This is your Bar Mitzvah, Goldberg. Today, you become a man.

My theory on subway entertainers: if I don't listen to your music--in particular, don't tap a foot or nod to the beat--I need not tip.

This morning, waiting for the L-train, my usual Mexican guitarist was shredding his old Mexican axe and wailing along in Mexican. According to plan, I had my iPod on full blast. Not one spanish note seeped through. A normal Friday morning.

Then Shlomo came along, in full Frumster regalia, dancing the hora right down the platform. This guy was into it. Really, really into it. The beauty of such a symbiosis of cultures was only outshined by the pure misery of the dance moves. Spins, side-steps and arm waves. It was quite a scene.

So when the song ended, with a big smile, I watched Shlomo reach into his pocket. Now there's a man, I thought to myself. There's a man that subscribes to the theory on subway entertainers. Unfortunately, I appeared to have made an ass out of you and me. Honestly, what was thinking? It was ludricous to assume he was pulling out a wallet or some loose change. Logically, he was only reaching into his pocket to sate his 9:30 appetite with a lollipop.

And as I watched this fat jew dance around to the next Mexican jam, I could only continue to wonder why people hate us.

Oh Wow, When Did Tarzan Start Working Here?

I was on a first date last night and we're sitting outside waiting for our waitress to come take our drink order. Finally, after about 10 minutes I went inside and found the first waitress I saw and asked her if she had the outside tables, she said she did and I told her where we were sitting. She pointed to our table in order to acknowledge that she will be over there in just a minute. As she raised her arm to point I noticed that her armpit is hairier than Tom Hanks in Cast Away. At this point I am completely freaked out. I have thrown up several times before from seeing female armpit hair. I have no explanation why but for some reason it grosses me out to no end. Not only do I need to not trow up every time she comes to the table but I also have to deal with the fact that she might very well be touching my food. Maybe on a second or third date I could get away with asking the girl if we could go someplace else because I am completely repulsed by the waitress and legitimately afraid she might make me throw up on the table, but on a first date I feel like that might scare someone off. I said to myself, "well, maybe they have other people who actually bring you the food." NOT THE CASE. As it turns out I am a much stronger individual than I would have given myself credit for. I looked straight ahead or to the left every time she came to the table to avoid eye contact with the onion straws and I was able to eat my entire meal, which was delicious. Never going there again, that's for damn sure.

Go ahead, Cornelius, you can cry

Very disappointing. Yesterday I became a fan of Rod Benson's comedic blog about trying to make it on the New Jersey Nets and today I see this on Yahoo:

10/15 R. Benson, NJN, FC
Waived

Damn shame, my friends. This kid has talent, even if it's not on the court. Just check out his rap video:

Does this violate the doctor-patient relationship?

Am I the only person that spends the duration of a haircut maneuvering body parts to avoid direct contact with the barber's junk? I mean, I completely understand the difficulty in bobbing and weaving around the cuttee's arms, legs and shoulders to reach various angles of the head, but shouldn't it be his responsibility to prevent any genital-to-client contact?

C'mon Javier, there's not way you can't tell that your package is resting on my forearm. Are you doing it on purpose? Maybe, you have some bizarre crotch-to-client-arm fetish. If this is the case, I'm pretty sure I should be getting this haircut for free, no? Because what we're really doing here is bartering services, right? You are giving me a haircut, and you are taking my arm virginity.

Well at the very least, he should be tipping me at the end.

Then again I also love watching homeless people play with themselves on the subway

It was a long day and I was tired. I hadn't stayed at work past eight o'clock in a very long time. I was stumbling between subway transfers and impatiently tapping my foot to the tune on my iPod while waiting for my train to arrive. Unlike elsewhere, a tap on your shoulder on a New York City subway platform is an extremely unnerving experience, which explains my mild leap as I felt the tap on mine.

Not only wasn't it a offensively odorous bum, it was actually a chick I had been trying to hook up with for years, but had yet to drive it home. She had just moved to the city and was undoubtedly excited to see someone she knew waiting for the same train as she. We flirted, we laughed, she touched my leg; it was amazing. When I asked her where she was going she told me the name of a bar on the West Side, so I immediately saw an opportunity to display excellence.

CMIKE: You're going to the West Side?
SARAH: Yeah.
CMIKE: Umm, well you're on the wrong platform. The west side train is over there (I said pointing nonchalantly across the station).
SARAH: Oh my god, are you serious? Wow, I'm glad I ran into you or I would have been comlpetely lost.
CMIKE: Oh don't worry, you'll learn the city eventually. It took me at least a year to become completely familiar.
SARAH: Thank you so much. So where am I going now?
CMIKE: (pointing to the other side) You're going over--

That right there? That "m-dash" as the grammarians call it? That signifies the exact moment where I realized that I was on the wrong platform. Shit.

Guess I'll have to wait a few more years to try and drive it home.

Do you have this shirt in a large? It's for my son

One of my clients comes into my office yesterday with his mother. The client is about 45 and his mother is about 70. The mother is a sweet old lady who is hooked up to an oxygen machine. The son is wearing a T-shirt that reads "I'm not a gynecologist but I'll take a look." Now, this guy got up in the morning and put on this shirt knowing that he was going to be spending the day in public with his oxygen deprived mother. I figure there are 2 possible explanations for this situation, either the mother doesn't know what a gynecologist is, or she is quite comfortable with the fact that her son is extending an open invitation to all of the women of the world to show their vaginas to her baby boy.

If you want be a party animal, you have to learn to live in the jungle

Lost on the roof of a New York City apartment building with a bottle of wine and no bottle opener, I put on my McGyver cap and decide to push the cork through. Unfortunately, as with any daring feat, there is a level of risk involved, and last night was no different.

During the operation, there was some collateral damages when more than a bit of red wine spurted out and struck evwhino on the right sleeve. After drunkenly appealing to me that it was his favorite shirt, I assured him that I would pay for the cleaning and joked that it was "only a Theory shirt" and I'd pick him up a new one at the next sample sale.

For the sake of time, I now flash forward to a half hour later where, from afar, I see evwhino standing in the middle of a cheering circle of people, spinning his shirt over his head, then grandly toss it off the roof to the tune of a raucous ovation. I smiled and shook my head at that silly, drunk bastard, applauding him in my head for his buoyancy and his downright aplomb. And as I walked over to express my approval, he turned toward me soberly and stated "You know you're buying me a new shirt, right?"

What a dick.

Rod Roddy, Tell Her What She Wins

For those of you that know El Hairs, you know that he has a liking for women's undergarments. Well, he was over The O's apartment on Monday watching the Monday Night Football games and The O's girlfriend's roomate was there wearing a short jean skirt. El Hairs isn't a big sports fan so he spent the entire 3 hours trying to figure out what color panties were under the skirt. Cut to last night when I was out drinking with The O and El Hairs. We were walking back to my apartment and El Hairs asked for the O's phone so he could leave the O's girlfriend a message. I overhear the following message being left:

El Hairs: O's girlfriend, it's El Hairs. I'm not calling for fun, i'm calling for business, and that business is the panty business. You tell your roommate that whenever she wants i will take her on a $200 victoria's secret shopping spree if she wants to be with a grown man.

Yeah, yeah, I get it, fuck off Da Fino

When you are struggling to get laid, you will do almost anything. This would include scarfing down every blind date set-up that is served up, regardless of the dish. Unfortunately, I had some scheduling snafus which led to three dates this week.

The first one was last night. She was much younger than me and I didn't get a great vibe from our brief interactions on the phone. As a result, I spent the entire day waffling about whether to cancel the date or not. The date was scheduled for 8:30 p.m., and about about 5 p.m. I finally decided that it was too late to cancel and I would just suck it up and go.

At 6:24 p.m., I received the following text message from her: "I apologize but I'm going to have to reschedule there was a gas leak at my office I fled and ran home. Really fucked up I know. I hope you understand".

Well at least she came up with a believable excuse. And by believable I mean completely preposterous and unconvincing. I mean, at least my excuse would have left her wondering if I was flaking out, but this one was just, I don't know, I think I would have preferred a simple "fuck off you feeble minded prick".

I think I'm going to reschedule the date just so I can show her how to cancel properly.

"Rock 'n' roll can save the world"? "The chicks are great"? I sound like a dick!

I am so bored at work that I may slip into a coma. That paired with the torrential downpour keeping me from leaving my office has driven me unwillingly back to the Best Time Ever.

It has been so long since my last post, that I have so much to write, and yet nothing to write. I could catch you up on my dating life (frequent but without reward), my travels (hola, shalom, konichiwa fuckers), or my family life (aside from my crazy fucking cousins, the only news is that my sister had a baby). But honestly, who cares about all that, right? That's not why anyone reads this thing. Wait, does anyone read this thing? The only thing I could think of writing was a new theory on rating chicks.

Considering that guys have varying standards (JD will do anything with extra padding) and different tastes (JC loves the Indians), there must be a way to standardize the system of rating the opposite sex. I think I have come close to determining the proper allocation of ratings, and as an added plus, Dylan came up with some discrete labels to ensure that any eavesdropping bitches don't know what's being said. So here goes:

1 through 4
NAME: Dino
THOUGHTS: Untouchable under any circumstances
USED IN A SENTENCE: This place is chock full of Dinos, let's get JD over here.

5
NAME: Fred
THOUGHTS: Only hook-upable if you are black out drunk
USED IN A SENTENCE: Holy shit, I don't remember a thing from last night, all I know is that I woke up with this Fred laying next to me and I had to choke back some vomit.

6
NAME: Barney
THOUGHTS: Acceptable hook up after a few drinks
USED IN A SENTENCE: When we first showed up, that Barney grabbed my package and I pretended not to feel it, but at this point, I'm feeling like I'm going to maybe go stick it.

7
NAME: Wilma
THOUGHTS: Desirable hook up even outside of a bar
USED IN A SENTENCE: Did you see that Wilma? I would.

8
NAME: Betty
THOUGHTS: Dying to hook up with
USED IN A SENTENCE: Man, I called that Betty like eight times and sent her four text messages last night, but that bitch never got back to me. Well there's always tomorrow night.

9
NAME: Pebbles
THOUGHTS: Ridiculous, just plain ridiculous
USED IN A SENTENCE: No honestly, man I think I need to do a couple more shots before I have the courage to go talk to that Pebbles. Oh, fuck it.

10
NAME: Bam-Bam
THOUGHTS: Your dreaming
USED IN A SENTENCE: Holy shit, this place is full of Bam-Bams. We've got no shot, let's just go somewhere else.

RIFLEMAN'S BACK

Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain

My cousin Kate is 35 years old and has three children. She is quite pretty and likes to act like she's 25 whenever she gets the chance. Yesterday was one of those chances. She brought her 18-year-old Spanish exchange student to New York for the day and night, and they were staying with my younger cousin Ashley. The exchange student has been staying with Kate for over a month in her home in Baltimore. The exchange student was pretty cute, but not a knockout or anything.

So I planned a dinner at Tao for 6 pm, so they could make their show time for Rent. I arrive at 6 and no one shows up for around twenty minutes. Finally, Ashley shows up and says she is furious because Kate is standing in the waiting area with her Spaniard and they are both drunk. I survey the scene and see that Kate is definitely drunk but the Spaniard is totally smashed. However, Kate won't acknowledge that the Spaniard is totally wasted, so I have to walk her, stumbling and all, through Tao to our table. Mere moments later she gets up and starts to walk to the bathroom. She knocks into a statue which a busboy has to catch before it falls, then she knocks several place-settings off the tables on her way to the restroom. I yelled at Kate to go with her, but Kate said she didn't have to go to the bathroom. Anyway, Kate gets up to help as the manager comes over and asks us to leave. WE HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN OUR WATER SERVED AND I'M WALKING THIS DRUNKEN, STUMBLING SPANIARD OUT OF TAO!

After finally getting them into a cab, someone calls Ashley to tell her that they found Kate's phone in another taxi. I rush them back to my apartment. They then both go pee in the bathroom and clog the toilet. The toilet overflows. Ashley leaves to buy a plunger. The Spaniard goes to sleep. I clean the bathroom and plunge the toilet. Then I take a cab up to the Upper East Side to retrieve Kate's phone. I come back to Kate and Ashley nearing fisticuffs, because Kate is trying to get the Spaniard out of bed to go catch the curtain for Rent. The Spaniard, for five minutes, literally cannot put one shoe on. I totally lay into Kate telling her she'll probably get arrested if they go. Ashley leaves to get Kate and the Spaniard's bags because she has officially kicked them out of her apartment.

It is around this point that the roommate walks into this catastrophe. Kate tries to get him to go to Rent with her (btw, it is now 8:10 and the show started at 8:00). I then go into my room to order food, where, through the darkened quarters, I think I see the Spaniard throwing up all over herself. I lean closer to her and put my hand in a puddle, and find out that yes, in fact, the Spaniard is throwing up all over herself. I tell Kate and go wash my hands. Next thing I know the Spaniard is walking to the bathroom with no pants on. Kate turns on the shower, while I'm in there, and the Spaniard gets in with shirt and panties still on. I duck out of the bathroom, but the Spaniard starts complaining that the water is too hot. Kate tells me to come back in to adjust the water. I open the door and the 18-year-old Spaniard (legal) is standing there naked with the shower curtain open. I adjust the temperature, close the door and see the roommate hysterically laughing on the couch. I was worried that she might drown in the shower unitl we hear her in there singing some Spanish pop song like she was getting ready to go to work for the day.

After this Kate strips the bed down, throws everything in the laundry, smokes fifteen cigarettes, and comes back to see the Spaniard coming out of the shower with the towel around her body, and the BATH MAT wrapped around her head. The same bath mat that houses the roommate's disgusting feet when he enters and exits the shower, ON HER HEAD! Luckily she went to sleep after that. Kate finished the laundry, smoked fifteen more cigarettes and went to bed by midnight.

I woke up at 4:45 am to use the bathroom and they were gone. There was a note on the coffee table: "Sorry about last night. -Kate"

You can take away our phones...but you can NOT take away our dreams

When I walk out of my office to go to the bathroom, I pass by the "law-firm-hot" girl's office. This girl, I probably wouldn't look at her even once in a bar or on the street, but while sitting at my desk, I think dirty, dirty thoughts about her. Anyway, I'm getting off the point. I just walked past her office and heard her talking to someone on the speakerphone. The thing is that the person's voice on the other end of the call had this peculiar echo. So as I continued down the hall past "not-even-close-to-hot-even-at-a-law-firm" girl's office, I realize that she is the person on the other end of the call.

Are they having a laugh? If the phone were left completely out of the process, they could just as easily have heard what the other was saying. And at the same volume. No need to raise voices or anything. God forbid they'd get off their billable-hour-heavy asses and sidle two feet down the hall to the other's office. But, whatever, this made me very upset for some reason. So what I decided to do was walk into "law firm hot" girl's office, pick up the phone in my hand, look at her, hold the phone out toward her for a brief moment, and then slam that fucker down on the receiver. Then in a faint whisper, proclaim "I don't even like you anymore."

She doesn't even know my name.

No more wire hangars

"I felt like my mom was chasing me with a belt.''
-- Tennessee quarterback Vince Young to owner Bud Adams, who asked him what he was thinking as he ran for the winning 39-yard touchdown in overtime over his hometown Texans.

Ahhh...now that's some good ole fashioned, child abuse humor right there.

And in no way is that pathetic

There really is nothing like an unspoken understanding between strangers. One of those moments where neither person has to say a word to understand exactly what the other person is thinking.

This really shone through last night at a bar in Chicago. Dr. Sillygoose and myself were chatting by a table, drinking our freshly acquired brews. The Goose placed his full beer on the table behind him and turned back to talk to me for a second. At that point, the lonely young gentleman stranger sitting at the table reached over, clasped the forsty mug and slide that beer slowly towards himself. At that precise moment, Sillygoose turned around and without word or sound, slowly reached for the glass and pulled it back to his side of the table. In retort, the stranger just nodded acknowledgment and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say "ya got me...ya got me this time."

You stay classy, Chicago.

Did I have teeth the last time you visited me?

Totally and completely by accident, I bought the exact same toothbrush as my roommate. It doesn't affect us in that "I had it first, biter" sort of way, as much as it does in that "ohhhhh crap, which one is mine" way. But, I'll be damned if I'm going all the way back to the Duane Reade on the corner to buy another one. Fuck that. So I took a small piece of duct tape, the glue of the world, and wrapped it around my brush for distinction.

Well, I'll just say that there is nothing quite like waking up to any empty apartment and a damp toothbrush. It really fucks up the whole day. And, I'll just say, that there is not enough hot water or bleach on the planet to make that thing fresh again.

Let's just say I'll be stopping by the Duane Reade...eventually.

"Gnome" it's not

I'm sorry, but you're trying to tell me that Andrea Kremer is actually a human being and not a troll doll?



I mean it's uncanny. Am I the only one that thinks this? And am I the only one who thinks, as a result of her likeness to one of the goofiest looking toys ever made, that she maybe shouldn't be on national television? I'm just saying that I have to go to sleep in a couple hours, and I really don't need that image in my head.

I'm not trying to be mean or anything, but, oh jesus.

I wonder about you sometimes, Henry...you may fold under questioning

I'm wondering if I'm going to look as ridiculous in pictures from the 2000's as my father looks in pictures from the 70's. I mean I'm looking at them as I write this, and I don't think it's even possible. Considering that our generation never really presented us with a pairing comparable to the Afro and Fu Manchu combo, it's definitely not a possibility.

I'm wondering if Polly-O String Cheese will ever make a solid come back. That stuff was like the best string food I had ever had from ages 6 to 10. I, for one, miss it.

I'm wondering how much Ben Roethlisberger is going to have to shell out to re-up his contract with the Devil. If his soul, his appendix and his face only got him two years, I'm thinking the soul of his unborn first child would only lock up about four and a half more games. Then he's just fucked.

I'm wondering if the word "wondering" is gay or unaffiliated with any particular sexual orientation.

I'm wondering if I could work from Baltimore for the remainder of the calendar year without anyone at my firm being the wiser. I really think I could do it. Like that kid from Eurotrip. Fuck it, I am so doing this.

One of the last real men. He's untamed. Next to him, we're trained ponies.

I just heard that when the 77-year-old Bo Schembechler entered the hospital last month with heart problems, the nurse had to ask him some questions--

NURSE: Okay sir, how much do you weigh?
BO: Two-hundred and five pounds of twisted blue steel.

Now that's a tough old man. If that were my grandfather this is how the conversation would have gone--

NURSE: Okay sir, how much do you weigh?
POPS: What?
NURSE: Your weight, how much?
POPS: How long do I have to wait?
NURSE: What is your WEIGHT?
POPS: I'm not waiting anymore, I'm out of here.

I'll stay and pray. What do I got to lose?

Bo is in the hospital again. This time it doesn't look good. He is in critical condition.

The man is one of the most legendary coaches in college football history and no one or no thing has ever meant more to Michigan athletics. Considering that this is occurring on the eve of the biggest meeting in Michigan-Ohio State history, these circumstances are just too much. This is really shaping up to be the most significant game in college football history (even without my blue glasses).

I hope at the very least he can stick around for the game, but sadly, I sense a Gipper situation coming along.

[UPDATE: Bo Schembechler just passed away. This is a sad, dark day for Michigan fans and college football fans around the country.]

You're my boy, Blue

So, I heard that there is some big college football game this weekend. Not sure who is playing. I think--and I could easily be wrong here--that it is Ohio State versus Michigan. Wait. Okay, yeah, I just did some research and that is, in fact, the matchup. I'm surprised that this isn't bigger news since apparently these two teams are pretty good. I mean, you'd think the media would have something to say about this, no?

I did find one video in which a kid I went to high school with is asked about the game and he absolutely shreds the shit out of people who went to Michigan. It's pretty funny. Actually it's very funny. And it is extra special funny because he went to Wisconsin, and, as everyone is aware, Wisconsin kids are pretty much just bitter at the world for not getting into their first choice of college.

Go Blue.

Whoa! I just figured something out, Beavis

Sometimes you wish you could say, "wait, whoa, didn't mean to react that way; can we try that again?"

There is a gentleman that lives in my building, he is of Indian or Pakistani or some sort of South Asian decent of which logically should not make me racist to not know the difference. Anyway, this dude is pretty tall and pretty jacked. He also has a Santa-style beard and wears a bandana instead of a turban. I see this guy all the time. I mean at least once during my miserable week, I am in an elevator with this guy. This is particularly odd because I am constantly seeing people in the building whom I have never seen before. So I have always pondered why this guy was on my schedule. Is he also a half-assed attorney, who sometimes leaves work at 2:30 pm? Is he following me? Are there more than one of him?

Well, yesterday, two of him got into the elevator with me. Yup, there were two of him. Well, my opinion on twins is well documented on this blog, so as can be expected, my reaction was far from discreet. After doing a literal double take, then audibly expelling a slight Keanu-"whoa", I spent the remainder of the elevator ride staring at my sneakers and trying to shake off glares from the Indo-twins.

I'm not racist, I just think twins are weird. Especially when they look like terrorists.

I'll be back! Ha! You didn't know I was gonna say that, did you?

Alright, I'm back, bitches. Maybe not daily, and maybe even not tomorrow, but for now I'm feeling the juices. Plus, I got a lot of shit to talk about. But we'll take this AA style, and see how it irons out.

I'm dating Batman. Yeah, that's right, I said it: Batman. I wake up and this bitch is a shadow, she's gone. No sign that she was ever there. No note, no follow-up phone call, nada. Well, I can't say I mind the space in the bed, but shit, it takes fourteen showers just to wash the used off of me. It's like I've entered that circle of hell where philanderers are punished with their own sin.

I mean is a phone call too much to ask??? I'm sorry, I'm just real emotional right now...I think I'm on my period.

You're breakin' ma balls here, Hans

I just read something that reminded me of this: wasn't Godzilla the result of Slappy Harry nuking Japan to end WWII? Wasn't he supposed to be some sort of lizard that was exposed to the radiation and eventually mutated into a giant fire-breathing dragon thing? Or was it just a regular lizard that looked really big next to Japanese people?

Either way, I hope to all that is holy, that Kim Jong Il's nuclear test(s) awaken/morph some kind of crazy lizard/insect/shark/HansBlix that will squash that freaky little fucker once and for all. If not just for the sole fact that he's so freaking peculiar.

I mean that would be worthy of an exclamation point on the CNN captions, am I wrong?

...and one more thing

When does a date turn from awkward conversation and getting-to-know-you banter into party crashing and petty larceny? I'd say about half way through bottle number dos.

But it wasn't really until after dinner, when we skidded over to thor, where we had more drinking, that our behavior went from cheeky fun to borderline criminal (ups to Cara for her part in that). Crashing a bizarre, cultish organization's party is much harder than it seems when you are off your ass drunk and can't seem to remember whether you told that dude you were an acrobat trainer's assistant or a racecar advertisement painter. Though I did enjoy walking up to my date's conversation whereby she introduced me as Charlie, the owner of a banners and signs conglomerate.

Then we nabbed three Mets hats, two Halloween skulls, one goody bag and burned out. I'd have to say it was your typical second date.

Hey, I gotta make a stop real quick

I know that I'm supposed to be on sabbatical, but I just couldn't neglect to mention two huge blog developments that occurred today--which may or may not reveal the secret identities of the brilliant contributors to this well kept secret of a blog:

1) evwhino and myself were featured in a picture on my favorite blog, deadspin, which in turn linked to evwhino's personal blog and inevitably led to his record high of 36 hits.

2) evwhino's sister became one of the editors of deadspin's parent-site gawker, which is one of the most popular blogs in New York.

Congrat's all around. Ha, what a bunch of losers.

I'm taking a sabbatical from school

Due to some sticky issues at work concerning proper internet usage, coupled with the fact that I am complete pussbag, I am taking a short reprieve from spending my days trying to entertain you poon farmers with my half-wit anecdotes.

Check back periodically to see if I've grown a pair.

-cmike

p.s. Real quickly. I went on a date last night and of the couple sitting behind us, one looked an awful lot like a dude. So when the he-she went to the bathroom, my date followed and reported back that the toilet seat was up after the he-she left the room. Now, if for the sake of pretending you're a woman, you go to the trouble of having saline bags implanted into your chest and hair sewn into your head, wouldn't you at least sit down to pee?

What is happiness to you?

A while back I was dating this chick who told me that the previous night had been terrible for her. Though disinterested, I graciously inquired and she began spewing nonsense about her friend breaking up with some guy; I don't know I wasn't really listening. But then something jutted out of her inane babble that made my interest pique.

From what I gather, her friend had been dating a guy for a couple of months and they had really hit it off. She really, really, super special liked him and shit, and she thought he felt the same way. One day he up and stopped returning her calls, emails, texts, etc. Three days later one of his friends calls her and tell her that the dude had been hit by a bus and killed.

At that point, I asked the only relevant question that came to mind: "is she going to the funeral?" And, as I expected, it turns out that the funeral was going to be held out-of-state and therefore she would not be attending. My immediate reaction: this dude is a genius. Trust me, there is nothing worse than breaking it off with an attached girl. It's almost like you're just waiting for the "what is happiness to you" persona to kick in and drive you off a fuckin' bridge. And this guy just took breaking up a short term relationship to a whole new level. He didn't even have to make the call himself, he had a friend break it off with her. And in New York, it's not likely he'll just randomly run into her, and if he does, well, he better have a damn good excuse. But besides that, faking your own death to sever a fledging relationship, I reiterate, pure genius.

Or maybe it was just a terrible tragedy, in which case I will most certainly be going to hell--but what else is new.

What else is new

Working from home today--the norm these days. Just sitting at my desk, working those docs like I do, when I glance out the window and see a building on fucking fire! Pop on the telly and find out a plane crashed into a building about twenty blocks north of my apartment. And of course, CNN and every other 24-hour news source is speculating and oozing out fear-inducing terms like "terrorism" and "9/11" and "holy fucking shit we're all going to die." You know, the yoosh.

I better start working from the office again, my apartment is becoming far too hazardous a workplace.

[UPDATE: turns out that the pilot that died in the crash was Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle. The weirdest thing about this is that only one month ago the NY Times wrote an article about him being a pilot.]

Nice job, you fucked up date night

Trying to find a date to this Jenny Lewis concert tomorrow night is akin to searching for my contact lens in a swimming pool full of old contact lenses. I initially bought the tickets when I was dating the last chick whereby she and I would double date with evwhino and his girl. Silly me thinking it was a bright idea to plan a date with a girl any longer than 6 hours in advance.

Measures taken to this point, including asking two ex-chicks and evwhino posting an invite on Craig's List (which I am assuming was a joke), have thus far bore no fruit. It's weird. Seriously, what do I have to do to get a chick to go to a low-key country/indie rock concert with an astonishingly noncommittal dude that is only attending the concert to stare at the lead singer's breasts?

I mean, is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch?

When you three first got here, you were as worthless as hen shit on a pump handle

I ran into a couple of bros after the wedding on Saturday night. We spent about an hour talking about how we are going to get off of our shitty paths and start our own agency to represent artists. This could easily be one of those nights where we look back ten years later and say, "that was the night we became millionaires." Or, more likely, it will be a night where we look back and say, "holy shit, remember how drunk we were that night? Yeah, pass the Cheetos."

Here's hoping it was the former. Wonder Twin powers--activate! Form of: person with a future.

What do we do when we fall off the horse?

I have found that after breaking things off with a girl, I will usually experience a two-week, woe-is-me-i'll-never-find-the-right-girl hangover. But then, out of nowhere I'll find myself right back in the thick of it and not even know what had happened, e.g. today's gmail chat with a former fling.

[idle chit chat about work and school and nothing of consequence leads to...]

CHICK: so what are your weekend plans
CMIKE: i have a wedding tomorrow night. tonight, i'm not sure...probably just sit around, wait for your call
CHICK: too bad i deleted your number
CMIKE: too tempting, huh?
CHICK: so tempting. im joking, i have it, i'm not that big of an ass like you
CMIKE: ow
CHICK: i did delete it though a while back and had to get it from robin to call you for my jewelry, hahaha
CMIKE: wow...the true feelings finally come out
CHICK: haha
CMIKE: i can't believe you really deleted my number. i still have yours
CHICK: i was mad at you - you were such a sketchball!
CMIKE: okay, let it all out...we can never be friends with benefits if you can't get past the pain...
CHICK: very funny. i got past it when i deleted you
CMIKE: so now that we're on that level, maybe when you come over tonight, you could maybe bring a friend with you?
CHICK: sure which one
CMIKE: you choose, i like tall fair skinned girls
CHICK: the complete opposite of me
CMIKE: oh, huh, i didn't notice

"Sorry, Maury. I'm not a gymnast. "

No and I don't CARE!

Granted it could just be me, but I find absolutely no interest in hearing about the composition of someone else's fantasy football team. In fact, aside from the details of a poker hand where someone lost on the river or a story where someone came too early, I can't think of anything I'd rather hear less about. If I have to hear one more tale about how someone started Donte' Stallworth over Bernard Berrian, and wouldn't you know it, Berrian did better, I am going to insert a carnivorous earwig into my brain. Guess what assholes, it happens to everyone. Just like getting rivered, and just like P.E.

Plus, if you consider that most people these days have two or three teams, you usually end up hearing about how the person is cheering for and against just about every person in the NFL. Even though I have been guilty of this in the past, I assure you, it will happen no more. I refuse to become part of this abysmal side effect of fantasy football. From this point, I vow to never offer unsolicited details of my football team.

Now, fantasy basketball that's a totally different animal. I plan to bore the shit out of everyone with that one.

I'm going to punch you in the ovary

I have not returned to the Subway by my office since I met this chick, and this happened.

It's been four treacherous months, so I figured it had been a long enough grace period. But, just in case, I looked on my phone to refresh her name in my memory and built a story to prepare for the potential run-in. People may wonder why I care, and to them my answer is two-fold: (1) I like to keep my options open, so that in the event I run into a girl like that, I can at least say, "oh, my phone broke," or "my maid threw out your number" and possibly rekindle something if I feel the desire; and (2) I am a shallow, insecure, little man and need everyone to like me--or at least not hate me.

But alas, all of this planning was futile, since she was not at the Subway, and, frankly, what kind of idiot am I to think she would be? It was not until we were walking back to work from Subway that I saw her. She was walking toward us, so I quickly made the requisite look at the watch and then looked away toward my friend and pretended to be engrossed in conversation. As you may know by now, I am very practiced at avoiding people on the street. It's an art form to me.

But here's where I faltered. As soon as she passed, I said to the officemate, "that was her, that was the Subway girl." Shockingly he immediately turned--not once, not twice, but three times--and he smiled. And then he waved. Oh jesus. Finally, I turned around and the girl was facing my direction, walking backwards away from me, down Broadway, in the middle of Times Square, at lunchtime, holding her middle finger high in the air.

You stay classy Subway Girl.

My momma always said...

Phone conversation with my mom this morning:

MOM: Susan wants to set you up with a girl.
CMIKE: Okay, give me her information so I can pre-screen her.
MOM: What do you mean, just take her out.
CMIKE: I want to see what she looks like first.
MOM: cmike, looks aren't everything.
CMIKE: Sure they're not.
MOM: cmiiiiiike.
CMIKE: Fine, I'll take her out, but you can't be upset if she walks in and I walk right out.
MOM: That's fine, here's her number.

Well, I used to be an actor but I could never remember my lines

When I was a kid I always drew lines for myself across which I swore I would never venture. Amongst other things, these boundaries included drinking, smoking and gambling. But, as time went on, these lines were pushed from never to maybe-just-this-once to well-it's-a-special-occasion to who-the-fuck-am-i-kidding-give-me-two.

But the one line that lasted the longest was sports gambling. That was a line I would not touch. Considering the trouble some of my family members had encountered with this vice, I drew that line in indelible ink. But, what those fuckers at Sharpie don't tell you is that indelible ink fades with time. Which is why an article like this has the capability of completely shattering my world.

Fuckin' government, always messing with my lines and shit.

[note: for some reason, after much frustration and anxiety, the way I dealt with this problem was by putting the remaining balance of my account on the Ravens this Monday Night. I now feel like I'm going to vomit.]

Pretty standard really

Typical Saturday conversation in Baltimore.

CMIKE: I'm really pissed that this chick didn't write me back.
DR.GOOSE: Dude, honestly, she's slurping cum right now, just give her a minute.
HONGE: Do you realize how digusting that sounds?
CMIKE: Really that is so gross.
DR.GOOSE: [dead seriously] Does anyone wanna go get slurpies right now?
HONGE: Ew.

Say my name, bitch

I know some of you hate Colbert (FURG), but I figured I would still update a previous story.

Stephen Colbert, king of encouraging people to vote for his name in naming contests, has finally gotten his wish...twice.

If you think that Mick Jagger will still be doing the whole rock star thing at age fifty, well, then, you are sorely, sorely mistaken

Went to the Stones concert last night at Giants Stadium. Free ticket, sixth row (in the seats directly the the left of the stage). First thought: look how old they are. Look at them, they just look so...old.

With that out of the way, it may have been the best concert I've ever attended. I had never been to a stadium concert before, and it was far crazier than anything I had expected. The stage was enormous and even physically moved about sixty yards into the crowd. The pyrotechnics were not trite, as they tend to be at concerts. The music was great as expected. I could have done without the several new songs, but the classics were phenomenal and their cover of the Temptations' "Just My Imagination" was a great surprise.

I'm sure no one has ever commented on this, but Keith Richards looked like he was going to fall asleep on the stage. The dude looked like he had to be transfused in between sets. Like some one was operating a marionette--and poorly, at that. But his greatest moment was when he stepped up the microphone, cig hanging loosely in his limp hand, and he proclaimed through a goofy grin, "Well, I made it." It killed.

And needless to say, Mick was amazing. I was enthralled by how he sang every song like it was his first time performing it, and how he worked his ass off to captivate every one of the people packed into the stadium. This dude is over sixty-year-old and would sprint fifty yards across the stage like a twenty-year-old. The crowd went nuts everytime he would come to their particular side of the stage, and everyone would simultaneously break out their camera phones and take a blurry picture of a shadow of someone who looks like they might be Mick Jagger.

And speaking of the crowd. What a mix of people. The smorgasbord of age and class was a delight. Old dudes wearing sleeveless leather Rolling Stones jackets were seated next to suited-up, twenty-five-year olds using the company tickets. But the diversity stopped at age and class, since I would estimate a total of six black people in the entire stadium.

This may be why Kanye West struggled so much. Kanye opened for the Stones. Kanye is undoubtedly my favorite rapper. Kanye played to an empty, apathetic crowd. I mean, he must have known what he was getting himself into, but still, I felt bad for the guy. He could pack an arena just for him, with his people, and yet he's playing to a 90% empty Giants stadium where half the people are screaming "turn down that racket." But nevertheless he worked his ass off and really tried to reach across the aisle and pull people into understanding hip hop. I was amazed, entertained, embarrassed and saddened all at once.

Kanye struggled to entertain 7,000 people, and the Stones killed it for 70,000. Bottom line: George Bush does not care about black people.

He's gone, and there's nothing we could do about it

I’m pretty sure my latest dating endeavor is over. It was bound to happen, but this email exchange seemed to clinch it. See if you can tell where I lost her.

CMIKE: Hey, sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier. Long day. In fact, I have a pretty packed week ahead as well
CHICK: thats ok. i understand. if you get a free moment let me know. i would love to see you
CMIKE: okay
CHICK: is this ur way of getting rid of me
CMIKE: are you kidding
CHICK: what do u mean am i kidding u?
CMIKE: whoa. this is getting out of hand here. i have a packed week. i am busy at work. i am sorry i was short with you on the email, but you've got to relax.
CHICK: ok now ur just being rude. forget about it. i dont have time for this. sorry cmike.

It was the "relax" wasn't it? Yeah, chicks hate that.

So that’s that. Next?

Funny how?

I really like standup comedy. I like it just enough to watch pretty much ever comedy special on television, but not quite enough to make the effort to actually go out and see a show. And ever since standup genius Mitch Hedberg died, I started to believe that I would never actually go see a live comedy show again. In my opinion, Hedberg's overhaul on stale observational humor and his brilliant sense of timing made him an unparalleled standup.

Well I think I've discovered the next closest thing: Demetri Martin. I guess I can't really say "discovered" since he has a recurring segment on The Daily Show called "Trendspotting," and his own Comedy Central special, but none of you fuckers have heard of him, so I saw him first.

Here is an example of one of his jokes:

One of my friends has a stutter. Some people think that's a bad thing, but to me it's like he's starting every word with a drumroll. That's not an impediment, that's suspense. 'What's he gonna say? Car? Carnival? Carburetor. Awww man.'

And here is one of Hedberg's:

I think Bigfoot is blurry, that's the problem. It's not the photographer's fault. Bigfoot is blurry. And that's extra scary to me, because there's a large, out-of-focus monster roaming the countryside. 'Run. He's fuzzy. Get outta here.'

The writing is very similar, with short, disjointed bits of observational comedy, but it was really Hedberg's timing and delivery that made him brilliant. Demetri is definitely lacking this gift, but a lot of his material is still on the mark. Whatever. If you want to go see him, he's playing a show at The Town Hall on October 27th.

Oh, and Jim Gaffigan is playing there on October 14th and he's funny as shit. So I guess I'd see him too.

Hey Don, did you take a dump in your bed last night?

Dear woman sitting across the aisle from the bathroom on the LIRR train from Merrick this past Friday night around 10:30PM,

I really, really, really had to take a shit. I imagine the bathroom on the train couldn't handle the awful stench and I have no idea what the aftermath must have smelled like. Fortunately, I blacked out for the rest of the ride into Penn Station. All apologies.

Sincerely,

Evwhino

Marty, we all have to make decisions that affect the course of our lives

My mother has been on this health kick for a while, which generally just entails her yelling at me to join a gym and cook my own dinners. Instead of getting my lazy ass to the gym or grocery store, I just turned the tables and yelled at my mother to get her ass to the gym.

So, she finally decided to lead by example this weekend and took my father with her to join the gym. After realizing that the gym membership was absurdly expensive, they headed to the store to buy an elliptical machine. Supposedly the elliptical machine was expensive as well, so my parents had a decision to make: fork over the monthly cost for the gym or drop the lump sum for the machine.

After much discussion and argument, my parents decided to put the money to good use and headed over to the synagogue to buy themselves burial plots.

Swear to god, true story.

All the forces coming together--burning--just perfect, perfect harmony

There are a few times in your life where everything just seems to fall into place. Where the stars align, the titties are poppin' and nothing can go wrong.

Take last night for example. I took my date for pizza and beer before going to see a show. We enjoyed our beers, shared a pizza, I taught her how to play skeeball. After blasting the fuck out of some bucks and squeezing into the photobooth together, she was like putty in my deer slaughtering hands. We sauntered across the street to the theater and I sent her to the side while I grabbed my reserved tickets (I know people). As I approached the ticket booth, she sidled up next to me and whispered sweetly into my ear: "I think we missed the show."

Hmmm...Thursday, September 21st, 6:30 pm showtime? But it's 9:15 pm? And what is all this brown stuff on my sheets? Oh, I see, I shat the bed.

My Momma always said...

Phone conversation with my mom several minutes ago:

MOM: So, what are you doing tonight?
CMIKE: Taking this girl to dinner and a play.
MOM: Oh, well that sounds--wait, you hate plays.
CMIKE: Yeah, I know but it was written by this guy I work with so I thought I should go.
MOM: Whoa, does this mean you might actually keep this girl around for more than two weeks?
CMIKE: What does one have to do with the other?
MOM: You never do anything a girl wants to do. You always want to watch football and--
CMIKE: Alright, I've gotta get back to work.

They're here...the TV People

In case anyone was wondering, these are the shows I record every week starting this Fall:

SUNDAY
American Dad
Family Guy*
The Wire*
The Game**
Brothers & Sisters**

MONDAY
Prison Break
Vanished
Studio 60*
What About Brian**
Heroes**

TUESDAY
Veronica Mars
Nip/Tuck
Smith
Friday Night Lights**
Knights of Prosperity**

WEDNESDAY
Justice
Lost*
30 Rock**
Jericho**
Kidnapped**
The Nine**

THURSDAY
Survivor
The Office*
The O.C.
Ultimate Fighter
Six Degrees**

*highly recommended
**hasn't started yet

Also, I tape The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, and Pardon the Interruption every day.

And, yes, that amounts to over 24 hours of t.v. goodness each week. If you wish to watch these shows as well, you can either go through your guide and record each one individually, or just click here instead.

Good luck and god bless.

Well, I have a microphone, and you don't, so you will listen to every damn word I have to say!

Below is The Honge's speech from the rehearsal dinner of this weekend's wedding:

Hi everybody, for those of you who do not know me I am The Honge. I have known The Dogg for over 15 years and The Bride for over 10 years. I was also present during the beginning of their relationship, so it seems fitting that The Dogg and The Bride asked me to say a few words, and tell everyone a little about how we all ended up here together, this evening.

First, I would like to thank The Dogg and The Bride. Also, The Dogg’s parents for hosting such a nice evening of friends, family, and someone with a rough tricep area of the right arm. I would also really like to thank myself for making it into town this evening, and for writing a very nice speech.

The other day, I was sifting through some old emails when I found the first letter that The Dogg wrote to his friends when he realized how in love he was with The Bride, so I decided that I would read this to you because this truly shows the magnitude of their relationship.

Dear Fellas,
I have already discussed the situation with cmike, Feez, and the Rit, and I thought I would tell some of the other dudes. I am writing to inform you guys that I am officially in love with The Bride...I got her to sign a document that said how much she was in love with me, so now it's totally official...isn’t that cute, I think its cute!! Hehe Hehe. Last night, me and The Bride sat up all night discussing our future...I said "The Bride, if we get married can I PLEASE make the websites for our wedding, and...of course it will extremely fruity and I hope that all my friends make fun of me...I really want to be in total control of the groomsmen, what they wear and when they wear it."

(Remember these are his words).

Later on in the evening I braided her hair and she braided my eye brows, and shaved my right arm to make a nice rough patch...we also discussed how obsessive compulsive I will be about really important things like making sure my remote controls are in order from cutest to scariest.

Finally after trying on her shoes, we laid next to each other while I played with her hair and she held my hand, and I thought "This girl, this beautiful woman that I am lying next to...uses the same conditioner as Feez, and that’s good, cause this is what I am used to."

We are already thinking of a Fall wedding? What do u think? I’m leaning toward that, I just love the fall, it rhymes with tall, and ball, and small, like how incredibly smaller my penis is than The Honge’s...umm so many colors, it is fabulous, and so romantic...okay, I have to finish work, then go out with my friends and do something latently homoerotic.

Hugs and Kisses,

The Dogg

P.S. here are three real truthful reasons why I love The Bride.
1) Her skin is smoother than even The O’s well moisturized, beautiful, young skin
2) She owns way better underwear then Surgeon
3) She gives a way better message then my soccer coach Ron Kiwi.

[The Dogg’s parents] you are welcoming an all-around spectacular woman into your family. One of the sweetest, most loving people I have ever met. She has a heart of gold, and has always been there for me. Her ability to make people feel good and special is so unique. Not to mention that her maternal abilities seem to kick in every Saturday when she has to babysit me and The Dogg.

[The Bride’s parents], you are also hopefully, welcoming in one of the cutest little sissy girls I have ever met. No honestly, I have never been more honored and proud to stand up here and say that The Dogg has the biggest heart, and always fair and kind...always open-minded...and I could not be privileged and grateful to be one of his best friends. My admiration for these two individuals is incredible extensive, and hard to put into words. They respect, love, and laugh together. I know all your wishes will come true, as I am sure one of their biggest ones already has...I love you The Dogg and The Bride...Mazol Tov...
...AND...
...Good luck The Bride

Die, you random son of a bitch

Random thoughts from the weekend:

-At twenty-six-years-old, is it still necessary to hide cigarettes from your friend's parents? Honestly, as soon as a parent walked by at the wedding, people were pulling cigarettes out of hiding places like in that Miller Lite man-law commercial. At one point the Dogg even pulled a lit cigarette from a trashcan.

-Is there a rule on the appropriateness of a wedding song? At one point, after the ceremony, as the bride and groom walked back down the aisle in celebration, one of the other groomsmen leaned over to me and asked "is this Five for Fighting? What is this a Citibank commercial?"

-There are few things more fun than giving wrong directions to a friend who is wasted and lost in inner city Baltimore. "What you're going to do is go one block north. Okay, did you do that? What do you see, four guys drinking forties out of brown paper bags, sharpening their razor blades? Okay now turn around and go one block south."

-When getting into a car with someone after a party, I was always taught to ask if they were drunk. But my parents never told me what to do when the driver replies: "I'm not drunk...I'm sauced."

-Girls are rarely funny so when a chick says something humorous, especially during her wedding, it's worth mentioning. After the party ended, everyone went to an after party in a big suite. While posing for a picture, someone asked the bride if the tattoo on her waist was real. Her reply: "No, I just put it on for my wedding."

-The after party was like one of those dreams where you can't really follow what's going on. Where everyone is in an opium den, shrouded in smoke. You see your best friend's mom and your fourth grade math teacher sharing a joint and eating Funions. You wake up and your not sure that really happened. Well it did, and it was awesome.

-During the insanity that was the after party, Dr. Sillygoose was completely MIA. The Rifleman asked me where he was, and I replied that he probably couldn't find the suite. The Rifleman than confirmed that if that was the truth, it affirmatively proves that there is a god.

-Finally, and most randomly, after a night of cavorting, drinking and just downright loopiness, the Honge showed up at the after party, in his pajamas, wearing a sheepish grin and carrying the ice sculpture from the ballroom.

Danger Will Robinson

Going to the Dogg's wedding tomorrow. The Dogg and bride-to-be were both in our close group of friends growing up. As most couples do, they worked very hard planning this thing down to the last detail. There is no hope.

This thing is going to be a disaster. Everyone at the wedding knows each other. Everyone. Few other jews in the world drink like us. When you start adding supplements, well, it's just going to be a disaster. I only hope that the Rifleman finds a proper receptacle for his vomit and that the Honge refrains from defecating upon himself at the actual ceremony.

oh jesus.

You complete me

It’s been said that for every person on this planet, there is another person who is his true love—his “soul mate,” if you will. Many people look long and hard, tossing mismatches aside like an old condom. It is rare indeed for a person to find that true love, but when it happens, well, it’s magical.

This past weekend, JD found his “one.” And when that lucky person finds his counterpart in this crazy, messed up world, it is the duty of his closest friends to harass the shit out of him—especially when the “one” takes the form of a group of dudes a year below us in college (dubbed “Ween and Co.”).

Here's to you JD. Mazel, mazel good things.

Below are two email chains that evidence said harassment—

[first chain]
JD: why are you not going for the whole game? not sure i really want to watch it at that place. can we explore other options?
DYLAN: aka, let's see what Ween and co. are doing...
JD: exactly dyl. i'll ask him what his plans are. what would you rather do dylan?
DYLAN: no JD, that was me making fun of you at how hard you want to fit in with Ween and his crew.
ROOMMATE: I got that!!!

[second chain]
CMIKE: i just received this message—JD: are you in for this football league possibly? ween etc. have expressed an interest as well
ROOMMATE: I'm interested in knowing who "etc." is, I wonder if it’s “co.”
CMIKE: those kids never would have accepted him as a friend if he were their year? he back-doored it, as usual...
ROOMMATE: I didn't realize they accepted him as a friend now....
CMIKE: neither did i...i was just saying, he has parlayed our friendship with them into his attempt at reaching his man crush dreamsicle
DYLAN: hahha…”man crush dreamsicle.” he's in love

You're puttin' the pussy on a pedestal

Sometimes I'm just so damned clever it should be illegal. I mean, I'm generally a smooth mother fucker, but on those rare occasions I really out-do myself.

Take yesterday for example. This chick I have been seeing was going to have minor surgery yesterday afternoon. She was nervous and I was looking for entry, so the lightbulb clicks on. I look up her work address, and send a bouquet of flowers to her place of business with a "get well" note attached. Honestly, I could just envision panties dropping at the mere thought of my stunning romance.

Today I find out I sent the flowers to the wrong address. Smooth as silk, brotha.

Hanging around, hanging around

I hate when people forget to turn off their alarm clocks and they permit them to just wail and scream all the live long day. So whenever I hear my alarm blaring from another room, I will do anything in my power to slap that bitch off before it causes any further harm. This includes streaking across the apartment from the bathroom if need be.

And frankly, what's the difference? The roommate goes to work about six hours before I do, and we live on a high enough floor that no neighboring building provides a viable vantage, and honestly, who's looking anyway. Window washers, that's who. Completely forget about those little buggers, but Javier and Domingo got a front row seat to my shlong this morning, and from the looks of it they were rather impressed. Or, maybe that was just because I took the time to show them that I could get it all the way around.

Die, you random son of a bitch

Random thoughts from the weekend:

-It turns out that calling your girlfriend fat is, in fact, a dealbreaker.

-The only method of preventing an inevitable all-day hangover, brought on by an overzealous Friday night, is actually chugging a large Gatorade and eating a entire pizza pie at 5 a.m. Scientific fact.

-For some reason, chicks do not find it romantic to hook up on a sandy, single bed with moldy Superman sheets while friends are banging on the door asking for a lighter. Supposedly, that's "childish."

-Eleven post-meridian, on a Saturday night, surrounded by chicks and completely inebriated is supposedly the best time to strike up a game of backgammon.

-Old chicks have no qualms with walking into a crowded pizza place and sticking their tongues down your throat whilst you sit in a booth with your friends.

-"Excuse me, does anyone in the van have an US Weekly?"

-Ladies and gentleman your 2006 Superbowl Champions, the Baltimore Ravens

Feel free to add your own in the comments.

Mean Gene, how DARE you criticize how I dress?

Thought this was an amusing firm-wide email, considering the aura of prestige that my firm likes to assume upon itself:

I have tickets available for Monday Night Raw at MSG tonight, Monday, 9/11 at 8pm. Tickets are in the [firm] box.

They will be given out on a first come first served basis.
Please call extension 5541 if interested.

[update: literally 4 minutes after receiving that email, we received another one, subject: Monday Night Raw Tickets--Gone]

Great Oden's Raven

Expanding upon our former editorial on John Mark Karr, it appears that the man's brilliance was actually understated. An article on cnn.com now reports that Karr's excellent adventure from Thailand cost the county $5,925, and included champagne, fried king prawns and roast duck.

Genius.

[special thanks to Dylan for finding this article]

Where's the money Lebowski?

In order to get reimbursed for my laptop, I have to submit to the Expense Reporting department either a copy of the cancelled check or a copy of my bank statement showing the money withdrawn from my account. I can't find a copy of the cancelled check. Is there any problem with sending the following:

09/05/2006 EARLS BAR AND GRILL NEW YORK -$72.67
09/05/2006 DELL FINANCIAL CHECK PYMT 0354 -$2,638.00
09/05/2006 HEARTLAND BREWERY W43 NEW YORK -$30.00
09/05/2006 TURTLE BAY LIQUORS INC NEW YORK -$73.85
09/05/2006 LINK NY -$26.00
09/05/2006 MARQUEE NEW YORK -$58.00
09/05/2006 MARQUEE NEW YORK -$66.00
09/05/2006 500 E. 14TH STREET NEW YORK 0902 S -$102.00
09/01/2006 NETELLER SPORTS SITE -$544.50
08/28/2006 LEISURE TIME BOWL NEW YORK -$75.00
08/28/2006 PALMERCASH.COM BOISE -$41.89
08/27/2006 DIVINE BAR NEW YORK -$74.00

I think I have a slight drinking problem. Oh, and let's not forget the gambling problem. Is this grounds for immediate termination with cause?

There's nothing as pathetic as an aging hipster

As I live and breath I can never turn a begging friend down, so I braved the rain last night and joined evwhino at the Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals concert last night in Central Park.

The rain was subtle, but it pretty much subdued the crowd for the most part. But rain or not, obviously some people just like to party. Like the douchebag dancing in front of us wearing his trying-too-hard hipster outfit. The guy that shushed us when we were talking--at a concert. The guy that was constantly hitting on the three lesbians next to him. The guy that evwhino dared me to jack in the knee cap with his umbrella. We did not like this guy.

So when a completely trashed dude stumbled up to him and bumped him, we were very cheerful. But when the drunkard then passed out on his feet, fell backward, and clocked his head on the hard ground, we were not so cheerful.

The guy was not moving. We all just stared at him. Everyone, just stared at him. It was some straight up Kitty Genovese shit. And who was the first person to help that dude? The hipster douchebag, of course.

See, the world needs not only ditchdiggers, but hipster douchebags as well.

I slipped on a crab. Who put that crab there?

This weekend was one for celebrities and slip-ups.

The Honge was in town for the weekend and in a matter of 24 hours we saw Marlon Wayans, Shawn Wayans, T.I. and MCA from the Beastie Boys.

HONGE: Adam, right? MCA?
MCA: (looking like he could be my dad) Yeah.
HONGE: Love your shit. (it's funny if you know him)

Then of course there were the slip-ups. On the way back from dinner, walking through the rain, the roommate and the Honge were adorably sharing an umbrella. One second I'm having a normal conversation, and the next the Honge slips on a subway grate, kicks the roommate's legs out from under him and the two end up in a hilariously scraped-up pile, lying on top of one another.

But the greatest slip up of the weekend, was a text message conversation between me and a new chick--

CHICK: i am not sure if you feel up to it but i feel like asking...would you like to pack a bag and stay with me tonight?
CMIKE: i had a great time tonight, but i have a friend in from out of town...plus i don't have a sleepover bag. call you this week
[translation: oh, i'm sorry, you must have thought i had a penis. oh, no, well you're sorely mistaken. in fact, i have a huge vagina.]

Can someone please help me find my man card? Because it's not in my purse, and I don't know where else to look.

That went well

Working from home today for several reason, one of which I informed the supervising attorney as having to due with my health. But, when my phone rang through coming from "Unavailable No.," I just figured it was the Toad as usual. It was not.

CMIKE: (music blaring in the background) Yello?
BOSS: Hi, cmike, this is [name] from [my law firm].
CMIKE: (fumbling to mute the music) Oh, hey, hi, how are you?
BOSS: Umm, okay. How are you feeling?
CMIKE: (can't find the fuckin' mute button) Oh, well, uh. [long pause] That was actually not something I wanted to really discuss.
BOSS: ...
CMIKE: I'm having stomach problems.
BOSS: Ohhh kaaaay. Anyway, I'm adding two new attorneys to the project and I just was wondering what materials you initially received when you joined the project, so that I can send them to the new attorneys.
CMIKE: Oh, yeah, Joe already told me he is joining the project, do you want me just to forward them over to him.
BOSS: Um, no, can you just tell me what you received.
CMIKE: Yeah, sorry, I'll forward the initial email to you.
BOSS: Thanks.
CMIKE: ...
BOSS: ...
CMIKE: So, is that it?
BOSS: Yeah, feel better.

I think that could've gone better.

No I'm not grandpa, I'm playing tennis

I have probably watched six minutes of tennis in the past decade, but last night I got up for the Agassi U.S. Open match. I did so partly because it may have been his last match, and partly because the Toad was in attendance and I was hoping to see his slippery mug on the television.

Evidently they have this new replay challeging system that is similar to the system the NFL uses. On a crucial point in the fifth set, Baghdatis (the Greek villain to Agassi's American hero) challenged a call and lost. The point was played over again and Baghdatis won. When the score was read off by the umpire, the crowd erupted in anger and continued to carry on. The umpire unsuccessfully attempted to silence them, and it wasn't until Agassi himself motioned for quiet that the raucous New York crowd settled down.

McEnroe explained that the attendees must not realize that the point was replayed and must have thought Agassi wins the point on an failed challenge.

Over text message--

CMIKE: You were definitely one of those morons screaming about the score
TOAD: The loudest--can't even speak anymore

Well I got a joke for you. I'm gonna tear you a new asshole.

Nothing makes me want to punch a stranger in the face more than when I am in a crowded elevator, with every floor between the lobby and mine pushed, and I hear "Guess this is the local, huh?" Ha! Oh, and I love it when no one laughs and then they feel they have to explain the joke "y'know, like the local subway as opposed to the express?" Yeah, we get it fucktard. It's just that we're all dead tired, sweating from the humidity, crowded into an elevator, about to sit at a desk for twelve hours doing mind-numbing bullshit work, on the verge of putting a bullet through our own heads anyway, and we've heard that stupid fucking joke fifteen thousand times before!.

Have a nice day.

I'm a rich man, and I'm gonna kiss you!

Along with every other show on the television, I watch The Contender. This being the second season of the show, some changes were made in the switch from a NBC network show to an ESPN cable show. The most notable change has been the elevated number of man kisses flying around on the show.

Listen, I have no problem with same-sex appreciation, maybe even a peck on the cheek la cosa nostra-style to close friends and family, but what the hell is going on when Sugar Ray Leonard is awkwardly holding the wrists of two sweaty fighters after a hard fought fight and he oddly leans in at the hips to give each of them a painfully awkward smooch on the cheek. It's just weird, like he's forcing the kisses. And now, the fighters are kissing each other after every fight. The trainers are kissing both boxers on the head after each match. It's like a regular butt-bongo fiesta going on in the middle of the ring.

Am I wrong, or shouldn't boxers be tough, nail-chewing mongoloids? Shouldn't they hate each other and talk about eating each other's children. Shouldn't they throw punches after the bell, toss low blows and bite ears off? Isn't boxing about pure anger and hate and death and dismemberment? All I'm saying is keep this weird man love shit off of a boxing show or just move it over to Bravo and make it official already.

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

Giraffe on Pedophiles

I admire this man John Mark Karr. He is a genius, nay, a visionary. In fact, the man may not even be human, he is so goddamn smart. If you were in his situation--stuck in Thailand, facing charges on who knows what sick and perverse acts--what would you do? Of course, you stupid Americans, you would just try to evade the yellow police for as long as possible. Not this man--pardon me, being. He inserts himself into the biggest unsolved mystery of all time, gets himself extradited via first-class flight back to the States, toasts the cameras with champagne, and poof, exonerated on all charges.

Goddamn he is brilliant. Of course he is potentially the skeeviest mother fucker on the planet as well. And, of course, at all times the top of his pants meet the top button of his shirt (which is conveniently always buttoned). But this guy, this thing, well, at least he is someone for JD to aspire to be.

Agree with me.

You should see yourself right now--a grown man with his hand down his pants

This weekend I had my first glimpse into what my married life is going to be like--and I don't like it. My weekend activities included an exhibition football game, bowling, golf, and no sex. Don't get me wrong, I had a wonderful time doing these things, but I wouldn't say those activities amount to a worthwhile weekend.

I've figured out that to make any given weekend worthwhile, it's not actually having sex that clinches it, but the potential to do so. You see, all weekend I hung out with the guys. And that's all fine and good when you're drunk and screaming "boy's night out." But when you're lying in bed Sunday night, cold and alone, with Monday morning stalking you just around the corner, and you are unable to conjure up a fresh image in your spankbank, that is the sign of a crap weekend.

He's not a person, he's a suit! You're mailroom. No consorting.

As blogging becomes a more acceptable means of communication, it appears that any asshole can just spew unchecked hate and judgment on the world. Like cmike for example. Who am I to cast stones at old people and make anonymous fun of poor unknowing chicks and such. Well, who I am is the proprietor of this here site, so I have every right to do with this blog as I damn well please.

However, bloggers do not have the right to sucker me unwittingly into a blog, which is cast as pure entertainment, but which is merely a medium for sucking the balls of said blogger's employer. That's just wrong--especially if the blog isn't funny. Like this one for example. It's cruel and it's sleazy, and I just plain don't approve.

As slippery pete says, "any sentence that starts with that, followed by some lame ass verb: 'we here at _____ salute/value/appreciate/understand/thank/know,' deserves to be taken out and shot... we've been given a gift, this internet thing, to slander people anonymously, not to kowtow to the man."

You've been given fair warning. The gloves are off.

Do I look like a beautiful blonde with big tits and an ass that tastes like French vanilla ice cream?

At any given time, for every personal automobile on the streets in Manhattan there are three taxi cabs. But for some reason, depending on time and location, you can never seem to get one to stop and allow you to pay them ten bucks to take you two miles. Because of this scarcity there are several unspoken rules of etiquette when hailing cabs including not stealing a cab from someone who has been waiting for one.

I am nothing if not a man of manners, and therefore when I saw a finely-dressed, middle-aged gentleman waiting for a cab outside of the Chelsea Piers Golf Club, I kindly addressed him:

CMIKE: Excuse me, are you waiting for a cab?
GUY: Indeed I am.
CMIKE: Okay, then I'll just wait for the next one.
GUY: That's if one ever comes.
CMIKE: ...
GUY: Where are you headed?
CMIKE: (shit I know where this is going) Far up and far east.
GUY: Oh, anywhere near Grand Central Station (one block from my apartment)?
CMIKE: Uh, no. Actually much further up and east.
GUY: Well if you pass by there on your way, we can just share a cab.
CMIKE: Yeah...actually, I'm just gonna walk.

Listen people. I don't care if you're a 10 year-old-boy in a wheelchair, I'm not sharing any fuckin' cab with anyone in this city. People are crazy around here. Especially on the far west side. Sorry, little crippled boy, don't trust you either.

That's not gangsta! That's not gangsta!

Finally, after sifting through the steaming pile of feces that is reality television, we have found a reality show that really matters. If you have ever worried what the human race will look like after the inevitable nuclear war knocks our asses back into the stone age, Survivor: Racism Edition is here to allay your fears and answer all of your questions as to which race is the best at perpetuating stereotypes.

This season's show will divide contestants into four tribes (Yakuza, Esses, Crips, and Skinheads), and allow them to fight out years of angst and seek racial retribution. The smart money is on the Esses doing all of the work and getting no reward, the Crips doing no work, the Skinheads doing just as little work but blaming the Crips for being lazy and the Esses for taking their work, and the Yakuza buying the other three tribes and building a golf course on their land.

The jury is still out as to whether this format is clever and unique, or simply exploitive and sickening, but my DVR is set either way. As for who I think will prevail, I as always am rooting for Jeff Probst to bang the hottest chick on the show--regardless of color--because Probst, he's a man of the people.

Watch out for that first step...

Fantasy sports can be a huge hassle sometimes, especially when it comes to planning a draft date. Usually it's one person who has a million plans and won't miss any of them, causing everyone else to sacrifice their own plans. This year, that person was the roommate, a.k.a. the Toad. It took us months of planning and reorganizing in order to accomodate the Toad for our basketball draft, but we finally did so. And then this email chain happened:

AY: This weekend some of us were talking about going back for a Michigan football game...I looked at the schedule and 10/21- Iowa or 10/28-Northwestern seem to be the best. Do these dates work/not work for anyone?

TOAD: I'm definitely down for this. Either weekend works for me.

DYLAN: Same.

EVWHINO: I’ll be there if [a certain chick] is going.

TOAD: 10/21 is parents weekend and 10/28 is homecoming. I doubt we're going to find any hotel near central campus.

JD: toad don’t you have a wedding one of those weekends? i thought we had to do the fantasy draft on the 14th because you had a conflict?

TOAD: Yeah I decided not to go. Sorry about your trip to tuscany. (sent from my Verizon Wireless Blackberry)

WEASEL: Is there anyone who would now like to call that THE EMAIL OF THE FUCKING YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!

DYLAN: The toad at his filthiest...

JD: and he sends it arrogantly from his blackberry of course. toad, please call 248-555-2351 immediately. My parents are expecting your call and would be interested to learn why we as a family had to rearrange our vacation schedule.

Well people, sometimes God blesses you with little gifts in life. It's called karma, JD, and it's a doozy.

Sometimes a bowler just has to face the music

As normal human beings we have very little insight into the mind of a crazy person. We are usually resigned to gazing from afar, as if at spider monkeys in the zoo, and gawking in amazement as we wonder what synapses could have fired to make that person stray so afar.

Well I've long given up trying to find any rhyme or reason to JD's behavior, but I've learned that you can generally expect two things from him as given. The first guarantee is that if he says he'll do something, he'll do it. This can be evidenced by his decision to go pig hunting on Saturday night in Fire Island. He was going to take it down no matter what she looked like, or even what species she was. He ended up going home with a girl that reportedly resembled a slightly less round Kirby, and who's only redeeming quality was that she was staying in the house from One Ocean View. The point though is that as soon as his mission emanated from his lips, it became inevitable he would pursue his goal to whatever end.

The second guarantee is that JD will have your back in any fight, no matter what (what other reason is there for keeping crazy friends around, right?). It was on this second surety, that JD stumbled this weekend. Finding myself drunk, at a bar, immersed in bodies, all of them hostile, I looked behind me to find JD standing several yards away, arms-crossed with a shit-eating grin on his face. Again, crazy people can be unpredictable and you have to learn to expect the unexpected, but when he pulled a Roy Munson, and sided with my adversaries, I'd have to say I was a bit surprised.

Now in retrospect, it probably was a tad ridiculous for me to start a fight just because some douche from college pretended not to remember my name, but JD didn't have to rub hot sauce in my eyes and have beers with them afterwards. Am I wrong?

Yeah, it looks pretty sweet. It looks awesome.

Workplace banter between myself and the officemate:

OM: Yeah, when I was in Denver, I was trying to figure out how people can drink if they don't live in New York.
ME: I have never understood that. I mean, I guess everyone just drinks and drives.
OM: Well, my friend that I was visiting, he's a cop, so he's not going to drink and drive.
ME: Oh, well yeah.
OM: It was a good thing too, because we got pulled over.
ME: Holy shit, for real?
OM: Yeah, but I'm pretty sure that was because I was leaning out of the window throwing up out of the moving car.

I wish we'd known each other... this is a little awkward

I was raised in a family where we believed that embarrassment should be embraced to it's fullest extent. You should not limit your gushing humiliation to your own actions, but actually avert your eyes in shame when others embarrass themselves as well. From my father's influence, this reaction extended to movies and television characters as well.

I like to think I have matured past this crippling discomfort and can now laugh at people instead of sharing in their discombobulation. Well, last night proved that this wasn't so, twice.

During a nice dinner with three friends, engaged in a casual sex conversation, the roommate leans back with his glass of wine and proclaims way too loudly: "Well, when I stick it in..." The record player screeches to a halt. Silence. Better yet, crickets. Even JD had to hide his eyes from the table next to us--and that kid wouldn't flinch walking into a funeral, naked, eating a banana. It was that bad.

And as we concluded our evening, the roommate and I marched drunkenly through the lobby of our building and glanced a drunk guy hitting on some okay-looking chick by the mailboxes. As we enter the elevator we hear the dreaded, "oh, don't worry, I'll hold the elevator for you." Two minutes later the chick climbs aboard the crowded elevator, and the drunk guy continues his quest. Chick wasn't even that cute.

DRUNK GUY: Hey, you sure got a lot of mail.
OKAY CHICK: Yeah, well I'm getting married.
DRUNK GUY: No way, I don't believe you.
(is this elevator even moving?)
OKAY CHICK: Yeah, it's true. Planning the wedding.
DRUNK GUY: No way. No your not.
(is the elevator getting smaller?)
OKAY CHICK: Yeah, see? Here is a letter from the band.
DRUNK GUY: Huh, A Band? Are they like a little better than B Band and not as good as A+ Band?
(help, i can't breathe, too much awkwardness)
OKAY CHICK: ...

I think I am only the only person that allows this to affect him so deeply. It's like death by awkwardness. Who knows, maybe I need to take more drugs.

Hey Girl, ya hungry?

I had previously commented pretty extensively on the online bridge-naming contest whereby Chuck Norris was the leading namesake. Well he is currently in fifth, but that is not the point of this post.

Stephen Colbert, of The Colbert Report has taken an interest in this contest and has encouraged viewers to vote for the The Stephen Colbert Bridge. And, likewise he has also requested that people go to the Saginaw Spirit website and vote for the team's eagle mascot to be named "Colbert" or "Colbeagle".

I'm sure it was just a bit and he was trying to be funny (which it definitely was), but I don't understand why more public personalities don't do this--especially comedians. In the age of the internet, hundreds of things are named by online contests. Truth is, if we had more than twelve readers on this blog, I'd make a push for The Best Time Ever Bridge in Budapest.

But alas, there will unlikely be any best times ever in Budapest in the near future. Fucking Hungarians, always ruining a good time.

If you want to vote for Colbert or Chuck Norris,or whomever, you can click here.

If you want to submit a name for the mascot, you can click here.

I'm the king of me...I'm Dirk Diggler...I'm the star

Um, okay, here's something interesting. Stephon Marbury signed an exclusive deal with Steve & Barry's University Clothing to market his new sneaker "Starbury." Evidently it only costs fifteen dollars, but then again, I don't know what falls apart faster Steve & Barry clothing or any team with Marbury on it.

Okay, bad joke. But seriously, we had a Steve & Barry's at my college and that place had some serious deals. Like 10 t-shirts for $10. Problem is, the shirts were oddly sized, and disintegrated in water. I bought an inflatable football for a buck-fifty, and it wasn't until two hours later that I realized it didn't hold air.

Bottom line, I'm laying fifty to one odds that by the third quarter of whatever game features these sneakers in, they painstakingly implode on Stephon...much like the Knicks! HELLO!!!!

Now thatwas a good one.

There was nothing wrong with it until that no talent ass-clown became famous

Sorry, no real post today. Too busy doing nothing.

But here's something fun. The list of words that the NFL.com website will not allow you to add to the back of a personalized jersey (pay special attention to the ads on the right side of the page).

My favorites include:

-ANAL ANNIE
-ASS PUPPIES
-ATHLETES FOOT (?)
-AXING THE WEASEL

...and those are just the a's.

Giraffe on Action Heroes

Fuck the Chuck Norris. He is no real action hero. And do not listen to what those stupid Hungarians say, they are stupid, and Hungarian. If you want to see real action hero, look no further than Samuel Le Bihan, star of stage and screen. No, he is not that guy in My Father the Hero, peasants. His most notable roles were in Une Affaire Privée and 3 zéros. But you stupid Americans only know him from Le Pacte des Loups, which is not pronounced "loops" as many of you fools think it is (you know who you are).

My point is, in France we see far more action in one fucking night, than you fat Americans see in lifetimes. Americans have no "game". You all think that smoothness is asking what color the panties are or, or, should you call her or nudge her tomorrow to invite her to the breakfast. Charm and sophistication is what you lack. One look from me and the panties drop. It is not culture you lack, it is class. This is why the French are the action heroes.

Agree with me.

Thank you for my two sons, Walker and Texas Ranger

The United States, my home. To outsiders we are often scoffed at for our lack of culture and sense of history. Countries like Britain, China and Greece have thousands of years of history to prance around with and show off at countless museums throughout the world.

Well, thank God for the Hungarians, because they've put it in all in perspective, and in turn put all those pompous, arrogant non-Americans in their fucking cultural places. In an ongoing contest to name a new bridge in Budapest, the leading vote getter at press time was for the Chuck Norris Bridge.

Yeah, that's right Europe, how 'bout a roundhouse kick to your fucking jowl? Condescending pricks.

There's the rub

Our friend Dylan Drew recently went through a break-up with a young nubile woman. Not one to mourn the loss, DD ponied up $25 for a fundraising event for Israel. Despite the fact that most of the women that will be there have at one time dated CMike's roommate, I think it's a briliiant idea. For the same price as a month's membership to JDate, DD can condense a month's worth of profile-lookups, witty email banter, awkward first dates, and the rumored cornucopia of blowjobs that is JDate into one evening. And it's for a good cause, natch.

Anyway, DD is excited for this evening. So much so, that he's taking fashion advice from yours truly, evwhino.

The following conversation took place this afternoon over email:

DD: Do I suit up tonight, or go home and change?
evwhino: The fact that you are even asking that question shows me that you are not ready to get laid...for shame, drew, for shame.
DD: SUIT UP!!!!
evwhino: You should use the time you were going to use to go home and change to go to the bar and take some car bombs.
DD: Might be going to dinner with JK and her friends.
evwhino: Her friends are all married or engaged...that's a waste of time.
DD: Well I don't wanna walk into this party alone...
evwhino: Alone, confident, and ready to bang. That's how YOU roll.
DD: Haha.

We here at BTE are rooting for you Dylan! And if you have to take her back to her place in Brooklyn, you've got to take her back to her place in Brooklyn.

Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me

Is there anything quite as enjoyable as finding accidental porn? I'm not so sure this one was an accident, but if it wasn't, what exactly is Burger King trying to convey with this message?

I'm not exactly sure, but here's a guess: real men eat big burgers...and masturbate daily. Or wait, better yet, Burger King is now offering happy endings.

What'd you call it, Henry?

I don't watch The Hills anymore, but one thing the roommate and I decided when I did watch it, was that despite how they edited it for perception, every fight between Jason and LC was inspired by the fact that he was obviously just blowing lines in the bathroom. This was evidenced by him constantly rubbing his nose during fights and looking all intense, though making absolutely no sense at all. Pretty standard coke head mannerisms.

Well eff you MTV, someone with clout has finally called you out:
(from the Sports Guy's latest mailbag)

Jason (touching his nose frantically): "So what do you want to do tonight?"
Lauren: "I just want to be with you."
Jason (confused, touches his nose 20 more times): "So you just want to stay here?"
Lauren: "Yeah, let's get a movie or something."
Jason (now pawing at his nose like a bear killing a camper): "So, you don't want to go out?"
Lauren: "Why, do you?"
Jason (slowly realizing that he's about to spend the night with someone who has no discernible personality): "I dunno ... only if you want to ... you know, we could go out."
Lauren: "Well, I'd rather stay here and get a movie."
Jason (checking to see if blood is pouring from his nose): "Okay, that's cool ... so you don't want to go out?"
Lauren (upset now): "Jason, I just told you, I don't want to go out!"
Jason (while debating if he should empty the salt shaker and snort whatever comes out): "All right, all right. So what do you want to do?"

I mean, c'mon MTV. Every character on every reality show on your network is a raging alchoholic or drug addict. Don't you realize you are subliminally creating a generation of smeesh heads? I mean, I'm cool with it and all, but just own up to it already.

But, I guess MTV has little trouble hiding behind the fact that a generation of fourteen-year-olds just think that Jason is really silly and has bad allergies all the year round.

What's up Douche Bigalow

There has never been a single decision made in my life that was more dead-on then the one I made to skip the interview for that ABC reality show One Ocean View. I mean that thing is bad. Painful to watch.

This one guy, Usman, could be a great character if he wasn't so fucking awkward about his vanity. If he was just easy going in making his absurdly egotistical comment that "every day is the best day of [his] life because [he] knows [he's] better looking from the night before." That's a great line. Hilarious. The problem is that when everyone laughed, he followed it by saying "why are you laughing, I am dead serious." C'mon dude, if you're going to be a complete douche bag, at least don't take yourself so seriously.

Bottom line, if I were on the show with him, we would have had some serious issues. Like, I probably would've dropped an upper-decker in his toilet. Or he would've kicked my ass.

Either way, Fairplay for life.

I saw a sign

We're updating our logo. Any opinions on the following would be appreciated. Or should we just keep trying?

Like you could do any better, fuckers.

Will someone tell me why I smoke these damn things?

It's hot. Inside and outside, it's effin hot. With heat comes condensation, and with droplets of moisture comes water damage to my desk. I have been using post-it notes to prevent any further damage to the wood, but eventually the water inevitably seeps through.

I decided I needed a coaster to resolve this massive dilemma. So, I get up from my desk to look around my apartment (oh yeah, working from home today). About five seconds into my search I think to myself that there is no fucking way we have coasters in my apartment and walk back to my room.

On my way back, I spot a blue, circular tin, that I had never seen before, sitting on the buffet table by our front door. It says "Parliament" on it, so I am intrigued. I look inside. Coasters. Swear to God. A package of like twenty of them. Parliament cigarette coasters.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is one of the great benefits of smoking.

Houston, we have a problem

As I have informed you, my workload has gone from nil, or what I like to call normal, to blood-shot eyes and three days of beard growth (though I still have time to post on my blog?). Nevertheless, I shuttered at the thought of braving the 103 degree heat outside and opted to stay home and work from my apartment.

This is partly a result of receiving my new firm-bought laptop and monitor last night. So this morning, I hopped up to my NASA command station, surrounded by computers and monitors--and squat. No connection to the internet.

As five minutes spanned to thirty, and calls routed from Dell to Netgear, I started to slowly crawl into a hole and die. Finally, a fine outsourced Indian gentleman had all the answers and, praise Vishnu, I was up and running by TWELVE-THIRTY.

I sign on to the firm intranet, to be confronted with sure disaster. An email awaits me. "CMike, Thanks for all of the hard work so far. Can you please help me finish up some of the other people's work that are not moving quite so quickly? Thanks, [Associate]."

These people have no fuckin' clue what's goin' on.

Oh, Godfather, I don't know what to do

Today my firm is holding an event for all attorneys. The event includes a golf tournament, a poker tournament, swimming, biking, hiking, food, even an evening scotch tasting. I am signed up with three of my co-workers for a 9 a.m. tee off, a free golf lesson, the poker tournament and the scotch tasting.

Last night at 9 p.m. I get an email saying that I have been reassigned to an emergency project and cannot go to the attorney event. Moral dillemma. Do I attend the outing, frolick in the sun, get drunk and possibly sexually harrass some co-workers, then pretend that I didn't receive the email until I returned this evening? Or, do I accept my responsibility to the firm and answer the call to duty?

Well after much thought, I made a decision. I decided to grow up. To stand up as a man and do what was right. I replied to the email, sat on a conference call until eleven-thirty last night, and am now sitting in my office reviewing documents for "as many hours as is humanly possible" (partner's exact words).

The old me would have kicked my fucking ass.

One way or the other, you're gettin' outta my way

I exit the bathroom of a very crowded bar, and I am pretty fuckin' drunk. I sigh loudly as I glance the huge crowd mashed between myself and the young lady I have been entertaining. Out of the corner of my eye I see a barren path through a hallway that will assuredly circumvent the crowd. I smile as I put my clouded brain to good use and skip the otherwise inevitable headache. Halle-fuckin-lujah.

I venture down the dark, empty hallway and see a man shrouded in shadows coming directly towards me. He is advancing towards me exactly in my path, so as I get within several feet of him, I naturally move to one side, but he must have had the same thing in mind because he acts likewise and we are again stuck in each other's path. We then engage in the all too familiar you-go-no-you-go situation which lasts for several seconds, before I again move in the same direction as he at again the same time.

I am getting annoyed with this asshole and I can see through the darkness that he is angry with me as well. We try again, but only end up standing in front of each other, but even closer this time. And, it is not until I am at this close proximity that I realize he looks very familiar and that I am standing in front of a mirrored wall.

So we drunkenly smile at each other and move along peaceably to enjoy our respective nights.

You can use a little teeth but we don't want to be a biter

Remember my theory on the maturation of movies? Sure you do, it was groundbreaking, how could you forget it. Well, in light of the upcoming release of the new Rocky Movie, it looks like someone else had the same idea (scroll down to number 5).

Changing FIVE-HUNDRED!

I am a huge, enormous Baltimore Ravens fan. Every year, the first day of training camp I get excited and place a stupid bet on the Ravens to win the Superbowl. But this year is different. Oh, I still placed the bet, but this year we are going to win it. Just by looking at the accompanying photo you can tell how much better the team is this year. McNair vs. Boller? Come on.

Just look at how they are holding the football as they roll out of the pocket. McNair is upright, looking down the field, holding the ball high and ready to be released. Boller, well, he looks like a fuckin' retard. He is already half falling over, looking how pretty the shiny, white lines on the field are, and starting to rub the ball against his junk.

What does this one photograph matter in a 17+ game season of professional football, you ask? It means I have to justify the fifty bucks I just dumped on a stupid fuckin' bet. Any more questions, assholes?

Look, I'm sorry if I came off a little nutso

How does Clinton Portis dressing up like he's a cast member of the In Living Color not count as one of the most bizarre things in sports? Consider that he is over six-years-old and every week of the football season does not culminate with Halloween festivities, and tell me his behavior is not at the very least completely maniacal.

His website even has a list of the many characters he has created, complete with names and bios. And yet, the media concentrates on TO and Ron-Ron? Forget it, here's your story. You call yourselves reporters? Do some digging for God's sake.

Well, my name is Jim, but most people call me... Jim

In my current project, I have been experiencing some serious technology issues. As a result, I have been dealing rather often with this fifty-year-old, dull-as-plaster tech guy, Jim. The same problem keeps happening and this guy can't seem to do anything about it.

ME: Hey Jim, I am having the same problem that I had previously reported, with DocID 72299 as well.
FRANK: Well kick it in the goddamn head then. Wrong Jim.

This accidental emailing is without a doubt going to get me fired one day.

Do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is?

The officemate and myself walked outside of our building, into the suffocating heat of the city, and saw some dude chatting up two hot chicks while leaning on one ski and one ski pole.

ME: What is that guy skiing? He only has one ski.
OFFICEMATE: And no snow, so he's pretty much fucked every which way.

True, except for the two smokin' hot chicks that were totally digging on his irony.

I've Had A Rough Night and I Hate The Fucking Eagles, Man

I have a weak stomach, always have since I was a little kid. If you have ever hung out with me or read some of my previous posts, then you probably already know this. However, on Saturday night I found someone who's stomach is significantly weaker than mine.

I was in a taxi in DC with 4 other people at around 2 am. About halfway through the ride it smelled like someone had farted in the cab. It didn't smell terrible and nobody owned up to it, even though it was all dudes in the cab (which makes me think that maybe nobody farted and it was just one of those outside fart smells). It seemed to pass quickly and everyone had forgotten about it. That was until about 3 minutes later when the cab driver pulled over, opened the door, got out and proceeded to throw up behind the cab.

He then got back in the cab and held his hand over his nose for the next 5 minutes, completely ignoring all questions that were being fired at him regarding what the fuck had just happened. Finally he pulled over on Wisconsin Avenue and told us to get out (we were still about 10 minutes from our destination). We got out of the cab and I handed him $5 just to be nice since we sure as hell weren't paying the full fare.

Cab Driver: You owe me $17 fare.

Rifleman: We're not paying $17. We have to take another cab now.

Cab Driver: Ok, I will take you. Just don't poo in my cab.

I wonder if that's the standard intro he uses when a new customer gets into his cab. Anyway, he drove us the rest of the way with his hand over his nose. IT DIDN"T SMELL AT ALL!

Things are more moderner than before... it's computers... San Dimas High School football rules

After six months, my firm provides all attorneys with a technology allowance to help set up a home office. The allowance is $3,000, but that includes the price of a Blackberry and one-year service. After spending over three hours dealing with Dell, I have finally completed my purchase. The grand total = $3,008.83. A mere eight dollars over the budget; now that's how you maximize shit.

And now a little about my Dell experience. As I said, it was approximately three hours over the course of two days, dealing with this nice Southern woman named Nina (it was made very clear to me that it was pronounced nye-nah).

Nina liked to say things like "are we good or are we good...we good," and "now that's a man's email address," and "Mastercard is a man's card." Nina also liked to completely fuck up the entire order and put me on hold for twenty minutes a clip. At the end of the phone call, Nina informed me that she had a new manager and would appreciate it if I would email the manager personally and review my experience with Nina. I obliged and my email included things like "experience was turned around from callous and frustrating to warm and enjoyable" and "much appreciated open line of communication."

I'm hoping that maybe I'll get some phone sex later.

Anywhere but the first three rows!

My trip to Hawaii consisted of five main players: my mother, my father, my sister, her husband, BIL, and myself. Some might have called me a fifth wheel, but I offer a more telling image to précis my holiday to the South Pacific.

Prior to our departure from the mainland, my mother had secured our travel in the form of a SUV. Upon our arrival, for a negligible amount of money, my father decided to upgrade to a larger vehicle that came equipped with a third row of seats. And thus my trip became synonymous with that spill-over row of seats.

On the airplane, I was segregated from the rest of my party in a separate row. In restaurants, I was jettisoned into the waiting path by way of an additional chair added to the table of four. In the hotel room, I was situated on the far-too-small pull-out couch. And of course, on our long voyages around the island in search of hidden tidal pools and waterfalls, I was resigned to the third row of seats.

Little blame can be assigned to the rest of party, for ever effort was made on their parts to include me despite the absence of my imaginary female counterpart. However, I could have done without the pressure of being expected to chat up ever semi-attractive female over the age of twelve in a thinly veiled attempted to fill up my third row. So, in retrospect, I guess I was only partially responsible for my unhealthy fixation on chicks far too young for me for the duration of the trip.

I could envision myself settling down in Maui if not for the utterly torturous commute from the East Coast, which is worsened only by the six hour time difference, and the multiple screenings of Take the Lead. And, just as you get accustomed to the jet lag, you get packed up and come home—good times.

All of that being said, the trip was a terrific experience. The people on Maui are far more relaxed and accepting—especially of tourists—than any other people I have met on the planet. Plus, the added experience of feeling like you are in an exotic locale without have to struggle with a foreign language or currency makes the trip far more enjoyable than a journey to the Caribbean or Mediterranean.

Highlights included: hiking to and swimming in tidal pools and waterfalls, biking down the Haleakala volcano after watching the sunrise, eating the best fish in the world, and watching BIL’s reaction every time a cute chick walked by. Lowlights included: not getting laid, BIL’s snoring, waking up at 2:30 am for the bike tour, huge fight with dad spawned by my drunkenly demanding more respect (ha), no chicks over eighteen, daily sunburn on top of sunburn with no end in sight, and the third row of seats.

Man, That Michael Jordan, He's So Phony

The Rifleman was at the Jersey Shore last weekend with Bater and several other people. Bater was hammered and got a ride to the karaoke bar at the Tropicana casino with someone that we were pre-drinking with at Bater's friend's house. Bater was in the car with four other people that he really didn't know. Apparently he didn't have a great time on the 10 minute ride and needed to vent to someone after he got out of the car.

Bater (talking to one of the other passengers after exiting the vehicle): How unbelievably awful was that girl in the front seat?

Other Passenger: That's my sister.

The next day Bater felt really bad.

Bater: That dude had to know I was shitcanned because he saw me going down the stairs of the beach house on my knees twice before we left for the bar.

Oh, well then allow me to retort

In response to the last post, El Rit said the following:

i liked the piece, but in defense of Superman 1, which i too watched a few days after seeing Superman Returns:

a. Christopher Reeves blows Brandon Routh (or whatever his name is) out of the water; and
b. They stole the entire story line and just modernized it. They even used some of the same dialogue verbatim, which i think is b.s.

Don't get me wrong, i liked the new one alot, and i went in with high expectations too, but i think there was a certain authenticity to the old one.

Batman Begins is another story. Rather than recreating any of the old ones, they added to the franchise with hands down the best Batman yet. All new story, entirely different style. BB was not just a comic book genre movie - it is a great movie in general. I think part of what made this one so much more believable, on top of getting a full explanation of how Batman became so bad ass, was that Christian Bale was a ripped bad ass, so you know that even as Bruce Wayne, if it came down to it, he could whoop ass without the suit, whereas Michael Keaton might as well have been one of our fathers or something (not that [your dad] can't whoop some ass....)

Well said. And yes, this is because I am too lazy to write a final post before Hawaii.

Aloha bitches.

It's not over 'til it's over

I've been developing this theory lately about how blockbuster movies have changed over the past two decades. The thesis is essentially that today's over-the-top, action/adventure/superhero films have become far more realistic and believable in the mind of the viewer (read: "me") than those of the late seventies, eighties and early nineties. As my test cases, I tend to think superhero movies have shown the most progress.

I beg you all to go watch the original Superman with Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman, then compare it to Superman Returns with Brandon Routh and Kevin Spacey. They are both films with the same entirely unrealistic set of characters and plot--namely that the main character is an indestructible alien that solves every problem on the planet, yet goes unrecognized by his closest friends when he dons a pair of spectacles. However, if you watch the classic Superman today, it is entirely laughable--and it's not just the effects, although that does hold some weight.

The one scene that most perfectly demonstrates my thesis appears in both films. In this scene, Superman takes hold of Lois Lane on the roof of a building and lifts her into the sky for a mid-air-big-swinging-dick-a-thon. The original includes the following voiceover by Lois Lane--which was not in the original script by Mario Puzo--that reads something like this:

Can't believe I'm flying;
Almost like dying.
I think I love this guy;
Not just cause he can fly.

And it goes on for like ten minutes like that. It's cheesiness of epic proportions. On the contrary, that same scene in Superman Returns plays out as believably and romantically (no homo) as can be expected when two characters are floating through the sky.

I think to a slightly lesser degree we can see the difference between Batman and Batman Begins. Both were absolutely great movies. The first time I saw each, I distinctly remember wanting to watch them again right away. But just go back and look at Batman again. Though it still holds its value, when compared to Batman Begins it was a joke film, chock full of goofy circus characters, absurd (yet quotable) one-liners and over-the-top acting. This only got worse as the Batman franchise continued. However, in Batman Begins, the story plays out almost as how you would expect if someone had the means and skills to take on high levels of vigilante-ism in real life--almost.

And, don't even get me started on Unbreakable, which is possibly one of the most underrated movies of all time.

The point is, that it appears movie-makers have finally decided to start making movies that people can insert themselves into and believe, instead of force-feeding us absurdities in hopes that we'll enjoy the explosions and ignore the rest. I know it sounds stupid to say that a Batman or Superman movie is believable, but considering their predecessors, I'd say they've come a long way towards it (screw off, I know that was poor grammar).

But, after all of this thought and analysis about our astounding level of progress in film, it all came crashing down with this. Jesus Christ, Sly. If Rocky were real he'd pummel you with his trademarked haymakers. It's time for him to die already--ooh, maybe he does. But, from the barrages of punches in that clip, it looks like absurdity is still alive and kicking.

Come-on-I-wanna-lay-ya

I am going to Hawaii on Saturday. Not trying to rub it in, I am just soliciting a contributor that wants to write for this blog for the next week while I'm gone. Please contact me at besttimeever@gmail.com.

Based on performance, you could even become a full-time contributor, like evwhino and rifleman, who grace us with their presence once every few months--like herpes.

You just summed up your entire sorry career here in one sentence

Last night can only be summed up in bullet point fashion:

• Went to a fund raiser for a play that was written by one of my co-workers
• Got drunk and entered a raffle drawing and a pool tournament
• Play is about the love life of a little person in NYC
• Met the actor that is playing the little person and called him Nick
• Name of the little person actor is Steve
• Got drunker
• Won a one hundred dollar restaurant gift certificate in the raffle
• Turn out to actually have won ten ten-dollar gift certificates to various restaurants in the east village
• What a rip
• Got drunker
• Advanced to the finals of the pool tournament
• Girl I am playing in the finals is cute, an artist/photog, and a legit pool shark
• Girl defers the break to me
• Break and run the table in an drunken idiot savant sorta way
• Win a computer football game with Dan Marino on the cover and which the August 1998 issue of PC Gamer proclaimed "the most complete simulation around"
• Feel bad for beating shit out of a chick
• Walk her to a cab and make out with her in the middle of Times Square
• Take a cab home, eat a sandwich and go to sleep alone

Fuck that little guy's dating life, someone should write a fuckin' play about this guy.

Are you stalking me? Because that would be super

***Update***

I received a comment from El Rit in response to this post. Go ahead, I'll wait while you look back at the old post. Done?

As usual, I took his advice, as is generally a smart idea when it involves the opposite sex, and what ensued was muy interesante. So that girl that I had wronged--but ended up receiving an apology from--has now emailed me four times without response, since I wrote "...at least I deserve an explanation."

1. "don't hate me!"
2. "hey.....call me.....what are your plans tonight??"
3. "I sent you a message on sat....did you get it?? give me a call.....your number is not in my phone anymore because it got stolen a couple months ago (which explains the little asian girl phone i have...haha). Are you going to be in Fire Island this weekend?"
4. "i keep trying to send you messages and i don't think that they are going through"

El Rit, well played, sir

What are you, religious or something?

I forgot to mention that on Sunday morning we took the noon ferry home from F.I. in order to catch the World Cup Final at my apartment. Phase Two of the trip involves an hour-long ride back to the City in one of those vans--y'know, like a church group

Dylan, as always, requested a seat near the front to combat his proneness to car-sickness [slash] lingering hangover. I was seated beside him. The ride was smooth and Dylan was asleep beside me.

An hour later, the van made its first stop on 86th and 2nd. Two young ladies slowly crept out of the van from the back row. As they passed Dylan, he lifted his head from his backpack/pillow, looked into my eyes wearily and said, "I'll meet you there."

With that he hopped up out of the van, leaving his belongings behind, and vomited out of every orafice, while the rest of the van watched in horror, then amazement, then joy. Then, the whole crowd roared in celebration. And as we left poor, desparately ill Dylan vomiting on that Upper East Side sidewalk, JD hung his gawky torso out of the already-moving van and shouted one last taunt with all of his might.

Y'know, like a church group.

...and I sure as shit don't fuckin' roll

Kings Point Bowling Alley, formerly known as the site of our high school P.E. bowling program, and the genesis of one of the funnier Rifleman stories from high school, is now famous for a different reason. Namely, that one of the Baltimore Ravens was stabbed there last night.

Kano wins!

Then there was this yesterday:

In a move reminiscent of JD's self-inflicted run-in with a house window sophomore year of college, Zinedine Zidane of France insanely head-butted Italy's Marco Materazzi in the chest during extra time in yesterday's World Cup Final. And like that innocent little window of our house, France's championship hopes were shattered.

Given the magnitude of the event (most important game in the world) and the game's situation (five minutes before PKs), this was without any shade of doubt the craziest extra-curricular activity I have ever witnessed in any sporting event ever. Far crazier even than the Chris Kaman reach around in this year's NBA Playoffs.

But of course with every great, unanswerable question, there are certain to be conspiracy theories. Here is seemingly the most logical one offered to date.

You're going to give mercenaries a bad name

My cellphone rang during a late night rawn-day-voo on the beach with a young, female companion. As the A-Team theme song belted into the dark summer night in tribute to all the world's soldiers of fortune, my companion proffered that she had no idea what the ring was, but was pretty sure it sounded gay. The A-Team, gay? I'd hesitate to think that Sgt. Bosco "B.A." Baracus would stand for that conclusion.

Anyway, after my seathing anger cooled to pity, I wrote this thick-headed ignorance off to the fact that my companion was just a girl. And that she was one-year-old when the show was cancelled.

Is that what you call giving cover?

We learned quickly at this firm that everything is about CYA (that's "covering your ass" for you acronymophobes/morons). It doesn't matter if you bill twenty hours or two-hundred hours, so long as you have a strong argument to make if confronted about such an issue.

Me and the officemate have this down to a science, and as he says "we are at our most lawerly when trying to avoid getting caught fucking around." This is most easily evidenced by his latest email (on the firm's internally monitered email system) to a group of colleagues:

I'm not going to work over this weekend unless I hear something to the contrary. I know that availability for working seven-day weeks is part of the job requirement and I'm cool with that, but it's also not supposed to be a common occurrence and is something we are only expected to do upon request. If no one asks me to work over the weekend, my assumption is that we are expected to work a five-day week.

Response from colleague:

Fuck that shit. They can kiss my ass if they want me to work this weekend.

Some are not as well-versed in CYA as we.

What alcoholics refer to as 'a moment of clarity'

...and I'm running. Where the hell am I? The whoosh of passing wind bellows loudly in my ears, so I must be moving pretty fast. My bare feet slap heavily on the cold, marble floor below. The steady chirping of finches all around would hint that I was out-of-doors, but everything else suggests otherwise. The burlap sack slung over my shoulders hangs loosely from my torso and creates a heavy lag as I continue to pace along the expansive marble floor. I don't know why I am running, but I know it scares me. I take a quick glance behind to identify my fearsome stalker. Nothing. Nothing aside from smooth stone and emptiness.

No more running, no more marble. I am floating, nope, falling. The air gobbles up my body mass and gravity takes hold. If the whooshing in my ears was loud before, it is deafening now. The burlap sack is gone, far above my body, floating slowly to the ground. Something is down there, and steadily approaching--rapidly approaching. It's getting closer and closer and closer...

A sudden jerk, then darkness, then light. Then gvhmbnbnmbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb, etc.

Arising wearily from my desk chair, I open the office door and stroll lazily out into the empty hallway. Both urinals are empty in the bathroom, so I calmly relieve myself and head to the sink to wash my hands. The toilet flush from the stall startles me momentarily and shakes me from my seemingly inescapable trance. Off the mirror, I see a middle-aged gentleman in a suit approach the adjacent sink. I nod acknowledgement and he smirks in return. I turn to snatch a paper towel from the neat stack on the bathroom counter. Peripherally, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. A moment of clarity, then embarrassment, then fear sets in as I clearly identify the indentations of the bottom row of my keyboard staring back at me in the mirror.

PARTNER: Maybe you should, uh, y'know, take off early or something? It looks like you've been working too hard.
ME: Tell me about it.

Keeping wildlife, an amphibious rodent, for uh, domestic, you know, within the city--that ain't legal either

If your pipes are clogged, the likelihood is that you'd ask your plumber friend for advice, so I understand why my friends come to me for legal advice...but c'mon people, I'm not a real attorney. How many times do we have to go through this? Yes, I sit at a nice desk, in a cushy office, working for the biggest firm in the world, but I don't do anything. Maybe once every three days or so they'll have me look at some documents on the computer, but honestly a sixth-grade child could do my job with ease.

Point is, if you ask me about your employment contract, or about your uncle's personal injury claim, I'll give you an answer--of course I'm gonna say something--but don't rely on it. I mean I'm pretty much throwing darts at the Wall Street Journal here. So, I'm pretty sure there is some malpractice in there somewhere.

This is your warning...and it's enforceable in court.

He loves the cock

The email of the week comes from our very own Rifleman in response to a long email chain beginning with a grotesque attachment to one of the Dogg's emails.

Does anyone else think it's strange that the Dogg types "Sh!t" and "f*g" so he doesn't offend anyone's work e-mail account but then decides to attach a picture of a cock?

Don't seed of doubt us

On Monday night, we went out and got pissed in honor of our forefathers. I ran into this chick that I had previously had relations with and then not treated as kindly as I probably should have. Nevertheless, the five whiskeys and three Irish car bombs had me convinced that I could emerge victorious from the wicked hole I had dug for myself.

ME: So, what are you planning on doing later?
WRONGED CHICK: How drunk are you?
ME: [playing it safe] Nah, like a seven.
WC: SEVEN? I'm at like a three.
ME: So? I'm fine. Let's head out of here, it's getting kind of late.
WC: Last time you never even called me. In fact, we never even spoke until you grunted 'hello' at me in Fire Island.
ME: [shot in the dark] Well...you know what you did.
WC: ...
ME: ...
WC: I know, I'm so sorry.
ME: [supressing completely shock] Well, you should be. I can't believe you are giving me a hard time.
WC: I know, I'm so sorry, I just can't leave with you.

Damn. I woke up today to this email from her: "Don't hate me, I'll make it up to you."

What the hell did this girl do to me?

You just shook your head. That doesn't make you happy?

Aside from Jim Brown in Any Given Sunday, Alex Karras in Blazing Saddles, and anything with The Rock, I think the best acting performance by an athlete has to be Andre the Giant in The Princess Bride. In my opinion, his singular acting role is greatly underrated, especially considering his natural inability to speak as a normal human being. Without exception, I laugh at every line he delivers in the film. Andre is without a doubt the De Niro of freakishly large people--especially when compared to his gargantuan counterpart Gheorghe Muresan in My Giant.

So Andre, we miss you. We miss your brilliant sense of comedic timing. And we miss your fabulously enormous head.

She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

Oh Internet, how I love thee? Let me count the ways:

1) YouTube
2) Sports Guy
3) Random pictures of Courtney Cox titty

WARNING: Definitely not suitable for work, especially since you may have to stand up from your desk with a stiffy in your slacks.

No, no squeezing the joo-ooce

In honor of the Weasel coming to town today--which is amazing considering his irrational fear of New York City--we are soliciting your best Weasel stories.

I'll kick it off with this one: The Weasel, in Los Angeles with his family, tells a member of Eminem's entourage that he hails from Detroit--more like Farmington Hills. Upon further inquiry, he says he lives on Nine Mile--more like Twelve Mile. But, in classic Weasel fashion, ends up sippin' a Heiny with Marshall Mathers in his hotel suite.

And for the Grand Finale, the all new Ice Cube System

Are ice trays, like, drunk proof or something?

Cause all I know is, when I'm sober, that shit is no problem. But, when I'm drunk, all I end up with is a spachula, a lighter, and a warm glass of water.

Get in my belly

Evidentally, JC's company made a huge gaffe with a client dinner reservation that left them on the hook for a $3,000 minimum and only eight people attending. As a result, JC kindly offered to over-order and bring home any leftovers.

Before leaving for work, the roommate called cmike and asked what he was up to for the evening. cmike said he was going to JC's to wait for leftovers. The roommate scoffed "anything for a free meal, huh?" Yeah, dick.

Anyway, cmike went to JC's apartment and waited with Dylan for the dinner scraps. Needless to say, JC walked in with fresh filet mignon, sirloin steak, shrimp cocktail, hash browns, spinach, chocolate cake, fresh berries and a four-pound lobster. That'd run you about a buck fifty at a steakhouse.

So, guess who got the last laugh. Actually, the roommate did, I've been in the bathroom all morning.

I repeat, that's a negative impact

You know you're bored when the highlights of your day are discussing your amazement by seeing Tori Spelling on the cover of US Weekly and encouraging an email argument between two friends regarding how much steak one of them has eaten in the past two weeks.

Actually, I think the latter boredom-eradicating technique was recounted in an earlier column. Kill me now.

Die, you random son of a bitch

I was trying to think of something to write, but nothing is coming to mind. I have absolutely nothing going on in my life....ummmm...

...I'm trying to start a business. I guess that's pretty interesting, but not really...

...a friend of mine randomly tried to set me up with a girl that I had coincidentally hooked up with two weeks ago. That's pretty weird....hmmmm...what else, what else, what else...

...oh, there's is a pretty cool looking show coming out this fall on NBC called Heroes. It could turn out to be an amazing combination of Unbreakable and X-Men. Or it could turn out to be an amazing piece of poo...

...oh, and there's this article about Steven Siegel that is definitely worth a look...

...Fire Island was cool, despite the crap weather. Especially the part when I woke up at 8 a.m. to find ShapDeez sleeping on the floor--with open beds available--and covered with a pile of dirty towels and sheets--with an abundance of blankets sitting mere feet from him. Well done, sir.

I Was Just, ummm, Shaving

The Rifleman attended a wedding in Chicago last weekend. Initially, I was very excited to see Crown Royal as part of the selection of alcohol that was served during the festivities. However, I should have realized that when you dress the Rifleman in a tuxedo and give him unlimited amounts of Crown Royal, it's definitely going to end badly.

Fast forward about 6 hours and I am in this girl's hotel room. I am completely naked and she's in the bathroom, I think. Anyway, I start to feel myself getting sick. Normally this is not a big deal. For those of you that have ever gone out drinking with The Rifleman, you know that I have an amazing ability to let the vomit come up to the highest possible point in my throat without entering my mouth and then I fire that shit right back down. My uvula is like Cam Fuckin Ward when it comes to playing throw-up hockey. Well, I guess my game was a little off becuase I could tell that I had to throw-it and it was gonna happen real soon. This girl came out of the bathroom and I ran in as fast as I could, but not fast enough. Luckilly, 100% of the vomit came out in the bathroom. Unluckilly, only about 5% of it landed in the toilet. So at this point, I'm looking at the following situation, I am completely naked, in a random girl's hotel bathroom, and I have just thrown up all over the fuckin place. I am now furiously trying to clean the throw up off the toilet, walls, and floor with toilet paper. I was probably in there for 10 minutes cleaning up. I really can't imagine what was going through this girl's head. I then decided that maybe I should give her a little bit of a heads up on the whole situation.

RIFLEMAN (yelling from the bathroom) : Umm, I know this is a little awkward, but I might have thrown up all over your bathroom.

I'm joking, man! Relax. Damn! Do I look gay to you?

And in honor of our second weekend in Fire Island, I bring you the following discussion:

OFFICEMATE: No, I'm one hundred percent supportive of it, it's just that I don't think it's the right time for them to be arguing for gay marriage. Maybe, they should have started smaller, and built up to it.
ME: Yeah, I think you're right.
OFFICEMATE: Like, the more fruitful argument would be--
ME: No pun intended.
OFFICEMATE: Haha...wow.
ME: Yeah, we almost missed that one.

Want me to drag him outta here, kick the shit out of him?

Though an essential contributor to our society, I have never found the average hair cutter (and I stress average, become some are really quite talented) to possess anything more than basic motor skills and the desire to dress like a whore.

This must be why they are always so impressed with themselves when their work is complete and the back of my hair comes to an end in a straight line. I must say I love the little jig they do when they hold that mirror proudly behind my head and offer a little ehhhhh? ehhhhh? I'm always like holy shit, did you really draw that straight line? No way--c'mon. Where did they find someone like you? Fourth grade art class?

I'm just waiting for that fateful day when they hold the mirror up to show me a replica of the back of Ricky Vaughn's head. Actually, wait, that would take far too much skill.

No, if anyone orders Merlot, I'm leaving. I am NOT drinking any fucking Merlot!

evwhino hit up the local watering hole last night.

Two women approached the bar and asked for some wine. Nothing wrong there.

But then this happened:

Bartender: Yeah, we've got wine. Red or white?

Woman 1: Ummm, do you have Chardonnay?

Bartender: Yes.

Woman 1: Is it red or white?

evwhino does NOT approve of such behavior. He then dug his face into a huge plate of chicken nachos.

Kiss my Armani ass!

Some career advice from BTE:

The proper ass-kissing response to seeing a partner limp around the office is: Oh, goodness sir, what happened? I hope you are feeling okay. If you need anything, anything at all, I'm at extension two-two-one-oh.

...and not: Oh, goodness sir, what happened? Did you trip over your huge cock again? Nah, I'm just kidding. But seriously, I bet you're hung like a caribou. If you need anything, anything at all, I'm at extension two-two-one-oh, ya big stud.

Can you define "irony"?

If for nothing else, you've got to love New York City for its diversity. Every race, creed and color stomps mightily through the streets, and yet, co-habitates in relative peace.

Like the fifty-year-old guy I just saw wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a crossed-out Che Guevara, that said "Communists are not cool." He seemed to have no particular problem with the fifty-year-old guy, walking literally six steps behind him, rocking a black t-shirt with a huge, red hammer and sickle on the front. What more could you ask for?

Well I guess you could ask for a city where the method of governance would be determined by a fight to the death between these two shmoes. Now that would be a society of men.

That chick is probably a bigger germ farm than that monkey in Outbreak

There are new reports of a dangerous pandemic viciously sweeping across New York City. Seemingly out of nowhere there have been widespread cases of hand love appearing in Gramercy, Sutton Place and even the East Village. Women everywhere seem to be catching this dangerous disease, and men throughout the city have been suffering indignantly as a result.

Much like chicken pox, it is common for young girls to catch a case of handjobitis in her junior years. However, historically, they will usually develop an immunity to the ailment when they move on from junior high school--some not until they graduate from high school. But for full-grown women in their twenties to be reverting back to this childhood affliction is purely inexplicable--and incredibly scary.

To this point, scientists have been completely baffled by the genesis of the outbreak and have no true leads on a cure. As a result, the overwhelming hazard and the psychological effects that it may have on men throughout the city has been met with mounting concern. New York City Man Club has been lobbying the State Senate for scientific funding, but to this point no bill has been proposed.

It is imperative that if you suspect that a woman you meet may be infected, that, for your own well-being, you stay the hell away. Some helpful indicators are if the female says any of the following: "I don't want to be that girl", "I don't want you to think I'm a slut", or "are you looking for a girlfriend?" If any of these things come out prior to going home with the woman, there is still a chance to avoid fatal contact and you are strongly urged to get out and get out fast. However, if the disease is not identified until after entering the bedroom, there is no hope. And, at that point, God be with you.

God be with all of us.

What is the primary goal?

Listen lady, whether we have sex tonight or not does not factor into whether I think you're a slut. I already think you're a slut for coming home with me. To not have sex now would be like going to a movie and leaving after the trailers. Sure, everyone likes a good preview, but you paid the admission so you may as well stick around for the show, am I wrong?

So, let's cut through this coy bullshit and do what we came here to do, cause I gotta get up early to watch the World Cup, mmm-kay?

You keep your mouth shut for the next two weeks or I'm going to fail you

i met her at Sutton Place....bought her a drink...talked for about 15 minutes...went outside for a smoke...started making out...her friends left...we left to go back to my place...i left my credit card...she told me she "really really liked" me about eighty times...she told me we were soulmates once...she wanted to have sex...then she didn't...then she did...then she didn't...then she gave me a delightful mouth hug...then she wanted to have sex and i didn't...then she fell asleep...then i woke up to her grinding her teeth real real loudly...then i got up and had a slice of pizza...then i made the couch up and put on Sunrise Earth...then the roommate woke me up...then she woke me up...then she tried to make lunch plans with me for today...then she tried for tonight, tomorrow night, monday lunch, tuesday lunch and i finally caved for wednesday lunch...she put it in her blackberry...i'm changing my cellphone number...

A time...when people believed everything they heard on TV

Excuse me, but why hasn't "...aaaaand boom goes the dynamite" caught on in everyday speech? Taking surrounding circumstances into consideration, this has to be one of the funniest catch-phrases of all time. It's definitely up there with waaaaaaaassuuuuup, and that lasted for months.

Fuck it, I'm doing it. I'm saying it until it works its way into style. Then I'm gonna keep saying it right through the still-funny, okay-that's-getting-kind-of-annoying, and alright-this-tool's-getting-shiv'd-if-he-says-it-one-more-time stages. Who's coming with me?

What a fucking jerk

I've been trying to decide all day whether to attend an interview at four o'clock for a new reality tv show on ABC. I've been struggling with the permanence of television, and how I would inevitably make a jack-ass of myself and how eleven years down the road people would see me and still be shouting: "Hey it's the 'mind if I stick it in real quick' guy!"

So, in my standard method of self-sabotage, I informed the casting director that I had a pretty stacked day and was unsure if I could make the interview, despite having absolutely nothing to do today.

An hour ago, evwhino offered me $20 to attend the interview and $100 if I make it on the show. I have vigorously been trying to reach the casting agent ever since.

We've been having a pretty crazy, night, too

One time, when we were about eleven--and the most beginning of skiers--a group of five of us stood intimidated upon the blue square slope. Stuck in a stalemate, no one wanting to be the first to attempt this new feat, the sound of silence and the stench of fear filled the mountain air.

From out of the fog, a young man appeared. We knew this man, but he was not a friend. He goaded us as pansies, and proclaimed that it was only an intermediate slope and nothing to be feared. He aimed to show us all.

This man set himself into the most perfect wedge and aimed impressively toward the right side of the mountain. As he glided slowly down the slope, we all watched in amazement, in awe of his courage. We anticipated his elusive first turn toward the left side of the mountain. And we waited. And waited. And he just kept going until he slammed heroically into the orange fencing on the side of the slope and flipped completely over it onto his back.

Now that was the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. Funny enough that Dr. Sillygoose literally pissed his ski pants. That was the funniest thing I had ever seen, until I received this forwarded email written to the roommate regarding his drunken night with his office last evening:

BOSS: How are you feeling? [John] is pretty pissed that you felt his wife up.

Do you like apples?

And, if you don't believe me when I say Vegas changed something inside me, tell that to the chick that just waited outside Subway to give me her number written on a menu.

This is Giraffe on "literally"

This word "literally," or littéralement. I do not like this word. I hear people use this word like so: "if I don't get this job, I will literally have a heart attack."

Oh, you will? You will have a heart attack? Literally? Your heart will literally seize up and fail to keep you alive anymore? Oh, wait, you actually meant it figuratively? Oh, I see. Then good thing you threw that "literally" in there to clarify, that you in fact meant figuratively. That really helps. You should die.

Agree with me.

I don't trust any sport where you can't use your hands

Fucking soccer, man. I could not care less about the sport as a whole, but for some reason that 3-0 loss to the Czechs felt like a punch in the stomach.

But for real, how hot are those soccer chick fans? It makes me regret quitting my rec league team when I was nine. Could've used me some of that soccer ass. That's almost as nice as tennis groupie ass.

I think something irreversible happened to my brain in Vegas.

In Vegas, everybody's gotta watch everybody else

Despite the happenenings of Vegas supposedly staying in Vegas, there are still some publishable highlights:

Like when the trip start out with the Feez working through the night before meeting me with a car to the airport at 8:15 am, and when his boss told him to start looking at jetblue.com for different flights, Feez told him he would be looking at careerbuilder.com before he'd look at jetblue.com.

Like when the car driver to the airport was a full on goombah, who allowed us to drink beers on the way to the airport, then dropped some sound advice on gambling, wise guy friends, and how he learned to properly poke-fuck a 42-year-old woman when he was 12 years old ("...and that was unheard of back then").

Like at the wave pool/beach at Mandalay Bay, where an actual cyclone appeared out of no where, whipped up gallons of water, flung sand everywhere, and tossed lounge chairs several feet into the air. And when after sitting in stunned silence until it passed, the entire pool just ripped up into applause and cheering. It was the most unexpected reaction since JC punched the roommate in the face for breaking a button on his shirt.

Like when The O coaxed me onto the dance floor at Light by proclaiming he was the best wing man ever, only to aid my game on this stunning blonde by spilling half of his drink directly onto her friend's head.

Like when this girl and her friends came up to us at dinner and wouldn't leave us alone until they gave us their numbers (confirmed, non-hookers).

Like when in a stunning display of customer service, the pit boss told The O that he was "a complete idiot." As usual, it was well deserved.

Like when there was a man wearing a banana hammock in the pool, and the Honge gave him a thumbs up and screamed to him from across the pool: "Hey...Love your balls!"

Like when we were standing in the taxi line to the airport, and The O received a call from the Honge informing The O that he had left his entire suitcase in the room.

The truth is that there are far more disturbing and entertaining stories some of which involved fifty-five year old women, Buffalo Bills cheerleaders, Big Gay Spanish Uncle Passey, and the ugliest girl in the state of Nevada, but those stories have been laid to rest in a hole in the desert.

He try to lock up on me and shit

I worked from home today, because I don't give a fuck. I'm not really sure if I'm supposed to be able to work from home or not. It's kind of a gray area. Anyway, I was getting ready to shut down my computer when I checked my email one last time: "Conference call at 6:30 EST/3:30 PST, Pease call in NOW."

It was already 6:45 pm and I couldn't find my cellphone. I was scrounging around for five minutes, tearing up my entire apartment. I finally find the damn thing and dial in. First thing I hear:

PARTNER: And, cmike where are you?
CMIKE: [shit] Ummm...at home?
PARTNER: Home? Okay. I was referring to where you are in the project.
CMIKE: ...

They're gonna give daddy the Rainman suite

Some fellas are off to Vegas tomorrow for the Dogg's (that's right two gees) bachelor party. Fellas are excited; some moreso than others, as evidenced by the following email chain:

THE O: Yo….is anyone doing anything tomorrow at all…..i was wondering if some of you wanted to go to…..say…..VEGAS. Someone give the O a “V”
FEEZ: V
THE O: Thank you F. Can the O and F get a: "E"?
RIFLEMAN: oh jesus
THE O: Didn't sound like an "E"
EL RIT: E bitch
THE O: Thank you the rit. Now can the rit, the F and the O get a fucking "G"???
MOMO: Any chance of my name being removed from the email chain
THE O: Depends if I hear that fucking "G"
MOMO: And G would =????
EL RIT: dare I say... girls?
THE O: Good enough. Anyone for the "A." Or gina.
RIFLEMAN: O, do you realize that the subject line of this e-mail chain ["what's up fellas"] is the exact same thing you said to the 3 girls behind us in line at Local 16 about a year ago?
THE O: Yeah I do...do you realize that I went home with all three and reversed SSNed them?

Shit woman, you're lucky I am house broke

You are an infant, living in Shitstain, Africa, with nothing but the smell of imminent death and swarms of gross flies to keep you safe at night. You piss and shit on yourself all day with no one to clean you and your pounding cries and clicks fall on deaf ears.

You wake up one morning, covered in your self-created, greenish-brown shit/piss mixture--pretty standard really--to find the hottest woman on the planet standing over you, wiping your ass with hundred dollar bills and blinding you with glaring reflections off of huge diamond and shit. The guy standing next to her is even prettier than she is, and he's proudly wearing an as-long-as-she's-fucking-me look on his face.

As the lady picks you up, you can't decide whether to embrace her coddling, or struggle against the white devil to free yourself and go and fight the vultures for the last scraps of ibex carcass. After feeling her buttery spa'd-out skin, you submit to her embrace and suckle her sweet sweet sweet bosom. And suddenly you are magically whooshed off to a life of XBox360, pimped-out rides and non-diseased water sources.

Are you fucking kidding me? Is this not the greatest turn-around in the history of the planet? Are those kids that Pitt and Jolie adopted not the absolute luckiest little fuckers known to man? Fuck the lottery, where do I get in line for this contest?

HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE...

This is Giraffe on Bigotry

Yes, I am French. No, I am not racist. Racism is the bullshit. Not because it is close-minded, prejudicial and unneighborly, but because it is too restrictive. I do not hate groups of people, I hate all of the people.

Hating just blacks, latinos and asians would make me fond of whites by default. Shitting on just women makes men seem shinier. That's just not true. Everyone is sucking the balls. Everyone. Especially old people, because they reek of death.

Agree with me.

And you must be the Monopoly guy!

Each morning on cmike's path to work he passes by the Cornell Club, the Princeton Club, the Penn Club, the Columbia Club and the Yale Club. Is there anything more arrogant than the existence of places like this? Channel 2 News investigates:

Walking, determinedly to my job. On my way I encounter people, cars, clubs. But these are not just any clubs. These are tasteless clubs that hold exclusively reserved memberships for Ivy League graduates. I pass by these clubs every day with wonder, amazement, nausea. What goes on within these haughty walls? I'm about to find out.

I'm feeling confident and wearing khaki's, so I stroll into the Yale Club without a second thought. There's no reason for me to draw attention. Or is there?

Immediately a tuxedoed man strides across the grand ballroom adorned with chandeliers and young-man testicles, hones in on me like I'm a petulant El Salvadoran maid who just shined the banister too brightly, and catches me by the arm.

WELLINGTON: Excuse me duuuude, but this is an exclusive club.
CMIKE: What are you talking about, I belong here. Yale Class of oh-two.
WELLINGTON: Please hoooomey, I could smell the poor on you from across the room.
CMIKE: What are you talking about, I make almost six figures.
WELLINGTON: [scoff] Almost. Please, I pay my fart catcher six figures.
CMIKE: You have a fart catcher?
WELLINGTON: You don't? Conversation over.
CMIKE: But--
WELLINGTON: Nope, over.

As Wellington, pulls me from the ballroom I catch only a glimpse of the Sodomizing Room, which seems not to be just a clever name. I definitely glimpse the free monocle cleaning stations (plural), and the line at the fart-bottling booth is truly astonishing. But that is all I see before two bouncers open the doors with my neck (trust me it is physically possible).

Wellington tosses me into the gutter, spits on my face and sneers. He turns quickly, then goes out of his way to step on the groin of a young street urchin, before slamming the doors of the Yale Club on the world. Who are you really shutting out, sir? Us? Or maybe you are just shutting out the pain from all those years in Narnia. Come out of the closet my friends. It's time.

Thank you cmike. Truly a disturbing story, huh Diane? Yes Tom, it makes my nipples hard just thinking about all that money. Well, Diane, I'm sure a slap on your dirty whore face would wipe that slate clean.

Next up, how cuddling with kittens can cure the AIDS. Oh well, now that sounds fun.

Third place is...

The evwhino, when he's not blogging, serves as a manager at a company here in NYC.

Today, evwhino had to fire someone for the first time.

Here's how it went down:

evwhino: "I'm here today to discuss your termination."

no-longer-employed-at-evwhino's-company: "Can you give me some reasons?"

evwhino: "No questions? OK, great, HR will discuss your severance".

And with that, evwhino wiped his hands clean.

This is Giraffe on Chicks

Woman if you want something, ask for it. Do not use subtleties with me. Hints, no matter how strong, do not process. Whatever you want, just fucking say it! I have no time for your games. And I also have no time for whining. If you want solutions, I have solutions. If you want a receptacle for your never-ending bitchfest, use a tape recorder, or one of your girlfriends--that's what they're for, no?

Now, as you can see, I am busy pleasuring young woman. Agree with me.

Pain, suffering, death I feel

Those that watched the NBA Playoffs will understand me when I say, there must to be a law put into effect regulating the amount of times a network can promote an up-coming television series during any given program. If I have to see Kyra Sedgwick or Tom Everett Scott one more time I'm going to do bad things to myself in order to avoid seeing them again.

I actually learned about this marketing tool in Business School. I think it's called the Van Nostren "bury-yourself-in-the-consumer's-ass-and-set-up-camp-and-just-hope-they-didn't-realize-that-burning-sensation-on-your-way-in" Method. It has been known to have side-effects including blindness, anger fits and suicide, but effective nonetheless.

Anyway, the roommate and I sat down last night with the EW Summer Television Preview, y'know to make some DVR decisions, and somehow The Closer and Saved got a season pass. I mean, they do know drama. I've already scheduled my colonoscopy.

This is Giraffe

This is my life. I am French and I am a giraffe. I am angry with many things. You call me obnoxious, provincial, chauvanistic; I call me greatest. You will see.

There is no time for small talk. Agree with me.

Only the meek get pinched...the bold survive

One of the perks of working in my office is the view. Actually, I think that's the only one. So enjoy.

On another note, I'm applying to be on Survivor (the first time there was evidentially something wrong with my video...mainly that it was shot by the roommate and featured a scene of me sunbathing in the snow in Ann Arbor). Anyway, I need help answering this question: What would be the craziest, wildest thing you would do for a million dollars?

Suggestions?

...and a Pikey reaction is quite a fucking thing

Sorry for the slowdown, but my firm got the crazy idea that I should be doing something. Assholes. I actually thought they had forgotten I work here. And when it rains, it pours around here. I'll be here all day today and tomorrow--a little fuck you from the higher-ups.

Anyway, I just wanted to holler out to any light-siders who have been frequenting this thing. Specifically, I'd like to acknowledge Sideburns Feldman, who, on one glorious evening in Manhattan, ripped the cigarette from a young lady's mouth and grinded it into the pavement with his shoe when she asked him for a light. Cause that's a normal reaction.

How Was I Supposed To Know?

An X-ray of a duck freaked people out last week when the x-ray revealed an alien head inside the duck. It turns out that it was just corn and not really an alien.

That reminds me of the time my radiologist thought he saw Elvis in an X-ray of my balls. After some more X-rays, he realized that it was just Mike & Ikes and Sun Chips. That was followed by an extremely uncomfortable half-hour lecture on why I shouldn't feed people food to my penis.

Lady look at me, I don't even know where the hell I am half the time!

I looked up the location of my doctor's office on Google Maps. That is so not where it is. Trust me.

In fact, one cab driver assured me that my doctor's office was not located on the second lane of 3rd Avenue, by trying to hit me with his automobile. Sorry friend, at least I don't smell like dead raccoon anus.

I'm afraid I'm gonna have to pull rank on you

If you are anything like me, then you're looking for something to do. So, here are the best things to do when you're at the office and bored out of your mind:

10. Tinker-toys: Build shit out of supplies. Tape and staples are the obvious tools, but paperclips, thumb-tacks and post-it notes are also very useful. Then take pictures and share.

9. Blog: No real fun here. Just a nice waste of time.

8. Cleptopatra: Steal shit. That's it, that's the whole game. Just steal shit. From the supply closet, from the cafeteria, from your officemate's desk. It's great fun, and it makes your heart race every time someone looks at you. They know, they know, they know.

7. Stalker: The key to this game is to follow someone around the office and make them aware of it. When someone gets up from their desk or leaves their office, just get up and walk behind them. Follow them into the bathroom, down the elevator, wherever. If you can convince them that they're crazy for thinking you would be following them for some reason, you win!

6. Stare Down: Why not try a staring contest with, like, your tape dispenser? And, there's no fucking way your coffee cup can withstand your intimidating glare. At least you'll succeed at something today.

5. Tolerance Test: Ever wonder if staples actually hurt? Try it out on the fleshy part of your palm. Want to see what an electrical shock feels like? Stick a paper clip into each hole of the electrical outlet. Trust me, it's much fun. What are you scared?

4. Crank-yank: Prank calling, but professional-like. Look up a hot chick on the office intranet. Call her and pretend you did so by accident. Then laugh with her about how busy and out of sorts you have been. She'll likely agree. Compliment her on her phone-sex voice. Romance ensues.

3. Backdraft: Light shit on fire. Personally, I try to see how close I can come to lighting the officemate's shirt on fire before he notices. I almost got the thing to burn right off of him last time. It really spices up the relationship.

2. Newman's Game: Just mail shit. Go to the supply closet and get a stack of envelopes. Then stick like a Chipotle napkin in one and mail it to your grandma. Maybe put an ice cube in one and ship it off to your accountant. The possibilities are endless.

1. The JD Special: The best way to pass time at the office is to instigate conflicts amongst friends via email. All you need is internet access and a friend with a sensitivity. Just pop that shit into an electronic message to your friends, sit back and enjoy the reflection of your huge grin off the computer screen, as the emails pour in and you watch Rome burn to the ground.

Excuse me...your balls are showing

What would the NBA Playoffs be without balls?





This is why no one watches the WNBA.

Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot to mention that

Art Brut sings this song called Emily Kane. We went to school with a girl by the same name. Evwhino tells me he has confirmed--through the girl herself--that the song is in fact about the chick we know. So, what do I do? Tell everyone I know, obviously.

After being completely shredded by the officemate about the accuracy of this claim, I sent a link to everyone essentially proving that it was not her. Evwhino forwarded his correspondence with her:

EVWHINO: See below…emily kane claims it is about her…I think the link that cmike sent around is made up

i know- it's AMAZING?!!!!!!! can you believe it?
the song is really good, too! same spelling and everything- SO bizarre, right?

CMIKE: You are SO DUMB! she doesn't even claim it's her!!! i hate you. i just had a fight with my officemate for twenty minutes about the fact that it's her.
EVWHINO: Hmm…ok. Yeah, you’re probably right.
WEASEL: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, AMAZING

What's the hell's goin' on in there...spoiled brats

And the winner of the best "what is the world coming to" face, goes to the nicely dressed old guy sitting next to the roommate on the LIRR, while the roommate was on his cellphone wearing a dirty t-shirt and jeans and scoffing at the insignificance of the twenty-nine million dollar deal he had just closed on his way out of the office.

But in the old guy's defense, in his day, hookers cost a nickel.

Ha-ha! Just kidding, but not really

The Weasel just found out who evwhino is...what a loser. Let's all point and laugh.

You Get Bad Service, You Gotta Complain

I ordered an egg and cheese wrap from a little coffee house and it was taking absolutely forever. I went outside to wait and would check back in every 5 minutes or so. Finally, I see a wrap next to the cash register and the guy working there was standing directly over the wrap and taking someone's order. While he's taking the order he keeps running his hands through his dreadlocks and furiously scratching his arm, DIRECTLY OVER THE WRAP. The whole time I'm watching this thinking, "please don't let that be my wrap." When he was done taking the order I said, "Is that an egg and cheese wrap, no tomato?", he looks at the ticket and hands it to me. I said "thanks man," took the wrap outside and threw it right in the trash.

My Dad couldn't believe I didn't ask for my money back. What am I supposed to say in that situation in order to get a refund? "Excuse me, my skin flake and hair follicle wrap was a little undercooked. Do you think you could take it off the check?"

That's what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age

This past weekend the evwhino took in an away game at Cornell U., site of my sister's college graduation.

Saturday night, as she was introducing to me to her friends, she mentioned that "he's 26, which means he's still young enough to hook up with college chicks".

Coors Light + encouragement from your little sister = yelling (loudly and to no one in particular) "Who wants to make out"?

If she’s so brilliant, why’s she sitting in our neighbor’s car?

I came home to find a women's necklace sitting in the center of my bed. I figure my maid (yes, I have a maid, wanna fight about it?), found it in my sheets while making the bed. I have come to grips with the fact that girls use the "leave-behind" to encourage guys to call them or meet up with them again, even if it takes the form of extortion, but my question is whether this actually works.

This is obviously a chick that thinks she needs to give the guy some specific reason to call her. How about a blow job instead? That would probably be a more effective means of persuasion, no? I mean, is it worth it to leave an article of clothing or piece of jewelry behind at a guy's place on a gamble that he will call you as a result? Well, I now have desk drawer full of jewelry that say, no, it's not.

On another note, anyone interested in purchasing a necklace, a bejeweled hair-clip or one earing, please contact us at besttimeever@gmail.com.

For Someone on Steriods, You Sure Do Hit Like A Girl

The Honge and I were leaving a bar in Baltimore after a night of heavy cocktail consumption and we passed by a girl walking alone in a pink outfit. The Honge was a few steps ahead of me and said something to the girl. I didn't hear what he said, I only heard the word "hooker." For some ridiculous reason, this offended her.

Next thing I know, the girl is screaming at the two of us and pointing us out to her juicehead husband and his juicehead friend, who came out of nowhere. Well, obviously we both got hit in the face before we even knew what the fuck was going on. It was a hard open handed smack on the face, not really too bad.

An unmarked cop car immediately pulls up before the juiceheads had a chance to actually dismember us and the officer gets out and asks what happened. We told him that the guys hit us for no reason. He goes to get another officer and leaves for about 3 minutes. I don't think the juiceheads were really too worried about the cops because in those 3 minutes one of them tried to attack us again. The cop came back and asked us if we wanted to press charges, we said no even though we realy should have. The cops then told us to go our seperate ways.

Oh yeah, then The Honge asked the cops if they had an extra cigarette.

The question here is garbage

There's a certain point you reach that moves you from embarrassment, to I really just don't give a fuck. I like to call that point shit-faced drunk.

Take last night for example. I dropped my engraved money clip in the garbage can at the bar. Reaction number one: ah, fuck it. But as reaction number one faded into drunk guilt for losing my parents' graduation present, the next thing I know I'm flopping around in the garbage can like Renton sloshing around in the worst toilet in Scotland. I mean I was literally shoulder deep in there. There were six people circled around me watching, including a hot waitress and a hot bartender, and I couldn't have cared less. At one point, I actually took the bag out of the can and pushed through thirty pounds of bottles and shit to finally reclaim what was mine.

Bottom line, one fleeting moment of drunken indifference, saved me endless years of jewish guilt from my mom nagging me about losing my graduation present. Thanks Crown Royal and Patrón, you're my only friends.

You Guys Got A Mop Back There

I was at Chick-fil-a for lunch today and I see a woman carrying her son and walking to the back of the restaurant, toward the bathroom. Then I hear her say to him frantically "are you going?" Suddenly she starts walking very fast. Not running, but walking very fast, so as not to drop the kid. Watching her walk and try not to get urine on herself was entertaining enough but the best part was that she started to make some of the strangest noises that I have ever heard. She was getting louder and louder as she got closer to the bathroom. It sounded like a seal orgy.

Someone definitely needs to teach this kid the "squeeze and dance" technique for holding in urine, at least for his poor mother's sake.

You're all worthless and weak!

People think I'm exaggerating when I tell them I do nothing at work all day. Well, here is what my billing ticket looked like for today:

0.2 HOURS - Reviewing [plaintiff's] complaint
7.8 HOURS - Waiting for assignment

And this was by far my busiest day of the week. Don't hate.

Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi; you're my only hope

Did anyone else see those military planes flying loops over Manhattan today? There were five of them, and one was fucking huge. Well over here, in our 47th floor office, we shat pants. Then we realized it was just an airshow.

Yeah, I'm a hockey player, but I'm playing golf today

Last week Dylan went on an interview for a new job, that he desperately wanted, and told his current boss that he had bought his father a new club for his birthday and that they were going to play a round. After his interview the following email chain took place (check out Dylan's brilliant use of metaphor, and his not-at-all blatantly obvious feigning in order to hide under his company email):

ME: did your dad like the club? how did you shoot?
DYLAN: Shot pretty well, although I thought we were suppose to hit a few buckets, but only hit one. Then they showed me around the course, which I thought was a pretty good sign. They are going to tally up my score card and said they would let me know soon what the final score is.
ME: so that's it? your not going back out again?
DYLAN: I think that's it. They'll either let me play the course or not. No more practice at the range.

[one week later]

ME: we golfin' or what?
DYLAN: huh?
ME: after you and your dad went out to try his new club...i thought you'd keep me posted.
DYLAN: gotcha. The golf pro hasn't called me yet, but from a guy I know whose already a member there (he actually set the whole thing up), he heard that they want me to come back to meet two other golf pros. One works under the pro I met with last week (who heads the all of the other pros), and the other is the pro fro last weeks boss. But i don't know this for sure, since I haven't gotten a call yet.

His subtlety is something to be envied.

When the mallows flaming, you stick it on the chocolate

This weekend we head off to our first weekend at the beach house in Fire Island. The place is great. Where the Hamptons is like a more frustrating and pretentious Manhattan (if that's even possible), Fire Island is like a summer camp with drunk panty raids and really expensive canteen.

One interesting tidbit of info is that Fire Island is predominantly known as the place for gay people to be gay. Though this takes place on an entirely different part of the island, most people are unaware of the separation. Herein lies the problem. Every time I tell anyone that I am going to Fire Island, every able-bodied gay within a ten block radius hops to like I'm wearing a raindow flag and hotpants. Seriously, when I was getting my haircut, I was terrified to answer the simple question what are you doing this weekend, because of the gay manicure dude giving me sexy eyes. My ass starts trembling just thinking about it.

Anyway, I am pretty excited about my very relaxing, very straight Memorial Day weekend. This is not to say that I don't like gay dudes. Hell, I love 'em. Just as long as they stay over there.

Human beings are a disease...and we are the cure

In response to the terrible epidemic of workplace boredom that has tragically struck just prior to the commencement of summer, I bring you the cure.

Fine, fine...I'm gonna take you off my list of successful people today

I am sick of skipping songs on my iPod on the way to work, so I came into work today with one mission, a playlist with no need to skip. So, if you're looking to waste some money on iTunes, or just do some old fashion song-stealing, I have included the playlist below (many are also available on Good Weather for Airstrikes). I am far from a music aficionado, but these are the songs I would never skip if they came up on random. That being said, I am sure that the roommate would skip every one of the these songs on his iPod.

Hip-hop/R&B/Soul
Feeling Good --Nina Simone
Promised Land --Edan
Pusherman --Curtis Mayfield
Touch the Sky --Kanye West
Get 'Em High --Kanye West
Coming From Where I'm From --Anthony Hamilton
Six Feet Deep --Ghetto Boyz
Show Me --Mint Royale
Around My Way --Talib Kweli
It's So Hard --Big Pun
Moodswing --Asheru
My Name is HOV --Jay-Z
Beautiful Lady --4th Avenue Jones
Rubberband Man --The Spinners (I enjoy the TI version as well)

Classic Rock
Sweet Thing --Van Morrison
Across the Universe --The Beatles
In My Life --The Beatles
Little Wing --Jimi Hendrix
The Crunge --Led Zeppelin
Wigwam --Bob Dylan
These Days --Nico (of Velvet Underground fame)
Look at Me --John Lennon

Everything Else
Where is My Mind? --The Pixies
The Start of Something --Voxtrot
Skinny Boy --Amy Millan
Crosses --Jose Gonzalez
The Outer Banks --The Album Leaf
Sweet Child 'O Ravi --Guns N Roses/Norah Jones (mash-up)
L. Wells --Franz Ferdinand
Trains to Brazil --Guillemots
Funeral --Band of Horses
Run Run Run --Phoenix
When I Goosestep --The Shins
Repeat to Fade --The Shortwave Set
Willie --Cat Power (an evwhino favorite)
So Here We Are --Bloc Party
Most of the Time --Bob Dylan
Maps --Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Say It Ain't So --Weezer
Let You Down --Dave Matthews Band
Out of the Races --The Rapture
Gentlemen Who Fell --Milla Jovovich (aka Katinka Ingridabohvadena-na)
Starcastic --Enon
Caring Is Creepy --The Shins
This Is the Day --The The
Forecast Facist Future --Of Montreal
Since You Been Gone --Kelly Clarkson
What I'm Looking For --Brendan Benson

You can act like a man!

I had been seeing this girl for about a month and it was going nowhere. Since our entire relationship was based on emailing at work, I figured an email break-off was acceptable. I was blunt and to the point, but gentle. So what do I get in return? A mature, well-thought-out, understanding response--including "I hope this doesn't stop us from being friends, as cliché as that sounds." I was caught completely off-guard.

So now, after 18 hours of staring at that email, I'm trying to figure if "friends" includes benefits...and how she got the accent over the "e" in cliché.

Move Over David Blaine

My new favorite magician is the attorney across the hall from my office. Not only did he ask me to close my eyes for a few seconds so he could get the trick ready, but he managed to strategically use the phrase "cunt hair" in his act at least 3 times.

Did you ever flashy-thing me?

There's this great line in Men In Black: Tommy Lee Jones explains to Will Smith why people must be kept ignorant of the existence of aliens on Earth. Will argues that "people are smart, they can handle it." Tommy retorts by saying, "a person is smart...people are dumb."

There is absolutely no better example of what Agent K is trying to say than this:

Actually, I'm not really sure that's what he was referring to, but, God, that guy is a fuckin' moron.