Tag Archives: entertainment

The scent of a woman.

15 Mar

I keep snapping my head from left to right and nosing the air after catching whiffs of something really fresh and delicious smelling. *Sniff sniff*–what is that fantastic smell? I wonder. Then I realize it’s me. More specifically, it’s my shirt, because Tide laundry detergent + Febreze is the elixir of life and Proctor & Gamble’s gift to the world. Every article of clothing comes out smelling like what I imagine David Beckham smells like. My clothing emits a delightful, welcoming and comforting aroma of freshness like a field of wild flowers on a spring afternoon. I want to eat my shirt. It’s irresistible. I recommend it.

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Coincidentally, I just logged onto Yahoo News to find other shit to write about, and the first story that caught my eye was the following:

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/trending-now/tide-detergent-being-stolen-stores-across-country-162253268.html;_ylt=Aiht5k2xXggiSp4Ij_KL3yKs0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTNqbW1zNWxxBGNjb2RlA2N0LmMEcGtnA2IyNGRiMDM5LTBkYTAtM2M5Yi1iY2NjLTYxYTA4ZmIzMzQ3OQRwb3MDMgRzZWMDbW9zdF9wb3B1bGFyBHZlcgNjYTEwOTlhMC02ZGQ2LTExZTEtOGZhMy02YjdhZjM5NTU4MjM-;_ylg=X3oDMTFrM25vcXFyBGludGwDdXMEbGFuZwNlbi11cwRwc3RhaWQDBHBzdGNhdAMEcHQDc2VjdGlvbnMEdGVzdAM-;_ylv=3

^ People stealing Tide. Haha. It’s not about the drugs, Yahoo. It’s about the heavenly smelling Tide.

Tide + Downy is also orgasmic. Try them both, choose for yourself.

The Voice continues to grab me by the balls. I love this show. I also love Adam Levine’s face, eyes, mouth, and body. That is when I’m not so distracted by Christina Aguilera’s bazoongas to see it. What the f-ck is up with Cee Lo Green and his giant white cat?

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Am I watching The Voice or Austin Powers? The cat’s name is Mr. Purrfect. Unbelievable. One second I’m watching a very intense singing competition, and the next second I’m watching Cee Lo Green stroke his white cat in his red silk pajamas and make commentary on the show like it’s perfectly normal. He’s doing it to f-ck with everyone. Haha.

There is perhaps nothing more frightening than having a full bottle of soda erupt in your face while driving 80 miles per hour down the interstate in the winding, snowy mountains. The other day after five hours of intense snowboarding, my brother and I stopped at a 7/11 to get some garbage to put into our bodies to not help it recover from all the aggressive physical activity we put them through that day. We picked up some Doritos, Dr. Peppers, and Cadbury Eggs, gassed up the car and hit the road. About five minutes into the drive, I asked Richard to pass me my Dr. Pepper with much anticipation. With my knee on the steering wheel, I twisted the cap, and like Mt. St. Helens in 1980, it violently exploded all over the driver’s side of the car with the fury of a thousand volcanoes. I was literally dripping in Dr. Pepper from head to toe. I have no idea what happened. It was never shaken, bumped, or disturbed. Richard stared at me with his mouth agape. We were so confused.

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“I don’t even know what’s going on right now,” he said. Haha. I was pissed. My coat, pants, face, lap, seat, center console, door, and steering wheel were coated in sticky pop. What happened, Bill Nye? Did the cashier pull a prank on me? I did make her go through a bit of trouble with manufacturer’s coupons during the checkout……what a bitch.

Anyway, time for me to go paint my nails. I’m becoming a nail painting addict. It’s fine. Gotta keep my game tight, knowhadamsayne?

BYE!

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“Imagine your dick as a bus. Even a small bus is still a huuuge bus. You know?”

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It’s a boy!

14 Mar

Sadly I have left the wonderous state of Colorado behind to once again travel to the dismal, vapid, grumpy east coast. There is nothing more painful than driving away from the mountains and seeing the hazy blue Rockies slowly disappear in your rear view mirror. Except maybe my right ass cheek after enduring the ten hour drive. That’s painful too. I got Taco John’s part-way through the drive to numb the pain. It worked.

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So my life continues to be a routine cycle of packing and unpacking. What sucks about this time is that I had to pack all of my stuff to leave Colorado, come home to Iowa and unpack it all, then re-pack for Pennsylvania, then unpack when I get there, then in two weeks when I’m called to the next storm somewhere else in the country, RE-pack all of that, and then unpack AGAIN when I reach my final destination. Somebody shoot me square in the face.

I am currently at Performance Chrysler-Jeep-Dodge in Omaha getting my leaking sunroof repaired, but you could convince me I’m at a Westin Hotel. The staff is incredibly welcoming and kind, and they have a waiting room fit for a king. There is a Goldfish dispenser, a trail mix dispenser, a popcorn machine, hot chocolate, coffee, lattes, tea, bottled water, chai (the list of hot drinks goes on for miles), plus a computer lab, televisions, magazines, and wireless internet. The only thing I need is a Heavenly Bed and I’m set.

Well, and for them to stop playing “Just Another Manic Monday” on the radio. Beggars can’t be choosers.

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I came home and immediately got pissed off at my full closet again. This thing is impossible. Six weeks ago when I arrived home, I gutted it out as much as I thought I could. I tried again yesterday. I am successfully getting rid of another pile of clothes. I was too lazy last time, but this time I am going to try to pawn some of it off at a consignment shop. My goal is to make some cash money and go purchase a Bose Sound Dock from Craigslist. I have wanted one for a long time. SPEAKING of things I’ve wanted for a long time, guess what we’ll be welcoming into the family soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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A brand new Dyson “DC 41 Animal” Ball Vacuum!!!

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Praise the Lord! I am so excited. I have never been this jacked over a household appliance in all of my life. Probably because we’ve never really owned real household appliances yet. I hope it sucks, in the most literal sense of the word. The last two vacuum cleaners we owned were completely f-cking useless. The first one was a Bissell that got clogged in 14 seconds by the grotesque cocktail of my long red hair + my dog’s shedding coat, and then I got another one off Craigslist that I thought would be better by leaps and bounds, but that one was even worse if that’s possible. I had resorted to periodically going to different neighbors and asking to borrow their vacuum cleaners. This was fine, except my closest neighbor’s vacuum was an 80 pound steel tank from the 1980s that required both a crane and a pro-wrestler on steroids to maneuver, and the other neighbor lived a block away. Inconveniences that make you say, “F-ck it,” and live in the filth.

But not anymore. OOOO WEEE!!!! I am going to be a vacuuming son of a bitch. There won’t be a hair, fur, dust particle, or crumb in sight after I get this beast. There might not even be furniture.

Things might get out of control.

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My Jeep is filthy. A drive through the melting mountains coated it in a baker’s dozen layers of dirt, salt, mud, sand, and oil. It needs to be seriously cleaned. Too bad I don’t already have my Dyson Vacuum or I could just SUCK ALL THE FILTH OFF!!!!

I think my perception of how this vacuum works may be becoming a little distorted.

The high for every single day this week is 79 degrees. SEVENTY-NINE.

…DEGREES.

It is early March in Iowa. What is going on? Bring on the storms. Anyway, the point is, I could just get out there and wash my car myself. But it’s just so much work. I’d rather have Jeff’s Riverside Car Wash do it. (They have a sign outside that says “We’ll detail ANYTHING!” I wonder if they mean that. Someone bring them a microwave). If you are from or are ever in Council Bluffs, Iowa, go ahead and bring your vehicle into this place. You won’t recognize it when you go back to pick it up. They clean it like there’s no tomorrow. A full interior and exterior detailing is like $70 or something. Pretty great for floor mats you could eat chicken pate off of afterward. I recommend it.

Anyway, time for me to go check out my leaking sunroof and hope it doesn’t cost me $400 to fix. I’ll keep you posted on how badass the Dyson Ball is. Bi.
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*GASP* – He took the pepporcini! GOOD LUCK!”

Polly Pocket.

7 Mar

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Welp, Monday was spent recuperating from the previous three days at the SnowBall Music Festival. I spent 72 consecutive hours destroying my body, mind and spirit with alcohol and elicit drugs. I couldn’t be happier. What an insane f-cking time. There were bananas and champagne and glow sticks everywhere. Got about 30 solid hours in the onesie, circa 1986 (eBay gem), pillaged roughly $180 of merchandise including Snowball shirts, Burton tees, and Burton beanies, danced like an asshole and burned 150,000 calories (all the more reason to continue my daily carb-loading routine).

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Top shows of the electronic music festival for me were:

  • Ghostland Observatory
  • DallasK
  • Minnesota
  • Bag Raiders
  • Dada Life
  • Bassnectar
  • MiMOSA
  • Boombox
Initially I mistyped “Boobmox” on Boombox. Everybody makes mistakes. Like I said, my brain is seizing. I’m lucky that my heart is still beating today. I cannot wait for next year.

I wish humans had built-in pockets. There are several things I like to always have on my person. Chapstick, tissues, my phone. I could really benefit from having the convenience of a built-in fanny pack. Basically I wish I were a marsupial.

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I can’t stop feasting on the enormous batch of breakfast burritos Trent made last week. These delicious tortillas are filled with zesty chorizo, fluffy eggs, a fiesta blend of Mexican cheese, a river of Cholula (clutch), onions, and roasted potatoes. Mmm. I’m not really sure how burritos can actually qualify as a “breakfast” food, but then again, when have Americans ever really followed the rules. I like how we slap the word “breakfast” in front of various non-breakfast items and consider it perfectly acceptable. Breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, breakfast casserole. Just put the word “breakfast” in front of it, then it’s healthy!

We’re fat.

Speaking of fat, Christina Aguilera needs to stop wearing hats. What the f-ck was she wearing on her head this week, a Bedazzled vinyl record?

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Awful. What kind of drugs is she on, and why weren’t they available to me at the Snowball Music Festival this weekend? If it’s possible, she has gotten even more orange. I’m beginning to think it’s a biological thing, like she gets oranger with age, like a tangerine.

ANYway, time to go get more much needed REM. Adios, muchachos.

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“Whiskey. Rum. Mali. Coke. Shrooms. Jager. Weed. Beer. Vodka.”

“This text message thread would be a gold mine for the police department.”

Ramen wild.

27 Feb

I am officially sick. I feel like I have been sick too many times this year. Usually I get one stubborn cold that lasts for a few days plus one more serious ailment each year, and that’s it. I’ve already had the worst case of strep that anyone has ever seen PLUS multiple annoying colds. WHAT is the DEAL? Perhaps my body is rebelling against me for filling my diet with nothing but off-brand Cocoa Puffs, macaroni and cheese, Dr. Pepper, microwavable burritos, Golden Oreos, Velveeta, and Cadbury Creme Eggs. Who knows.

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I’m a complainer. There aren’t a whole lot of funny things to say about being sick though, so it doesn’t make for great blogging material. I might actually erase everything I’ve written up to this point.

Eh.

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I was jonesing for Maruchan Ramen today due to my shitty cold. I had flashbacks to my elementary years when I ate cherry Pop Tarts and oriental flavored Ramen for nearly every meal, and my craving returned from the darkness. Unlike most college kids, I actually did not eat even one single ounce of Ramen noodles whilst in university. An odd phenomena to skip, seeing as it costs just 18 cents per package. Nope, I thrived on Kraft mac and cheese, beer, Gumby’s pizza, Taco Bell, beer, Spaghettio’s, pasta, McDonald’s, and beer.

(I was fat.)

Anyway, I am spending my afternoon filling my body with soup and watching Arrested Development. I’m not too pissed about the situation, except that I can’t breathe through my nose and I sound like a man. I did purchase some DayQuil to help numb the discomfort. We’ll see how it works out. So far I’m still snotting all over the USA. I haven’t had Kleenexes nearby all day, so the left sleeve of my sweatshirt is getting pretty unsanitary if you know what I mean.

“Decorated scrotum.”

This was a search term used by someone out there in the world wide web recently that led them to my blog. How it led them to my blog, I will never know. Has Vagazzling spread out and touched the male population as a genital decorating fad? This is disturbing to me. There is no reason to put Swarovski crystals and sequins on a scrotum. Do not decorate your scrotum. Under no circumstance should you ever draw attention to the scrotum. It is a nauseating physical attachment to the male body that should be ignored at all costs as far as I’m concerned.

I find myself craving another bowl of Ramen. This has nothing to do with scrotums.

Well, talk to you later.

 

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B:   “Dan, does this dog look comfortable?”

D:   “Yeah, I mean….I can see his asshole.”

 

 

You’re as cold as ice.

26 Feb

Actually, I’M cold as ice. If I bumped my knee on the coffee table right now, it would shatter into a million pieces, because it is now a frozen solid block of ice.

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It is stupid cold today. The wind is gusting with a vengeance. It feels like a million tiny daggers ripping through my body. I need more pants. On. I need more pants on. It will take me at least one hour to thaw out. I brought No Balls Rals to the dog park today for some exercise so that I wouldn’t have to play with him myself at home later while I’m watching 14 consecutive episodes of Dr. 90210.

For the first time ever, we arrived and there was not a single other canine at the park. Probably because most people realized that glaciers were about to sail into Eagle County and hypothermia isn’t on most peoples’ agendas on a casual Sunday. After standing around waiting for about ten minutes and chattering my teeth like someone on too many prescription medications and a gallon of medium roast, a gaggle of dogs finally showed up and they ran their little hearts out. Meanwhile, I suffered from frostbite and lack of circulation to my frozen extremities.

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My creamer intake continues to escalate. I am spiraling out of control. I have bought two liter-size jugs of it within four days. This is not normal creamer consumption, I am almost sure of it. It has become my heroin. This French vanilla elixir of life has got me by the balls. I’m going to need an Intervention. (I’ll resist help 100% of the way).

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I spend a lot of time playing Zynga word games on my phone. Mainly Hanging With Friends and Words With Friends. Since I am a cheap ass and refuse to pay for these games in order to get ad-free playing time, I am continually bombarded with advertisements during my ass-whooping gaming sessions. I used to get a lot of ads for “increasing your battery life” and “Zynga Poker,” but lately it has strictly been online dating websites. Every time. What is Zynga trying to say? That because I play word games on my phone for so many hours a day, I couldn’t possibly have a life? Haha.

They’re right.

WELL, time to go hack my lungs up. I seem to have caught some sort of a cough. I’m not happy about it, but what can you do.

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“What are those big jugs called that you put water in?  …Oh yeah, water jugs.”

 

 

 

Survival mode.

20 Feb

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I’ve been watching The Colony a little bit lately. If you are unfamiliar with the show, it is basically a reality show based on a social experiment (a la Survivor) in which people are placed in a simulated “end of times” scenario where there has been a giant disaster and people are left to fend for themselves: find food, shelter, create a safe environment, generate electricity, fight off marauders, etc. Basically they have to figure out how to survive and start over with little resources. The group consists of people who are experts in various fields. They have an electrician, a mechanic, a self-defense instructor, a nurse, a biologist, etc.

The point is, I would be useless in the end of times. I can’t do anything. If I were given the task of say, starting a fire, or wiring an electrical outlet, or gutting a fish, I would shit in my pants. What can I do? I mean….I could like, tell jokes. I wouldn’t be necessary to the survival or prosperity of the group. Basically they would kill me and eat me for food.

So I guess there’s that.

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I miraculously have to pee as soon as I get all of my gear on prior to snowboarding. It’s getting annoying. I purposely hydrate at night so that I don’t have to chug a half a gallon of liquids in the morning before I ride, causing me to pee one hundred and fifty times throughout the day, and just when I think I’ve emptied the tank and have put on my long-johns, socks, snowboard pants, Under Armour, thermal, fleece, and down coat, nature calls. Like clockwork. It’s irritating and inconvenient. I think my bladder is playing pranks on me. Can organs do that?

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I have progressed from just abusing the French vanilla coffee creamer in my tea by using unnecessary amounts of it to actually taking straight pulls from the bottle. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing beer bongs of vanilla creamer in the kitchen. This can only end badly. It’s just so damn delicious, you guys. How do they do it? WHY CAN’T ALL THINGS THAT ARE GOOD HAVE NO CALORIES?!?!?!?!?!?

Life’s not fair.

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I have started sending snail mail again lately. I love doing that. There’s just something about sending and receiving physical letters written with sparkly gel pens, covered in flamboyant stickers that really warms the heart, you know? Snail mail. So slow. They try to act like it’s not though. First class, priority—they all sound like the fastest one. It’s trickery.

In other news, the broken laptop situation turned out well, relatively speaking. I sold my broken computer to a dude who fixes computers for $300, and got the exact same 13″ Macbook that I had before for $700. Four hundred bucks to replace a computer isn’t so bad I guess. I’ll definitely be placing my computer on higher land from now on. No longer shall it share the same plane with liquids.

Well, time to go do other stuff. BYE!

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B:   “Are you gonna try that little jump?”

J:   “I don’t know, maybe.”

B:   “Even if you only get a couple inches, at least you’ll know what it feels like.”

J:   “That’s what she said.”

 

Bearly there.

19 Feb

A television repair man working in New Jersey found a black bear in a customer’s basement. Apparently the bear had decided to hibernate in this old dude’s home.

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Can anyone explain to me how in the world a bear gets into someone’s house without them noticing? Rather, can anyone explain to me how a bear gets into someone’s house AT ALL? How does this happen?  Mice? Sure. Small and sneaky. Bats? They find their way in every now and again. Snakes too. Even birds—sometimes you get a bird in your house somehow, but a 500 pound BEAR? Did Smoky the Bear just waltz up to the front door, open it, and mosey down stairs with a sleeping bag to set up camp for the winter? Did Yogi just sneak in while old ass Dale was lethargically carrying in groceries, leaving the door open behind him? I don’t understand how something like this happens.

In other news, after a long search for my desperately sought-after 2008 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited, I had finally found a few prospects on AutoTrader.com and Craigslist. Trent had been in Pennsylvania behind me for a couple weeks and would be returning the day before our Cancun trip, and I had been in Iowa looking online. We had come across a few, but they never ended up working out. Finally, one on Craigslist in Des Moines was looking like the perfect Jeep, and we had just one day to go check it out before we went to Mexico for a week. I get up that day and get ready, and wait for Trent to roll in from PA so we can hit the road.

The dogs start going ballistic, signaling that he had arrived, so I head to the front door to greet him before heading to Des Moines. I catch a glimpse out the window on my way down the stairs of a shiny, beastly, pearly black Jeep in the driveway. The trickery! He had had one the whole time. WOO!

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I run outside to go fondle my new vehicle. It is so lovely. I want to put my tongue on it. Fully loaded with navigation, a Hemi, 18s, leather seats, you name it. I am thrilled. I immediately fire her up to go for a test drive, opening the back door for Raleigh to come with. My dog then jumps in and immediately throws up in the back seat.

Anyway, in order to protect those lovely chromies from the harsh winter salty roads, we got some matte black rims for the cold season. All murdered out.

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Goodbye, Blazer. I will not be missing you. Well, time for me to go shhhnowboarding. Ta ta for now, boys and girls.

And trannies. I haven’t forgotten about you.

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B:   How’s that Jay-Z/Kanye concert going?

A:   Wild. The blacks are going wild.

B:   Haha. Great. Do you feel out of place since you’re not hooting and hollering and humping?

A:   Yes…all of the blacks ran to the front row of my section. I’m just sitting behind them. Haha.

B:   Typical.

A:   This arena just became a Baptist church; he’s singing “Jesus Walks.”

B:   hahaha. Excellent.

A:   The blurry man in the right corner is going to wild he might jump off this balcony.

Lost & Hound

18 Feb

I just spent over an hour f-cking chasing my roommate’s dog down a f-cking river, screaming and sobbing. In my snowboarding boots. I’m livid. I was literally screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, falling down in the snow, crying and cursing the gods. After sixty minutes, I left her for dead and she came back on her own ten minutes later. F-cking bitch.

I need one hundred beers.

In other news, last Saturday, a beautiful big white dog wandered into the apartment parking lot off the highway.

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He appeared to be a white german shepherd/wolf hybrid. He was a little timid at first, but quickly started playing with Raleigh and Bella. He was very friendly, so I invited him inside. He didn’t have a collar on, so I immediately took photos and posted an ad on Craigslist, along with calling the local animal shelters, animal control, and the police department to see if anyone had reported a missing pet. Nothing. I couldn’t possibly let this guy roam around on the busy highway, so we decided to hang on to him until we could locate its owners.

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Six days had passed, and no one seemed to be looking for this dog. We brought him in to a vet’s office to see if he had a microchip, but he had none. Ghost dog. He is the sweetest creature on earth. I love him. He loves me. I’ve been calling him “White Dog” this entire time and he responds to it now. Haha. He’s my shadow. Every  morning at 7:30 a.m., he sits on me. He’s such a lover. I desperately wanted to keep him.

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“Unfortunately,” one of the animal shelters I had contacted the day I had found White Dog called me yesterday and said that the owner was in there looking for the dog. I was flabbergasted that this owner waited six days to contact these pounds to find out if their pet had been found or not, but gave the guy permission to have the man call me. A Mexican man named Juan calls and says he’ll be by around six o’clock to pick White Dog up, whose real name was “Spike” (stupid). He lived literally directly across the highway from us. White Dog obviously loved me more than Juan. He never once tried to run back home. Haha. Anyway, I gave Juan two rubber balls I had bought White Dog because he loved them so much, and told him to keep the collar I had purchased him as well. He tried to offer me $100, but I didn’t take it.

Then I remembered White Dog did break my MacBook by spilling an entire glass of water across my keyboard. Oops. Wish I would have accepted the dollars.

I am devastated to have to let him go. I love that mutt, and miss him terribly. So does Raleigh. Someday I’ll steal him back.

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How is it that you’re always the only people in a Chinese restaurant? I have never been in an Asian restaurant that has been crowded, or even mildly occupied. It’s like, you and your mate walk in, and it’s a ghost town. Just you, all the employees, their children, and their children’s children. For some reason there are always still like eleven Asians working, and all of them rush to help you at once. How do these places stay open? I don’t even care. As long as they keep serving  delicious crab rangoon and fried rice, they can keep money laundering and drug selling in the back. I won’t ask questions.

I’ve been doing some traveling lately, and I’ve been observing the travel attire that people choose while flying. It pisses me off. I feel like I see more high heels at the airport than I do at the bars on a Friday night. You see people who dress up like they’re going to the prom in dresses, full hair and makeup like they’re about to meet the president. You’re flying to Tulsa, lady. Who are you trying to impress? Then there are the people that layer like they’re about to go watch the Iditarod with front row seats out in the open in great outdoor Alaska. Don’t you know you’re going to be stopped by TSA and asked to peel off your clothing layer by layer to ensure you aren’t concealing any weapons, you big stupid onion?

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Speaking of airport security, I have a few things to say about it. One: I don’t understand why they harass, inspect, and strip us to no end before getting on an airplane, but take zero measures whatsoever when boarding a bus, boat, train, taxi, etc. I’m annoyed. Two: I feel like I am the slowest person on earth when it comes time to go through the scanners. I try to take off my shoes, remove my liquids, take out my laptop, and get my jacket off as fast as possible, but I always feel like I can’t do it quick enough. Worse is getting all those items packed back up. I’m standing there scrambling to get it all back together as those plastic bins begin to pile up and block the entire conveyor belt. I panic.

WELL, time to go hang out with the wolf pack. Bi.

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“Kids these days. Carrying guns, raping each other—I mean, we used to literally chase a wheel down the street with sticks. I mean we were poor obviously.”

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A cut above the rest.

8 Feb

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.

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After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.

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I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.

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My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.

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“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

Time flies when you’re an alcoholic.

7 Feb

I’m afraid I might start drinking this french vanilla coffee creamer straight out of the jug. I’m glad there aren’t any straws nearby, or I’d be in some serious trouble. At least this kind is sugar free. Fifteen calories a tablespoon is better than sixty calories a tablespoon I guess. Hopefully I can just get ahold of myself and put the jug back in the fridge where it belongs.

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WELL, I apologize to all of you for not writing a single syllable for like 10 weeks. I have not been in this neck of the woods since the Jurassic Period. Contrary to popular theories out there, I have not been murdered, kidnapped, in a brain-damaging accident, or in Madagascar for the past month. I’ve just been drinking. A LOT. So sorry to keep you all biting your nails and staring longingly at your email accounts and mobile devices, waiting for a new fat steaming slice of Sheppard’s Pie to arrive. I’m back in action, boys and girls.

Let’s recap this gap in time:

1) Christmas happened.  I binge ate a holiday feast that would have made an Ameristar Casino buffet look like Tiny Tim’s Christmas dinner. For me, Christmas is about chugging 11 metric tons of gravy, shoveling sweet potatoes into my pie hole with my bare hands, stealing all the good parts of the turkey before anyone else has a chance to get to them, and consuming teeth-rotting amounts of Welch’s sparkling grape juice. I did all of those things and plunged deep into a coma afterward. It was good.

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2) New Year’s didn’t happen.  I awoke on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, feeling unwell. At first I thought it was day two of my life-threatening hang over, as I had gotten Lindsay Lohan wasted the Thursday before. After spending all day Friday with a skull-shattering headache and a hurting liver that would have killed me if it had hands and a loaded weapon, I figured my vodka-soda holocaust was just spilling over from Friday into Saturday.

I was wrong. My throat was aflame, I was sore and achey, and had what I like to refer to as “sick breath.”  By high noon, I had full blown strep throat. My fever was extreme. I was flip-flopping back and forth between menopausal hot flashes, bursting into sweat and watching steam rise off of my forehead to becoming frigid, icy cold, shuddering with the chills and freezing half to death. I spent 22 hours laying in my bed or on the couch, with half a dozen blankets stacked on me, shivering my ass off and sobbing like a baby.

I have never had strep throat before. My throat was hurting like a bitch, but I was so ill all day on Saturday that I never bothered to get up and investigate my throat at all until Sunday when I woke up. I busted out the flashlight on my Droid and took a look. “HO-ly f*ck.” I shouted. My throat was DISGUSTING. I have pictures, but I’m afraid to post them on the world wide web in fear of losing readers, and also my readers losing their lunch. It was extremely swollen, bright red and black (BLACK!), and nauseating. I have never seen anything like it. I thought I would die. This lasted for about four or five days, and then I finally kicked it. Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t get drunk on New Year’s, and that was depressing.

3) I went to Cancun, Mexico.  This was a 7-day free company trip that I took with 18 other co-workers from the ol’ roofing outfit. I have been to Mexico twice before on company trips, and let me tell you, it is a trip made for raging alcoholics who like to party. The last two all-inclusive resorts I stayed at had four bottles of liquor on tap INSIDE my hotel room, mounted on the wall for easy access, plus a mini fridge filled with beer, soda, and water that was safe to drink. Room service ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, wherein you could request whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and it would be delivered to your room, stat. Sixteen Sol beers, four plates of nachos del grande, a Scrabble board, and a few extra towels at 4:15 a.m.? No problem. Eduardo would show up with a shiny cart within minutes to suit your drunken desires. It was fantastic.

Everyone was wasted. Beginning at 8 am, Enrique Iglesias and Ke$ha songs would be blaring from the bars, drunken hooligans were playing chicken in the pools, doing shots of flaming Dr. Peppers, dropping beer bongs in the hot tubs, screaming like assholes and speaking Spanglish to the resort staff. This continued well into the night until we would head to the clubs (conveniently located just a couple blocks from the resort) around 11 pm, where we would rage until 3 or 4 am at clubs the size of football arenas. Little Mexican girls would prance around shooting water-guns filled with tequila into your face, free Jello shots came around every few minutes, and music would pound into the night until the wee hours of the morning. It was insane.

Why would I expect anything different from this trip?

We showed up to the resort on Saturday afternoon. After getting settled in, we began strolling around the property to see what kind of mayhem we would encounter. Instead of half-naked hotties doing strike-outs and crazy twenty-somethings being crazy drunken lunatics, we saw a lot of Florida-retirees in Tommy Bahama shirts and socks with sandals. Something was a little off.

After exploring the pools, beach, and restaurants, we realized we were basically at a 55+ retirement resort. Olds everywhere. There were tits on the beach, but the kind that fell below the bellybutton (just ask Trent). A lot of the bars on site closed at 11 pm. There was practically no music.

Mistakes were made.

Instead of spending seven days drunker than David Hasselhoff in 2005, I spent seven days eating my weight in resort food, which was also fine. We made up for the lack of binge drinking with actual activities, including snorkeling,

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deep sea fishing,

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eating (a lot),

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and the highlight of my trip, swimming with dolphins!

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Don’t worry, I still got really drunk.

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4) I had a baby.

Just kidding.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I will be posting more regularly again now that I’m back in the great state of Colorado and have nothing to do but snowboard and laze around like a bum. Ciao, folks.
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Me:   “Do we have any ranch dressing?”
Mom:   “I’m sure there’s some in the fridge.”
Me:   “Let me clarify—ranch dressing that didn’t expire in year 2000.”
Mom:   “I’m sure there is!”
Me:   “Oh here’s some. Let’s see……….great, February 2010.”
Mom:   “That’s not that bad!”
Me:   “MOM. TWO-THOUSAND TEN.