your house is overrun with relatives for the holidays. As Bob Saget would say, here are the finalists, in no particular order.

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10. Drink heavily. This will make the rest of these much more amusing. Plus, you'll have an excuse for multiple bathroom breaks. It'll make Grandma's hysterectomy story slightly more tolerable.


9. Grab the turkey, ram your hand up there and start your own puppet show. Call it the "Super Happy Gobble Gobble Fun Time Hour." If time permits, make a small sign that says "First three rows may get doused with giblet gravy."


8. Only converse with the dog. If someone questions your actions, turn to the dog and say, "Excuse me Mr. Sprinkles, would you please tell mom that I'm not speaking to her?"


7. Nonchalantly say that you thought you heard something outside and are going to investigate. While out of view of your relatives, rub cranberry sauce all over you, then run inside screaming and recreate the last scene of Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

Note: If Grandma has a bad ticker, you might want to warn her before you do this one. Or just get her to play along as Leatherface. You know, because Grandma's like to feel like they're useful and stuff.


6. When someone says "Pass the rolls," hand them a big bowl of Ecstacy tablets. It's an expensive and highly illegal joke, but I feel that the hilarity outweighs the jailtime.

Plus, it'll make for a great story when you're older. "Hey kids. Gather 'round and let Grandpa Rowdy tell you about the Thanksgiving he got arrested for possession with an intent to distribute."


5. Scalp your least favorite family member. When questioned, simply state that you're honoring the heritage of the Native Americans, because without them, there would be no Thanksgiving. Then give a loud war cry and leap out the nearest window.

After that, I'd probably find a safe hiding place, what with the murder you just committed and all. Repenting might not be a bad idea either.


4. Instead of eating like a normal, functioning member of society, cram every bite you're about to take into a shot glass. Then, down it quickly and slam the shot glass upside-down on the table and yell "Ohhhhhh yeah!" Repeat throughout dinner, despite whatever protests your parents or your better judgment may have.


3. Ask if you can say Grace, but use it to thank people that have no ties to you or family whatsoever. "Dear Lord, please watch down over us as we gather for this feast. And please watch over O.J. Simpson. I know this whole book and interview thing has been rough on him. He seems like a nice enough guy. And may you help CarrotTop come up with even more hilarious props made of toilet seats. Oh, and maybe shine a little divinity towards Paris Hilton, too. That girl needs a hug. And possibly some penicillin. Amen."


2. Throughout your visit, cuss like a sailor, but censor yourself every now and then for no reason. For example:

"Uncle Clem, I fuckin' love this cranberry sauce. This shit is motherfuckin' cran-tastic. It's good as hell. Oh, excuse me. It's good as heck."

"Well, shit dammit! I can't fuckin' believe how much little Jimmy has grown since the last time I saw him. That shit is un-fuckin-believable. Gosh darnit it all to h-e-double hickey sticks, my mind is fuckin' blown."


1. After dinner, exclaim that you brought over your favorite holiday movie and you want everyone to gather around the TV and watch.

Then put in a dvd of Pam and Tommy Lee's sex tape. Keep replaying the part where he looks at his own member and says "Fuckin' rad!" over and over and over.

Note: Once again, Grandma may need to be excluded from this one. Or maybe she'll be front and center, watching intently. How the hell should I know what kind of freaky shit your Grandma is into?

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Special thanks go out to Emily for her topic. For her efforts, she'll receive absolutely nothing.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody and I'll be back after the UGA/GT game this weekend.

Oh, and no Grandma's were harmed in the writing of this blog.

REALLY. MUST. STOP. WATCHING.

After thinking about it, I came up with more inane time-wasting movies that suck the life out of my day and devour my time. Any one of these movies comes on basic cable and I'm stuck watching it. Even if I don't particularly like it. Or am really embarrassed to admit that I've seen it. It's a problem I have. Please help me.


1. Overboard

Kurt Russell is a poor man's Patrick Swayze. Goldie Hawn is an old man's Kate Hudson. But I don't care. Because Overboard is a classic carpenter - gets - dissed - by - rich - bitch - and - then - convinces - her - she's - his - wife - when - she - gets - amnesia - after - falling - off - her - yacht - and - then - they - really - fall - in - love - and - live - happily - ever - after - because - the - money - was - hers - and - not - her - husband's - and - she - comes- to- realize - that - it's - not - all - about - money - and - she - loves - his - kids.

Let's face it, there's a million movies with that plot, but this one really nails it.

And Kurt Russell's last name is Profitt. See the symbolism there? She has money. He's trying to profit off it, but in the end, he profits off true love. You don't get symbolism like that in crap like, oh, I don't know, Shakespeare or some other dead guy.


2. Scary Movie 2

I like fart jokes. I really do. But the Scary Movie franchise seems to be one long, Wayans-created fart joke. I actually think that all the Wayans Brothers flatulence jokes have manifested themselves into a giant green fart cloud. They've named him Sphincta Wayans and I'm sure we'll see him soon. Hell, he'll probably have his own movie where he goes to live with a stuck-up white family. He'll make jokes about the dad's small penis and the mom's non-existent ass.

Then he'll fart on them all. For 90 straight minutes. And just wait until you see the Unrated DVD. He farts on them all for at least 4 hours.

Stupid white people.




3. She's All That

Usher AND Lil Kim in a movie? Together? Finally my prayers have been answered.

This one is pretty much the epitome of "throw some glasses and paint-stained overalls on a girl and that means she's ugly." It's a common theme, but, dammit, they do it well.

My only real problem with this movie is that Rachael Leigh Cook's character works at a fast food place and has to wear a ridiculous hat with a meatball or pita or breakfast burrito or something on top of it. Does this ever happen in real life? I have never walked into a fast food establishment and seen the guy behind the counter wearing a giant pizza on his head. If I did, I'd probably turn around and walk right out, because if the people who work there are willing to wear a felt hamburger with googley eyes for minimum wage, chances are they have serious mental problems and never wash their hands.

They probably also find Sphincta Wayans rip-roaringly hilarious.




4. PCU



Is it just me, or does Jon Favreau's weight fluctuate dramatically with every movie he's in? He's normal in Swingers. Then ginormous in The Break-up. He's downright gelatinous in this movie, but not really in a fat way. It's more like he's filled with some sort of gas or liquid that caused him to balloon up. When I'm watching this, I half expect a gang of Oompah Loompahs to wheel him off to the juicing room for squeezing while singing a little song.

Oompah Loompah doompa dee dert
This guy is filled with a gas that's inert
Oompah Loompah doompa dee deer
I bet he wishes he had Vince Vaughn's career






5. Drive Me Crazy

How can you not enjoy a movie that features a critic right on the cover who exclaims "Drive Me Crazy rocks!"

Was this reviewer a 13 year-old girl? I can't imagine Ebert giving it two Bratz Dolls up and saying "Adrian Grenier is soooooo dreamy!"

But, if nothing else, this movie features someone who has given me countless hours of entertainment. For 30 minutes a day, I can watch this thespian's entourage get in all kind of situations while they smoke a lot of weed and hang out.

I'm talking, of course, about Melissa Joan Hart in Sabrina, The Teenage Witch. Seriously...a talking cat? She must have been smoking something.

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Anybody have any more they can think of? Comment now, or I know a certain omnipresent fart cloud that would love to find another white family to move in with.

You know what really cranks my goat?

You know what really cranks my goat? Complimentary Valet Parking that you're forced to use.

There's nothing more inane than heading out to eat at one of Atlanta's fine culinary establishments, only to pull up and have a valet walk up to my car and tell me that he HAS to valet it. Really? You have to? Well, I don't HAVE to eat there then.

Most times, I try to say "No thank you. I know how to park my own car. In fact, right after cranking it and applying pressure to the gas pedal, slowing down and putting it into park was pretty much one of the first things I learned in that department. So, you know what Johnny ProCarParker, I'm gonna pass on this one. I don't feel like paying you to do something that I'm pretty much an expert at."

"Sir, this is a complimentary service of the restaurant. It is of no charge to you." he replies.

"Yeah. But I have to tip you when I pick it up or you'll go back to your little valet friends and tell them what a dick I was. Even though I didn't want your help to begin with. Same thing goes for your little friend The Bathroom Attendant.

I can wash my own hands. I don't need a hot towel. I don't want to be spritzed with Eau De Anything. And I can certainly wipe my own ass.

MUST. STOP. WATCHING.

I know it’s early, but I’m already getting my boxers in a bunch in anticipation of the greatest holiday tradition of all time. A tradition that makes this season the greatest time of year. A tradition that could quite possibly end world hunger and start world peace. A tradition that I will oversell and use to create false hope for small, hungry Ethiopian children who might be reading this.

Swat away the flies on your faces, kiddies. A Christmas Story Marathon on TNT is coming.

There’s just something about that damn movie that switches off a part of my brain and forces me to lie comatose on the couch in awe. I’m barely able to move except to lift my hand to place junk food in my mouth. Even if it’s just on in the background, there’s something comforting about knowing that I could come in at any time and not miss a beat.

Which got me thinking. What are some other movies that have this strange power over me? They’re almost always embarrassing and are probably something that no heterosexual, adult male should be watching, but dammit, I’m human and I can’t help it. Let’s see what we have.

(Note: These are movies that I only get sucked into on TV and not something that I would willingly insert into my DVD player and watch. That’s why there’s no Billy Madison, Point Break, Road House or Half Baked. I could watch those over and over, but I would do it of my own accord.)

#1 – Grease










Yeah. I know. Here are my testicles. No, just go ahead and take them. Because once this movie comes on, I really have no use for them anyway. In my defense, I think I actually have a genetic predisposition to this movie. There are certain amino acids attached to at least two of my chromosomes that force me to sit down and stare at this movie. I was literally born to hand jive. I could take medicine to suppress it, but, being a devout Scientologist, I think drugs are dumb and evil. Just like that dirty whore, ChaCha DiGregorio.

#2 – Grease 2
















Well, I have no excuse for this one. Seriously, just skip to the next one. In fact, forget I even mentioned it.

Although if you’re ever captured by radical Islamic terrorists and forced to watch this as some sort of hideous torture, check out the song called “Reproduction.” I think it’s about doin’ it, but I'm not sure. It’s so hilariously stupid, that it’s somehow enjoyable. Don’t ask me how. Just listen to lyrics like this, laugh and spit in that dirty Un-American terrorist’s face.

Reproduction, reproduction!
Put your pollen tube to work.
Reproduction, reproduction!
Make my stamen go berserk.
Reproduction!
I don't think they even know what a pistil is!
I got your pistil right here...
Where does the pollen go?

Um, yeah. I’m pretty much going to make “I got your pistil right here.” my new catchphrase. And “Make my stamen go berserk” could easily become my new favorite pick-up line.


#3 – Drumline
















Damn you, Nick Cannon. Why must you be so chocolately awesome? Your drumbeats and cadences hypnotize me into thinking that I absolutely have to watch this movie until the very end. I just can’t miss the surprise appearance by Petey Pablo during the Morris Brown performance at the BET Classic (which is SO totally something that those Morris Brown punks would pull. I hate them so.)

In fact, my love for this movie has pretty much made me decide that I want to attend this year’s BET Classic at the Georgia Dome. I should probably brush up on my Stepping beforehand though, just in case someone tries to call me out for having no rhythm. Then I’d be all like “Oh yeah. Watch this. Hoo-Rah!” (stomp! stomp! step. slide. stomp! jiggy. pivot. slide. stomp!!)

And then they’d be all like “Damn, white boy. You a’ight. You wanna join our squad?”

And I’d be all like “Word? Um, I mean…yeah.”

**********

Anybody have any others they can think of? Or maybe you just want to let me know what a dork I am. Well, I have one thing to say to that…

I got your pistil right here.

Paging Dr. Biohazard

I can hear the birds chirping. Children's laughter. The sound of a six pack being opened.

That's right. After two days of having no hearing whatsoever out of my right ear due to severe congestion, I finally made it to a doctor. Normally, I avoid doctor's offices with all my soul and being, but I got really tired of having to constantly sit on the right side of people in order to hear their conversations.

If nothing else, at least I noticed something while sitting and waiting and waiting and waiting in the doctor's office.

I've concluded that the most badass "symbol" that has ever been created is that of the biohazard symbol. Take a look.

Not only does it denote the possibility of extremely hazardous medical waste, but it also denotes the possibility of extremely boss heavy metal.

Seriously, Biohazard could kick most other symbols asses. Take, for example, the handicapped symbol.


Um, yeah. Stick Biohazard in a cage fight with this little guy and you better believe he'll need more than a wheelchair to get around when it's all over. Actually, the more that I look at it, I'm thinking Biohazard could kick my ass. Although that's not saying much. One time, I took a wrong turn down an alley after a long night of drinking and this symbol beat the shit out of me.

Now, that's embarrassing. It kicked me in the groin, hit me in the head with a rusty lead pipe and walked away. Although I think I heard it exclaim "Have a nice day" as it spit on me. Which was pretty cool of it to do.

The TeBow Legacy

Normally before a big game, I don't taunt the other team's fans at all. It's just tacky. But there's always room for some good natured ribbing, which is why, on the eve of the UGA/UF game, I absolutely have to post this.



Boy, he's quite the looker. And by "looker," I mean troglodyte.

Now, I completely understand that this young(?) man (?) has probably never set foot on the actual campus of the University of Florida. Hell, he probably hasn't seen the inside of a classroom since grade school. And I also understand that every SEC team has their fair share of podunk sons of the soil who claim allegiance to a team and give all the normal alumni a bad name.

But seriously, look at this guy. Raise your hand if you think he was conceived on the hood of a Camaro with REO Speedwagon blaring in the background. All of you? That's what I thought.

If UGA/UF is known as The World's Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party, then this is the guy that no one invited. He just shows up, drinks your beer, pisses in your vegetable crisper, then passes out on your girlfriend with his small, carnie-like hand (still stuck in the devil horn formation, as if he has some sort of rock and roll rigor mortis) conveniently resting on her left boob.

Even Gator fans hate this guy. His stereotypical mullet and jean shorts do nothing to advance their identity. But look on the bright side, at least the shorts aren't cut off to the point where his pockets (and/or testicles) are showing out the bottom. Although the resolution on my computer screen isn't great, so I could be wrong.

But I do have some bad news for the Gator nation...this guy is actually Tim TeBow's embarrassing brother. He's kind of like Roger Clinton, Billy Carter and Stephen Baldwin all rolled into one oddly pink anthropomorphic ball of Gator meat. It's only a matter of time before he tries to cash in on the TeBow name by writing a tell-all book or setting up a stand on the interstate and selling t-shirts with childhood pictures of him and his big brother Timmy on them.

But until that time comes, I hope he has fun rooting on his beloved Gators. Just stay the hell away from my tailgate.

Oh, and one more thing...

Go Dawgs!

The Current Social, Economic and Geopolitical Climate of McDonaldland

Between work, sleep and tailgating, I've had absolutely no time to write anything new. That's why, for all you Rowdy Bowden newbies, I'm dipping into the Vault and posting something from a while back. And much like Disney, this is only available for a limited time and will soon go back into the Rowdy Bowden Vault forever. Or until I get lazy again.

**********


As a child, I visited McDonaldland on several occasions. In fact, it became somewhat of a tradition to frolic among the various inhabitants of this wonderful town. But as I've grown older, I've come to learn about the sesame-seedy underbelly of this town's very infrastructure. I've stood by silently for too long. I must be heard.

At the very top of this corruption and disregard for the wellbeing of the citizens of McDonaldland is Mayor McCheese himself. He is the very depiction of the rich, white male with his top hat, monocle and diplomat's sash. Worst of all, he's let his elected position go to his giant hamburger head while the people of his land are forced to only eat from The Dollar Menu. And his appointed officials are no better. Chief of Police "Officer Big Mac" is rarely even seen patrolling the streets. In fact, I bet most of you didn't even know he existed.

But as time has gone on, crime in McDonaldland has reached an all-time high, with crime rates in the unheard of Double Quarter Pound range. That can be attributed mostly to the infamous Hamburglar. His unquenchable desire to steal every hamburger in this once magical land has forced the cute, felt citizens to cower in their homes and horde food. As night falls on the city, his cries of "Robble Robble!" echo through the city streets as he tyrannizes anyone unfortunate enough to venture outdoors. This was especially evident one morning when Birdie the Early Bird was on her way to get her morning Egg McMuffin, when the Hamburglar, mistaking her tiny sandwich for a hamburger, accosted her. She made the mistake of fighting back and is now in a hospital bed, barely able to molt without experiencing excruciating pain.

Now, you would think that this would be enough to make Mayor McCheese and Officer Big Mac stand up and take notice. After all, both of their precious heads are made of the very loot that the Hamburglar seeks, but they do nothing as they sit atop their throne of pickles and mayhem.

Other offshoot gangs have sprung up as well. Most notoriously, The Fry Guys have run rampant, stealing every deep fried potato slice they can get their hands on. Their lust for fries is only eclipsed by their intense addiction to crack cocaine, as is evident in their blank, expressionless, yet extremely googely eyes. In fact, they've almost completely taken over the once peaceful Hamburger Patch, which has become a popular hotspot for the sex trade industry. Sadly, the Golden Arches have been replaced with Golden Showers. The McGovernment began an anti-gang campaign based on the tagline "Keep your eyes on your fries," but merely warning citizens does not combat the problem directly. It's as if this cabinet's motto is "If you don't protect your fry stash, you deserve to have it stolen."

Even the shores are not safe. At one time, the denizens of McDonaldland could play in the water, enjoying Happy Meals. But since the arrival of the elusive Captain Crook, their dinners seem more like Terror Meals. Much like The Hamburglar, Captain Crook's booty is hamburgers, instead of the wildly unpopular and readily available Filet-O-Fish. This leads me to believe that these two super-thugs will one day clash over territorial rights, leaving the ketchupy blood of the innocent in their wake.

And what of McDonaldland's biggest celebrity you may ask? In my opinion, Ronald McDonald has become a joke. In recent years, he has turned his back on his heritage. Newer commercials feature him only cavorting with children from our world, leading me to believe that he no longer wants to associate with his place of birth, instead of helping create inner city programs to stop the crime in its tracks. Even after his best friend Grimace was gunned-down in an apparent milkshake heist, Ronald said nothing. Ronald DID nothing. He simply smiled an empty, painted on smile.

In August of 2003, Mayor McCheese officially named Ronald "Chief Happiness Officer." But I for one believe this does nothing but prove that the Mayor is completely ignorant to what is going on in his town. Because unless we do something our childhood may be erased. I deplore you to begin "Impeach Mayor McCheese" campaigns. Copy this blog. E-mail it to your friends. Just don't let our childhood die under this Big 'N Untasty government. I don't know about you, but I am certainly NOT lovin' it.

Brain Matters Vol. 5

**********

I've concluded that there is no masculine way to jump over a puddle. It's physically impossible. I'm pretty sure that if I leapt over one with a chainsaw in one hand, a copy of Playboy in the other and Metallica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls" playing in the background, I'd still somehow land on the other side holding a My Little Pony and a makeup Kaboodle with "Y.M.C.A." cranked at full volume behind me.

**********

Sometimes I find myself really listening to a song that I love and figuring out that there's one part that really ruins the rest of it for me. Take for example Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On." A badass song...or so I thought. There I am, totally feeling Robert Plant's quest to find that perfect girl, no matter how far he has to go.

Until he ventures into "the darkest depths of Mordor." Whoa there, Bobby. Mordor? As in "Lords of the Rings?" Um, yeah. He goes on to complain about "Gollum, the evil one" creeping up and stealing his chick.

Ok, now I love LOTR as much as the next dork, but I don't really want it involved in my quest to find a significant other. And the fact that Plant had his woman stolen by Smeagol is pretty insulting. He must have had a pretty sweet pick-up line, because the looks-decent wagon definitely passed him by, if you know what I'm saying.

Gollum: Why's, hello's there.

Plant's Girl: Ugh, what are you supposed to be?

Gollum: We's the world's greatest love machine.
No! We's Middle Earth's greatest sex machine!

Plant's Girl: Ooh. I like the way your two personalities think.

Gollum: Oh yeah. And we's totally going to use protection.
No! We's don't think it feels natural that way!

**********

The convenience store across the street from me has a sticker on their alcohol cooler door that proclaims "WE HAVE THE COLDEST BEER IN TOWN!"

Not only is that probably false, but is it really something you want to brag about? I don't know about you, but 33 degrees Fahrenheit is about as cold as I like my beer. Anything lower than that and I just have to sit around and wait for it to thaw.

**********

Laguna Beach star Kristin Cavallari is set to co-star in the re-envisioning of Revenge of the Nerds. When asked about it, she had this to say:

She also says the only difference between filming a Hollywood movie and a TV reality show is that a big-screen film "is a lot bigger of a production." Otherwise, "with all the takes and camera angles, it's the same thing."

Um, does anyone else want to punch her in the face for admitting that Laguna Beach is completely staged, with multiple takes and angles? I mean, we all knew it was fake, but to blatantly come out like that is just idiotic.

Plus, she's completely pissing me off for being in a remake of a classic piece of cinema. I wonder who's going to play Booger...Puck from the Real World?

**********

When I'm out walking around the neighborhood, I encounter plenty of homeless people who are making absolutely no sense. But I don't mind. Most of the time their ramblings are pretty funny, but I started thinking...what if they're just a little behind in their conversations? I could walk by and they're still babbling about something that happened 2 days ago. And by the time they get around to talking about me walking my dog, I'm long gone and someone else is staring at them, wondering what the hell they're talking about.

So if you happen upon a homeless guy muttering "My Little Pony. Kaboodle Village People!!" he's not crazy. He just witnessed me try to jump over a puddle last Tuesday.

**********

If I wrote Bazooka Joe comics.

This one's from the Rowdy Bowden vault.

If I wrote Bazooka Joe comics, updated for today's kids...

Panel 1:
Joe driving his car with Mort (the guy with the turtleneck covering up his mouth) in the passenger seat.

Joe: "Ok Mort. I'll be right back."


Panel 2:
A guy in a ski mask brandishing a glock gets in the car. Mort looks calm.

Thug: "Get out of the fucking car!!"


Panel 3:
Mort is getting out of the car, looking extremely calm.

Mort: "No problem dude. It's all yours."


Panel 4:
Joe runs out of the store, looking pissed.

Joe: "What the fuck dude! You just let that guy steal my car!!"


Panel 5:
Mort is still calm. Joe looks shocked.

Mort: "Don't worry dude. I got his license plate number."


Panel 6: Joe, extremely upset with Mort's stupidity, begins beating him with a sack of doorknobs, rolled quarters and frozen apples.


And scene.

Why moms rule.

My mom is awesome.

Whenever I go home to visit the 'rents (as the kids are saying), my mom, being the ever-forgiving woman who has put up with my hijinx, sarcastic mouth and overall jackassedness for 26 years, hooks me up with a home cooked meal and tons of leftovers. But it always comes with the warning that I better bring her tupperware back this time. Of course, in about 500 trips home, I've only ever remembered to bring it back twice, and that's because I've used it to put some dog food in when I take the mutt on trips and have left it in the car afterwards.

So, after the dog finishes her delicious nuggets of what are supposed to taste like Chicken and Lamb (because, as we all know, a dog's natural mortal enemies are chickens and lambs), I toss the Tupperware in the back of my car. Fast forward to last weekend, when I open up the back of my car and my mom sees all the empty containers.

"Is that my Tupperware?" she asked.

"Mom, I can barely remember my own address. I have absolutely no idea which of these are yours and which ones are Chinese takeout containers that I've cleverly been using to store things in."

She then glances over them for about 24 seconds and says "Nope. None of these are mine."

"How in the world can you tell? They all look the same."

"I can just tell. Moms know these sort of things." she replied.

After looking over them again, I'm pretty sure she's right. Most of them are ones that I've bought or took...um, I mean borrowed from work. I really think something like that is just one of those mom superpowers that you'll never understand. Like always knowing when you're lying. Or knowing when you really need a home cooked meal and some extra tupperware. Because even when she says she wants it back, she really wants you to keep it.

After all, that's what moms are for.

All in a day's work.

I recently checked out Craigslist for any freelance jobs, and under the WRITING category, I found a job with the following requirements:

WRITER NEEDED

Job requires:

Writing, the person must be capable of writing with excitement and style in an engaging way. They must be knowledgeable on a range of topics and be capable of putting together the magazine every month on schedule as well as write content for a website, ads, etc.

Graphic design, the writer will also be responsible for the design and publishing of the Magazine. This person must have strong skills in Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator or comparable programs and be able to write and design compelling ads.

Sales, the person will be responsible for the advertising sales and follow up of ad space. This will include helping design, implementing and refining a clearly defined sales strategy for ad sales.

Um, so basically, you want a writer who will also COMPLETELY RUN YOUR MAGAZINE! Last time I checked, writing does not also require graphic design, sales and "putting together the magazine every month."

Why don't you just ask me to empty out the garbage cans while I'm at? Oh, you want me to babysit your kids too? Sure, no problem. You have any dangerous medical waste you'd like me to keep in my bathtub for a few months? I'm all for it. No, seriously. You just sit there and relax while I feed you grapes and give you a massage with my toes. It's all in my job description as a writer.

Wait, you're going to pay me how much? Holy shit. Uh...when can I start and what kind of grapes do you like?

What Would Dylan Do?

Actor Luke Perry turns 40 today, which means that Dylan McKay is about to officially be over the hill. I do wonder what he’s been up to since we last saw him on Beverly Hills 90210 (affectionately known as BH9).

Perhaps he went to Europe to find Brenda? Did he have to use the rest of his father’s money to help out Kelly after she got addicted to coke, got horribly burned in a fire and was attacked by a pack of rabid gnus? Did he end up having to help Donna Martin’s children graduate? Was he killed by Steve in a murderous rage after he made fun of his PermMullet? Did he travel to Haita and hire a voodoo princess to bring his long lost fiancé, Toni Marchette, back to life as a loving Zombie Bride? Did he finally shave his ridiculous sideburns after losing most of his hair in a freak Peach Pit After Dark explosion involving Nat, a tub of Crisco, a blow-up doll and a blowtorch?

The world may never know.

How to cope with a loss.

My friends and I take University of Georgia football very seriously. Over the years, we've been there for the great games, the good games and, of course, the games you'd like to push out of your brain and replace with the memory of a really kickass Boy Meets World episode.

After all, the antics of Mr. Hunter and Mr. Matthews are much more pleasant than a heartbreaking loss. That's why we've come up with the perfect way to forget about a loss, bring everyone's spirits up and allow yourself to annoy the hell out of the opposing team.

Just pretend like you won.

It's that simple. It all started after years of traveling down to Jacksonville to get our almost annual loss against the Florida Gators. We didn't want our lack of a win to bring us down, so we'd simply walk out of the game and head to the bars saying things loudly like "Man, I didn't think we'd pull that one off, but I'm really glad we did. Let's go celebrate our victory!"

And when fans of the opposing team start taunting you, just reply with a pat on the back and a "Hey, better luck next year. You guys played a good game, but I guess, in the end, we just wanted it more." Then, you can enjoy the dumbfounded look on their face as they try to compute the situation. It's a lot like when your dog hears a new sound for the first time and can only respond with a tilt of the head.

And the best part? The more they try to argue with you, the more you can try to calm the situation and enjoy their increasing anger. You win in two ways:

1. You get a good laugh out of it and it takes your mind off the loss, allowing you to continue drinking in a positive way instead of drowning your sorrows and talking about what your team could have done differently.

2. You ruin opposing fans evenings. They expected to go out and gloat about their win, but instead end up going home extremely pissed at you because their tiny brains can't process what's going on.

Hopefully we won't have to use this method any more this season, but if we do, it'll surely be a great way to cope with a loss...I mean, a win.

**********

And now, a few Great Moments in Jerk History that happened this weekend.

Jerk Moment #47332
Saturday Night, Downtown Athens

A stranger comes up to me and asks very politely where Uptown Lounge (a bar that was popular back when we were freshman, but closed several years ago, when we were still in school). I reply very seriously, pointing down the street, "Um, sure. You're gonna need to go about 3 or 4 years back in time."

I could have easily told him it wasn't around anymore, but instead I chose to try and embarrass him in front of everyone. Pretty sweet. For all I know, Uptown has probably reopened somewhere else, but hey, I was drunk and couldn't pass up a Jerky opportunity.


Jerk Moment #56998
Saturday Night, Driving Out of Athens After Our "Win"

We pull up alongside a truck full of large, Tennessee fans who are blaring Rocky Top. I yell out to them my condolences on their loss. They try to come back with some witty, hillbilly retort about how their pet (a strange, skinny, white dog) in their car is a "real Dawg." This is, of course, referring to our mascot, UGA, and how they think their weird looking dog is better.

I respond by saying "Yeah, nice fuckin' albino goat. Better luck next year, losers."

Does it make sense? Not really. Funnier if you were there? Probably, but it's still pretty jerky, and that's something special.

MonoBlogue 10/4/06

If I were a talk show host…


Good morning everybody. Welcome. We’ve got a great blog lined up for you. I think you’ll really enjoy it. Or maybe you won't. But it's free entertainment, so get off my back.

*****

Ok, who’s been watching Dancing with the Stars? Really? All two of you. I’m sure ABC is thrilled about that. Well, this is interesting, contestant Jerry Springer has actually been receiving a record number of call-in votes from his fans, despite consistently getting low scores from the judges.

Apparently, producers were amazed that their “Inbred Baby Momma Streetwalker” demographic knew how to work a phone.

*****

A state senator in Webster County, West Virginia is evaluating whether to run for a second term after photos surfaced of him and another man wearing only body paint.

This wouldn’t have been as big a deal if the other man hadn’t actually been TV’s Webster, Emmanuel Lewis.

That’s just creepy.

*****

On Wednesday, a Japanese man set a new world record by reciting pi to 100,000 decimal places from memory.

That’s right. And coincidentally, that was the exact same number of girls who turned down his invitation to the prom in high school.

I can relate to that one.

*****

According to a recent research study involving thousands of women and children, breast feeding has no impact on a child's intelligence. It's true.

Some researchers are saying the finding may have no merit, dut to the fact that most of the "children" who showed up to participate in the survey had beards, worked construction and were quoted as just being there "to see some sweet, sweet gozangas."

*****

Ok, folks. We've got a great blog for you. Coming up after the break, an all new iEmbarrassment, Brain Matters and more. So stick around, you won't want to miss it.

Brain Matters Vol. 4

I think it’s pretty common for people to always blame other drivers for their incompetence on the road based on the fact that they live in another state. Someone can cut me off and I get pissed, then notice their license plate.

“Well, it figures. They’re from (insert any state other than mine).”

As if only people in my general vicinity ever learned how to properly drive. But this does seem to be a universal occurrence that spans across more than just state lines.

I’m sure that at some time, somewhere, a devout Amish guy has been hauling his family down to the latest barn raising at Uncle Jedediah’s place, when he got cut off by another horse-drawn buggy.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going!?” Then he’d turn to his wife and exclaim, “Well, it figures. They’re Hicksite-Orthodox Quakers.”

**********

I’m a pretty random guy. I have a thought, which turns into another, which turns into another and by the time I actually say something about the subject at hand, it’s so far removed that I sound like an idiot.

Someone could be talking about what to eat for lunch, which makes me think of food, which makes me think of how much I like Oreos, which makes me think of the colors black and white, which makes me think of race relations, which makes me think of how some people should be more tolerant of interracial dating, which makes me think of interracial couples having babies.

So, while my buddy is asking me if he should get Taco Bell or Checkers, I randomly ask him “Do you think they can tell what color a baby is just by a sonogram? I mean, if you have a black dad and a white mom, you wouldn’t know exactly what color it is. They just look all greenish on that little screen.”

“Um, I mean…I think you should get Taco Bell.”

**********

The randomness also poses another potential problem. By the time I get old, even if I’m completely sane, people will just think I’m senile. My thought process would be exactly the same, but just because I can’t always control my bladder, I’ll come across as a crazy old man. What once was quirky could become a little frightening.

So, if I ever reach the age where that happens and you happen to be hanging out with me, just remember that when you’re talking to me about social security and I ask you something like “Why do old people and prunes so closely resemble one another?” It’s not dementia setting in, it’s probably just me being me.

Things you should really be scared of.

Halloween is right around the corner, which means scary movies, haunted houses and other things that are supposed to frighten the bajeebuz out of you. But you don’t have to wait for October 31st to be scared. There’s plenty of things you could encounter everyday that should scare the everlovin’ shit out of you.

Heed my warning. These are the real things that go bump in the night.


Guys Who Drive Vans With No Back Windows

Unless it’s a traveling dark room, there’s no reason at all that someone should be driving around with no windows on the sides or in the back of their van. The owners of these death mobiles are almost always creepy guys with paint in their beards (at least, I hope that’s paint.)

If you see one of these possible vehicular molesters, run. Run far away, or you may be forced to put the lotion on your skin in fear of getting the hose again.


Restaurants That Try To Do Too Much

Be afraid. Be very afraid of the take-out menu that features everything from Chinese food to hamburgers to enchiladas. If you can’t focus on one style of food, chances are, you’re not taking that much care in making it to start with.

Hell, there are some places that serve only Mexican food and I’m still scared, so I certainly don’t want to eat shrimp from a place that also serves spaghetti, burritos and peanut butter cookies. Think about the kind of person who has to take a job as a chef at one of these places. Chances are he’s diseased and scabby. And let me tell you, diseases and scabs are two things you want as far as possible away from something you’re about to put in your mouth. Just ask George Michael.


Robots

They don't get as much horror movie villain recognition as they deserve. Screw Dracula. Keep me away from ZorBot 5000. He could crush my tiny head with his giant steel claws of death.

When the millennium rolled around, I was almost positive that robots would take over the earth, creating a new, machinistic society. Then, they would make most of us humans do the tasks they used to perform, like open their cans of soup and search the internet for porn. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be all bad.

After New Years Eve, I breathed a sigh of relief when nothing happened. Until I realized that the robots are so smart, they knew we’d be expecting them to attack on the 31st. That’s why they’re waiting for a time when we least expect it. Everytime I plug my iPod into my car, I’m afraid it’s going to hijack the computer system and drive me off a cliff. Either that, or wait until I’m on a date and start playing my extensive collection of O-Town songs on repeat. I don’t know which would be worse.

Now that I think about it, I might just take my chances with the cliff.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Since college, some things have changed. I can’t pass out in a random bush in my apartment complex and not feel like a complete ass when I wake up. I can’t skip my daily responsibilities to play Mario Golf and get into a heated debate with my roommates over the merits of Yoshi’s control over Donkey Kong’s power. And I certainly can’t make it my own personal goal to urinate in every public fountain in town.

I’ve accepted that things are never going to be the same. But hey, this growing up thing isn’t all bad. Like everything else in life, it has its ups and downs.

For example, in college, we’d all buy the cheapest beer we could find and treasure it like it was our first-born child who happened to crap gold. It was used in an intricate system of bartering and wages that everyone took very seriously.

ME: Hey, can I bum two beers from you? That’s the exact amount I need in the next 5 minutes before our cab shows up.

ROOMMATE: Actually, you can have three. Last night, I ate a slice and a half of your pizza and four Doritos. Normally, that would constitute two beers, but I also opened the garlic sauce that came with it, ate a third of it, then covered it up with tin foil I found under the couch.

ME: Fair enough. Let us seal this exchange with the traditional “flicking of bottle caps towards each other faces.”

ROOMMATE: Agreed.

But now, we always have community beer around and can offer it to anyone who comes over. If we bring it to someone else’s house, we leave what we don’t drink because we know it’ll come back around to us. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have any beer at all, whether it was mine or someone else’s.

The only downside of this arrangement is when you have a few people over who you don’t know that well. You offer them a beer and they drink all of them and leave, knowing you’ll never go to their place and drink their beers.

These people suck. If you’re one of them, I hope and pray that the ghost of Adolphus Busch haunts you with the stench of musty, crapwood-aged beer.

Of course, every now and then, you get a 6-pack of your favorite microbrew and want at least a few that are guaranteed to be there for you when you need them. That’s when you implement the treasure trove known as “The Vegetable Crisper.”

I don’t eat vegetables, so it’s always empty. And I know for a fact that none of the people hanging out at my place are going to suddenly have an urge to bite into a head of iceberg lettuce. They should rest safely in the confines of the crisper until you’re ready to enjoy their malty goodness.

Of course, one morning you wake up and your friend has shown that college isn’t really that far behind you. After you passed out, he found and drank your extra beers, ate twenty-five of your Doritos and pissed in your vegetable crisper.

At least now you can do the same thing next time you hang out at his place.

Isn’t growing up awesome?

Home Sweet Debris-Ridden Alley

Dear Homeless Guy Who Frequents the Alley Beside My Apartment,

I’m not sure if this is the best way to address some concerns I have with your living arrangement, as I’m not positive you can even read above a 3rd grade level, but I need to bring a few things to your attention.

First, the area between my fence and my neighbor’s fence is not your personal storage area. I know you’re a bit of a packrat, and rightfully so, because let’s face it, if you can find an old, coffee stained American flag mousepad and sell it at the nearest Marta station for a quarter, that’s better than nothing at all. As I always say, one man’s trash is another man’s 40oz Mad Dog 20/20.

But your garbage bags full of old clothes, USB cords, broken plumbing supplies and other, unused garbage bags are a bit of an eyesore. It doesn’t exactly impress any women I may try to bring back to my apartment (hey, it could happen…one day) when I have to explain to them that I live next to Rusty the hobo, a.k.a. He Who Shall Not Be Bathed.

My second concern is actually for your own good. Judging from the remnants of the meals you eat on the stairs outside the fire escape, your diet is severely lacking in nutritional content. Last night’s feast of jelly beans, Froot Loops and a Milwaukee’s Best could hardly be considered well-rounded, although I’m sure you enjoyed how colorful your excrement was.

Which brings me to my most important issue. Stop using the alley as your personal bathroom. It’s unsanitary, it smells and frankly, even my dog is concerned that you may have Ringworm.

I’ve also heard from the neighbors that you are single-handedly bringing property values down. While that might seem like quite an accomplishment for one man, it’s actually quite sad and depressing.

Lastly, I really think you need some direction in your life. The other morning, I was leaving for work and you were still asleep under your urine-stained blanket. I know you’re homeless and all, but when you’re using a giant rock covered in glass chips as a pillow, I think you might want to reevaluate your priorities and get up with the rest of the working world.

I know you probably blame your crack addict mother for your situation, but even she made an effort to wake up at a reasonable hour. Granted, she got up early to go buy more crack, but still, mom knows best. Remember what she always taught you, “The early bird gets the crack rock.”

Please take these suggestions to heart. I really do want what’s best for you, your health and your overall well-being.

Well, actually I just don’t want to smell you anymore. Your stench is horrid.

Sincerely,

Rowdy Bowden

************

P.S. - Enclosed you'll find documentation of some of the topics covered above.

Your "pillow."



Your "closet."



A bicycle wheel that you've saved for no reason except to bring shame to my alley.

Brain Matters Vol. 3

I’ll admit it. The past few years, I’ve been slacking on my Halloween costume. I’m the guy who has huge plans, but doesn’t try to execute them until the day before, when they’ve run out of everything. This means I have to improvise with completely moronic items that don't even remotely look like what I want them to look like.

I go to find a pirate hook and end up with an untangled clothes hanger sticking out of a cut-up Nerf ball. Or every place is sold out of fake blood and I have to borrow my niece’s Pink Scented Magic Marker. I may look like a complete moron, but at least I smell like the exotic aroma of Wacky Crazeberries.

Last year I was Tyler Durden from Fight Club. Or as everyone else thought...a random 70's guy who got his ass kicked.

At a recent superhero costume party, I was Danger Mouse. Or as everyone else thought...a random, mutated super bunny. On numerous occasions throughout the night I heard people whisper to each other, “What the hell is the gay bunny supposed to be?”

They were clearly mouse ears, people. But not just any mouse ears. They were Danger Mouse ears, which makes them slightly less embarrassing.

But this year, I've decided on a costume that will still require people to ask me what the fuck I'm supposed to be, but at least I'll be satisfied.

I'm going to go as myself....on the first day of Kindergarten.

This will require a tin Rambo lunchbox, a grey Mickey Mouse ringer t-shirt, shaggy hair, short blue shorts with the white trim, tube socks and a complete lack of dignity. Lucky for me, I lost that long ago.

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I was driving the other day and passed a woman in a minivan, which exists solely because a regular van is just way too cool for some people. But this woman had an even bigger problem. A problem that borders on psychotic behavior.

Her entire dashboard was COMPLETELY covered in Beanie Babies. And when I say completely covered, I mean that there was not one square inch of her dash that wasn’t loaded down with felt and beans.

Because, let’s face it, that’s all they are. Beans covered in felt, given a name and sold to morons. At least when it was a “craze,” there was the possibility of selling them for a profit and retiring to Switzerland, or wherever the hell Beanie Baby collectors dream of retiring to.

But my first thought when I saw this woman’s BeanieMobile was that if she ever got in an accident, the paramedics would have to fight to control their laughter when they arrived on the scene.

There she is, putting along, when she notices her prize Beanie, Lil’ Clubby the Seal, has fallen into the floorboard (presumably trying to escape the nightly tongue baths she subjects it to.) She reaches down to retrieve it, runs over the median and flips her minivan. When the paramedics show up, they have to pry the doors off with the jaws of life, only to find an entire bean-filled animal kingdom filling the inside. They drag the woman out (unharmed thanks to her collectibles, which she considers nature’s airbags) and head back to their ambulance with one more story to tell their drinking buddies.

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Note to self: Just for the stories, begin hanging out with paramedics.

Another note to self: Think about being a paramedic for Halloween next year.

Yet another note to self: In preparation for the costume, borrow niece’s markers and make a stethoscope out of old toilet paper rolls, beanie baby felt and a baked potato.