You know you're just a little crazy when you have sex with a girl on her period and the resulting blood makes you crave a medium rare steak. At least, that's what I hear.

How come, whenever I forget someone's name, they never seem to mention it in casual conversation, but when I remember someone's name, they always introduce themselves? It's like, “dammit dude, I knew your name. You didn't have to tell me.” That always makes me feel like I lost an opportunity or something.

Sign number one that the St. Louis Cardinals don't have it this year: Sunday, I had a choice between watching my Cardinals play the Pirates or watching a movie I'd never seen about a dead poker player of whom I knew very little. And I chose the latter. And yes, I pay $160 a season for the baseball package on cable. Every Cardinal fan I talk to is frustrated and pissed. But hey, at least the team made a lot more money off its great suckers, I mean fans, last year. Thanks, management. You're slowly pushing me towards the Devil Rays. Very slowly.

I don't think there's any consecutive group of acts that can make you feel worse than taking your own sweet time sitting on a handicapped toilet, taking a crap and reading a book, then taking another few minutes to wash your hands and adjust your pants and shirt, only to open the door and find a wheelchair-bound dude offering you a look that screams, “Hey fucker, thanks a lot.” Of course, that's just me.

One of my favorite new pastimes is calling up PIC editor Court Sullivan, getting his voicemail, then singing early 90s tunes into it. Sometimes, I feel really bad for Court Sullivan. I mean, if he knew what kind of person he was gonna have to deal with when he picked me up for this gig, do you think he would have still given me a column? Wait a minute. Don't answer that.

Why do grossly fat people always tell me I drink too much liquor? I mean, that's just begging for an insult there, isn't it?

My Monday posts are always the most difficult to write because Mondays are always the busiest day of the week in my office (read: absolutely no available downtime) and my column deadline for the big site is on Monday. Basically, I guess what I'm trying to say here is that Monday cuts into my drinking time. Monday's a wicked, saber-toothed bitch. And she's frigid, too.

And finally, because my job description has nothing to do with logic or fluidity, I leave you with the following, which I read on the back of a semi-trailer:

“Caution: hitting this truck could result in a great deal of pain.”

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