As I was driving to work today, I heard this announcement in an advertisement for a display at a Pinellas County Museum: “Come see King Tut: The original King of Bling.” After hearing that, I wanted to pull my car over and cry like Richard Dreyfuss in Stand By Me after he found out that Chris died. In case you were wondering, today is the day I officially lost all faith in American culture. If I were that Evita chick that Madonna played in that movie, I’d be singing “Don’t Cry for me West Virginia.” I mean, it’s over. We’re all officially idiots. Turn the universities into alcohol-related theme parks, cancel the poetry recitals and replace them with Sci Fi picture shows, put Puff Daddy/P Diddy/Just Diddy/Just Do It/Did He Do It?/Damn, he Diddy’d It in charge of Webster’s Dictionaries Inc., and cancel the spelling bee. I mean, my fucking God. That’s it. I quit. I haven’t been this pissed off since the last baseball strike. America, what a country.

If a guy’s playing pool with a girl, and the girl starts talking to me, and she tells me that the guy she’s with is not her boyfriend, and I start kissing on her and eventually take the girl home, do I owe the guy an explanation? Should I send him a card or buy him a drink? I mean, is there any obligation on my part to explain myself to the guy? I sure hope not.

Which is worse, the fact that my friend Luke said, “In honor of Pearl Harbor Day, I’m bombing a Polynesian Island” or the fact that I laughed out loud after he said it?

My friend Kevin recently visited from the other side of the state. In doing so, I was reminded of some of my favorite Kevin-Lines. In no particular order, here are the top five.

“Christmas is just a capitalist ploy to inject money into the economy.”

“You can’t be a freak at a Dead Show.”

“Why don’t you go out in the street and play hide and go fuck yourself?”

“Twenty to one, that stripper does coke.”

“If it wasn’t for sports and movies, we’d spend all our time bitching about the government.”

And finally, because with Diddy in charge, I won’t need to worry about logic or fluidity anymore, I leave you with the following, which I overheard at a Sophisticated Singles Club:

“Forty is the new thirty.”

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