Or about the 7-11 cashier bitch and the “no pants” party later…and the other girl… Well, forget all
that for now. A topic so thrilling has just popped into my head, it’s going to take me forever to explain it.  

Ladies and Gentlemen: the Nike commercial that blew my mind.  

It starts slick and intense. Blood starts rushing everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It’s almost erotic in its portrayal. Athletic
men in tight-fitting shirts. Incredible, like the way Brad Pitt’s abs were in Fight Club. Don’t think that they didn’t know who they
were marketing to. It was on during Family Guy, it’s not for the ladies.  

Anyway, the long story short, they have these weird masks on at the end, and it freaked me out.  

Yeah….  

I guess it didn’t take as long as I thought to tell that story. And…I guess you kind of had to be there. Urlacher had
a metal barbed-wire box on his head. It was crazy. Yeah, definitely had to be there.  

Whew.  

Damn. Still have some column space left. What to do? I suppose I can tell you about sledding.  

We went to Meijer (motto: “Ummm, yeah I’m pretty sure we got that”) and purchased our modes of snowy
conveyance and long underwear and then went sledding.  We spent as much time shopping as we spent sledding. (Hey, it was cold.)  

Dammit. I guess that wasn’t a very long story either. But it did have its ironic moments.  

*Crickets chirping*  

The people I went with bought boots like that guy in Napoleon Dynamite.  

*Crickets chuckling quietly at Amir’s high-concept, lowball brilliance*  

Damn, did I stoop to an ND joke? God, I hated that movie. I fucking detest that movie and anyone involved in making it, including second
cousins on maternal AND paternal sides. Wait. Is it still cool to like it? Because if it’s passed from that to “passé” or “fox
pass” (edited: faux pas) then I’ll just forget about it all together because I’m just too tired to stay ahead of the curve on this one
anymore…fuck.  

Where was I?  

“Your lame life.”  

Ah yes, thank you.  

So we pick up the first case of beer from good
ol’ 7-11 (motto: “Three months since our last parking lot murder!”). I’m ready to start
drinking, so I just want to get in and get out. The beer, it seems, will not drink itself after all.   

*Tangent warning raised to burgundy*  

Just in case you were wondering if “convenience stores” are still currently “convenient,” I’ll tell you:
they’re not.  

*Tangent warning lowered to aquamarine*  

I take the beer to the front and get out my ID and cash.  The cashier takes these and then does a double take on my
license.



I hate it when that happens. Just ring it up you cunt.  

“Are you really 5’10”?” She asks me.  

Silence from me. Then, “On a good day.”  

*Crickets again*  

HOW ARE THERE CRICKETS IN THE GODDAMN 7-11?  

 “I don’t think you’re really 5’10.”” She gets on her tiptoes. “I mean, I’m only 5-foot.
You don’t look 10 inches taller than me.”  

I cannot believe she is saying this to me. “Can I just pay for my beer?”  

Yeah, my buddies all called me a pussy too when I told them.  

Nothing happens for awhile.  

 Then my phone rings: Froggy Sweet Symphony (Brought to you by already overhyped, anti-habit forming, now with wintergreen
crystals Jamster. Unless they’re a sponsor. Then they rock.).  

I get a call for a “no-pants” party. May I remind you how cold it is in Michigan? OK, fine, it’s not
Canada-cold…but as close as I ever want it to be.  And I mean ever.  

“What the hell is a ‘no pants’ party?”  

“Bring your friends, but not your pants.” Dial tone (brought to you by Sprint: “Our scary automated service actually
works pretty well”).  

Huh?  

Now I, like all of you, am always prepared. I have the standard costume box in my car: orange cone, cop uniform, chef hat, cowboy hat,
Mexican fiesta hat, beer bong, uh…other bong, suit and tie, pimp outfit, hoe outfit (don’t judge me) aaaaaand… oh yeah…
ahem...furry suit.  

But for a “no pants” party? I had too much costume on already.  

We get there, and as soon as we walk in, we’re instructed to remove our pants. We do as we’re told and look
around.  

All of us were a little disappointed because there were way less girls in panties than were expected.  Most of them were wearing
skirts or shorts. Some of the guys were in their boxers. Fuck, who
cares what the guys are wearing?  

Damn, I thought this was still a patriarchy.   Shorts. Yes, of course, shorts.   I think it’s
cheating, but what do I know?  

*Chirp?*  

The kicker was when one of my friends walked back to the dorms from the party without his pants.  

Why?  

He wasn’t going to need them at a “no pants” party. He sent them back with someone who left
early.  

*Crickets are reading Mikey’s column*

Did I mention that he was wearing borrowed boxers?

*No crickets care*

Damn, out of space. 

I was going to tell you about the girl…

Oh well, maybe next time…

COMING SOON: MOVIE GOD (ME) TELLS YOU ABOUT MOVIES…and other shit.

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