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.)

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