Pennsylgaynia.

I have lived and visited many, many places in and out of the country in my 23 years on this round (or flat, depending on who you’re talking to) earth, and after my travel experience, I can say without a doubt that western Pennsylvania is one of the most dismal, grumpy, rude places in all the world. I despise it. The people here (with a few exceptions) blow. They just absolutely blow. They don’t know how to drive, they don’t understand common courtesy, they’re rude, ignorant, ugly, and impolite, they don’t sell alcohol in the grocery store—-the list goes on and on. Which brings me to the meaty portion of this post:

Things that are better than western Pennsylvania:

1.  The DMV

2.  Bear attacks

3.  Ovarian cysts

4.  Income taxes

5.  Unplanned pregnancies

6.  Polio outbreaks

7.  Amputation

8.  Hangovers

9.  Paul Giamatti

10.  Ke$ha

11.  Heart attacks

12.  Prison

13.  The line at the post office on Christmas Eve

14.  Heroin addiction

15.  Headlice

16.  Wildfires

17.  Scabies

18.  Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” performance at the 2007 VMAs

19.  Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face

20.  Drawing blood

21.  Gas prices

22.  Charlie Sheen’s ability to be a school teacher

23.  Marshall Mathers’ emotional stability

24.  This:

25.  ….and this:

.

That about sums it up.

Uncontrollable diarrhea > western Pennsylvania

The end.

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“Clogging the toilet is the worst. I hate close calls. The feeling you get after you realize you DIDN’T clog the toilet is exhilarating, especially at someone else’s home.”

Sheen Genius.

I have come back to visit the 51503 metropolitan area this week, folks. After my biological birth parents vacationed in Colorado over the past week, I decided to ride back with them in their very packed, super cramped vehicle to the Midwest for a solid 8 days to get a little social butterfly stretch in. The ride home was fine if you don’t consider the claustrophobic conditions, the giant 60 pound suitcase falling and jackhammering me twice, and their weight-sensitive corgi’s terribly foul breath stinking like cat food and choking my lungs half to death for 10 consecutive hours. Besides that, Fancy Feast was shedding like a Siberian Husky in Scottsdale, Arizona during the middle of July. By the time we rolled into town, I was sore, stiff, smelled like tuna, and looked like a battered lint roller. I’m not complaining though.

Yes I am.

In lieu of my arrival, I have been doing many activities. Breakfast with an old customer and friend, thrift store hunting con mi madre, sushi with a real live midget and the voluptuous Glenna Freemyer, drinks in Midtown, got my hurr did, coffee with CJS and Clouse, watching Hall Pass at Star Cinema, and today I will be going ice skating and then shoveling chili into my face with the Freemyers. The real shenanigans will be taking place Thursday through Saturday, however. I am considering going out and purchasing an economy size bottle of Pepto Bismol in anticipation of the severity of my upcoming hangovers.

I’m trying to plan out my weekend ahead of time, just so I have some sort of structure during my three day bender. I’m not sure how I’m going to survive. This time I won’t be taking any pseudophedrines on account of nearly grinding my teeth into tree stumps and being awake for 36 hours last time. I’m hoping I can survive on 5 Hour Energy shots and sheer enthusiasm alone. So far the weekend is looking like this: On a scale from 1 to Charlie Sheen, I think Thursday (dueling pianos night) will be about a 5/6, Friday will be a Lindsay Lohan, and Saturday will be a Courtney Love. I really don’t want to travel back to Colorado more hung over than Amy Winehouse on Sunday, but both Cole Alloway and Kelli Beyer are going to be in town that night, so I really don’t have a choice in the matter. When the ballers are in town, you gotta ball. Shaquille O’Neal once said that.

I made that up.

Speaking of partying, Charlie Sheen is absolutely on fire right now. The quotes this man is generating is enough to get me through the entire year with excellent buzzwords. I mean, the man actually thinks he’s from outer space. Who doesn’t like someone that believes they’re from outer space? I mean, just look at District 9.

Wait.

Well, I need to go hit the tanning bed again. I’ve developed a pretty severe and distinct goggle/helmet tanline from my near-daily snowboarding up in the mountains, and no amount of bronzer in the world can even hide it anymore. Bring it, UV.

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“I’m tired of pretending I’m not a total bitchin’ rock star from Mars!”