Observations on the Mend

When your lawyer calls you at work and says, “Hey Pal, I sure hope you’re making a lot of money,” well that’s what those in the flag industry call the “Barn Red Special.”

Since being dumped, I’ve stepped up my workouts, tightened my diet and am trying to get more sun. It’s almost as if my response to being dropped is: “Oh yeah, well I’m gonna make myself so hot you’ll be sorry.” But really, how sorry could that make her? No, the truth is that I need to look as good as I possibly can because I can’t drive anywhere right now. And if you want to get a fine chick and you have little money and no car, well you better be about as hot as you can be. It’s sad but this is the world we’re living in and I don’t make up the rules.

It’s funny how the oil market always has supply disruptions and how those disruptions are almost always linked to political unrest. This is like looting on a global scale, or as the current US administration calls it: foreign policy.

I really have no business even attempting to be political.

Special thanks to Casey Freeman for mentioning me in what is (in my opinion) his funniest column to date. In case you were curious, there is no truth to the rumors that mentioning me in a PIC column gets you any money, prestige, power or even snack cakes. Just wanted to clear that up.

I get many polite emails per month. I get some downright nice people saying overtly nice things about my writing and my life. I thank all of these people for their kindness and for reading my stuff with regularity. However, to the one guy who constantly sends me negative emails I just want to say, and I cannot stress this enough, douche-nozzle should be hyphenated. If you’re gonna insult someone, you have to be grammatically correct or else you just look stupid.

All kidding aside… alright, some kidding aside… okay, a little side of kidding on the side, breakups are ugly. The emotions hang over you like a slow moving shit-cloud for several weeks. It’s weird going from, “I love you” (where I was) to “You make me want to kill a goat and sacrifice it to the God of Fuck You” (where I am) to “What was your name again?” (where I’m going). And what makes it weirder is how quickly the emotional transition takes place. Human beings are, for the most part, good healers and survivors. We’re also a collection of douchebags, assholes and bitches but whatever. At least the Cardinals are in first place.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy trying out body sprays and eyeing teeth-whitening products, I leave you with the following, which was told to me by my buddy, Scott.

“The truth is dude, you’re such an asshole, I can’t really see anyone putting up with you for more than a few weeks. But that’s cool because you and your relationships are really entertaining.”

I Apologize for my Observations

Sorry I bailed on the Investor’s Coroner last week. It’s just that Friday I was drunk and Saturday I never got the opportunity because my bedroom was occupied by someone who needed sleep and Sunday I was watching the Cards game and studying financial papers at the same time when I said to myself, “Baseball and the stock market do not belong together.” So I quit thinking and popped a beer and by the time the game was over, I was a little too buzzed to enjoy the finer points of the Microsoft/Yahoo battle. And since zero people emailed to tell me how disappointed they were with the lack of Corner-ness, I decided to offer you an explanation. I’m just that kind of awesome.

I just want to thank everyone in the NFL who had anything to do with the brilliant idea of moving the clock-time for each drafting team from fifteen minutes to ten minutes. That was by far and away the best idea that Roger Goodell has had since he became the league commissioner. In fact, one could make the argument that it’s the only good thing that suspension-trigger-happy dude has done since day one. But one would never make that argument, lest one be rude.

Typing of the draft, I also want to hand it to the Tampa Bay Buccaneers who went out of their way to get a great cornerback with a proven history of on the field success and off the field pot smoking. Personally, I can’t see how he’ll have any problems in Tampa Bay. It’s probably much harder to find weed here than it is in Kansas. On a related note, I’m kind of sarcastic.

If you haven’t read Court’s most recent blog post, you don’t know that Paul Frank has a column coming out. No word yet on whether or not y’all will be able to comment on it. But don’t worry, if you really want to get nasty you can start a “Paul Frank Sucks” or “Fire Paul Frank” blog, which would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you do indeed have a much lamer life than the average critical commenter. So there you go, Angry Commenters—something to shoot for.

I know it’s early in the baseball season, but the Marlins are in first place in the NL East, the Cubs are in first place in the NL Central and the Awful Tampa Bay Rays are tied with the Even Worse Baltimore Orioles for first place in the AL East. If the season ends with all four aforementioned teams in the post season, I will put up a nude picture of myself with a candy bar sticking out of my butt. That’s a promise.

I was reading comic strips the other day and I realized something: Dilbert is kind of a spineless queer. Dude needs a girlfriend bad. Or at least a hooker.

Look, I realize sabermetrics are kind of geeky and uncool. I realize that they’re not the most poetic way to evaluate a baseball game or a baseball player and yes, I understand that they are not perfect, but the amount of alleged professional sportswriters who are just slamming internet writers and forward thinking people for using said statistics is ridiculous. I mean, would you want a stock broker who evaluated stocks by their sheer “guts” or market “clutchness”? Would you want a doctor who didn’t use any new-fangled technologies to save lives? I mean seriously, why all the hate? Personally, I think it has a lot to do with aged writers in an antiquated medium appealing to their aging audience that prefers that medium. But that would be irresponsible journalism, and we all know that doesn’t exist, especially when it comes to sportswriters. Those guys are fact freaks.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are still recovering from a nose candy night out, I leave you with the following great advice I overheard at The Smoky Pool Hall:

“It’s fine to care about a woman. But don’t care too much. They don’t respect that.”

Observations like Cheap Child Care

I received an email from a guy in India recently. It was pretty cool. Anyway, he told me that marijuana sells for about a dollar or two a quarter ounce over there. Now, if you have a passport and bags of weed are your bag, well then, that’s a good vacation spot for you, huh?

I got to thinking about the future of globalization, of the economy, of technology and of humanity in general and I came to the conclusion that the future will suck. Hard.

Apparently, there’s a primary going on in Pennsylvania right now. The winner gets the right to lie to the American people for a few more months. Sounds like a real honor.

Well, Spring is here, Summer is coming and as the weather warms, people tend to spend more time outside, shooting and killing each other. That’s right, 32 people were shot and 6 died in Chicago this weekend, which actually breaks a current century record for most deaths in a Chicago weekend that was set four years ago during my buddy Duncan’s bachelor party. So there you go, Dunc. Told you that record wouldn’t last forever.

Okay, I don’t usually like to link to stuff but check this out. Some guy in some office in California decided to run a database check and compare the addresses of every registered California sex offender to the addresses of every registered child care facility in his state. And he found 49 fucking matches! That means (as far as I can tell anyway) that 49 men convicted of sex offenses were able to get licenses to take care of children. No wonder Michael Jackson likes California so much.

Here’s a fun thing to do if you’re bored, sober and a total dork. List the most delicious type of food you ever had and the city you ate it in. You may be surprised. You may not. You may find it to be useless. I found it interesting. Check this out.

New York Style Pizza: New York
Deep Dish Pizza: Chicago
Wood Fired Pizza: Padua, Italy
Open Face Roast Beef Sandwich: Chicago
Chicago Style Hotdog: Chicago
Hotdog: New York
Chinese Food: Hamburg, Germany
St. Louis Style Pizza: St. Louis
Baby Back Ribs: St. Louis, Memphis, Kansas City (tie)
Steak: St. Louis, Omaha (tie)
Beef Ribs: San Antonio, Texas
Chili: Dallas, Texas
Mahi: Destin, Florida
Hamburger: Los Angeles
Pork Chops: St. Louis
Green Beans: Northwest Iowa (no cities up there)

Notice how most places that are well known for stuff are great at it? I never tried any chowder when I was in the Northeast, but this list practically tells me that I must do so the next time I’m up there. The fact that the best burger was in LA is simply a testament to the ole In n Out Burger and the fact that the best Chinese food I ever had was in Germany is simply a testament to the fact that I’ve never been to China. But overall, every city known for its goods is good at the goods.

This unfunny, unnecessary exercise is brought to you by Dead Horse Meats.

Dead Horse Meats: We beat em, You eat em!

Observations like a Creative Process

For some writers, the creative process is this vague and mysterious thing that they don't even want to think about lest they jinx it like one can jinx a no-hitter by talking to the pitcher (or at least like one believes one can jinx a no-hitter by talking to the pitcher). Others have the creative process refined and practiced. I am probably of the former. Here is how my latest column came to be.

"I need a column idea," I say to Portland Aaron who is staying on my couch because he loves Florida and I'm his only friend here.

"Oh, you should write about how queer our money looks now. I hate the new fives."

"You should have seen the Dutch Gilders back before the Euro," I say. "They looked funky."

Ten minutes later and I have written an entire column about how queer my money looks.

So yeah, uh, look for that.

I wonder why Americans always use foreign languages to toast people and to bless them. It's almost like we don't think we should be blessing and toasting stuff in our language. As if our language is the verbal equivalent of British food. Weird.

I'm such a huge Cardinals fan that when they have an off day, I feel like I have an off day too, or at least like my day has one less responsibility than usual. I love baseball season.

A friend of mine was recently arrested for getting in an altercation kind of skirmish type thing with some deli dude that put mayonnaise on his sandwich. And the sad thing is, I can see his side of it. I hate mayonnaise. I hate the way it tastes, feels and smells. Fuck, I even hate the way it's spelled.

Perception is everything. To some people, a train is a sophisticated piece of machinery that represents some of the most large scale construction and human efforts in the United States. To others, trains are just something else to throw rocks at.

And finally, because logic an fluidity are busy bumping uglies with my creative process, I leave you with the following, which I saw on a T-Shirt

"I win because I cheat."

Mad Observations

I gotta say, I sure am enjoying this year’s March Madness (notice that I put “sure” in there to make it obvious that I enjoy this year’s March Madness more than mere, regular, everyday old enjoyment, i.e. I sure enjoy it—that’s more). There’ve been some sweet upsets, a few buzzer beaters, the annihilation of Duke and Kentucky and a few weird teams like Western Kentucky and Davidson squeaking into the Sweet 16. However, this year I’ve noticed that many questions and comments that surround the Madness always find a way to repeat themselves annually and well, it’s making the Madness kind of frustrating for those of us who have what I like to call, a memory.

The following questions and comments were stated to me more than three times by more than three different people over the course of the last few days and I think something needs to be done about them.

“Man I wish football had a tournament like this.”
So do I. So do all right thinking Americans. It won’t happen though, so let it go.

“Wait, that’s different from how they do it in the NBA.”
Yes it is. Despite the fact that NCAA basketball is essentially a free minor league system for the NBA, they do some things differently. It’s probably because they’re a different league or something.

“It’s weird seeing all these white kids play basketball, huh?”
Yes it is, you racist weirdo. It’s totally uncommon to see white people even approaching a basketball. It’s like watching a snail ride a unicorn, it’s so fucking rare.

“How many more games are there?”
This one is from all the girls who hate basketball: there are many more games for many more days and they take up many hours that are sometimes spent worrying about how you’re feeling. You’ll be fine though. I promise that once this is—holy shit did you see that play? That was textbook.

“My bracket is fucked.”
Yes it is. Everyone’s bracket is fucked. A perfect bracket has never happened and it never will. Perfect brackets are rarer than Haley’s Comet (this is not a joke—it’s a truism).

“Gonzaga is fun to say.”
They’re in the tourney almost every year. Let that half-assed joke go free already.

“Billy Packer sure seems like an asshole.”
Yes he does. Rumor has it, he may actually be an asshole. I’ve never met the man but I have to agree. He does seem like an asshole.

“Are you really gonna spend the whole day watching basketball?”
Yes I am. And I don’t care how beautiful the day is or what else I’m missing out on in life. March Madness is once a year and beautiful days happen all the time. By the way, does this couch make me look fat?

Something nicknamed “Madness” should not have such an element of repetition to it. I need it to be interesting and fun. That’s why I watch. And that’s why I recommend that everyone memorize this list and never bring this shit up again.

Or let me know how I can kill some brain cells, specifically those involving memory.

Logic and fluidity actually stuck around for this piece, but I’m still leaving you with the following, which I saw on a bumper sticker:

Jesus and me are free to see other people.

Observations Cave In

I miss you writing dirty things about sex and "The 5 best blowjobs ever."
aaaaa--Anonymous

You know how, like things get simpler the more you study them? Like how if you follow the stock market for ten years, one day you wake up and it’s just a lot easier to understand? Well, for me that something has a lot to do with receiving blowjobs. You see, I recently learned a very obvious lesson that should have been apparent to me years ago: girls who give the best head are girls who simply love giving head. They get off on the control, on turning a man into a quivering lump of orgasmic meat, and they absolutely equate said blowjobs with control. I can’t believe I’m just learning this now.

I wonder if Jesus ever got a blowjob.

I wonder if that last sentence earned me a place in hell.

If I have a place in hell, I’ll bet it has more to do with my actions from ages 12 – 25 than it does that sentence. That won’t make it any colder there, but at least I can leave in that sentence.

Some women have a major problem with you fucking them or receiving head from them while you simultaneously watch television. And well, with March Madness kicking off, baseball season approaching and the inevitable destruction of our bullshit, cartel-controlled economy (I love watching collapse), it may be tough to pick between sex and the television. Wait, how old am I again? Christ, I need help.

I wonder if Jesus ever went down on a chick.

The guy who invented birth control that simultaneously controls birth and keeps periods from occurring in women should be given a medal the size of a Dairy Queen. The best part about this invention (and there are a lot of great parts: more sex, less bitchiness, more comfort for the female involved and significant saving in the feminine hygiene product cost) is that the woman taking said birth control cannot blame her attitude on being on the rag and instead just has to admit, “Sorry I was a bitch.”

At times, they’re all bitches.

Which I believe, is why blowjobs were invented in the first place. They’re the perfect apology.

And finally, because logic and fluidity need to gear up for St. Patrick’s Day by purchasing green frosting and a bullwhip, I leave you with the following, which I overheard a chick say at Langerado:

“Ten dollar massages. Unless you’re really hot, then they’re free. If you're fat and ugly, they may be more. Really, I just want to rub a hot guy.”

Observations like an Ancient Rope

Is it still polite to open a door for a woman if the door happens to lead to the room where a gang rape is about to occur? I say no, but I ain't no etiquette specialist.

I like to think that if Jesus were around today, he would totally dig my new shoes. I'm christian when it comes to the kicks.

If no one knows what it's like to be the sad man behind blue eyes, then I would think blue colored contact lenses would be the way to go for everyone.

The other day, a woman asked me for directions to a pub and grill that she happened to be standing in front of. I laughed, pointed to the bar and said, "Right there." She smiled, giggled, apologized for being stupid and asked me if I wanted to go in for a drink.

"No thanks," I said. "I don't want to run the risk of accidentally having stupid children."

She then accused me of being rude.

"But you said you were stupid," I said.

She entered the bar in a huff.

It seems that some people do not want you to tell them what they already know and recently conveyed. Or maybe I'm just stupid. Either way, I wish I had my own pet tiger. But that really doesn't have anything to do with anything.

A famous southern expression is, "Some people would holler if you hung them with a new rope." The expression is meant to convey that some people bitch to much, but it seems to me that if I was hung with any rope I would holler, regardless of the age of said rope.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy testing out their new hanging ropes, I leave you the following, which I overheard at a smoky pool hall.

"Women generally don't like their bodies, no matter how many times you slap them on the ass."

Shaking up the Observations

This is my 701st blog post. Aren’t you proud of me?

This weekend, I learned some things. For example, did you know that in the Seminole Hard Rock Casino here in Tampa they have a store that will sell you your favorite Ben and Jerry’s flavors in shake form? In other words, you can order a Cherry Garcia or a Chunky Monkey milkshake! When I found that out, my diet didn’t stand a chance. I seriously would have paid ten dollars for this concoction, but it only cost $5.50. I know $5.50 seems like a lot for a shake but well… fuck off. It was the most delicious thing I’d had since Christmas.

Also, apparently my girlfriend is the smartest gambler ever. After losing $19.63 in the slots, she decided to hand her remaining 37 cents to an old man sitting next to us. He looked at her 37 cent slip as if it were a glob of snot colored crap, then handed her a hundred dollar bill. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how you gamble.

Men are fucking stupid. I mean it. I don’t know how we ever invented electricity, let alone the nuclear bomb. As Lila and I walked out of the casino—hand in freaking hand, mind you—a redneck in a Volkswagen Jetta with white rims (I can’t believe that they manufacture, let alone sell, white rims with any success) pulled up next to her and said, “Get in.”

“Fuck off,” said Lila.

What can I say? She has a way with words.

I wonder what kind of thought process a guy has to have to think that he can just pull up next to a woman, say “get in” and have her actually fucking do it. I mean, if you’re Tom Brady or some kind of sex symbol, I guess you could pull it off. But some po-dunk asshole from Lakeland, Florida in a motherfucking Jetta? No way in hell. I mean, I think it’s plain as vanilla that dude huffs paint or snorts crystal meth. At any rate, I haven’t seen douchebaggery like that for a long time. Kind of entertaining, all in all.

The following morning, I woke up at 3:40 PM. This is both fine and dandy if you happen to be Court Sullivan. However, if you’re me, it’s just not normal. With each passing year I am becoming more of a morning person. I also wake up rather quickly and begin chatting the hell away (I get this from my mom) usually but was slow moving on Saturday (I blame the shake) so Lila was both shocked and a little dismayed that I wasted the whole day like that.

“Yeah, but what the fuck would I have done with it anyway? It’s not like I was gonna write Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony or anything.”

“Guess not,” she said.

I like how she had to guess that I wouldn’t have spent an afternoon writing a symphony that was already written. She’s quick like that.

Anyway, because logic and fluidity are making Ben and Jerry’s shakes while huffing paint in a neighbor’s garage, I leave you with the following, which a friend of mine named Rick told all of us at The Smoky Pool Hall a few weeks ago:

“If the Giants win the Super Bowl, I will walk in here and personally eat out the ass of the fattest, nastiest chick you can find.”

Ain’t seen Rick for a spell…

Observations with Two Tied Hands

I’m really pissed that I’m not allowed to write to you about how fun my weekend was, mainly because I spent the weekend with my girlfriend and she promises me that if I write about our relationship she will see to it that I wish I’d never lived. And only an idiot risks total satisfaction, no matter how much he loves to write.

If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a piece of candy, it would be seven-year old candy corn. If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a stick of gum, it would be that crap gum that used to come with baseball cards. If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a religion, it would be Scientology. If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a flavor of Vodka, it’d be Cherry (fuck you, Cherry). If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a sexual favor, it would use teethe. If the Super Bowl Bye Week were a cheesy comparison, it would actually be moldy cheese. The Super Bowl Bye Week sucks harder than Mrs. Kirby Hoover, whose skills are occasionally called upon by local paint-stripping companies. Fuck, I miss football.

At Gasparilla on Saturday, because Lila talked me out of throwing beads at tit-showing chicks, I decided to reverse a paradigm (the activity of reversing paradigms is highly regarded and endorsed by The Nate Way, its subsidiaries, me, myself and I): I took all my beads from last year’s night parade and threw them at the pirates on the floats. So while those dudes were throwing beads at us, I was chucking beads at them. I hit one dude in the neck with a wad of beads. He seemed a little surprised and not at all pleased with the deal. But at least he probably saw a stranger’s boob that weekend.

Here’s a conversation that was repeated all over America (paraphrased to create universal appeal):

Him: Fuck, there’s no football on today.
Her: Great, now we can [insert inane chick activity here].
Him: I don’t think so.
Her: Come on. You’ve been promising me for like, twenty weeks.
Him: But I said we’d wait until the season was over.
Her: There’s no football this week. It’s like the same thing.
Him: If I ever meet Roger Goodell, I’m beating him to retardation with an iron skillet.

Today is the 50th anniversary of the Lego. I wonder what kind of parties are being thrown in computer coding offices all around the world. I’ll bet they’re serving cake and pie. Those rascally programmers. They know how to get down wearing a Lego crown. Gotta love the geeks.

The older I get the more nose hairs I get. The more nose hairs I get the more obsessed I become with pulling them out of my head. The more I obsess with my nose hairs the more it looks like I use cocaine regularly. The more it looks like I use cocaine regularly the more strippers approach me. Apparently, nose hairs and strippers have some kind of bizarre connection. Who knew?

The above paragraph featured the words “nose hairs” four times. For some reason, I’m proud of that. And I thought you should know.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy constructing a life-sized Lego brothel, I leave you with the following, which I once said to a group of environmentalists:

“Dudes, I don’t know what you’re so worried about. The planet could totally kick all our asses if it wanted to.”

(And yes, I was drunk.)

King Day Observations

Elisha Nelson Manning is going to the Super Bowl. To play in it. He’s starting, even. And there’s not a damn thing Roger Goodell can do about it. Weird? I know it is. Unexpected? Most definitely. But well, Brett Favre threw a stupid interception in overtime against the Manning-led Giants. And some dude who’s not too great at his job kicked a field goal to win the game. And I shit my own pants from the shock. All in all, quite a game. Sadly though, not much of a pair of pants.

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day. In honor of the man, myth and legend, my office is open. Some days, I wish I worked in a bank.

Thomas Edward Patrick Brady, Jr. is going to the Super Bowl. For the fourth time in seven years. In case you missed it, the team on which he plays, the New England Patriots, is suffering from a severe lack of defeat. Which is to say that they are 18-0 on the season. Which means they haven’t lost yet this year. Am I moving to fast for you or what? On a related note, Girlfriend is from the Boston area. Thank God she hates sports.

A total of thirteen minutes of Ron Paul speaking has been collectively cut from televised debates for purpose of on-air and online reproduction. Which is to say that mainstream media does not want Paul heard. Oh and speaking of Paul, here is what NAACP President Nelson Linder had to say about His Coreness:

"I've read Ron Paul's whole philosophy, I also understand what he's saying from a political standpoint and why people are attacking him," said Linder.

"If you scare the folks that have the money, they're going to attack you and they're going to take it out of context," he added.

"What he's saying is really really threatening the powers that be and that's what they fear," concluded the NAACP President.

So the representative of the largest organization of American blacks in the country knows that Ron Paul isn’t racist and further understands why the powers that be would want you to think he is racist. Of course, fortunately for the powers that be, the American people are too fat, stupid, lazy and mind-numbingly gullible to believe anything other than what they are spoon fed by the media. Which leads me to my larger point: fuck politics. Thinking about who’s fucking me and how they do it is very overrated. I miss cartoons. I mean, I had no idea how fucked we truly are until a few months ago. I wish I could go back to sleep and worry about which color i-Pod to get. Fuck me.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy celebrating Martin Luther King Day, I leave you with the following, a statement made by an imaginary Martin Luther King Jr., from a show owned by a black man who was once called racist by Al Sharpton:

“Is this it? This is what I got all those ass-whoopings for?"

Observations like Doodles of Cheese

If I were Roger Clemens, this is what I would tell the media: “I used steroids. I used HGH. I used every method available to make my game the best and make hundreds of millions. And if the only punishment I get for doing so is the denial of a plaque on a wall in some po-dunk New York town then so fucking be it. I made millions, bitches. Millions. And I could give two fucks about your opinion on the subject because you can’t play baseball and I can. And no hall, no matter how famous, can take that away from me, fuckers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go bang my hot wife. Y’all feel free to write whatever you want.”

People with great minds talk about ideas. Those with mediocre minds talk about events. And those with small minds talk about other folks. Those with my mind, however, talk about cheese doodles. Which are delicious.

In Lauderhill, Florida a twelve year old boy recently beat a toddler to death with an aluminum baseball bat because she was crying while he was trying to watch television. Some would say that this news story is reflective of our sick society, but I would say that this could easily be the best advertisement ever for TIVO and DVRs. Pausing live television does more than preserve relationships: it can prevent murder.

In Sanibel Island, Florida, some dude with no medical training invented a machine that he believes kills cancerous cells. If it actually works, rumor has it that dude will be the most arrogant sumbitch in the world. Every time he gets overcharged or underserved in a restaurant, he’ll be all like, “You know I’m the guy who cured cancer, right? This meal should be on the house. Unless you like cancer. Do you, buddy? Do you like the cancer?” If I cured cancer, I’d mention it to every chick I met. I’d be all casual about it. I’d say, “Hey, how would you like the guy who cured cancer to buy you a drink?” I mean, I’m pretty arrogant now, but with the cure for cancer under my belt, I’d be in-freaking-sufferable.

I had a great weekend. How was yours?

This weekend, a girl I know well who is trying to see if we are compatible enough for a relationship called me “amazing.” I thanked her and she replied that she didn’t mean it in the good way. She meant that it is literally amazing that I possess the personality I do and have not yet attempted to alter it. I thanked her again. Then she sighed. And you thought your life was awesome.

Did you know you can get a ticket for standing on top of a stop sign? I thought I should have at least been commended for my amazing balance. But, as the officer informed me, no matter how well-balanced you are, trespassing on government property is not allowed. Fascists.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy washing the orange cheese doodle stains out of their clothes, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at the local pub and will be using as my go-to insult:

“You are a cluster fuck of a human being.”

The Last Observations of 2007

New Years Day is by far and away my least favorite holiday. It should be renamed “Hangover Day” or “Arbitrary Day Off” Day. Every New Year’s Day I can remember, I spent the day lying on the couch, sucking down ice water and staring vacantly at a football game. Actually, having typed that, I guess New Years Day is really just an extra Sunday. That’s not too bad.

I know Jim Sorgi is technically a backup quarterback and all that, but well, he’s still a professional quarterback in the most prestigious football league in the world. You would think he’d be able to handle some of the basic tenets of the Colts’ offense, like occasionally completing a fucking pass. Anyway, my new nickname for incompetent people is Sorgi, as in, “That loser could fuck up a wet dream. What a Sorgi.” I think it’ll catch on in time.

I went up to the DMV a few weeks ago to renew my tags and the lady behind the counter told me that I had to get a new license plate, too. I told her I’d rather not hassle with it and that the old license plate was fine. She told me I didn’t have a choice on the matter. I told her that seemed un-American. She responded by saying that at least the new license plate was free. I told her that seemed un-American, too. I don’t think she liked me.

Were Christ’s farts holy, too? Like, could they heal the sick and stuff? That would give new meaning to the phrase “My shit don’t stink” if it were true. I mean, it’s hard enough imagining farts and shits that don’t stink, but a fart or crap with healing powers? That’d be some amazing shit. Literally.

My sister had to sit between my brother and I in Church last Sunday because we were annoying each other. What’s that you said? Emotional maturity? Go fuck yourself, eh? How ‘bout that for emotional maturity? Shithead.

My niece showed up with my mom, who picked me up at the airport. Niece was so happy to see me and so cute about it that total strangers took pictures of us while we hugged. After thinking about it a little, I started thinking. I mean, who would want a picture of someone else’s moments? Seems a little strange to me. And I write about Christ’s farts for crying out loud.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy debating the validity of particular hangover cures, I leave you with the following, which I saw on a chick’s sweatshirt in St. Louis:

“Go ahead and stare. I paid good money for these.”

Yuletide Observations

Call me a scrooge, but I hate white Christmases. I like warm, sunny, bright Christmases. The kind of Christmases that make people say, “Wow, it really is a warm one this year.” White Christmases mean cold Christmases. And the cold makes me cry like a girl who didn’t get asked to prom.

I ran into my buddy Scotty here in St. Louis. I hadn’t seen him in years. We took a cab out to the east side to visit some fine strip clubs and Scotty ditched me. Now, he paid for the cab on the way there and I was supposed to pay for it on the way back. And he left me alone in a strip club (my element) so I wasn’t mad at him. (No harm, no foul.) But well, I’ve got the keys to his rental car and Scotty hasn’t gotten in touch with me (or anyone in his family) since. So I’m dying to know two things: one, how fast can a Pontiac G6 go? And two, what the hell happened to Scotty?

I dare any of you readers to try to get through the holiday season eating only forty-eight grams of fat a day. It’s like doing calculus without a calculator. Im—freaking—possible.

I hate malls. That’s it. No joke and no rant. I just fucking hate them.

I went to Church Sunday (Mom’s a minister) and I learned that just about every week in Church, my mother mentions me. Yet she still hasn’t mentioned this fine website to her congregation. Gee, I wonder why.

Really though, where the hell is Scotty?

Writing at my parents’ house always feels a little weird. Kind of like switching condom brands for a night. Okay, maybe that was a bad analogy, but I’m on vacation here. Cut me some slack.

Sunday after church, my brother and sister and I went up to my dad’s favorite bar, where they let him in the kitchen to make his famous chili, then handed him the remote to set up all the games on all the televisions. Ladies and gentlemen, these are my roots. Rest assured that I come by my personality honestly.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are adjusting to the turning radius of a Pontiac G6, I leave you with the following, which my friend Jermaine told me in a Tampa airport bar:

“The problem with airports is that so many people use them.”

Observations like your First Time

I just want to hand it to Sunday for being an awesome sports day for me. I won a hundred bucks thanks to the Packers and the Bucs, which isn’t all that much money but it pulled me back to double my initial football season investment ($100). Anyway, money won is sweet and I won some. So that was nice. Thanks, Sunday.

I was also pulled out of a personal rut by a football team. I know that seems kind of sad to a lot of the people reading this, but fuck you. You probably place too much emotional emphasis on something I think is stupid, like bocce ball (freak).

Anyway, as I was lying on the couch, sick, hungover, my apartment trashed, slow to motivation and even slower to happiness, a kid named Micheal (that is not a misspelling, actually) Spurlock returned a kick for a touchdown, which may not seem like much to you (I mean, we were playing the Falcons), but this was the first kick return for a touchdown in Buc’s franchise history (31 years). To put that in perspective, the Bears have more than ten over the last three seasons. Anyway, after the Super Bowl win in ’02, Bucs fans kind of stopped talking about the streak. It was in the back of our heads, kind of like knowledge of a millionaire relative’s homosexuality. It didn’t matter. It was just a weird quirk. After all, we were Super Bowl Champions. Who cared about a kickoff returned for a touchdown after that?

But still, I was thrilled when Spurlock changed the franchise forever with one play. Fox’s announcer also nailed the call. He apparently had full knowledge of the kickoff return drought but had not mentioned it at all until it was all but over (he called it a curse but whatever). He even freaked out when the touchdown was in the end zone and yelled, “Santa Maria!” I have no idea why he yelled “Santa Maria,” and yet I couldn’t have agreed more. Anyway, six hours later, my place was clean, my disposition was centered and I was once again happy to be alive. Am I the most stable human in my zip code? To borrow from KSK’s Big Daddy Drew: Fuck and yes.

And the Dolphins won. I have plenty of friends who are Dolphins fans, and though it has been fun ribbing them and listening to the responding derisive comments, the collective sigh of relief I heard from the Keys all the way up to St. Augustine was a reward in itself, Sunday. The “sigh of relief” celebration is always an awesome one because the relief win (as I call it) is never a win that anyone can get cocky about. It’s like, the winning fan says things like, “It’s about time” and “at least we won one lousy game” but they are all wearing one huge collective “Phew” on their sleeves. And it’s fun to see.

Oh, and Brett Favre broke another record or something. I forget.

Also, in semi-sports-related news, it looks like Xavier Holland will be the other half of the NFL playoff email exchange this year. I haven’t done one of these in a while and I’ve never done one with Xavier, but the two goals of the exchange (besides just being funny) are always: exposing different perspectives and contrasting different writing styles. So, at least I’m sure we’ll hit our goals.

I love this fucking time of the year. Well, except for the cold fronts. We recently had a cold front come in and tonight it’s supposed to get down to 34 Fahrenheit. Which means that there is a chance, however slight, that we’ll get snow. I had ice on my windshield this morning, which in Tampa is about as common as gators in Minnesota. Anyway, I hate this kind of weather. It makes me want to injure wildlife and then denies me the wildlife to injure. Wrap your brain around that irony, I dare you. But here’s the deal, the last time Tampa had snow was ’77. The Bucs inaugural season was ’76. And the Bucs just broke the Kickoff TD Return Drought. Maybe this is the year for snow. One never knows and all that.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are out searching for that asshole who keyed their car, I leave you with the following, which was told to me by my friend, Mike.

“Micheal Spurlock just made me come.”

God bless us everyone.

Observations like a Racist Blogger

Michael Vick is in court today. Apparently, it has something to do with electrocuting dogs. All I really know for sure is that I’m not allowed to talk about Vick because having any opinion on his case while being white makes one racist. So let me apologize for anything I’ve typed here and just add that the Feds and the media are out to get Vick and all those dogs had it coming. Stupid mutts.

I’m now at twelve percent body fat. This means that I lost 11.5 pounds of fat in ten weeks. For those of you scoring at home, I am a super awesome badass who deserves your accolades. Bow before my slimness.

I have a good friend who is married with children. He lives thirty miles away. Saturday, he called me up and invited me over to see his new Big Screen LCD Television. We had the following conversation:

Dan: You gotta check out this TV. It’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Me: Dude, what about that time we double teamed those oil wrestlers?
Dan: I mean since I’ve been married.
Me: I’m not driving a half hour to see your TV.
Dan: It’s HDTV, asshole. And it happens to be my high point of the decade.
Me: I’m never getting married.
Dan: Good plan.

Update: I just found out that Michael Vick got 23 months in prison. That seems like a long time considering that no humans were hurt. Whatever. I better stop typing now or I’ll be a racist.

After watching the Patriots this weekend, I got to wondering what (wide receiver) Randy Moss and (quarterback) Tom Brady say to each other on the bench. I’ll bet it goes like this:

Randy: Dude, you’re awesome.
Tom: Fuck no, dude. You kick ass.
Randy: I don’t know man. I think you’re the best.
Tom: No man, you are.
Randy: I do kick ass. But I think you kick the most ass.
Tom: Fuck it. We’re both the best at what we do.

I’m getting really sick of the Patriots.

Friday, I got drunk (I know you’re shocked) and I slipped in the parking lot of the smoky pool hall. As I was falling, I very alertly (if I do say so myself) put my hands out and pushed myself back up right as a car was coming. When I saw the car I jumped up and pushed off its hood with my right hand. The chick driving apologized and so did I. Anyway, the entire event was witnessed by Sean the Liquor Store Cashier who caught up with me yesterday and said, “Man, you can’t even fall like a normal person.” I’m still trying to decide if that was an insult or not.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are in Richmond, Virginia being racist, I leave you with the following, which I saw on a hippie’s T-Shirt:

“Things are a lot more like they are now then they used to be.”

Observations and Awards Living Together

For me, Monday at work after a Thanksgiving weekend feels like waking up next to an ex-girlfriend after an ill-advised coital re-visit. It’s like, it feels normal because I’m used to the situation and the people involved, but it still feels slightly alien for those first few minutes. (And no, I cannot explain it better than that so fuck off.)

This week’s Healthy Food of the Week Award goes to Edy’s Smoothie Frozen Yogurt Bars, which taste like yogurt, only colder. Only 2.5 grams of fat per serving (but it tastes like 2.75 so that’s something).

This Thanksgiving, I ate more grams of fat in one sitting than in the previous eight days combined. After stuffing my face with turkey, gravy, shrimp, pepperoni, mashed potatoes, stuffing and butter, I actually started to tear up a little. What’s worse, during dessert, I ejaculated. Have I mentioned that diets suck?

This week’s Totally Awesome Teacher of the Week Award goes to Elizabeth Crothers, who had a relationship with one of her sixteen year old female students. Which is a lot sexier if you don’t look at a picture of Mrs. Crothers (thanks to Andrew for the tip).

I felt really bad for this bowl of mixed vegetables that sat untouched on Thanksgiving. I mean, everything else got passed around like a joint at a party, but this poor little bowl of mixed vegetables never moved. It just sat there looking healthy and unappetizing. At first, I thought about what a loser those vegetables were. Then I realized that I hang out with those same vegetables like every other day of the year. Then I put my head in my lap and sobbed (all while eating turkey skin with both hands).

This week’s Random Hot Slut of the Week Award goes to one of my ex-girlfriends, who invited me over to her place last night because she just ended a relationship with some foreign dude and is starting up another relationship with some American dude. She doesn’t want the new dude to think she’s a slut, but she wanted to get laid. You know that midday snack we all have between lunch and dinner (mine’s yogurt)? Yeah, well my penis is the relationship version of that. My dick is there to tide women over. Kind of like a Snickers, only with more nutritional value and less taste.

Damn near every time I order a rum and diet coke, the bartender or waitress makes some comment about how I’m not overweight and therefore should certainly consider the full-flavored goodness of regular Coke. And it’s starting to piss me off. The next waitress/bartender who says this to me (and is also not a hot female) will hear the following words: “This is how this works: I order and you bring me what I order. If I want comments about my diet, I’ll bring one of my friends to the bar. They’re funnier than you.”

This week’s Murder-Suicide of the Week Award goes to some asshole in Maryland. This dude (name not yet released) killed his three children and his wife before killing himself on Thanksgiving Day. That’s right, a Thanksgiving Day murder-suicide with multiple homicides to boot! It doesn’t get much more festive than that. At least, not around these parts.

And now, because logic and fluidity are trying there damndest to come up with some new awards for next week, I leave you with the following, which a stripper named Kelly told me a few nights ago:

“I’m only dancing so I can get some money to hire a lawyer and regain custody of my children.”

Observations like a Helmet Discarded

The Boston Red Sox are your World Series Champions and there’s nothing you can do about it, hosers. I actually tried to watch this game, but by the fifth inning my body convinced me that it just wasn’t worth it, that sleep was more important and that I need to get more vitamins in my diet (at least I think that’s what it said—I was pretty drunk at the time). At any rate, the Red Sox won and I didn’t find out about it until this morning. Which means I probably have something in common with Manny Ramirez.

The congressional approval rating, according to CNN.COM, is twenty two percent. Apparently, the people of the USA do not believe that congress is making any headway on the major issues: health care, the economy and Iraq. When asked for comment, one senior congressional official said, “Wait, those are issues? I thought everyone was worried about steroids in sports and commemorating the career of Brett Favre. Shit, I got to start going to the meetings, you know?”

Here’s a pickup line I highly recommend: “They tell me that perfection is unattainable, so tell me perfect, is it true?”

Here’s a pickup line I do not recommend at all: “So you seem like a responsible person. Can I have your phone number in case I end up in jail tonight?”

The Nate Way Healthy Food of the Week Award goes to Grape Propel Fitness Water. As we all know, when you’re trying to be healthy, you have to drink like four hundred bottles of water an hour or something crazy like that. But Grape Propel Fitness Water not only tastes good (so that you don’t mind drinking water) but also provides you with essential vitamins and minerals that work very well at chasing away hangovers. So there you go: a multi-purpose health drink. Really, what more could you want from a water?

Call me an asshole if you like, but I hate dressing up for Halloween. That’s why this year I borrowed an idea from my buddy, Babyface. I didn’t dress up at all and when people asked me what I was supposed to be, I told them that I was a serial killer. “They look like everyone else,” was my explanation. Yeah, I’m a jerk.

Dane Cook is finally finished telling you how many Octobers there are. (Hint: there’s only one.)

And finally, because logic and fluidity are still working out a way to avoid New England fans, I leave you with the following, which my friend Doug emailed me about the World Series:

“I told you it would suck.”

Observations on my 620th Post

Ladies and gentleman, the Boston Red Sox are your 2007 American League Champions. And there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it, losers. Personally, I’m looking forward to watching Manny Ramirez play in the snow in Denver. Twenty bucks says that at some point in The Series, Ramirez misses a fly ball because he’s busy catching snowflakes on his tongue. Really, it’s only a matter of when.

In case you hadn’t heard, Southern California is on fire.

This year I have lost some huge bets. Typically, in a crazy sports year like this, I would have already exhausted several hundred dollars. But thanks to the New England Patriots, I am over one hundred percent in the black. The New England Patriots are a gambler’s life vest in an ocean of upsets. God bless us everyone.

Seriously, Malibu is burning as we speak. The least you could do is grab a bucket.

President George W. Bush would like another 42 Billion dollars for his wars. You know, the way this dude just throws around tax money and creates inflation, you’d think he may have been raised without a proper respect for the dollar. I’m just saying...

It’s hard to be funny when you’re always hungry, which probably explains why I have yet to laugh at an Ethiopian.

Here is a trick God played on me. He made me allergic to cats. He did this because most single women like cats. Therefore I am destined to spend my life putting up with allergies in the name of orgasm. I guess it could be worse. I could have been a Cubs’ fan. But still.

This is my 620th post, but time flies so quickly that it really only feels like my 607th.

Every Observations Post, from now until I run out of foods, I am going to give out The Nate Way Healthy Food of the Week Award. The first week’s healthy food of the week award goes to Publix 93% fat free ground beef, which, because it is still ground beef, kicks the asses of all other healthy meats. Thank you Publix 93% fat free ground beef, for all your nourishment and tastiness. I don’t know where I’d be without you.

I’m not kidding about this, people. Southern California really is on fire. Seriously, this is not a test. Damn place is on fire.

The thing about sobriety is that it gives you the free time to deal with yourself and get to know yourself. So naturally, with this free time, all I ever do is search and find new distractions so that I can completely avoid learning about myself. But the thing is, I don’t really want to learn anymore about myself than I already know. At some point in a relationship (even one with yourself), you have to just give the other person a little space, you know?

And finally, because logic and fluidity are taking the week off to find new weekday drinking buddies, I leave you with the following, which was stated by a man named Ronnie:

“If it snows during The World Series, Bud Selig should stop the game, walk out in the middle of the Rockies’ Stadium and whip himself to death. I'd pay fifty bucks to see that.”

Observations to End all Wars

The Colorado Rockies are your National League Champions. And there is nothing you can do about it. Suckers. I can’t wait to see the American League representatives go play in rainy, freezing, mile above sea level, motherhumping mountainous Denver. This may be the most entertaining World Series in a long time. (Fun fact: The Colorado Rockies are the only major league baseball team named for an American land mass. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that fun a fact.)

Random Health Trivia: Vodka has no carbohydrates or fat and is only 75 calories per shot. God made the Russians so they could make vodka happen. I firmly believe this.

In our nation’s most recent high school shooting, the student involved killed only one man: himself. Sure, he injured a few others, but we couldn’t even call this a murder suicide. As school shootings go, that was a pretty lazy effort. Just what kind of work ethic are they teaching in Cleveland schools anyway?

I know lots of scumbags. I’m not proud, but it’s true. I even know a woman who lost custody of her daughter because said woman was always on drugs, made a lot of bad decisions and was frequently arrested. The only other time I’ve ever even heard of such a thing happening was when it happened to Britney Spears. I know mothers who deal drugs, live off oxycodone and methamphetamines, and think that Texas is a country, and they are still allowed to keep their kids. I realize I’m about three light years from the subject at hand, but I think Britney Spears may very well be the most delusional person on the planet right now. I mean, we may be in uncharted crazy territory right now. Maybe someone will name a syndrome after her. That’d be cool.

I would like to thank the New England Patriots for covering every spread thus far this year. The IRS will be getting its tax money from me this year and I owe it all to the team from New England playing like possessed, pissed-off pirates. Oh, I guess I owe some of it to the team from New York that pissed off the Patriots in the first place. It doesn’t really matter though because I’m only offering credit here. And mine is worthless.

Speaking of the NFL, what advantage does the National football League get by not making the NFL Ticket available on cable? Does the NFL own DirecTV? I’d really like an answer to those two questions if possible. No rush.

Ladies and gentlemen, in a moment of sobriety I figured out exactly how we can end all the wars in the world: genetically create female sex slaves. Now, stay with me here because I think I’ve gotten to the bottom of the World Peace Problem. You see, pretty much all wars are started by men, and men for the most part only want three things: food, alcohol and sex. If every man were just given his own supply of sex slaves, there would never be any need to impress anyone and therefore there would never be a reason to fight, and thus there would be no war, provided the girls really liked applying fellatio.

Actual conversation I had with a girl (not really) named Heather:

Heather: I want to get a D Cup boob job, but I’m just not sure I can pull it off.
Me: You’re being stupid.
Heather: What?
Me: There is not a man in the history of the universe who has ever uttered the phrase, “She just can’t pull off those D-Cup breasts.”
Heather: Oh yeah. I guess you’re right.

And finally, because logic and fluidity have to go to the store for skim milk, chicken breasts and fresh fruit, I leave you with the following, which I overheard a Hooters waitress say to another Hooters waitress:

“It’s like, if I’m gonna keep dating him, he absolutely must get a new car.”

Observations like a Ticking Clock

You know you drink too much when you go three days in a row without so much as a beer and you say to yourself, “Oh, so this is what everyone else feels like.” I just wish I knew what everyone did with all this clarity. I mean, if most people feel like this everyday, fucking cars should be running on water and flying by now.

Waitresses make great girlfriends because they’re used to getting men stuff.

Strawberries are God’s way of telling you that there is such a thing as good, clean fun.

I wish I was an intellectual so I could analyze and understand what the fuck I’m writing about. Actually, scratch that. I don’t want to know.

Alcohol is God’s way of telling you that you are better than you think you are.

Recently, one of my ex-girlfriends wrote that I am insecure with my appearance. Which finally explains why I fucked the crazy bitch in the first place.

Hangovers are God’s way of telling you that you drank too much alcohol the night before (sometimes, God can be pretty black and white about this stuff).

I contribute monthly to a charity called Kid’s Place in St. Louis. They help out at-risk kids. If you send them enough money, they eventually send you a group picture of all the kids. I got mine today. It’s pretty cool to see all those little faces… for about a minute. Then you remember that eighty percent of the boys are gonna wind up in jail and that sixty percent of the girls are gonna wind up as single mothers no matter how well this program works. Maybe I should just spend that money on cocaine or hookers and cut out the middle man.

Sobriety makes me cynical.

Actually, I shouldn’t blame that on sobriety. I’m just cynical.

PIC’s Fearless Editor Court Sullivan recently sent me a rough of the foreword he’s writing for my upcoming book and in it he revealed that his biggest concern about getting me a column and blog on this site stemmed from the fact that I didn’t own a computer at the time. Quite frankly, I’d have to say that’s a pretty legitimate concern for the owner of a humor website. I mean, questions like, “Is his stuff any good?” and “Will he write with regularity?” are pretty important to an editor, I’m sure. But well, when you’re wondering “Where the fuck is this guy doing his writing, anyway?”, you know you’re taking a risk. Fortunately for all involved, Court doesn’t let little things like logistics stand in the way of creativity.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are busy working up some kind of hobby to occupy all this new sober time of mine, I leave you with the following, which my friend Jay told me.

“It’s not that you drink too much; it’s that you’re always drunk.”

Observations from a few days in Baseball

I’ll bet you thought I wasn’t watching baseball lately just because the Cardinals aren’t in the post season. Well you were wrong. Now we both have to live with your lack of faith. I don’t know why I even talk to you anymore. Seriously.

That Weird One Game Playoff
Okay, I know it was like a week ago or whatever, but I have to type about that play at the plate in the thirteenth inning that got the Surging Rockies (that’s officially their name now—Bud Selig sent out a memo) into the postseason.

The umpire blew the call. And he may have very well done it on purpose in my humble opinion. Why do I say this? Because I know exactly what was going through that umpire’s mind when What’s His Name missed the plate and got called safe at home to win the freaking NL Wildcard. I’m psychic (true story).

Here now, are the thoughts of umpire Tim McClelland (or whatever) during that infamous play at the plate:

Shit, he missed the plate. Don’t call anything. Wait for him to go back and get it. The catcher dropped the ball so the runner can probably—oh shit, the runner’s hurt. He’s not going back to the plate and the catcher’s got the fucking ball. No way did I just sit through this much baseball to watch this lead change back into a tie. I am old and this is over. Call him safe.

And then he called him safe.

At least, that’s how I think it went down.

The Rockies are Playing for the National League Championship
Why the fuck not?

In a year plagued with so many news stories of horror, derision and division; in a league pretty much swimming in allegations of steroid and HGH use, why shouldn’t the team that plays a mile above fucking sea level win the World Series? I have a strange feeling that the stars have aligned in favor of a Rockies World Series this year.

And I’m cool with that. Because I love it when it snows during baseball games.

The Cubs Lost Again
I’m actually rooting for the Cubs to finally end this World Series drought. As a Cardinal fan, I feel as though the Cubs are that messed up kid down the street who can’t get a date and spends most of his teenage years hosting LAN Wars and other computer related gimmicks. I just want the kid to score once so he can be happy. Even if he is a douche and I don’t like him, I feel he’s due.

Anyway, the great thing about temporarily rooting for the Cubs is that you usually don’t have to do it for an extended period of time.

Like the Philles, the Cubs got swept. But Manager Lou Piniella told everyone not to worry because “this is just the beginning.” That sounds a lot better than “wait ‘till next year”, don’t it?

Yankees Down 2 Games to None
This is all Alex Rodriguez’s fault.

I watched the Yanks gut-wrencher on one of my pre-approved “drinking nights” and I have to say that they definitely lost.

The guy sitting next to me was a Yankee fan, Gator fan and Cowboy fan. He was born and raised in Miami so that makes sense, right?

We had the following conversation, by the by:

Me: Your family from New York or something?
Douche: No man, they’re from Miami, too.
Me: You ever been to New York?
Douche: No.
Me: Why do you root for the Yankees, then?
Douche: I don’t know. They’ve just always been my team.
Me: Good choice.

This is why it’s hard to give a crap when the Yankees lose. Because they have too many fans like that guy.

Angels Down 2 Games to None
This is all Vlad Guerrero’s fault.

(Note: I like this whole “blame the best hitter on the team when we lose” gimmick. I don’t know why but I do.)

Boston is going to go the ALCS. And they are probably going to play the Indians. And it will be a great matchup because these are the two teams with the best starting rotations in the American League. Ho hum, right?

Anyway, if Boston wins the World Series and the Patriots stay undefeated, there will probably become a time this year when someone with a thick New England accent annoys the shit out of you.

It’s nice to know that some things never change, you know? Baseball is all about tradition.

Observations like a Tuesday Test Day

By my calculations, Stoner Chick went 10-2-4 against the spread with her NFL picks, burying me in the win column and the loss column. Basically, I’m on the hook for a huge dinner and will probably have to yield to SC for the remainder of the picks (unless she proves this week to be a fluke). So there you go football fans. A 19 year old girl knows more about football than I. Feel free to rip me mercilessly. I deserve it.

I spent this weekend in seminars to prepare for a state mandated test I have to take tomorrow. At these seminars I learned that a) there are a lot of stupid people out there b) there are a lot of stupid tests out there and c) there are a lot of stupid government agencies out there. Unfortunately this information probably won’t be on the exam.

In the grand scheme of things, was it really that important for us to know what Willis was talking about?

If you ever want to make sure that your colleagues leave you alone at business seminars, do not bring any business cards. This is your way of saying, “I have no interest in hearing about your job, and by extension, anything else about you” when someone hands you a business card. You may not realize it now, but this advice probably just saved you a lot of annoying moments. I mean, no one hands you a business card and starts talking about football.

Speaking of football: Old Friend Doug texted me the USF scores all through the seminar, making me the most popular guy in the room for a few minutes. Even the proctor (who said cell phones had to be off and silent) wanted to know the score. Because I told some of the guys in the seminar that Doug would text me every time USF scored, my little text message ring tone gimmick was almost always accompanied by a shout of celebration. It is fun when we’re united by what we wish we were doing, but not as fun when we’re united by what we are doing. I think that goes without saying, but I’m study fried so I’m leaving it in.

After all these years, I’m still never sure about where to put a comma. I like to think that I use them for aesthetic purposes, like fake breasts and show towels.

And finally, because logic and fluidity need to make sure they get a good night’s sober sleep before memory inducing questions pester them for results, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at the seminar:

“Every business is in business to make money.”

Observations on a Thursday

People who kill themselves really take life too seriously.

I always want to ask really obese people how they have sex. And what it’s like in airplane seats and toilets and what not. But I never do. Strange.

Lately I’ve been considering wearing a bib when I eat. I think my clothes would look better and last longer as a result.

You can tell a career air traffic controller by his eyes. I can spot an air traffic controller with more than ten years experience from twelve feet away in a dimly lit room. Their eyes look exercised (one of those things that’s hard to describe but easy to spot, like sex).

I think it’s great that Ron Paul has got a ton of people saying to themselves, “Wait. What the hell is the Federal Reserve Bank again?” That makes me feel good about Americans.

I wish we were allowed to hunt on the grounds of my apartment complex. I think it would totally liven up the place.

Writing when you're exhausted is like trying to pull a string out of tube without touching either: a slow process.

Come to think of it, writing when you’re exhausted and downing a couple of beers on an empty stomach is a slow process, too.

Has anybody beat up crooked NBA referee, Tim Donaghy yet? Because I would like that to happen.

If I owned a bar, I would trap a room of fat chicks and then unload them onto the floor an hour before closing time. I think that would be an interesting sociological experiment. Of course, I don’t know what sociological means either but I’m pretty sure that watching a bunch of drunk men react to a bevy of sauced up fat chicks would be entertaining in the funny way. And if you disagree, you’re wrong. Even if I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are taking a well deserved nap, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at a barbecue:

“I don’t know why more people don’t hula-hoop.”

Observations like a Bullshit Poll

A friend of mine recently asked me at what point in my life did I realize that I have an identity, that I was different than everyone else and that my thoughts and ideas were my own. I thought about it for a while and then I said, “I think it was last Thursday when I was banging your mom.”

I mean, that’s a tough question to answer, right?

Say it with me now: U S F! U S F! U S F! U S F!

This weekend I met a guy with his own movie theatre style popcorn popper. I asked him how often he used it and he responded with, “I’ll sell it to you for eighty bucks.” Gotta love this country.

Just to reiterate: U S F! U S F! U S F! U S F!

I was umpiring a baseball game Sunday afternoon before the Bucs hideous attempt at looking like an NFL football team when a storm slowly rolled in towards the playing field. After I felt it was close enough to worry about, I asked the coaches to come out and talk to me about calling the game.

“I think we’ll be able to get the game in,” I told the coaches. “It doesn’t look all that bad.”

Right after I completed the above sentence, lightning hit about half a mile away, car alarms started going off, rain started to fall and I heard thunder that sounded like the raging diarrhea of a million giant ogres.

“You were saying?” asked one of the coaches.

“Yeah, that’s the ballgame.”

Even nature is smarter than me.

Oh, and did I mention: GO BULLS!

In case you haven’t noticed from this piece, my alma mater defeated Auburn by three points in overtime despite flubbing not one, not two, not three, but four mother grabbing field goals. Naturally, the coaches poll rated us below Auburn because… okay, so I can’t think of a reason. Fuck the coaches poll.

And finally, because logic and fluidity are in a hurry to get to the strip clubs, I leave you with the following, which I saw on a black man’s T-shirt.

“I killed the real Slim Shady.”

Observations from a Four Day Weekend

I’m typing this to you on the last day of my mini-vacation in St. Louis, and in case any of you were wondering, the St. Louis Cardinals are still there, Lion’s Choice Roast Beef is still delicious and my niece and nephew are still really cute. If you weren’t wondering, well, I’ve wasted some of your time. Sorry about that.

You should all know that the Coolest Dog Ever, Chills, passed away on August 23rd. I will write his internet eulogy tomorrow. So look for that.

Points in Case is happy to announce the arrival of Jake Christie to the family. I’m particularly stoked about this because I always enjoyed reading his old blog. I’m pretty sure that Christie’s unique brand of humor is gonna show all of us up around here, but I don’t really care as long as he’s really gracious about that and brings me some pie. I like pie.

The worst thing about the new baseball stadium in St. Louis is that many of the fans who show up are simply wealthy, casual fans who’re looking for something to do, not diehard baseball freaks who know and love the game (like it used to be at Old Busch Stadium). The end result of experiencing these psuedofans is overhearing an endless amount of stupid comments, uninformed opinions and general lack of appreciation for all things baseball. That kind of pains me because St. Louis is supposed to have the most informed and appreciative baseball fans in the world. Instead, we now have a bunch of tourists flocking to the town to check out the new baseball container. I gotta say, it makes me miss the old stadium. Even if it was essentially a 50,000 seat oven.

I don’t think I will ever be afraid of any person with the first name, Dylan.

Being wealthy enough to buy your father’s drinks at the bar is awesome. Actually paying for them though, well that sucks.

I saw a vendor in St. Louis selling stripped hot dogs (these are hot dogs that are still served on a bun but the dog itself is actually cut into little strips). The vendor’s name for this creation? You guessed it: Vick Dogs.

And now, because logic and fluidity have to get on a plane and head for the swampland, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at a family function:

“Gaining weight and getting fat is just nature’s way of saying that you eat too much.”

Observations like a Bar Hopping Idiot

Every now and again, PIC’s own Michael Curtiss ventures down from Saint Augustine (America’s oldest city—take that, Jamestown!) to Tampa (America’s laziest city—take that, Los Angeles!) to visit his family (his parents went to my alma mater, USF—Go Bulls!). When he gets a few moments away from his family, he usually gives me a chance to drive him all over town and show him a good time. Apparently, the extra s in Curtiss stands for extra special, which is how I feel driving his greasy head around Tampa.

Hanging out with Curtiss on Friday night reminded me of the absolute brokeness of college students. I had forgotten just how broke I used to be when I went to USF. For example, we decided to pull some money from the ATM to kick off the night in Ybor City. I figured I wouldn’t need much because Curtiss had expressed some apprehension about staying in Ybor too late (someone had been murdered there the night before and Curtiss seemed to think that Ybor was unsafe because of this one little, monthly occurrence—wuss) so I pulled out a hundred bucks. Mike got a twenty. Seriously, how in the hell are you gonna barhop a drinking district on $20? Well, it turns out you can’t. Unless you’re a hot chick, in which case, who needs money?

A word of advice to the