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.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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?
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?
Monday, September 25, 2006
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.
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.Thursday, September 21, 2006
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.
**********
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.
**********
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.
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.
**********
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.
**********
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Scenes From A Crowded Bar.
I’m no anthropologist. But I do really like saying the word “anthropomorphism.” (Go ahead and try it. It’s fun. An-throw-po-mooooor-phism. See?) I think that’s enough to qualify myself as an Anthro-Bar-ologist.
That essentially means that when I go out to drink, while I'm sitting alone at the bar, sobbing quietly into a cocktail napkin, I notice little situations, occurrences and characters that most people are familiar with. They just don’t realize it yet. Let’s take a look at a few.
**********
The Awkward Hand Lead – A few nights ago, I witnessed this one and remembered how weird it makes me feel. A girl and guy (who probably just started dating semi-seriously) arrive at a bar. The girl spots her friends across the room, grabs the guy’s hand and proceeds to lead him through the crowd like a mom taking her hairy, overgrown son to the playground.
It makes me so uncomfortable to see this guy walk in the door with his testicles attached, only to have them symbolically removed within seconds, all while on public display.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think the guy should lead. Chances are, he’s bigger and can cut his way through the crowd faster, leaving a convenient wake of space for his girlfriend to walk in.
I’m not saying he should club her like UgDug the caveman and drag her to their destination. Sometimes it’s just nice to feel like a man, even if your girlfriend does paint your toenails when she’s bored.
Not that I’ve ever had my toenails painted or anything. Maybe a little work around the cuticles, but that’s just because I have very sensitive nail beds.
Um…moving on.
**********
The Slobstacle Course – The hand lead is the perfect segue to this topic. You show up at a bar. Again, your friends are all the way in the back corner (Dammit. Why can’t my friends pick a booth by the front door? Can’t they see that I’m slightly inconvenienced by their seat choice?).
Once you realize you’re going to have to hire a Sherpa and pack an overnight bag just to make the trek from here to there, you have to set up a game plan. How can you meander through the pack of drunks, smokers, bathroom lines and homeless guys who came inside to get out of the rain? This, my friends is your Slobstacle Course.
Lit cigarettes will come flying towards your face. High heels will grind into your feet. Drinks will be spilled on your pants, making it look like you wet yourself. And most annoyingly, complete assholes will be oblivious to the fact that you’re trying to slide by them as they tell their buddies how wasted they are and try to one-up each other with their tales of sexual conquest.
After all these drunken booby traps (Booty traps? - That’s what I said…booby traps!), I sometimes half-expect a giant boulder to start rolling after me like I’m Indiana Jones.
But it’s all worth it to finally make it to your group and enjoy a beer or two. Until you have to take a piss and realize the bathroom is on the other side of the room, meaning you have to do the whole Slobstacle Course all over again. Except this time it’s backwards. Try doing it with a blindfold on while hopping on one leg and shouting random, inappropriate racial slurs, too. That always makes it a little more interesting.
**********
The Pointless Fan – You’re sitting on a bar’s outside deck. It’s a ridiculously hot day. You want nothing more than a cool breeze to sweep across your face and cool the salty beads of sweat that have collected on your forehead. But then you look up. There’s a fan. You’re saved!
But it’s moving slower than any fan that has ever been created in the history of fanmanship.
You wonder, “Is it even on?” You notice all the other fans are creaking along just as slowly. There’s not a breeze blowing them, so they must be on. And they must also have the equivalent of one AAA battery in their motors.
Why are these fans here? They’re not cooling you. They’re mocking you.
Mocking you with their inability to produce anything more than what could only be mistaken for a mouse fart. Actually, at this point, you’d welcome the breeze produced by a mouse fart, because it would cool you off more than these horrible contraptions that are trying to pass themselves off as wind creators.
**********
So next time you’re out at a bar, being led around by your girlfriend like a neutered puppy, trying to avoid a Marlboro Red in your cornea and wishing a giant fan would blow all the drunken assholes out the front door…take a look around. You never know what you might notice.
That essentially means that when I go out to drink, while I'm sitting alone at the bar, sobbing quietly into a cocktail napkin, I notice little situations, occurrences and characters that most people are familiar with. They just don’t realize it yet. Let’s take a look at a few.
**********
The Awkward Hand Lead – A few nights ago, I witnessed this one and remembered how weird it makes me feel. A girl and guy (who probably just started dating semi-seriously) arrive at a bar. The girl spots her friends across the room, grabs the guy’s hand and proceeds to lead him through the crowd like a mom taking her hairy, overgrown son to the playground.
It makes me so uncomfortable to see this guy walk in the door with his testicles attached, only to have them symbolically removed within seconds, all while on public display.
Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think the guy should lead. Chances are, he’s bigger and can cut his way through the crowd faster, leaving a convenient wake of space for his girlfriend to walk in.
I’m not saying he should club her like UgDug the caveman and drag her to their destination. Sometimes it’s just nice to feel like a man, even if your girlfriend does paint your toenails when she’s bored.
Not that I’ve ever had my toenails painted or anything. Maybe a little work around the cuticles, but that’s just because I have very sensitive nail beds.
Um…moving on.
**********
The Slobstacle Course – The hand lead is the perfect segue to this topic. You show up at a bar. Again, your friends are all the way in the back corner (Dammit. Why can’t my friends pick a booth by the front door? Can’t they see that I’m slightly inconvenienced by their seat choice?).
Once you realize you’re going to have to hire a Sherpa and pack an overnight bag just to make the trek from here to there, you have to set up a game plan. How can you meander through the pack of drunks, smokers, bathroom lines and homeless guys who came inside to get out of the rain? This, my friends is your Slobstacle Course.
Lit cigarettes will come flying towards your face. High heels will grind into your feet. Drinks will be spilled on your pants, making it look like you wet yourself. And most annoyingly, complete assholes will be oblivious to the fact that you’re trying to slide by them as they tell their buddies how wasted they are and try to one-up each other with their tales of sexual conquest.
After all these drunken booby traps (Booty traps? - That’s what I said…booby traps!), I sometimes half-expect a giant boulder to start rolling after me like I’m Indiana Jones.
But it’s all worth it to finally make it to your group and enjoy a beer or two. Until you have to take a piss and realize the bathroom is on the other side of the room, meaning you have to do the whole Slobstacle Course all over again. Except this time it’s backwards. Try doing it with a blindfold on while hopping on one leg and shouting random, inappropriate racial slurs, too. That always makes it a little more interesting.
**********
The Pointless Fan – You’re sitting on a bar’s outside deck. It’s a ridiculously hot day. You want nothing more than a cool breeze to sweep across your face and cool the salty beads of sweat that have collected on your forehead. But then you look up. There’s a fan. You’re saved!
But it’s moving slower than any fan that has ever been created in the history of fanmanship.
You wonder, “Is it even on?” You notice all the other fans are creaking along just as slowly. There’s not a breeze blowing them, so they must be on. And they must also have the equivalent of one AAA battery in their motors.
Why are these fans here? They’re not cooling you. They’re mocking you.
Mocking you with their inability to produce anything more than what could only be mistaken for a mouse fart. Actually, at this point, you’d welcome the breeze produced by a mouse fart, because it would cool you off more than these horrible contraptions that are trying to pass themselves off as wind creators.
**********
So next time you’re out at a bar, being led around by your girlfriend like a neutered puppy, trying to avoid a Marlboro Red in your cornea and wishing a giant fan would blow all the drunken assholes out the front door…take a look around. You never know what you might notice.
Monday, September 18, 2006
iEmbarrassment Vol. 1
Anyone who knows me knows that I love music. But I don't discriminate. I love it all (with the exception of Ashlee Simpson and Sonique's "Feel So Good" for some reason.) I can appreciate anything for what it is. Rap, rock, pop, country, classical, jazz, 80's sitcom theme, aboriginal didgeridoo, harmonized flatulence...it's all fair game for my ears.
So, I collect it. My iTunes library is a bit ridiculous. It pretty much cuts a swath through all genres, styles and levels of embarrassment.
And even though it means I may never get laid again, I invite you into the dark, frighteningly dumb area of my computer that is my iTunes.
Here's how it works. I have about 20,000 songs. I'll put it on random and tell you the first few songs that come up that might be considered semi-embarrassing, analyze them, and possibly try to explain why in the holy hell they're resting on my hard drive.
Are you ready? Because there's no turning back. You might want to send the kids to bed. Here we go.
**********
1. Hall & Oates - "Kiss Is On My List"
I think the last thing that any girl would want to do is kiss John Oates, with his giant pushbroom moustache attacking their face. That’s why I view this song as more of a threat than a love song. And who are these girls that made Oates’ creepy Kiss List?
- The girl in 3rd Grade who gave him a Valentine signed “Love, Christine.” Much to little John’s dismay, she didn’t actually love him. She must pay for this.
- Justine Bateman. Oates’ became smitten with her after seeing an episode of Family Ties, but later found out she was dating Scott Baio. Not only did she make the list, but Oates can sometimes be seen after his concerts, sobbing in a corner, quietly muttering the word “Baio” repeatedly.
- His mom, because he’s a twisted freak with an Oedipal Complex.
- Daryl Hall, because you can’t spend that much time on a tour bus with someone that cool and not start to have feelings for him. At least that’s what Oates’ therapist told him.
Embarrassment Factor: 6 out of 10 Lip Hairs
2. N.E.R.D. - "Provider"
Has a group's name ever so accurately described me? Probably not since Kajagoogoo.
Embarrassment Factor: 2 out of 10 Rumpshakers
3. Ready For The World - "Love You Down"
This is pretty much the booty bass version of Little Engine That Could. Observe these lyrics.
“Let me love you down
Even if it takes all night.”
Now, that’s commitment. Although it does seem a little sad that it might take so long to satisfy someone. Check out these lost lyrics I found.
“Let me love you down, even if it takes all night.
Let me love you d…hang on. I think your bra is stuck. I can’t seem to get…
Oh, wait. There it goes. It was one of those tricky clasp-y ones. Now I’ve got it.
Hang on. My belt buckle is being weird. It happens sometimes.
I swear, I’m gonna really love you down in a minute. Boy, oh boy am I ever gonna love you down. Just as soon as….A-ha! There it goes.
Ok…say, did you bring protection? Because I forgot to run by the store.
Hang on, I’ll go right now. Can I borrow your car? Mine’s in the shop.”
Embarrassment Factor: 7 out of 10 Forgotten Prophylactics (Points were added due to the fact that the lost lyrics hit far too close to home for me.)
4. Aaron Neville/Linda Rondstadt - "I Don't Know Much"
One of the greatest songs ever sung by a man with a giant mole and sword tattoo on his face.
Embarrassment Factor: 0 out of 10
5. Theme - "Facts Of Life"
To me, this isn’t embarrassing at all. That’s because the sitcom theme song is a forgotten work of art that reached its creative peak in 1986. “Facts of Life” is the perfect example of this.
Forget Bach. Forget Beethoven. Give me Mrs. Garrett’s theme anyday.
And the fact that it was written by the patriarch of the Seaver clan, Alan Thicke, well, that just makes it legendary.
“You take the good, you take the bad,
you take them both and there you have
The facts of life. The facts of life.
There's a time you got to go and show
You're growin' now you know about
the facts of life. The facts of life.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
Embarrassment Factor: Negative 10 out of 1 gajillion Tooties
**********
That concludes our tour for today. Hope you enjoyed it and maybe even learned a thing or two. For instance, what a dork I am. I’ll leave you with these wise words…
We took the good. We took the bad. We took them both and there you have…iEmbarrassment Vol. 1.
So, I collect it. My iTunes library is a bit ridiculous. It pretty much cuts a swath through all genres, styles and levels of embarrassment.
And even though it means I may never get laid again, I invite you into the dark, frighteningly dumb area of my computer that is my iTunes.
Here's how it works. I have about 20,000 songs. I'll put it on random and tell you the first few songs that come up that might be considered semi-embarrassing, analyze them, and possibly try to explain why in the holy hell they're resting on my hard drive.
Are you ready? Because there's no turning back. You might want to send the kids to bed. Here we go.
**********
1. Hall & Oates - "Kiss Is On My List"
I think the last thing that any girl would want to do is kiss John Oates, with his giant pushbroom moustache attacking their face. That’s why I view this song as more of a threat than a love song. And who are these girls that made Oates’ creepy Kiss List?- The girl in 3rd Grade who gave him a Valentine signed “Love, Christine.” Much to little John’s dismay, she didn’t actually love him. She must pay for this.
- Justine Bateman. Oates’ became smitten with her after seeing an episode of Family Ties, but later found out she was dating Scott Baio. Not only did she make the list, but Oates can sometimes be seen after his concerts, sobbing in a corner, quietly muttering the word “Baio” repeatedly.
- His mom, because he’s a twisted freak with an Oedipal Complex.
- Daryl Hall, because you can’t spend that much time on a tour bus with someone that cool and not start to have feelings for him. At least that’s what Oates’ therapist told him.
Embarrassment Factor: 6 out of 10 Lip Hairs
2. N.E.R.D. - "Provider"
Has a group's name ever so accurately described me? Probably not since Kajagoogoo.
Embarrassment Factor: 2 out of 10 Rumpshakers
3. Ready For The World - "Love You Down"
This is pretty much the booty bass version of Little Engine That Could. Observe these lyrics.
“Let me love you down
Even if it takes all night.”
Now, that’s commitment. Although it does seem a little sad that it might take so long to satisfy someone. Check out these lost lyrics I found.
“Let me love you down, even if it takes all night.
Let me love you d…hang on. I think your bra is stuck. I can’t seem to get…
Oh, wait. There it goes. It was one of those tricky clasp-y ones. Now I’ve got it.
Hang on. My belt buckle is being weird. It happens sometimes.
I swear, I’m gonna really love you down in a minute. Boy, oh boy am I ever gonna love you down. Just as soon as….A-ha! There it goes.
Ok…say, did you bring protection? Because I forgot to run by the store.
Hang on, I’ll go right now. Can I borrow your car? Mine’s in the shop.”
Embarrassment Factor: 7 out of 10 Forgotten Prophylactics (Points were added due to the fact that the lost lyrics hit far too close to home for me.)
4. Aaron Neville/Linda Rondstadt - "I Don't Know Much"
One of the greatest songs ever sung by a man with a giant mole and sword tattoo on his face.
Embarrassment Factor: 0 out of 10
5. Theme - "Facts Of Life"
To me, this isn’t embarrassing at all. That’s because the sitcom theme song is a forgotten work of art that reached its creative peak in 1986. “Facts of Life” is the perfect example of this.
Forget Bach. Forget Beethoven. Give me Mrs. Garrett’s theme anyday.
And the fact that it was written by the patriarch of the Seaver clan, Alan Thicke, well, that just makes it legendary.
“You take the good, you take the bad,
you take them both and there you have
The facts of life. The facts of life.
There's a time you got to go and show
You're growin' now you know about
the facts of life. The facts of life.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
Embarrassment Factor: Negative 10 out of 1 gajillion Tooties
**********
That concludes our tour for today. Hope you enjoyed it and maybe even learned a thing or two. For instance, what a dork I am. I’ll leave you with these wise words…
We took the good. We took the bad. We took them both and there you have…iEmbarrassment Vol. 1.
Willie! Think of your future.
Willie Nelson Cited for Drug Possession
BREAUX BRIDGE, La. — Willie Nelson and several members of his band were issued misdemeanor citations for drug possession early today during a traffic stop in Saint Martin Parish.
The traffic stop was conducted on Interstate 10 near Breaux Bridge.
Trooper Willie Williams says troopers smelled a strong odor of marijuana when the driver opened the bus door.
During a search of the bus, Williams say approximately 1 1/2 pounds of marijuana and approximately 2/10 of a pound of mushrooms were located on the bus.
The 73-year-old Nelson of Spicewood, Texas; 59-year-old Tony Sizemore of Saint Cloud, Fla.; 75-year-old Bobbie Nelson of Briarcliff, Texas; 54-year-old Gates Moore of Austin, Texas; and 50-year-old David Anderson of Dallas, Texas were issued citations for possession of mushrooms and possession of marijuana and released.
I, for one, am shocked and appalled. This is the last thing I would have expected from you, William H. Nelson. You always seemed to have such a good head on your shoulders and now you're throwing away your future to experiment with marijuana.
Don't you know that it's a gateway drug? You were even in that anti-drug movie Half Baked. Did you learn nothing?
I hope this doesn't affect any possible jobs you might apply for. You can't waste away your life living out this dream of becoming a country singer. Face it, Willie. It ain't happenin' for you.
Now, put down the pipe, straighten up and fly right or you'll never amount to anything. Listen to State Trooper Willie Williams when he says there's no hope with dope. A man with a name that ridiculous has to know what he's talking about.
I hear there are some good trade schools you could apply to. And I saw Sally Struthers on TV the other day talking about a career in Gun Repair, Interior Design or Commercial Art. You always liked doodling. Maybe you could look into that.
Just get your act together, man.
BREAUX BRIDGE, La. — Willie Nelson and several members of his band were issued misdemeanor citations for drug possession early today during a traffic stop in Saint Martin Parish.The traffic stop was conducted on Interstate 10 near Breaux Bridge.
Trooper Willie Williams says troopers smelled a strong odor of marijuana when the driver opened the bus door.
During a search of the bus, Williams say approximately 1 1/2 pounds of marijuana and approximately 2/10 of a pound of mushrooms were located on the bus.
The 73-year-old Nelson of Spicewood, Texas; 59-year-old Tony Sizemore of Saint Cloud, Fla.; 75-year-old Bobbie Nelson of Briarcliff, Texas; 54-year-old Gates Moore of Austin, Texas; and 50-year-old David Anderson of Dallas, Texas were issued citations for possession of mushrooms and possession of marijuana and released.
I, for one, am shocked and appalled. This is the last thing I would have expected from you, William H. Nelson. You always seemed to have such a good head on your shoulders and now you're throwing away your future to experiment with marijuana.
Don't you know that it's a gateway drug? You were even in that anti-drug movie Half Baked. Did you learn nothing?
I hope this doesn't affect any possible jobs you might apply for. You can't waste away your life living out this dream of becoming a country singer. Face it, Willie. It ain't happenin' for you.
Now, put down the pipe, straighten up and fly right or you'll never amount to anything. Listen to State Trooper Willie Williams when he says there's no hope with dope. A man with a name that ridiculous has to know what he's talking about.
I hear there are some good trade schools you could apply to. And I saw Sally Struthers on TV the other day talking about a career in Gun Repair, Interior Design or Commercial Art. You always liked doodling. Maybe you could look into that.
Just get your act together, man.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
The sun was beatin down on my baseball hat...
What's the best way to recover from two straight days of drinking and sports? Why, another day of drinking and sports, of course.
I've never exactly been Johnny SportsGuy (I knew him in college though. Good dude. Well, except for that time he pantsed me in front of that sorority house. Not cool, Johnny SportsGuy), but when it comes to NCAA football and Braves baseball, I just can't get enough. That's why my friend Jordo and I spent our Sunday down at The Ted watching the Braves.
Nothing manlier than two dudes watchin' baseball and drinkin' beer. Of course, right before we left, we really enjoyed watching Ghoulies 2. We felt it was a good balance of dorkiness and adulthood.
We arrived at the stadium and headed to the ticket window to buy our usual outfield seats, in close proximity to food, beer and possible homerun balls, but a cop approached us and asked if we needed tickets. This was confusing for many reasons. Was this some sort of test?
We didn't know whether to take the tickets, run away or tell him "No thank you officer. We are not, and have never been, involved in any sort of illegal activity. Could we aid in any investigations by pointing you towards local crackhouses and opium dens?”
But we ended up taking the tickets. I figured we could easily claim entrapment if it came to that, so we’d be in the clear. Plus, the seats were on the first base line, right beside the dugout. There was a clear view of the outfield seats I normally get, so we could point and laugh at the poor, unfortunate souls who weren’t as awesome as us.
(Note: After writing the previous sentence, I immediately thought of The Little Mermaid. The Rowdy Bowden Manliness Meter has hit a new low.)
Once we got our beers and hot dawgs (which must be pronounced that way, just as MaryJane pronounces it in Half Baked), we realized that Turner Field had an infestation problem.
Girl Scouts had taken over, invading the PA Booth, singing the National Anthem and attempting to start ill-fated cheers.
Before the game, what seemed like an endless line of every Girl Scout troop from here to Fallujah paraded around the field, waving at the crowd.
Cue uncomfortable moment.
Being a guy, you never want to cross the line from being nice to a little girl to being that creepy guy who’s being way too nice to a little girl. So, the question is, when these Girl Scouts are ten feet from you, waving and looking you straight in the eye…Do you be a jerk and ignore them or risk being that creepy guy who’s waving at little girls?
I opted to be a jerk. Jordo waved. Luckily, we pulled off both approaches without any charges pressed or emotions scarred.
But we did get two good puns (which are pretty much the highlight of any outing for us) out of their march around the diamond.
As one troop lollygagged behind the rest, Jordo exclaimed "Look at those Tagalongs."
To which I replied, "Man, everytime I think I've seen the last Girl Scout, there's Somoa."
Yes, folks. Never go anywhere with us.
And we wonder why we don't have girlfriends.
From our vantage point, we were able to see all the Braves hanging out around the dugout, including Jordo’s favorite player, Marcus Giles.
Unfortunately, he didn’t notice Jordo’s “I jizz for Giles” poster.
I was also able to catch a picture of these arms and head that are floating above some jeans. Either that, or it’s the best camo shirt ever. You never can tell when the patterns are this intricate and ornate.
Right before the seventh inning stretch, I headed up to buy one last beer, then go to the bathroom. As anyone knows, that was a poor scheduling choice on my part. Here I was with a brand new beer, standing in a bathroom with nowhere to put it. I had some options.
1. The Ground - This one is risky because the ground is disgusting and you risk some splashback landing in your beer. Not for me.
2. Holding The Beer Under Your Arm - If you can pull this off, it's the best move. But if your beer is full, you can risk spillage, plus a condensation mark under your arm that looks like sweat. I didn't think I could pull this off.
3. Sitting Your Drink On The Sink - And risk someone walking off with my newly purchased libation? I think not.
4. Improv - This was my choice. I went into a stall and placed my beer on the back of the toilet. Not the best way to treat my frosty friend, but at least I didn't end up with a giant sweat stain, drinking tiny amounts of my own urine.
As the game went on, the sun roasted us like a hack comedian at the Friars Club and in the end, the Braves pulled off a five run bottom-of-the-tenth to claim the victory, Giles knocked in the scoring run, Jordo made his poster come true and I contemplated just how long I could make this run-on sentence last.
Now, if I could only find Critters 3 on TV, my weekend would end in perfection.
I've never exactly been Johnny SportsGuy (I knew him in college though. Good dude. Well, except for that time he pantsed me in front of that sorority house. Not cool, Johnny SportsGuy), but when it comes to NCAA football and Braves baseball, I just can't get enough. That's why my friend Jordo and I spent our Sunday down at The Ted watching the Braves.
Nothing manlier than two dudes watchin' baseball and drinkin' beer. Of course, right before we left, we really enjoyed watching Ghoulies 2. We felt it was a good balance of dorkiness and adulthood.
We arrived at the stadium and headed to the ticket window to buy our usual outfield seats, in close proximity to food, beer and possible homerun balls, but a cop approached us and asked if we needed tickets. This was confusing for many reasons. Was this some sort of test?
We didn't know whether to take the tickets, run away or tell him "No thank you officer. We are not, and have never been, involved in any sort of illegal activity. Could we aid in any investigations by pointing you towards local crackhouses and opium dens?”
But we ended up taking the tickets. I figured we could easily claim entrapment if it came to that, so we’d be in the clear. Plus, the seats were on the first base line, right beside the dugout. There was a clear view of the outfield seats I normally get, so we could point and laugh at the poor, unfortunate souls who weren’t as awesome as us.
(Note: After writing the previous sentence, I immediately thought of The Little Mermaid. The Rowdy Bowden Manliness Meter has hit a new low.)
Once we got our beers and hot dawgs (which must be pronounced that way, just as MaryJane pronounces it in Half Baked), we realized that Turner Field had an infestation problem.
Girl Scouts had taken over, invading the PA Booth, singing the National Anthem and attempting to start ill-fated cheers.
Before the game, what seemed like an endless line of every Girl Scout troop from here to Fallujah paraded around the field, waving at the crowd.
Cue uncomfortable moment.
Being a guy, you never want to cross the line from being nice to a little girl to being that creepy guy who’s being way too nice to a little girl. So, the question is, when these Girl Scouts are ten feet from you, waving and looking you straight in the eye…Do you be a jerk and ignore them or risk being that creepy guy who’s waving at little girls?
I opted to be a jerk. Jordo waved. Luckily, we pulled off both approaches without any charges pressed or emotions scarred.
But we did get two good puns (which are pretty much the highlight of any outing for us) out of their march around the diamond.
As one troop lollygagged behind the rest, Jordo exclaimed "Look at those Tagalongs."
To which I replied, "Man, everytime I think I've seen the last Girl Scout, there's Somoa."
Yes, folks. Never go anywhere with us.
And we wonder why we don't have girlfriends.
From our vantage point, we were able to see all the Braves hanging out around the dugout, including Jordo’s favorite player, Marcus Giles.
Unfortunately, he didn’t notice Jordo’s “I jizz for Giles” poster.
I was also able to catch a picture of these arms and head that are floating above some jeans. Either that, or it’s the best camo shirt ever. You never can tell when the patterns are this intricate and ornate.
Right before the seventh inning stretch, I headed up to buy one last beer, then go to the bathroom. As anyone knows, that was a poor scheduling choice on my part. Here I was with a brand new beer, standing in a bathroom with nowhere to put it. I had some options.
1. The Ground - This one is risky because the ground is disgusting and you risk some splashback landing in your beer. Not for me.
2. Holding The Beer Under Your Arm - If you can pull this off, it's the best move. But if your beer is full, you can risk spillage, plus a condensation mark under your arm that looks like sweat. I didn't think I could pull this off.
3. Sitting Your Drink On The Sink - And risk someone walking off with my newly purchased libation? I think not.
4. Improv - This was my choice. I went into a stall and placed my beer on the back of the toilet. Not the best way to treat my frosty friend, but at least I didn't end up with a giant sweat stain, drinking tiny amounts of my own urine.
As the game went on, the sun roasted us like a hack comedian at the Friars Club and in the end, the Braves pulled off a five run bottom-of-the-tenth to claim the victory, Giles knocked in the scoring run, Jordo made his poster come true and I contemplated just how long I could make this run-on sentence last.
Now, if I could only find Critters 3 on TV, my weekend would end in perfection.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Frost Brew at your own risk.
Coors Light wants to destroy the world.
At least, that's my theory. You see, years ago in the Coors Light La-brew-tory, a young scientist stumbled upon a discovery that would change beer forever. It was called the Frost Brew Liner, and it kept beer colder than average. Unfortunately, that scientist did not realize the magnitude of its power and was found frozen in a solid block of ice, still holding a beaker full of some sort of nerdy liquid that only scientists care about.
But after a year or two, Coors Light harnessed this amazing power and mass produced it via their evil bottling plant. (Only one of their bottling plants is actually evil. It's in New Jersey. Go figure.) The unsuspecting public had no idea the terrors that would await them.
It began innocently enough. Consumers bought the new cans due to gimmick-y packaging such as reusable coolers and new packaging. Then, they began to notice that if only one Frost Brew lined can was placed in an empty cooler alongside another brand's regular cans, it would keep them all cold. Well, that's handy, right?
Wrong!
Soon, meteorologists began noticing changes in weather patterns. Polar ice caps stopped melting. Much like Vanessa Williams predicted in her hit song "Save the Best for Last," the snow did indeed begin to fall in June.
Take a look at this recent photo.
It appears to be a Vermont lodge in the dead of winter, right? Well, that's actually Fidel Castro's house. In Cuba. In August.
It has begun.
Soon, their Silver Bullet train will be able to travel anywhere in the world under the guise of a global snowstorm, overthrowing governments and installing their own Rocky-tapped leaders.
Coors Light wants to rule the world with an aluminum fist and it's up to us to stop them. And the only way to do that?
Drink cold, refreshing Bud Light! Mmm, Bud Light. The taste that goes down smooth and isn't dedicated to killing us all.
**This post sponsored by the good, non-evil people of Anheuser-Busch.
At least, that's my theory. You see, years ago in the Coors Light La-brew-tory, a young scientist stumbled upon a discovery that would change beer forever. It was called the Frost Brew Liner, and it kept beer colder than average. Unfortunately, that scientist did not realize the magnitude of its power and was found frozen in a solid block of ice, still holding a beaker full of some sort of nerdy liquid that only scientists care about.
But after a year or two, Coors Light harnessed this amazing power and mass produced it via their evil bottling plant. (Only one of their bottling plants is actually evil. It's in New Jersey. Go figure.) The unsuspecting public had no idea the terrors that would await them.
It began innocently enough. Consumers bought the new cans due to gimmick-y packaging such as reusable coolers and new packaging. Then, they began to notice that if only one Frost Brew lined can was placed in an empty cooler alongside another brand's regular cans, it would keep them all cold. Well, that's handy, right?
Wrong!
Soon, meteorologists began noticing changes in weather patterns. Polar ice caps stopped melting. Much like Vanessa Williams predicted in her hit song "Save the Best for Last," the snow did indeed begin to fall in June.
Take a look at this recent photo.
It appears to be a Vermont lodge in the dead of winter, right? Well, that's actually Fidel Castro's house. In Cuba. In August.
It has begun.
Soon, their Silver Bullet train will be able to travel anywhere in the world under the guise of a global snowstorm, overthrowing governments and installing their own Rocky-tapped leaders.
Coors Light wants to rule the world with an aluminum fist and it's up to us to stop them. And the only way to do that?
Drink cold, refreshing Bud Light! Mmm, Bud Light. The taste that goes down smooth and isn't dedicated to killing us all.
**This post sponsored by the good, non-evil people of Anheuser-Busch.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The washer/dryer hookup. Holler if you hear me.
I’m a laundry nomad.
My place doesn’t even have a washer/dryer hookup, so I’m constantly on the lookout for family members, friends, acquaintances and strangers to let me stick my unmentionables in their major appliances.
On numerous occasions, I’ve found myself wandering the streets mumbling “Maytag, Kenmore, Whirlpool!” It’s actually become a good mantra for me. Plus, if you do it for long enough, people start throwing money at you in the hopes that you won’t murder them. It’s a pretty sweet gig.
I could just go to a coin-operated laundromat, but I’ve seen the kind of people that hang out there. I don’t really want my bed sheets tumbling around in the same place they washed their blood-stained t-shirt with Tweety Bird on the front, exclaiming “Let’s get fotally tucked up!”
Why is there blood on it?
I don’t know.
And that’s what frightens me.
Or there’s always the traditional drop-off laundromat. Again, not for me. I imagine the people who work there play dress-up with everyone’s clothes after hours. I picture them running around with my pants on their head, my socks on their hands, choking each other with my ties in some sick, sexual laundromat-operator act. A little far-fetched? Probably. But better safe than sorry. Don’t come running to me when your necktie turns up as the murder weapon in an autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone awry.
Maybe I’ll just get a washboard. The upside to that is that when I’m not using it, I can grab my spoons, moonshine jug and washtub bass, call up my kinfolk (Jeb, Zeke, PollyAnn and Aunt Sasquatch), and have a good ole hootenanny. We’ll grill some squirrel tails and play “Pin the Extra Chromosome on Cousin Hambone.”
My alternatives seem to be exhausted. Looks like there’s no other option but to continue my nomadic ways. Come to think of it, I hear you have a washer and dryer. Mind if me and Cousin Hambone come over for a little while?
My place doesn’t even have a washer/dryer hookup, so I’m constantly on the lookout for family members, friends, acquaintances and strangers to let me stick my unmentionables in their major appliances.
On numerous occasions, I’ve found myself wandering the streets mumbling “Maytag, Kenmore, Whirlpool!” It’s actually become a good mantra for me. Plus, if you do it for long enough, people start throwing money at you in the hopes that you won’t murder them. It’s a pretty sweet gig.
I could just go to a coin-operated laundromat, but I’ve seen the kind of people that hang out there. I don’t really want my bed sheets tumbling around in the same place they washed their blood-stained t-shirt with Tweety Bird on the front, exclaiming “Let’s get fotally tucked up!”
Why is there blood on it?
I don’t know.
And that’s what frightens me.
Or there’s always the traditional drop-off laundromat. Again, not for me. I imagine the people who work there play dress-up with everyone’s clothes after hours. I picture them running around with my pants on their head, my socks on their hands, choking each other with my ties in some sick, sexual laundromat-operator act. A little far-fetched? Probably. But better safe than sorry. Don’t come running to me when your necktie turns up as the murder weapon in an autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone awry.
Maybe I’ll just get a washboard. The upside to that is that when I’m not using it, I can grab my spoons, moonshine jug and washtub bass, call up my kinfolk (Jeb, Zeke, PollyAnn and Aunt Sasquatch), and have a good ole hootenanny. We’ll grill some squirrel tails and play “Pin the Extra Chromosome on Cousin Hambone.”
My alternatives seem to be exhausted. Looks like there’s no other option but to continue my nomadic ways. Come to think of it, I hear you have a washer and dryer. Mind if me and Cousin Hambone come over for a little while?
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Brain Matters Vol. 2
If you ever see me staring off into space, chances are I'm meandering down a long, winding path through the forest of my mind, getting easily distracted by small, woodland creatures I call "thoughts." But they can't stay in there forever, so I write them down for all my readers. And by "all my readers," I mean my mom. Hi mom!
So, without further ado, I give you my Brain Matt.....Ooh, look! A chipmunk!
***Inside my head, my inner monologue sounds nothing like my actual voice. It’s deeper, less Southern and way more well-spoken (as is evident by the grammatical abomination of that last sentence). Observe.
IN MY HEAD: Excuse me, Miss. I saw you across the room and couldn’t help but be in awe of your beauty. I was wondering if you’d care to join me for an evening of delectable food and invigorating conversation. And if you’d like, we could retire to my abode, where I have a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite on ice. Who knows what pleasures may await you there?
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY: Hey lady. Yeah, you. Your hair smells like a grape Blow Pop and you’ve got most of your teeth. I can even look past that weird mole on your face, but you might want to get that thing looked at.
I got a hot plate and some pork ‘n’ beans back at my place. I don’t got no gas money, so we’re gonna have to hoof it. Or we can hang here. I got a box of Franzia and some Solo cups in my trunk next to the antifreeze. We can crack that cardboard puppy open and do it in the parking lot. That sound like somethin’ that’ll bristle your whiskers?
But in order to balance out the cosmos, someone, somewhere is walking around with my actual voice as their inner monologue. They’re also probably wondering why they sound like a pre-pubescent redneck with horrible grammar.
***I have a friend we call Grizz, because he could grow a beard faster than Grizzly Adams. I do think they should, at some point, have a GrizzOff to see who could grow one faster, but I think my man takes that competition.
I bring him up because, for the life of me, I cannot grow facial hair. My dad has a full beard. My brother has sported the facial hair. Yet I remain the follicly-challenged man-child that I am today. Did I miss a chromosome somewhere? Because I’m pretty sure that by age 26, I should be able to look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family if I wanted to put the time and effort into it.
Don’t get me wrong, it does grow in some spots. I could have some mean mutton chops if I wanted to. The chin and neck areas are progressing nicely. My problem is that there’s no connection between the areas. It’s as if all these areas of potential growth are different continents, but their civilizations aren’t advanced enough to build roadways to bring them all together. Stupid face continents.
The result is me looking like Jackson Pollack threw some Nair at my face. A little bit here, a little bit there, but it ain’t exactly the Mona Lisa, if you know what I’m saying. You do? Good, because I don’t.
***I officially declare that there should be no more songs about Superman. It’s done.
Five for Fighting has that one really annoying song about Superman. Three Doors Down has that ridiculously overplayed song about Superman. R.E.M. had one about Superman. John Williams wrote the theme to Superman: The Movie.
Well, maybe that last one is justified, but you get the point. When Grizz and I were at Open Mic Night, a guy was singing his original song, which was decent (even though, as Grizz pointed out, his “chord progressions were non-conclusive,” whatever the hell that means). But then he gets to the chorus and it’s about how his dad is like Superman in his eyes.
I couldn’t help but groan. It’s so cliché I almost scratched out my own eyeballs just so I could plug my ears with them.
I propose that if you absolutely must use this analogy in song, pick a different superhero. Lord knows there are plenty of them.
Green Lantern? He had that nifty ring that could create green things out of thin air. And girls love jewelry that can create green things out of thin air, right? Right? Well, maybe not so much him.
What about Robin? You could write a song about an underage kid that lives with you and follows you around in tights. Or….maybe not.
Ok, fine. You can use Superman. Just stop putting numbers in your band name. It’s the least you can do for those of us who…..
Ooh, look! Another chipmunk!
So, without further ado, I give you my Brain Matt.....Ooh, look! A chipmunk!
***Inside my head, my inner monologue sounds nothing like my actual voice. It’s deeper, less Southern and way more well-spoken (as is evident by the grammatical abomination of that last sentence). Observe.
IN MY HEAD: Excuse me, Miss. I saw you across the room and couldn’t help but be in awe of your beauty. I was wondering if you’d care to join me for an evening of delectable food and invigorating conversation. And if you’d like, we could retire to my abode, where I have a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite on ice. Who knows what pleasures may await you there?
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY: Hey lady. Yeah, you. Your hair smells like a grape Blow Pop and you’ve got most of your teeth. I can even look past that weird mole on your face, but you might want to get that thing looked at.
I got a hot plate and some pork ‘n’ beans back at my place. I don’t got no gas money, so we’re gonna have to hoof it. Or we can hang here. I got a box of Franzia and some Solo cups in my trunk next to the antifreeze. We can crack that cardboard puppy open and do it in the parking lot. That sound like somethin’ that’ll bristle your whiskers?
But in order to balance out the cosmos, someone, somewhere is walking around with my actual voice as their inner monologue. They’re also probably wondering why they sound like a pre-pubescent redneck with horrible grammar.
***I have a friend we call Grizz, because he could grow a beard faster than Grizzly Adams. I do think they should, at some point, have a GrizzOff to see who could grow one faster, but I think my man takes that competition.
I bring him up because, for the life of me, I cannot grow facial hair. My dad has a full beard. My brother has sported the facial hair. Yet I remain the follicly-challenged man-child that I am today. Did I miss a chromosome somewhere? Because I’m pretty sure that by age 26, I should be able to look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family if I wanted to put the time and effort into it.
Don’t get me wrong, it does grow in some spots. I could have some mean mutton chops if I wanted to. The chin and neck areas are progressing nicely. My problem is that there’s no connection between the areas. It’s as if all these areas of potential growth are different continents, but their civilizations aren’t advanced enough to build roadways to bring them all together. Stupid face continents.
The result is me looking like Jackson Pollack threw some Nair at my face. A little bit here, a little bit there, but it ain’t exactly the Mona Lisa, if you know what I’m saying. You do? Good, because I don’t.
***I officially declare that there should be no more songs about Superman. It’s done.
Five for Fighting has that one really annoying song about Superman. Three Doors Down has that ridiculously overplayed song about Superman. R.E.M. had one about Superman. John Williams wrote the theme to Superman: The Movie.
Well, maybe that last one is justified, but you get the point. When Grizz and I were at Open Mic Night, a guy was singing his original song, which was decent (even though, as Grizz pointed out, his “chord progressions were non-conclusive,” whatever the hell that means). But then he gets to the chorus and it’s about how his dad is like Superman in his eyes.
I couldn’t help but groan. It’s so cliché I almost scratched out my own eyeballs just so I could plug my ears with them.
I propose that if you absolutely must use this analogy in song, pick a different superhero. Lord knows there are plenty of them.
Green Lantern? He had that nifty ring that could create green things out of thin air. And girls love jewelry that can create green things out of thin air, right? Right? Well, maybe not so much him.
What about Robin? You could write a song about an underage kid that lives with you and follows you around in tights. Or….maybe not.
Ok, fine. You can use Superman. Just stop putting numbers in your band name. It’s the least you can do for those of us who…..
Ooh, look! Another chipmunk!
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
R.I.P. - My $5 Styrofoam Cooler
We are gathered here today to honor one of the most trusted and reliable friends I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, my $5 styrofoam cooler I bought from Buddy's convenient store at the beginning of the summer.
I feel like I hardly got to know it, but I treasure the time I spent with it. Most styrofoam coolers are good for one quick outing and the handle falls off or they simply break down. But not mine. We shared plenty of great times together. Lounging by the pool. Drinking before a Braves game. Resting quietly on the beach. Creaking loudly in the back of my car as we head to a concert, as if to say "Hooray! I'm alive and I want all to know it!"
My cooler even got to live out its life long dream of attending a UGA tailgate. That's right, the big time. It was carried all the way from the top of the hill on Baxter to the Myers quad. It was so full of beer and ice that we had to take turns carrying it. By the time we reached our final tailgate destination, its red handles had grown pink around the edges, tired from the strain.
I placed it beneath a tree. We both knew its time had come, but we knew it was going to go out with one hell of a party. We chugged its contents. We cracked open beers and funneled them, spraying the cooler with the foamy goodness it loved refrigerating. We celebrated its non-biodegradable life.
And then the time came. Kickoff wasn't far off. I had to leave. Where I was going, it couldn't follow. We left one 16oz Miller High Life inside as a tribute to all that had come before it and to the truly high life it had lived.
And I said goodbye to my friend.
I know I'll go back to that spot under the shade tree and remember. Just remember.
For $5, that styrofoam cooler supplied me with more than just a place to store drinks and lunch meat. It supplied me with memories and stories of this fabled summer. And for that, I'll never forget it.
Thank you $5 Styrofoam Cooler from Buddy's. Thank you. You may have been designed to keep things cold, but believe me when I say, you warmed my heart.
I feel like I hardly got to know it, but I treasure the time I spent with it. Most styrofoam coolers are good for one quick outing and the handle falls off or they simply break down. But not mine. We shared plenty of great times together. Lounging by the pool. Drinking before a Braves game. Resting quietly on the beach. Creaking loudly in the back of my car as we head to a concert, as if to say "Hooray! I'm alive and I want all to know it!"
My cooler even got to live out its life long dream of attending a UGA tailgate. That's right, the big time. It was carried all the way from the top of the hill on Baxter to the Myers quad. It was so full of beer and ice that we had to take turns carrying it. By the time we reached our final tailgate destination, its red handles had grown pink around the edges, tired from the strain.
I placed it beneath a tree. We both knew its time had come, but we knew it was going to go out with one hell of a party. We chugged its contents. We cracked open beers and funneled them, spraying the cooler with the foamy goodness it loved refrigerating. We celebrated its non-biodegradable life.
And then the time came. Kickoff wasn't far off. I had to leave. Where I was going, it couldn't follow. We left one 16oz Miller High Life inside as a tribute to all that had come before it and to the truly high life it had lived.
And I said goodbye to my friend.
I know I'll go back to that spot under the shade tree and remember. Just remember.
For $5, that styrofoam cooler supplied me with more than just a place to store drinks and lunch meat. It supplied me with memories and stories of this fabled summer. And for that, I'll never forget it.
Thank you $5 Styrofoam Cooler from Buddy's. Thank you. You may have been designed to keep things cold, but believe me when I say, you warmed my heart.
The Hypocritical Oath
I, Rowdy Bowden, do solemnly swear on this worn-out Old Navy catalog that was holding up one leg of my coffee table, that I shall never purchase, wear or express anything other than disgust towards the horror that is Madras shorts.
The pastel nightmare of brightly colored squares that resemble the contents of the Easter Bunny's colostomy bag will never cross the threshold to my domicile, much less actually grace my person in any way.
In addition, I have witnessed other societal abominations that I must take a stance against, and they are as follows:
I shall never use the word "Holla!" even in jest.
I shall never write a song that features the phrase "Crank it up and cry it out," then proceed to play that song at an Open Mic Night while two drunken idiots named Josh and Derek laugh uncontrollably in the back of the room.
I shall not give in to the newly attractive Ashlee Simpson. I must constantly remind myself of my hatred for her, despite her new nose, which has magically skyrocketed her from "I hope she is set on fire and falls off a cliff, cruelly landing inches away from a lake that would have distinguished the blaze." to "I think I'd do her."
I shall never own a vanity license plate, especially if said license plate features a number that is meant to function as part of a word. Examples of this include, but are not limited to:
"U R HOT 4 ME"
"STR8 PLAYA"
In addition, I swear to point and laugh at any car that features stickers on the back windshield with phrases such as the following, usually written in an Old English font:
"Lil Vato"
"My ambitions as a ridah."
"Picture me rollin."
"You know how we do it."
"Southside Pimp Trik Gangsta Clik Crew Unit Posse Gang Boyz"
I shall then run away like a frightened schoolgirl when the driver of the aforementioned car sees me pointing at him.
Once I am hidden, I shall begin snickering again from the safety of a giant Azalea bush.
I shall kick my own ass for knowing what an Azalea bush is.
These things I do swear to uphold with all my existence, for as long as I grace this Earth.
Or until Ashlee Simpson gets new boobs.
The pastel nightmare of brightly colored squares that resemble the contents of the Easter Bunny's colostomy bag will never cross the threshold to my domicile, much less actually grace my person in any way.
In addition, I have witnessed other societal abominations that I must take a stance against, and they are as follows:
I shall never use the word "Holla!" even in jest.
I shall never write a song that features the phrase "Crank it up and cry it out," then proceed to play that song at an Open Mic Night while two drunken idiots named Josh and Derek laugh uncontrollably in the back of the room.
I shall not give in to the newly attractive Ashlee Simpson. I must constantly remind myself of my hatred for her, despite her new nose, which has magically skyrocketed her from "I hope she is set on fire and falls off a cliff, cruelly landing inches away from a lake that would have distinguished the blaze." to "I think I'd do her."
I shall never own a vanity license plate, especially if said license plate features a number that is meant to function as part of a word. Examples of this include, but are not limited to:
"U R HOT 4 ME"
"STR8 PLAYA"
In addition, I swear to point and laugh at any car that features stickers on the back windshield with phrases such as the following, usually written in an Old English font:
"Lil Vato"
"My ambitions as a ridah."
"Picture me rollin."
"You know how we do it."
"Southside Pimp Trik Gangsta Clik Crew Unit Posse Gang Boyz"
I shall then run away like a frightened schoolgirl when the driver of the aforementioned car sees me pointing at him.
Once I am hidden, I shall begin snickering again from the safety of a giant Azalea bush.
I shall kick my own ass for knowing what an Azalea bush is.
These things I do swear to uphold with all my existence, for as long as I grace this Earth.
Or until Ashlee Simpson gets new boobs.
Monday, September 11, 2006
The Wise Words of B.A. Baracus
Enjoy these excerpts from a recent interview Mr. T gave regarding his new advice show, "I Pity The Fool." If you're interested (and let's be honest, how could you not be?), it premieres on TVLand on October 11.
"You pity the fool because you don't want to beat up a fool. If you pity him, you know, you won't have to beat him up. So that's why I say, fools you gotta give another chance, because they don't know no better."
"My show ain't no Dr. Phil where people sit around crying, 'What's wrong with me Dr. Phil? What's wrong with me Dr. Phil?' You are a fool! That's what's wrong with you!"
"Either you're a fool or you're not. You know me, there's no big or small. If you get on my fool list, that's it, you know ... It's not a shame to say 'Hey, I'm falling to the foolish side. I wonder if you could help me because I don't want to be a fool.' That's what we do. We pity the fool, then we help them, then leave the case, and they're not fools no more."
Concerning a son and father-in-law who work at an auto dealership and became foolish:
"Two things we know are working: the windshield wiper on [the son-in-law's] eyes and the radiator in [the owner's] heart."
"I stopped wearing the gold as of last year during Katrina. As a spiritual man, I felt it would be a sin against my God for me to wear all that gold again.People now on my show, they'll see the gold is in my heart. As a matter of fact, I'll be doing so good you will forget about the gold I used to wear."
On what he calls his mother:
"I call her mother. ...I'm still a mama's boy."
For proof of his love for moms, watch this clip from his highly entertaining motivational video, "Be Somebody...Or Be Somebody's Fool." If you have the means, I highly suggest you pick it up. It is so choice.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_rBidCkJxo&search=mr.%20t
"No, I'm not married or nothing like that. No. No. Because you know what they say. They always say, you know, 'Just when you find a woman that cooks like your mother, she looks like your mother!'
"The only thing that gets me down is when I'm down doing pushups."
Mr. T. I think I speak for our entire generation when I say, "Thank you. And please don't pity us, for we are not fools."
All quotes from AJC.com.
"You pity the fool because you don't want to beat up a fool. If you pity him, you know, you won't have to beat him up. So that's why I say, fools you gotta give another chance, because they don't know no better."
"My show ain't no Dr. Phil where people sit around crying, 'What's wrong with me Dr. Phil? What's wrong with me Dr. Phil?' You are a fool! That's what's wrong with you!"
"Either you're a fool or you're not. You know me, there's no big or small. If you get on my fool list, that's it, you know ... It's not a shame to say 'Hey, I'm falling to the foolish side. I wonder if you could help me because I don't want to be a fool.' That's what we do. We pity the fool, then we help them, then leave the case, and they're not fools no more."
Concerning a son and father-in-law who work at an auto dealership and became foolish:
"Two things we know are working: the windshield wiper on [the son-in-law's] eyes and the radiator in [the owner's] heart."
"I stopped wearing the gold as of last year during Katrina. As a spiritual man, I felt it would be a sin against my God for me to wear all that gold again.People now on my show, they'll see the gold is in my heart. As a matter of fact, I'll be doing so good you will forget about the gold I used to wear."
On what he calls his mother:
"I call her mother. ...I'm still a mama's boy."
For proof of his love for moms, watch this clip from his highly entertaining motivational video, "Be Somebody...Or Be Somebody's Fool." If you have the means, I highly suggest you pick it up. It is so choice.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7_rBidCkJxo&search=mr.%20t
"No, I'm not married or nothing like that. No. No. Because you know what they say. They always say, you know, 'Just when you find a woman that cooks like your mother, she looks like your mother!'
"The only thing that gets me down is when I'm down doing pushups."
Mr. T. I think I speak for our entire generation when I say, "Thank you. And please don't pity us, for we are not fools."
All quotes from AJC.com.
Brain Matters Vol. 1
**When 2010 rolls around, the people who make the oversized New Years glasses with the zeroes in the middle will be completely out of jobs for a long time. They could try to bring them back in 2030 by filling in part of the three, but I have to tell ya, that doesn't work symmetrically for me.
**Often when someone wants to convey how easy a task is, they say "Hey, it's not brain surgery." or "Hey, it's not rocket science." Since these jobs are obviously the two most difficult professions to get into, people who have these titles are usually revered as geniuses and must be paid extremely well.
That's why I'm offically studying to become the world's first Rocket Surgeon Brain Scientist. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but I'm looking forward to the day when someone says, "Hey, it's not rocket surgery brain science."
Their friend would then reply with, "Oh, you mean the job that Derek guy has. What a badass."
This theory also works when combining other difficult tasks, because if doing them individually is hard, doing both of them together should garner even more respect. Other things on my list include:
Triathelte President of the United States
Solver of the Rubix Cube and the Global Warming problem
Astronaut Double Dutcher (hey, jumping those ropes is hard with that spacesuit on)
**I know I'm not the first person to think about this, but why do guys have nipples? Everything on everyone's body is, or was at some point, functional. But the logic behind guy's nipples....well, I'm stumped. I've never lactated, nor do I plan on it. They don't do anything cool like shoot laser beams. I'm at a loss.
I want kids one day, but I'm seriously thinking about changing my mind for the sole reason that my kid might ask me why guys have nipples and I'll have no answer for him.
"Um..well little Jimmy. I...uh. You see, the thing about nipples is...uh. Hey! Is that Barney over there handing out free ice cream and puppies?!"
At which point I'd run away, leaving him all alone, wondering why his dad is such a moron.
***********************
**Often when someone wants to convey how easy a task is, they say "Hey, it's not brain surgery." or "Hey, it's not rocket science." Since these jobs are obviously the two most difficult professions to get into, people who have these titles are usually revered as geniuses and must be paid extremely well.
That's why I'm offically studying to become the world's first Rocket Surgeon Brain Scientist. I have no idea what the hell I'm doing, but I'm looking forward to the day when someone says, "Hey, it's not rocket surgery brain science."
Their friend would then reply with, "Oh, you mean the job that Derek guy has. What a badass."
This theory also works when combining other difficult tasks, because if doing them individually is hard, doing both of them together should garner even more respect. Other things on my list include:
Triathelte President of the United States
Solver of the Rubix Cube and the Global Warming problem
Astronaut Double Dutcher (hey, jumping those ropes is hard with that spacesuit on)
**I know I'm not the first person to think about this, but why do guys have nipples? Everything on everyone's body is, or was at some point, functional. But the logic behind guy's nipples....well, I'm stumped. I've never lactated, nor do I plan on it. They don't do anything cool like shoot laser beams. I'm at a loss.
I want kids one day, but I'm seriously thinking about changing my mind for the sole reason that my kid might ask me why guys have nipples and I'll have no answer for him.
"Um..well little Jimmy. I...uh. You see, the thing about nipples is...uh. Hey! Is that Barney over there handing out free ice cream and puppies?!"
At which point I'd run away, leaving him all alone, wondering why his dad is such a moron.
***********************
Maybe the dingo ate your sexy.
Evidently, there's an army of women who've been commissioned by the United States government to bring sexy back. I've come to this conclusion after hearing multiple women exclaim that they have indeed taken on the task of finding sexy and bringing it back.
I, for one, wasn't even aware that sexy was missing. Shouldn't there have been some sort of Amber Alert for it? Maybe show me a computer enhanced photo of what sexy might look like these days? Does sexy have any noticeable scars or birthmarks? At least then I'd know to be on the lookout for what kind of car it was driving or something.
Actually, I'm a little pissed about all this. I mean, here I am, walking around all these years without my sexy. That would probably explain all the rejection from women. I thought it was just bad hygiene, but nope. Turns out my sexy was M.I.A.
Would it have killed someone to tell me that I was without my sexy for so long? It's just like if I have food in my teeth, I expect someone to tell me. Not to wait until I walk away and mention to their friends how they weren't sure if they should have said anything or not. For the love of God, save me further shame! Don't let the piece of pepperoni dangle off my face looking like I was in an orgy with Papa John, The Noid and Little Ceaser. Speak up!
I really wouldn't be surprised if Osama had the sexy we've been looking for. It's probably locked up in a little cage in a cave somewhere, all cold and trembling. As far as I'm concerned, if we don't get our sexy back, the terrorists win.
With that being said, I do wish our brave women all the best in their quest to find, capture and bring sexy back to all of us, hopefully safely. God speed courageous women. God speed.
And on a completely unrelated note, have you heard the new Justin Timberlake song? I can't remember what it's called, but it's quite catchy.
I, for one, wasn't even aware that sexy was missing. Shouldn't there have been some sort of Amber Alert for it? Maybe show me a computer enhanced photo of what sexy might look like these days? Does sexy have any noticeable scars or birthmarks? At least then I'd know to be on the lookout for what kind of car it was driving or something.
Actually, I'm a little pissed about all this. I mean, here I am, walking around all these years without my sexy. That would probably explain all the rejection from women. I thought it was just bad hygiene, but nope. Turns out my sexy was M.I.A.
Would it have killed someone to tell me that I was without my sexy for so long? It's just like if I have food in my teeth, I expect someone to tell me. Not to wait until I walk away and mention to their friends how they weren't sure if they should have said anything or not. For the love of God, save me further shame! Don't let the piece of pepperoni dangle off my face looking like I was in an orgy with Papa John, The Noid and Little Ceaser. Speak up!
I really wouldn't be surprised if Osama had the sexy we've been looking for. It's probably locked up in a little cage in a cave somewhere, all cold and trembling. As far as I'm concerned, if we don't get our sexy back, the terrorists win.
With that being said, I do wish our brave women all the best in their quest to find, capture and bring sexy back to all of us, hopefully safely. God speed courageous women. God speed.
And on a completely unrelated note, have you heard the new Justin Timberlake song? I can't remember what it's called, but it's quite catchy.
Rowdy Bowden: The Thinking Man's Moron
If you can't laugh at yourself, then who can you laugh at?
Well, there's that homeless lady who keeps screaming at me about how her hair is infested with nano-robots and pickled pigs feet. Or that drunk guy who's making out with a mailbox. Oh, and anyone who falls UP stairs. That's always hilarious.
Come to think of it, there's plenty to laugh about. So the Lord said, "Let there be Rowdy Bowden. A random collection of thoughts, stories and general stupidity to be enjoyed by those who can't live their lives with the reckless abandon of their youth, but who aren't exactly ready to hang up their immaturity hats."
Well said, Lord. You're quite the public speaker. You should write a book.
And so it begins.....
Well, there's that homeless lady who keeps screaming at me about how her hair is infested with nano-robots and pickled pigs feet. Or that drunk guy who's making out with a mailbox. Oh, and anyone who falls UP stairs. That's always hilarious.
Come to think of it, there's plenty to laugh about. So the Lord said, "Let there be Rowdy Bowden. A random collection of thoughts, stories and general stupidity to be enjoyed by those who can't live their lives with the reckless abandon of their youth, but who aren't exactly ready to hang up their immaturity hats."
Well said, Lord. You're quite the public speaker. You should write a book.
And so it begins.....
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