R.B.

The New York Chronicles, Vol. 3

2007-07-12T09:40:00.000-05:00

I realize the one week deadline I gave myself to write the next New York entry has come and gone. I've been really busy at work.

Of course, that's not true. In fact, if anyone ever tells you that the reason they haven't called in awhile is because they've been really busy at work, then they're probably lying to your face. They've actually found cooler people than you to hang out with. Sure, they may go on and on about spreadsheets and endless meetings, but in their head they're thinking about how the hell to get off the phone with you so they can go meet up with people they actually like.

Or in my case, my real reason for being so scarce the past few weeks is that I've had an almost full DVR jam-packed with old episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 and The O.C. that were just begging to be watched. I've also pondered the question of how much time one man can spend in front of a mirror trying to get his hair to look as perfect as Ryan Atwood's without finally giving up and putting a hat on.

The answer? 1 hour, 17 minutes, 42 seconds.

And I wonder why my friends have all been so busy at work lately.

But I digress. I also realize that most of the vibrant memories that were so fresh in my mind concerning that night in New York have faded into a clump of characters, stories and inside jokes that I can't possibly recall truthfully. But I've been looking at it in a more positive way. Over time, in my mind, that night has gone from a memorable night of drinking to an epic, 13-hour marathon of decadence and debauchery that I will one day tell my grandchildren about (assuming that the extraordinary events of that night didn't somehow render me infertile, of course).

With that being said, I give you the third entry in my NYC Chronicles. To the best of my knowledge, everything that follows actually happened. Either that, or my subconscious completely made it up in an effort to make me seem cooler than I actually am. Which, I hate to tell you Brain, is a pretty easy task.

It was around 2:45 in the afternoon on Friday when we decided we were done sightseeing. While most people were still busy at work (or making plans with their cool friends and blowing off the rest), we made up our minds that the city had more to offer than just architecturally significant buildings and world-famous landmarks. The city also had bars. Tons and tons of bars. Our day had started out sightseeing, so why not end it by blinding ourselves with copious amounts of alcohol. In a way, it's poetic.

Rhodes suggested Rudy’s, where we could find a good jukebox (I’m intrigued), cheap pitchers of beer (Just point me in the right direction) and free hot dogs (Sweet holy mother of all that is delicious, we must leave right now). So with mouths salivating and livers praying to the internal organ gods, we were on our way.

You can’t miss Rudy’s because it has a giant pink pig standing outside the entrance. To my knowledge, it has nothing to do with the bar. Either it’s just there to serve as a landmark or they want to be prepared in case an impromptu Pink Floyd concert breaks out on the sidewalk. For comedic purposes, I’d like to think it’s the latter.

As soon as we walked in the door, we knew this was our kind of place. A few old-timers were slouched over their drinks, Frank Sinatra was blaring louder than he ever intended his music to be played and the booths consisted of more red duct tape than actual leather. From behind the bar, a slightly grey-haired woman greeted us and asked what we wanted to drink. She was probably in her 50’s, but she had a youthful quality about her that kept her attractive. As Rhodes would find out, this quality was magnified by approximately 500% with each beer he drank.

It was a sunny, crisp day, so we decided to start off on the back patio outside. This consisted of a porch the size of Post-It, a small, rickety table and four mismatched chairs. The small area was enclosed by four tall buildings around us and random, discolored water trickled down the wall beside us. They don’t call it Hell’s Kitchen because there’s valet parking and a bidet in the bathrooms. In fact, there wasn’t even a lock on the bathroom door. If you wanted to piss, you had to balance on one leg with your other foot pressed against the door to keep other people from barging in. I imagine the end result looked something like a cherubic fountain, only with the liquid coming from somewhere other than his water bucket.

If all of that doesn’t make up an ideal setting to drink in New York, I don’t know what does.

We drank a few pitchers and were talking about the events of the day, when a man came out on the patio. He was dressed much like a clichéd college professor, right down to the leather patches on his tweed jacket. Under his arm was a New York Times and on the tip of his nose were antique looking glasses he had to contort his face to see out of. For all we knew, he had just stepped out of a 1980’s undergrad sex-romp comedy about a fraternity of underdogs that just wanted to party. He, of course, played Professor Dingleberry, the foil to all their collegiate antics.

But Professor Dingleberry was actually a pretty nice guy once you got past the tweed-covered exterior. He asked if he could sit down near us and inquired about why we were in the city as he sipped his Boddington’s. I remember thinking what a distinguished gentleman he seemed to be as a glimmer of sun hit the catholic cross around his neck.

Fast forward three hours later and Professor Dingleberry is sitting in our booth, telling me about how his wife sucks and that he hates his job. The distinguished gentleman’s hot breath envelops my face with each slur as I stare at his cross. This is partly to avoid eye contact and partly because I’m praying to God that he leaves to go bust up a frat party at the Kappa Kappa Chugga house.

Meanwhile, a literally decrepit old man was singing Ole Blue Eyes loudly at the bar. Actually, singing isn’t really the correct term, since he mostly just turned around and shouted the lyrics at either me or Rhodes.

“Now here is the best part…” He swiveled around his barstool, almost falling over in the process, stared directly at Rhodes and pointed, “YOU’LL HAVE A HEAD START!” He swiveled back around while mumbling, “If you are among the very young….at heart.”

We didn’t know whether to laugh, cower in fear or call the number on his Medic Alert bracelet.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. After a few beers outside, we decided to grab a booth before people start getting off work and out of class. This proved to be a good idea, as the place filled up pretty quickly.

The beer was really flowing and hot dogs were being served left and right to the widest variety of people I’d ever seen in one room. As the natural light began to trickle out the front door and give way to the dingy bar lights inside, we ordered another round and settled into a booth.

Sightseeing was fun, but I had a feeling that places like this were what New York City was really about.

I had a swig of beer, a bite of my hot dog and relaxed as the red duct tape creaked underneath me.

The Lemon That Destroyed Us All

2007-04-25T15:48:00.000-05:00

Note: The next volume of The New York Chronicles will appear within the next week. Until then, enjoy this tale.

The following took place at Subway today with The Silk, GunderBlunder and Hoot. (Incidentally, Subway is going through more changes than a confused teenage boy realizing that even his mom’s latest issue of Better Homes & Gardens has something spankworthy in it. They even sell pizza there now. Seriously.)

The Silk gets a sweet tea. We all sit down. He wonders why there are no lemons at the tea distribution area. We all agree that it is, indeed, strange to have a tea distribution area completely void of sliced lemons.

The Silk decides to inquire with the management as to why there are no sliced lemons.

Collectively, we also ponder exactly what makes up a Subway Seafood Sensation Sub Sandwich. Crab bits? Unidentifiable white fish meat? A cornucopia of processed sea-faring animals? Mentally challenged baby sea monkeys that kids don't want to play with?

It is decided that this question will also be asked by The Silk along with the aforementioned lemon question.

The Silk departs to the counter. “Do you have any lemons?”

He is met with the blank stare of the man behind the counter. His mouth is agape, yet no words can seem to make their way from his small brain to his large tongue.

The woman behind the counter, sensing the need for upper management aid, interjects and simply states, “No. No lemons.”

Clearly, she has been chosen as their leader due to her exemplary social skills and complete mastery of the English language.

Finding this odd, but knowing he must come back to the table with the important ingredient information we requested, The Silk proceeds on with his mission.

“Can I ask you something else?” he politely says. “What exactly is in the Seafood Sensation Sub?”

The puzzled look remains on the man’s face. We can’t be sure, but from a distance it appears as though a small bit of drool (or zesty honey mustard) has collected in the corner of his mouth. Obviously, the title of Sandwich Artist does not require basic motor skills.

The woman replies, “Crab meat…and…”

Then, unfortunately, she is stricken with the same face coma that has evidently taken over her subordinate and stands quietly, searching for an explanation of their culinary delights.

“Crab meat…and…” she repeats.

The Silk waits patiently. The awkwardness builds and the tension mounts as the line becomes longer behind him. What once started as a simple quest to sweeten his drink has turned into an all-out crisis.

“Crab meat…and…” she says again. You can hear the synapses in her brain firing information, searching for the next word that will end this ordeal and relieve her of the pressure that is bearing down upon her very soul. Then, finally, she reveals the elusive secret ingredient.

“Crab meat…and….lemon.”

After a brief moment spent wrapping our heads around what just happened, all of our brains spontaneously exploded at the sheer audacity of the situation.

In other words, it was a pretty good lunch.

The New York Chronicles, Vol. 2

2007-04-17T09:53:00.000-05:00

After a long afternoon and night spent inside a cavernous Irish pub in Queens, I awoke with my upper body in a chair and my legs barely resting on a four-wheeled ottoman that had slid across the floor throughout the night. I looked around the room to see Jordo, who had wisely accepted Rhodes’ offer of a blow-up bed. He had two of them, which is a must for guys in order to avoid any “accidental night touching” incidents, but I chose the chair. Hey, if I’m going to truly pass out somewhere, I might as well go all out and make it the most uncomfortable spot in the apartment. I stretched and wondered if I could possibly find somewhere even worse to sleep the next night, like maybe lying on a pile of coat hangers in a closet or hanging out a window.

As planes from LaGuardia rumbled overhead, we began to stir and assess the damage from the night before. We had all our limbs and hadn’t woken up next to any women with Deflated Monster Faces (you know the type…they look like a monster whose head has been overly-filled with air and then deflated too quickly), so things were looking good. After a bit of discussion, it was decided that the night’s only real casualty was the ridiculous amount of money I had thrown into the jukebox in an effort to hear “Jukebox Hero” by Foreigner.

In case you were wondering, it triumphantly played and we were the only ones who even noticed. Some people just don't appreciate culture.

After a few quick showers and a little Broken Social Scene playing through Rhodes’ iBook, we were more than ready to head to Manhattan and hang out. We planned on cramming the day full of sightseeing until it got dark, and then hitting up as many bars as possible for as long as possible. Here’s a quick rundown of the day.

Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center – As Jordo and I discussed how breathtaking the view was and how insignificant everyone looked on the streets below, Rhodes interjected to discuss how amazing it would be to lean a girl over the edge and do her from behind.

Central Park West – We grabbed some lunch at a local deli and stopped to eat it around a statue of Christopher Columbus. It was there where we noticed an older businessman talking to a young woman who was crying uncontrollably. Between her sobs, we came to the completely made-up conclusion that he was breaking off their affair because he “had a wife and kids. This thing…you and I…was just a fling, and dammit Debbie, you knew that. Now get your sweet little ass back to accounting before I fire you.” In our minds, he then smacked her on the butt, lit a big Cuban cigar with a $100 bill, cleaned his monocle and drove off in a roadster that looked suspiciously like a Monopoly piece.

We then decided to hit up a few more sights while we were in the area. The Dakota Building, Strawberry Fields, NYU. After exhausting all the entertaining possibilities in the area, we knew it was time to start drinking heavily. It had been a long day of walking, subway rides, pictures and intrusion into the personal lives of businessmen and their secretaries.

At Rhodes’ suggestion, we headed into Rudy’s, a dive bar in every sense of the word. We went in for cheap beer, but found a lot more. Drunken, serenading senior citizens, true love with a grey-haired bartender and a new friend named Michael. Michael C. Hall.

The time as we walked through the door to start our night? 3:41 p.m.

This could get ugly. Deflated Monster Face ugly.

To be continued…

The New York Chronicles, Vol. 1

2007-04-06T10:17:00.000-05:00

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch!”

Those were some of the first words we heard as we arrived in New York. As we waited in line for a classic yellow cab, dozens of other drivers were milling about, promising that their rides were classier, faster and presumably featured slightly fewer urine stains on their seats. But everyone in line was more than content to wait a few minutes in order to assure riding in a taxi that was actually part of a legitimate business.

One of the “classy” independent drivers approached a woman behind us and began his sales pitch very professionally.

“Ma’am, if you’d like to avoid the long wait, I have a car available now. Where do you need to go?”

“I’m heading downtown. How much would that be?” she replied.

He thought for a moment and then made her an offer. “For you? Only $70.”

A look of shock passed over her face. “$70! That’s ridiculous. No thanks.”

What followed this brief exchange was a back and forth conversation that escalated into a shouting match, ending with the woman saying very calmly, “Stop talking. Just stop talking to me. We’re done. Stop talking.”

The driver, being the consummate gentleman, ended his proposition with an obscenity-laced tirade that concluded with him storming off while yelling the aforementioned closing remarks.

Clearly, this guy had a few more classes left in business school. Or maybe I’m wrong and, somewhere along the way, the saying changed from “The customer is always right.” to “The customer can take her luggage and cram it up her ass.”

Everyone around us couldn’t help but laugh. Anywhere else in the country, this would have been an insane occurrence that might require a call to the authorities, or at least the Better Business Bureau, but not here.

We turned around to see how the woman was holding up after her brush with Bruno, The Possibly Icepick-Wielding Taxi Driver. Would she be angry, upset or maybe even in shock of what just happened?

But instead, she was laughing too. She looked at us, smiled and simply said, “Welcome to New York.”

As if on cue, our car pulled up. We threw our luggage in and got inside. As we headed to our friend’s house in Queens, we knew we were in for a memorable weekend. Because with a Welcoming Committee like that, we were completely sold on the City That Never Sleeps.

And we couldn’t wait to help it live up to its name.

Googling Weirdos From Across The Globe

2007-03-08T11:22:00.000-05:00

If I had to guess what percentage of this site’s hits come from people randomly Googling words that happen to appear in my blogs, I’d say it was somewhere around 90%. Give or take 10%. Probably give.

But the good thing about it is that with my trusty site tools, I can see what they searched to find my site, where they’re from, how long they looked at it and what they had for breakfast. That’s right Jim Franklin from Gary, Indiana. I’ve noticed you’ve been eating a lot of bran cereal. Maybe cut down on the fiber, buddy. Wouldn’t want your colon to explode.

Call it market research. Call it invading people’s privacy. Or probably just call it an easy way to write a blog without having to come up with new material. Think of it as a sitcom’s first clip show. Perhaps Perfect Strangers. Oh, Balki. Your heart was as big as all of Mepos.

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"Frost Brew Liner"
Easily the most popular google search for Rowdy Bowden. People must really be catching on to my theory that Coors Light’s Frost Brewed technology is at the core of a global conspiracy that will shake the foundation of civilization and alter the course of history.

Plus, it keeps your beer mighty cold.

"Long 4skin"
There are a lot of 4skin searches, but this one from Iowa added a descriptor. I can’t help but wonder, is this guy plagued by an abnormally long 4skin? Is it a woman who is disturbed by her man’s freakish 8skin? Or is it simply a Jewish mohel brushing up on the latest circumcision techniques?

"I lookup this guy shorts on the train see his bulge"
(from Australia)
I have no idea what this means or which one of my blogs it took him to. But I do know that I’m canceling my trip to Australia.

"UGA mascot pissing on gator"
(from Florida)
Rowdy Bowden: Fulfilling all your collegiate mascot urination needs since 2006.

"Necrophilia safesex"
(from Japan)
Because if you’re going to have sex with a corpse, for God’s sake, be smart about it.

"Cannot grow facial hair"
(from Australia)
I’m just glad that someone shares my plight. Even if they live halfway around the world, when I look up at the stars and feel my 2 weeks worth of “beard” that looks like I glued 50 particles of sand to my face, I know that someone, somewhere, is doing the same.

"Ducky shark facial"
(from Holland)
No clue why Google directed this search to me, but Ducky Shark Facial conjures up the most disturbing image I can think of since I watched Dark Crystal at my grandma’s house. Those creatures weren’t quite muppets and they weren’t quite human. But they were definitely 100% freaky. Which is what I imagine the guy from Holland who strung together those three words is.

"Tips on how to please a woman"
(from Canada)
I don’t know what’s funnier. The fact that this person is from Canada, that they looked at my site for 14 minutes, or that they actually hoped I would be of any help whatsoever on this topic.

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North Avenue Nutbags

2007-02-27T15:28:00.000-05:00

One of the best parts about living in the city is that I don’t have to drive far to get to work. But that short stretch of road I use is known as North Avenue, and every day I see a lifetime’s worth of crackheads, bums, thugs, toothless hookers, pimps with pouches full of hooker teeth and other assorted street trash.

Normally, I could just ignore them, but one of their character traits (besides the unmistakable odor of stale bread and gonorrhea) is that basic pedestrian courtesy is completely foreign to them. In their eyes, a crosswalk is merely a suggestion and a “Do Not Walk” sign is nothing but a pole to urinate on after downing a bottle of extra strength cough syrup.

But you can’t fault them all. A lot of them are just products of their environment, however roach-infested that may be. If nothing else, they’re a pretty good source of entertainment when you’re sitting in traffic listening to your favorite O-Town….um, I mean Metallica CD. So, when you’re driving down your city’s equivalent of North Avenue, keep an eye out for some of these characters that I’ve noticed on my daily commute.

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The Electric Wheelchair Boogaloo Crew
I see plenty of old men in this area in wheelchairs, but they’re always cruising in electric ones. And they’re quite graceful. Maneuvering around curbs, broken bottles, passed out meth addicts, random limbs sticking out of trash bags. These guys are like homeless NASCAR drivers. Except with more teeth.

The Crazies
These are the best. There’s no rhyme or reason to what they do. Take for example a woman that I had the pleasure to watch cross the street in front of me the other morning. She was dressed in a lovely ensemble from the latest Derelict clothing line and had a very noticeable limp. She would take one step, then bring her other foot even. Another step, then even. Kind of like if she was walking down a church aisle, about to marry the man of her dreams and become Mrs. Wonky Crackhead. But the best part was that each time a foot hit the ground, she’d say:

“Step.”
“Jomp.”
“Step.”
“Jomp.”

Now, I don’t know what Jomp is, but it’s definitely funny. And it’s definitely going to become part of my daily vocabulary.

The Crazies (with possible violent tendencies)
These guys aren’t quite as fun. At first, you might think they’re just regular Crazies, but as you listen to them babble, you start to realize they might actually turn their craziness on you. It goes from being fun to frightening faster than they can shout “The government infested my brain with Cracker Jacks!”

The real turning point is the moment when they actually make eye contact with you. You can see their soul, and even it hasn’t had bathed in months. It breaks that “fourth wall” and you realize you’re no longer watching as a casual observer. You’re about to get sucked into the constant David Lynch movie that’s playing in their heads.

If this occurs, just hit the gas. I don’t care if they’re standing right in front of you. Just floor it. The time you might have to spend in jail for running them over will be a lot less frightening than whatever they have planned for you and your purdy mouth.

The Geriatric “G”
As our population gets older, some guys that were really fly at one point never really change their look. The guy I’ve nicknamed The Geriatric “G” is actually one of the coolest playas on the block. It just so happens that he’s 78 years old and uses a walker. But he does it while decked out in a maroon leather suit.

And I don’t care how old you are…if you can rock a maroon leather suit and still look cool, you can get away with having two artificial hips and a Fixodented grill. You’re still superfly in my book.

Smelly Balls
I see this guy every now and then and I named him Smelly Balls because it looks like he’d have really smelly balls.

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Every town has them. So I say give ‘em a nickname and enjoy their antics. Just do it from a safe distance. You never know what kind of monstrously superpowered lice the government might have infested them with. And those suckers can really Jomp.

Happy Bell Biv DeValentine's Day! (a.k.a. - MasterFreak Theatre)

2007-02-05T11:14:00.001-05:00

True love is in the air. But it can be a very confusing emotion. Luckily, when it comes to matters of the heart, one can always turn to poetry and find reflections of their innermost thoughts and feelings.

And who better to shed a little swanky, red-light on the subject than a trio of romantics. Am I speaking of Blake, Shelley and Keats? No, fool! I’m talkin’ ‘bout three boys who really know what true romance is all about….getting’ yo freak on.

I’m talking about Ricky Bell, Michael Bivins and Ronnie DeVoe….better known as Bell Biv DeVoe. And now ya know.

Slick, Biv and R.D. begin their lesson of lust in a poem known simply as “Poison.” As we all know, before one can freak, one must mack, which is the equivalent of a peacock showing his plumage to a potential mate. Mack correctly, and a freak will surely follow. But you can’t just freak on anyone. There has be a connection that’s deeper than simply “getting up in dem guts.” Let’s read from Ricky Bell’s first verse.

“It's oh, so (beautifuuuuuuuuul)
Relationships they seem from the start
It's all so (deadllllllllly)
When love is not together from the heart”

How true, young Ricky. How very true. Pick the wrong ho and you could be entering into what psychologists refer to as a “toxic relationship.” The girl is your poison. P-P-poison. Next, the former New Edition lads pontificate on what happens when this poison enters your bloodstream. It goes straight to your heart.

“It's drivin' me out of my mind!
That's why it's hard for me to find
Can't get it out of my head!
Miss her, kiss her, love her
Wrong move you're dead.
That girl is POISOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!”

And in their most revelatory line, the boys let us in on a little secret that it took me years to learn.

“Never trust a big butt and a smile.”

If only I had followed this mantra in my younger years, I might have not fallen into the deadly trap of a “low pro ho” who was “cut like an aaa-fro.” Only now can I see that she was simply “schemin on house, money and the whole show.”

The un-whack wordsmiths also preach of the importance of brotherhood. If the subject of our poem had only heeded the words of his friends, he would have been able to avoid the entire ordeal. Observe.

“But I know she's a loser (How do you know?)
Me and the crew used to do her!”

Oh, DeVoe! Why didn’t I take your advice to heart? If the entire crew fornicated with this young fly girl, what could possibly make me think I could change her? For she is clearly poison….and there is no antidote.

Then, one sweet day, you'll fight your way through the throngs of fly, yet fatal honeys, and you might be able to find that one dope girl that stands out from the rest. And when you do, you can read her a passage from Bell Biv Devoe’s second most famous work. Sit her down, look her in the eyes and say the three little words that every girl longs to hear….”Do me, baby.”

But it’s not always as simple as that. You have to know the girl is up to the task. Let’s read together from the first few stanzas of this literary masterpiece.

“Take a look at me
Tell me do you like what you see
Do you think you can
Do you think you can do me?

Kiss me pretty baby
Touch me all over
Girl, what makes you think you can do me
Do you think you can do me, girl?”

These questions are important. If she can’t keep up, you might give her a heart attack, or worse, you could risk having a less than stellar freaking experience. So, they offer some advice on what to do to maximize your freakiness.

“Girl, let your hair down
Take off your clothes and leave on your shoes
Would you mind if I looked at you for a moment
Before I make sweet love?”

Notice the tenderness. Ask your lady if you can gaze at her beauty, for which there is no comparison. Then freak the shit out of her.

Also, feel free to whisper other sweet nothings into her various orifices, such as:

“I like to do the wild thing”

And…

“Oh,,.come on and sweat me.”

Also, let her know it’s not all about you. You’re flexible enough that you can freak her at different hours of the day. Women love to know that a man is taking their needs into account before they flick the freak switch to the “on” position.

“Do me, baby (I like it in the morning time, yeah)
Do me, baby (Sometimes I love it in the evening, baby, yeah)
Do me, baby (Can you do me all over, girl, yeah, yeah)”

Once things get going, you’re going to need to know exactly what actions to take. Luckily, B.B.D. offers these detailed tips on how to please a woman.

“Smack it up.
Flip it.
Rub it down.
Oh, noooooo.”

Sounds simple enough, right? Just be sure to follow their instructions in that order. I can’t tell you how many times my lovemaking has been hindered by the fact that I rubbed it down first, then proceeded to flip it. By the time I was going to smack it up, she had fallen asleep.

But, if all goes well, the "Oh noooo." you hear is the precursor to a successfully timed climax and not the disappointing shout of premature new-jack-swingulation on your part.

But most importantly…

“Kinda wet, don't forget
The J, the I, the M, the M, the Y, y'all
I need a body bag.”

That’s right. Ricky, Michael and Ronnie want us to remember to always practice safe sex. Or possibly necrophilia on a guy named Jimmy. The lyrics are a little vague. But I like to think the body bag they’re referring to is that of the Magnum variety.

Well, I hope we’ve all learned a little something today. Stay away from toxic hoes and make sweet love whenever you can, for the booty is as fleeting as time itself.

And if anyone would like to join my popular fan club, The Bell Biv DeVotees, we meet every Tuesday night in El Bar, behind El Azteca.

I’d like to conclude with a practice that no early 90’s R&B jam would be complete without…the shout out.

“Yo' fellas, that was my end of bloggin.
You know what I'm sayin'?
Yeah, Rowdy Bowden in full effect
Yo', wassup to Jordo H and Southern Sports Dude.
And I can't forget about my boy, Bobby Brown and the whole New Edition crew.
Another Bad Creation for-eva!
Peace.
And I’m gone.”

The Art of the Rally

2007-01-18T13:27:00.000-05:00

Baseball spring training will be here before we know it, so I'm reposting something I did for another site (bravesrallycap.com) last season. And yes, I realize it's actually not near spring training and I'm shamelessly reposting something I wrote last year because I'm a lazy bastard. Hope you enjoy it and go Braves!

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Throughout the ages, Rally Caps have been a tradition in baseball, but how many different kinds are there? Let's take an in-depth look.

THE SHARK
Method: Fold back of hat into front, creating a half-hat. Place hat on head so bill becomes shark fin.

This method can be extremely intimidating, especially against teams who play in landlocked states that don’t normally see sharks. No one knows why this actually works, but legend has it that an ancient voodoo woman (who happened to be a huge baseball fan) was tired of her team losing, so she transferred the spirit of a great white shark into the player’s rally caps, thus instilling them with a ferocity that the other teams couldn’t compete with. Or maybe opponents just can’t stop staring at how dumb the other team looks.

THE INSIDE-OUT
Method: Invert hat. Wear. Works every time.

The most common Rally Cap is perfect. Just the right amount of team pride and goofiness. The reason it works is that the entire roster is united, but relaxed. Some of the pressure of having to mount a comeback is taken off the batter and base runners, often with winning results. The only problem is having to deal with an extremely sweaty hat exterior when players take the field again.

BACKWARDS
Method: Turn hat around. Did we really have to tell you that?

We're sure this method worked much better before people actually started wearing their hats backwards in day-to-day situations. Now it's not so goofy and is pretty common. Thanks a lot, Johnny Backwards Hat. You think you're so cool. Way to ruin a perfectly good rally method for the rest of us. Now we have one less rally weapon in our arsenal.

IMPROVISATION
Method: Use athletic tape to contort the bill of the hat into different shapes.

*Note: Rowdy Bowden could find no documented photos of this method. It's like Sasquatch, only it lives in the late innings of baseball games and not in the woods. One of the lesser-known approaches…and for good reason.

With everyone showing their artistic side, there’s no sense of uniformity. As far as we’re concerned, there’s no improv in the baseball rally.

THE RALLY MASK
Method: Purchase a pre-made mask with team colors on it.

Just don’t do this. Seriously. You’re an adult. Act like one and make your hat into a shark fin. Just don’t embarrass the rest of us with something like this facial monstrosity. Come on. You’re scaring the children at the stadium and really lowering your chances of ever speaking to a woman that isn't your mom.

The Battle of the Wallet Bulge

2007-01-04T14:32:00.001-05:00

Some of you may have been wondering why I haven’t written anything lately. I know it’s been awhile. Frankly, I haven’t been in much of a humorous mood over the past few weeks. Something has happened that’s dampened my spirits and made me put my whole life in perspective. I think I can finally bring myself to talk about it. It’s a problem that many men before me have had to tackle and I just hope my story can help them through it.

That’s right. There’s a hole in the back pocket of my favorite jeans and I’ve had to switch the butt cheek side I carry it on. Please. Bear with me. I may have to choke back a tear or two as I write.

You see, as a boy becomes a man, he’s faced with many tough decisions. The most important of those being which ass cheek his wallet will nestle snugly against for the rest of his life. Once this choice is made and man, wallet and cheek are comfortable with the decision, all is right with the world. The sun shines brighter, people seem to smile more and peace can reign on Earth.

But if that balance is interrupted, terrible things happen. Is it a coincidence that the day I had to switch cheeks, Gerald Ford died? Probably. But it’s still freaky.

For as long as I can remember, all the way back to my very first Spider Man Velcro wallet, I was a right cheek man. It just felt natural and, eventually, even after I switched to a bulkier “big-boy” version, my cheek accepted this change. We had a mutual understanding.

But over the years, my left cheek grew jealous and spiteful. It had nothing to do but sit there with only a pair of boxers and some denim separating it from the cold hard surfaces I chose to rest it upon. It had to watch as its symmetrical brother felt the smooth, 100% cowhidey goodness of a wallet protecting it from its natural enemies such as splinters, sun-scorched leather car seats and grab-happy Georgia Tech fans that may try to pull it into one of their impromptu tickle piles. It was not a good time to be my left ass cheek.

Then, as if by the grace of God’s left ass cheek, the tides turned. The hole in the back right pocket of my most favoritest jeans got bigger and bigger until, finally, my wallet began protruding out of it. Left ass cheek knew its time had come. At least once a week when I wear these jeans, left ass cheek has a shining moment. It may feel strange and awkward to me, but I’ve come to terms with it.

And while my left ass cheek knows it can never take the place of my right one as the official keeper of the wallet, it still feels a sense of pride everytime I put on my favorite jeans. Because it knows its time has come. And for at least one day, Left Ass Cheek isn’t wrong. Its right.

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

2006-12-21T10:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-12-11T09:21:00.000-05:00

**********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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?

**********

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?

**********

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.

2006-12-06T09:19:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-29T10:50:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-22T10:25:00.000-05:00

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.

**********

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?

**********

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.

2006-11-16T10:27:00.000-05:00

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.

**********

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?

2006-11-14T14:03:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-06T11:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-30T20:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-26T21:14:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-25T07:54:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-18T22:06:00.000-05:00

**********

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.

2006-10-17T09:14:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-10-15T21:27:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-10-13T15:40:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-10-11T14:30:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-10-08T20:48:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-04T09:15:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-02T09:18:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-28T04:36:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-09-27T08:38:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-25T09:06:00.000-05:00

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

2006-09-21T20:03:00.000-05:00

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.

Scenes From A Crowded Bar.

2006-09-20T13:39:00.000-05:00

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.

iEmbarrassment Vol. 1

2006-09-18T16:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Willie! Think of your future.

2006-09-18T13:24:00.000-05:00

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.

The sun was beatin down on my baseball hat...

2006-09-17T19:54:00.000-05:00

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.

Frost Brew at your own risk.

2006-09-15T10:12:00.000-05:00

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.

The washer/dryer hookup. Holler if you hear me.

2006-09-14T12:25:00.000-05:00

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?

Brain Matters Vol. 2

2006-09-13T13:34:00.000-05:00

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!

R.I.P. - My $5 Styrofoam Cooler

2006-09-12T21:01:00.000-05:00

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.

The Hypocritical Oath

2006-09-12T10:56:00.000-05:00

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 Wise Words of B.A. Baracus

2006-09-11T16:07:00.000-05:00

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.

Brain Matters Vol. 1

2006-09-11T15:47:00.000-05:00

**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.

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

Maybe the dingo ate your sexy.

2006-09-11T15:40:00.000-05:00

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.

Rowdy Bowden: The Thinking Man's Moron

2006-09-11T13:40:00.000-05:00

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.....