I Have Met the Enemy - And He Is Lunch

I was face-to-face with one of the meanest, nastiest, ugliest things on the planet. Then I ate it. Of course, you probably realized already that I had some Alaskan King Crab. Great food if you a) like seafood, and b) are permitted to eat shellfish according to your religion or doctor. There I was, doing battle with this long, spiny giant sea spider and it set me to thinking: What the hell am I doing? I am sure there are swarthy he-men, who, when they see a spider in the bathroom, make an Olympic-sized leap onto the toilet lid (provided the seat is actually down) and start screaming like the housekeeper on the old Tom & Jerry cartoons. That’s basically what crabs are - sea spiders without the menacing fangs but, instead, equipped with nasty pincers.

Ok, before some of you start rifling through your "Animals of the World" encyclopedias in order to point out the fact I could be stupid enough to compare crabs and spiders, I say this to you: Shut yer yap and write your own story! Besides, there is an arachnid known as the crab spider and that’s good enough for me (and yes, there are camel spiders, wolf spiders, and probably poodle spiders somewhere on this planet, but I'm not eating camels wolves, or poodles today). They both have eight legs and both are eaten around the globe. Don't believe me? Take a few hours and fly to Indonesia or the Amazon jungle and watch the locals chow down on tarantula. I am not suggesting you strap on the feed bag when you see a spider on your porch, but, hey, couldn't be any worse for you than a cheese steak sandwich.

When my order came to the table, they had to deliver it in a wheelbarrow. That sucker was huge. Legs were dangling over the edge like medieval weapons. They were long, and covered in spikes. The damned thing was about the size of a foreign car and equally as threatening. I knew I was in for a fight. I fastened my chain mail gloves, lowered my welder’s mask and went to work. The restaurant provides you with various Inquisition torture devices and a jackhammer. The shell was thick and stubborn - not unlike a teenager’s skull. I lined it with plastic explosives, and with all the grace of a humpback whale, did a back flip under the table behind me. Tables, chairs, and wait staff were thrown 50 yards and a nice-sized hole was punched through the wall, but at least the shell was loosened. I unfolded my napkin and set it on my lap. After all, I didn't want to cause a scene. I took the crowbar, and with the help of the local motorcycle gang, pried that sucker open.

Inside was a labyrinth of chambers that would scare a Minotaur. There are all these levers to pull and cavities to hunt and peck through just to be able to get a chunk of crab meat. For those of us who eat crabs, you know about the "goop" you have to sand-blast away, along with a marine biologist’s treasure of organs and such. The cartilage is sharper than an infant’s fingernails, and you end up needing to have a paramedic nearby to bandage you up by the time you've finished. The next time you see a mummy walking out of a seafood restaurant, you'll know he had crabs for dinner. Of course, the real prizes in this culinary punishment are the legs. Nothing but pure, unspoiled crab meat. It’s your bonus for the self-mutilation you went through earlier. There’s only one problem - you have to break the legs open first. You start by ripping them off the shell. The spines dig themselves into your palms so it looks like you shook hands with everyone at the Cactus Family Reunion. If you don't own a pair of the aforementioned chain mail gloves, pay a college intern to do it for you. They're used to pain and it would probably only cost you a pitcher of beer. Restaurants will provide you with some drawn butter, which is specially extracted for you from the depths of the old butter swamp. It’s rich, tasty, and thick enough to stop a cannonball. One taste and the veins in your arm raise up to form "S.O.S." But, you're eating king crab legs, so the punishment can be rationalized.

Of course, you get other food with your sea spider, but it’s not really necessary. The corn of the cob is a garnish and the mashed potatoes are just there to anchor the plate. By the time you have finished conquering your enemy, enough time has passed to shave again and wake the bartender.

I am sure the first person to eat a crab or lobster was urged to do so on a dare. So, let us turn back the clock to the time of ancient man. We'll call him Og. One day, Og is cruising the beach for chicks with his buddies, Ook and Larry, when they come upon a crab.

Og: "Grunt!" ("Hey, what the hell is that?")

Ook: "Snort! Growl" ("Looks to me like some sort of sea spider.")

Larry: "What?" ("Snarl")

Og: "Grunt. Snarl. Grunt." ("It looks nasty.")

Ook: "Howl!" ("Hey, Larry, I dare you to eat it.")

Larry: "What?" ("Snarl")

Ook: "Roar. Growl." (Hey, Og, I double dare YOU to eat it.")

Og: "Howl. Roar." ("What? Are you nuts?")

Ook: "Yip" ("I double DOG dare you!")

Og: "Woof." ("Dammit! Why is it always me? When we found those poison ivy leaves, you double dog dared me to wipe my bottom with them. And when you sent me to drink milk from that female mammoth, you KNEW it was a male. You could have at least told me before I finished. And now…this. Well, this is the last time!")

Larry: "I'll get the drawn butter." ("Unk.")

So, the next time you come across something foul, scary and dangerous, take a tip from our friend Og. Today’s monster is tomorrow’s lunch.

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The Wind in My Sales

Today, I had lunch with the man who fired me. Not too many people can say that, and even fewer would admit to it. So why am I admitting to it? Well, because it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I love my current job, so, all is well now. But, a while ago, I was a salesman for a recovery firm. I think I had some overblown title such as Account Executive, or some such nonsense, offering "financial management solutions." Looking behind the curtain, you would have known that I was a telemarketer for a collections agency. Now, know this about me - I am the last person you want selling your product. Sales people are born, or hatched. You either are wired with that strand of DNA or you are not. I was not. In fact, sales people bug the bejeesus out of me. All of that handshaking and buttering up may work for the guys in the sports jackets and ties or women in their blazers and scarves, but for a ragged lump like me, I was stuck after "hello." It’s not that I performed poorly, it was that I just didn't like it. But, with the inconvenience of paying for food and a place to lay my weary coconut at the end of the day, my hand was suspiciously void of trump cards.

If you think doing collections is a tough gig, try doing sales for collections. There are a few necessary steps to take:

1. Surgically remove all traces of ego. This applies only to people not born with the gift of sales, who know no humility and have no conscience. You're a piece of meat. An easily replaceable piece of meat.

2. Develop a thick skin. It’s one thing to deal with potential customers (called "leads") who yell at you, threaten bodily harm, or just flat-out hang up on you, it is quite another to have your sales manager publicly execute you in front of your peers. When this happened, the skies rained fire, locusts swarmed around your work station, and the sound of eight pairs of horse hooves thundered through the office. It was enough to make the movie, Glengarry Glen Ross, look like an episode of the Teletubbies.

3. Sharpen your knives. You might like your co-workers. Hell, you might have a few beers with them, be their Secret Santa, or fool around with one of their sisters in the laundry room at a weekend barbecue. You probably also have one or more co-workers that you want to gun down in cold blood every time they say, "So, are you working hard or hardly working?" But, imagine having a whole office of people that you generally think you like who are thinking, "You're going down!" behind their reptilian grins. Because, folks, in the world of high-pressure sales, the strong not only survive, they are the first to rip the meat off the carcass off the sales people who are struggling. If thoughts translated to actions, a sales office would resemble a horde of machete-wielding cannibals fresh off a hunger strike.

Phone reports were kept and analyzed to see who was pulling their share of the load. I was always at the top of the list. If I was going to get bludgeoned in the morning meetings, it would not have been for lack of activity. I averaged about 120 calls a day and about five hours’ worth of actual talk time. I also averaged about two ulcers and five to ten suicide thoughts per day. Getting around secretaries who heroically screened your calls was always a good time, if you are into masochism. If you could avoid that, maybe you would have the fortune of cursing at the voice mails of your leads. Very rarely would you get to talk to a live body. It made you feel like Charlton Heston in The Omega Man, and that some catastrophic virus had leveled all of humanity outside of your office. Many a time I thought, "And here I could have been delivering pizzas." And why not? Free food and the ability to travel.

But that is how it goes in that environment. You either cut the mustard or you eat mustard sandwiches. Whenever you see a job advertisement for a sales position, it almost always trumpets, "Make up to $100 million! Be your own boss! Last year, our top sales rep made enough money to buy a South American country!" The interview process is fairly selective:

1. "Did you spell your name right on your resume?"
2. "Do you even have a resume?"
3. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Um, four?"

"Two. Close enough. You can start now."

And that’s it. They plug you into a computer, toss a phone book at you and say, "Go, get ‘em, Tiger!" Heads poke around corners of Herman Miller furniture to size you up and then you slowly begin to decay. When a lead finally does give out some business, you rocket out of your chair, run to the sales manager’s office like a kid who’s just lost his first tooth, take a knee, and slaughter a pig as a sacrifice to your boss. He pats you on the head, tosses you a petrified piece of hard candy, then lets you kiss his ring, before you go skulking back to the low hum of your computer. That is when you realize the business your client gave you filed for bankruptcy at the height of the Ottoman Empire and he was just trying to get you to stop bugging him. When you did land a debtor who was still in business, chances are they only owed $300. The collector who has to collect that account would take the form, fold it into an origami swan, staple it to you chest, and light it on fire.

Some agencies pay you just enough to keep you off the bread lines, saying that the real money was in the commissions. In my entire time in that office, I never saw one commission check. And it wasn't just me. The other cold-callers did not get any commission checks while I was there, either. You had to generate a certain amount of money in fees, and then you would get a certain percentage of the fees above that threshold. I might as well have been trying to juggle applesauce.

I had enough. When my boss let me go, he did me a huge favor. I could sleep late, collect unemployment, and make as many sandwiches with free government cheese as I wanted.

It went well with the mustard.

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The Iconoclast of the Mohicans

I'm at odds with this world. Oh sure, every person with a teenaged past can say the same thing, like how they were misunderstood, lonely, or living with the shame of a 5 - 10 stretch for arson on their record. My diametric opposition to this world is far less colorful. It’s not that I intentionally puff out my chest, tap the world on its broad shoulders and snort, "What are YOU lookin’ at, chief?" No, I'm far more passive aggressive than that. You see, there aren't many earthlings like me, and if there are, they sure do a damned good job of forgetting to mail me invites to their biker brawls, skinny dipping parties, and box socials. I guess I am what you would call the Iconoclast of the Mohicans.

It all started when I was young, because that’s usually where the entrance is. I have an older brother. We'll call him "Dave," since that is his name. Dave is seventeen months older than me, or, if you prefer to rank according to graduation, two years my senior. Dave, or David, as he was known back then, was a cyclone of an infant. Subtlety just wasn't part of his M.O. Loud, energetic, and aggressive, he dove headlong into whatever tickled any of his five senses. Smell something good? Let’s grab for things on the stove. Hear a song he likes? Played the damned record until the grooves were smoking. Saw a package of cookies? Jumped on it like a frothing hyena. I was probably too young to understand, but, after seeing the ass-whuppins administered to my older brother, I tended to take a more low-key approach. Using my powers of human-to-cookie psychic ability, I would wait until no one was near the kitchen. Then, I would send coded messages to the package of Oreos in the pantry.

"Monkey balls make great ornaments."

"It’s a cold day for pontooning."*

That was the signal to slide the chair to the pantry, open the door, stand on the chair, and slowly PEEL back the cellophane to get to that rich cookie goodness. No crinkling of the package and no sloppy execution. It was a military-style cookie-d’etat. The cupcakes on the next shelf trembled. I was a sneaky kid and I ruled. I knew then that I was destined for a different path than my gloriously force-of-nature brother. But, I was just getting started.

As the 1960s coughed and hacked their way into the 1970s, I started to take a bigger interest in the broadness of my surroundings. Anyone who tells you the hippies were firehosed away at the end of the previous decade obviously never attended the seemingly weekly parties held at my house. An endless string of groovy people floating in and out of the house, lots of suede and macramé, and Moody Blues albums were par for the course. Every now and again, Dave and I would slide down the stairs on our rumps, on step at a time, in our Scooby-Doo pajamas and peer around the corner at the mellow being manufactured in the living room. Occasionally, we would encounter a zombie-eyed hippie on his way to or from the bathroom. He'd ask my brother what he wanted to be when he grew up, and Dave, being the painfully honest person he was would say, "I wanna play drums!" or "I wanna play baseball!" Then, the hippie would turn to me:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Older"

This would invariably blow the hippie’s mind and he’d go back to the party and start seeing faces in the turquoise of the kiln-fired ashtrays.

It kind of went like that for years. Putting ketchup on bologna and cheese sandwiches, switching to shoot my hockey stick left-handed because my father said I had to do it right-handed, and sleeping under the coffee table after dinner.

It’s not that I ever consciously went out of my way to be a weird kid. It just came naturally. I honestly didn't see the big deal. Various lectures, medications, and emergency psychoanalysis sessions in Vienna notwithstanding, it was just who I was. My freak flag was flying high and my family was shunned by the neighbors.

I guess I can agree that the actions and events of our childhood go a long way towards shaping us into the horrible creatures we are today. We develop all kinds of weird self-rituals and biases. For example:

* - When I see an accident by the side of the road that all the rubberneckers just HAVE to see, I purposely look away. Oh sure, I might drive into the bumper in front of me, into a ditch, or into a backyard barbecue, but I am NOT going to rubberneck.

* - The radio. I hate the freaking radio. I hate what passes as music on the radio. I hate smarmy, smartass DJs, stiff traffic copter reporters, and commercials - really LOUD, annoying commercials - for local car dealerships. There is always some damned lame guitar solo and flat soda lyrics grunted by a faded 80s hair-band singer. Or, perhaps there is some idiot screaming that all of their "last year’s inventory must go!" in a voice that sounds like it’s coming from the strained vocal chords of a low-fiber carnival barker.

* - And let me lay this jive on you. I love the cold. Give me cold weather over that unimaginative hot weather nonsense any day. I've talked to many people who have said, "When I go on MY honeymoon, I'm going to , Hawaii, or some beach in Mexico." Wow. The beach. Hot, unmerciful sunburn, that nasty back-of-the-knee sweat, and other jerk-off Americans who are JUST LIKE YOU! I don’t know about you, but, I'd much rather try something imaginative, like an Alaskan cruise, a trip to Ireland or New Zealand, or making a fort out of couch cushions, watching movies with explosions, and answering the door naked when the pizza arrives. Granted, you'd want your significant other with you for that last one, otherwise, you'd be living my typical weekend. But, back to the cold. I run the air conditioner in the Winter. I drop the thermostat on that sucker so far that the carpet crunches under my feet. I like the feel of permafrost under my sheets and snapping icicles off the bathroom spigot because, let’s face it folks, there ain’t nothin’ like sleeping in cool weather. I want to see my breath collect in a threatening maelstrom while I'm in bed. I want to wrap myself up tighter than a Cuban cigar rolled on a sweet virgin’s thigh and cook hotter than a 3 a.m. jazz combo hopped up on goofballs. But get that damned snow off my streets and sidewalks. I like cold weather, but I freaking hate snow.

So, you see, I'm a little different. I'm not your sweet cup of Chamomile or a floppy-earred puppy. And, I'm not changing for you or anyone else. In the words of the great philosopher, Paul Reubens: "I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

So, the next time you see me, either on the street, online, or on C.O.P.S., just think of me while you're in your car, listening to the radio while driving past an accident and dreaming of hot, sunny beaches.



* - All credit to Trace and the gang at MST3K

The Even Further Adventures of Dude Totally - Private Guy

I clomped down the narrow stairwell. The railing was like an over-baked breadstick, and about half as sturdy. I wove my way through the corridor like a fat man at the buffet at closing time. Boxes, broken toys and leprosy-ridden, cast-off furniture ganged up on me, daring me to pass. I burst through the front door and into the heavy air of the city night.

I slouched around the corner, and there she sat, waiting for me like a jealous girlfriend. It was my motorcycle. I call her Sally. I might treat my liver like it's my last day on Earth, but, Sally is Daddy's little girl. Rich, buttery leather and enough sparkling chrome that when I ride it through the city, it looks like the Star of Bethlehem making it's way down the street. I kick-started her and wrapped my gloves around her handles. She rumbled and purred as if to say, "I've missed you". I gave her a few quick revs and I could feel her chassis quiver. I gently lifted her kick stand and glided out into the street.

The air was humid and putrid. It felt like I was riding through a giant cube of sweaty, tasteless gelatin and immediately, my armpits went into overdrive. Great, here I am on my way to meet Ms. Molly and I'm going to end up smelling like a beer fart. If it wasn't for the cheap thrills Sally was giving me, I might have turned around and changed clothes, but since I hadn't done laundry in a month, I don't think showing up in sweats and a "Beaver Patrol" t-shirt would have scored me any points.

Not that it mattered. As I turned onto 8th Street, I thought, "Now what is this broad doing with me? How did she find out about me?" And why me? There are a million other gum shoes out there in the big city who would've taken a crack at a dame like this, pocketed the 10 large, and would have held her off with "I'm still working on a few leads." Maybe she thinks I'm a patsy. Yeah, that's her angle. A pro would have sniffed her out while a schlub like me was just trying to get a peek at her bra through the buttons on her blouse.

Who knows? Maybe she was one of those women who read the Penthouse Forum and is into freaky weirdness. Maybe she's one of them there bored, rich broads who wants to bump uglies with a rodeo clown - in full makeup, no less. I came to a red light and pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a dramatic snap of my Zippo, and took hurricane-force drag. Nah, she can't be into that weird stuff. Although, my buddy Slappy once told me he met a woman who made ice cubes out of toilet water and liked having pies thrown in her face during sex. And here I thought I was a big Three Stooges fan.

The Ridgeway was only about 10 more blocks away and I could feel once-proud parts of me begin to shrivel. I had a lump in my throat the size of a baby's head. Sally seemed to guide me in the right direction, reassuring me that everything was going to be all right. Once I hit Ridgeway Drive, I took a left. I could see the diner through the sidewalk steam which slowly unfurled itself like a freshly-woken genie.

I pulled into the parking lot. It was half-empty or half-full, depending on your perspective on life. I slowly guided Sally over the crackling gravel and around the blood-sucking shards of glass. I parked her against the wall, a few feet down from the section where an armada of drunks had obviously been emptying their bladders since the 1940s. I lit another cigarette, because I didn't know what else to do. A few heroic tugs on the cancer stick and my courage came roaring back like a teenager with a big brother. That's when I smelled her. It was unmistakable, like the smell of your grandmother's house. She was close. REAL close, like she'd be watching me all along.

I picked the underwear out of my crack and eased my way towards the door of the diner. I yanked open the door, which gave almost no resistance, and it went crashing against the wall. I stood there in my newly-minted disgrace with the eyes of the haut couture set eyeing me like a dancing epileptic. I swept what was left of my cool into my pockets and jammed my hands in after it. I walked to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and a Faberge egg salad. The waitress picked at her mole and said, "Honey, if we had Faberge eggs here, I wouldn't have to pick my cigarettes out from the urinals." She was a sweet old broad. Could probably open beer bottles with her eyelids. Then, that smell again, and I hear her voice...

"Mr. Totally, how nice of you to come."

(On the next episode of "DUDE TOTALLY - PRIVATE GUY"):

"I thought I told you to come alone, Mr. Totally"

"I usually do"


.

The Further Adventures of Dude Totally - Private Guy

I looked through my closet for something to wear. You never can get the stench of barrel grime, stale Pabst, and the sweat of millions of years of evolution off your body. I decided to dress sharp to distract her eye and confuse her senses. I picked a bright red shirt - just the right color to match my devastating lips, and I grabbed a white tie to match the makeup I couldn't scrape from my face even if I used a belt sander.

I looked in the mirror that hung like a convicted felon on the lonely side of my bedroom. Not bad. Not pin-up material, but if it was last call and I had bad eyesight, I could see any number of prostitutes giving me the once-over. I slicked back my hair so that it looked like I was yanked out of a vat of hot caramel by my neck, paused in mid-comb and pulled a Fonzie.

"Ayyyyyy"

That's the stuff. It was getting dark, and I could see the bubbles that rippled along the hastily-applied joyless wallpaper of my bedroom. It looked like a teenager's face. I looked at my watch and grunted. Then I looked at it again because I realized I never took note of the time. It was 8:00. I still had some time. So, with all the grace and style of a man walking around completely dressed from the waist up and wearing only boxers and black socks from the waist down, I pounced towards the scotch.

I realized that I didn't have any ice cubes, so I took out my shoe horn and scraped the frost that had collected around the perimeter of the inside of the freezer. There was only enough room for a fudge bar, and if I had the money, I would have had one in there. Then I remembered I had almost five grand burning a hole in my mattress. I looked over my shoulder at the bed, straining under the weight of approximately two tons of change. The box spring looked like an open hot dog bun and the wrought-iron frame was twisting itself into the kind of painful smile a kid makes when he's soiling his diaper.

I filled my glass with scraped frost and poured myself a stiff one. I took a sip and I could taste the freon in what was now a scotch Slurpee. I stood regally, with a hand on my hip, like a grotesque David Niven impersonator and thought of Molly. What was she doing right now? Was she splashing expensive oils and soaps all over that race course of a body, or was she waddling from the toilet to the linen closet with her underwear at her ankles because there was no more toilet paper on the roll?

Maybe she had forgotten about me. Nah, not a broad like that. Dames like that don't give clowns like my five grand just to drink scotch in their underwear and play air guitar to "Black Magic Woman." No, she had more sinister plans.

I downed the rest of my drink, took a bite out of the day-old slice of pizza and headed for the door. Minutes later, I returned, put my trousers on, filled my pockets with cough drops, ATM receipts, and pen caps and started back towards the door. I caught a reflection of myself in that mirror and I about crapped my pants since I thought it was someone else. The bed creaked like an old man's knees, and I heard the whistle of a bolt shooting from the bed frame as it lodged itself into the wall. That was the sign it was time to leave. I cracked my knuckles and set my jaw. It was time to do something stupid.

(On the next episode of "DUDE TOTALLY - PRIVATE GUY"):

"Forgive me for not standing up, Mr. Totally, but it's not polite to wag your finger in a woman's face"

"That's not my finger"


.

The Adventures of Dude Totally - Private Guy

She had a mouth like a stretched rubber band and a backside that could juice a lemon. I wasn't planning on taking any new cases, probably because I wasn't a detective. I was a rodeo clown. But, when she knocked on my door and stuffed a Chinese takeout menu on my door, I couldn't say no.

She said her name was Molly, and her voice cracked and smoked like single-malt scotch over fresh ice cubes. She told me she had a job for me. One day's work for $10,000. I asked her what the catch was. She swept up her skirt and I could see that 10 years of ballet, 5 years of jazz, and 8 years of tap didn't go to waste. She slipped a heavily-jeweled hand inside the hem of her stocking and pulled out a flask. She whipped her head back like a Pez dispenser and took a belt. Then, she leaned forward and studied me like I was one of those Magic Eye pictures. I got a whiff of her. She was a Benetton ad of smells. The whiskey on her breath, her sensible toothpaste, shampoo made from eucalyptus leaves, body wash that was lucky enough to touch her in areas most men would give their first layers of skin to visit, but a perfume that could flatten an elevator full of people.

She told me to meet her at the Ridgeway Diner, which was conveniently located on Ridgeway Drive, which was conveniently located on the East Side. Convenient for those on the East Side. I lived on the West Side. But, I had heard of the Ridgeway. They were known for their fountain soda and their automatic gratuity charges. I told her that I don't even get out of my chair for less than $5,000, So she took out five grand and stacked it on my desk. It took a while because she had it all in coins. When she was finished, she coolly tossed the empty duffel bags over her shoulder and spun on her heel towards the door. At the door, she stopped, looked over her shoulder, fixing those mud puddle eyes at me and said, "The Ridgeway, tomorrow night, 10 o'clock."

I watched that precious backside of hers tick-tock its way out the door - hypnotizing me. I clucked like a chicken laying velvet eggs. Then, I made my way over to the five grand. Took me all night counting that dough. Turns out she was $10 short of $5,000. I got up for $4,990 and I told her I don't get up for less than five grand. She was good. Real good.

I decided to treat myself to something nice. So, I ordered a large pizza with sauce AND cheese and turned on Cinemax. That night, I dreamt of plot-less pizza and "B" movies delivered in 30 minutes or less.

I woke up face-to-face with my mortal enemy - the sun. I screamed like a teenaged girl who was suddenly pushed into a swimming pool. I dragged my ragged carcass and scuttled to the bathroom. The cool shock of the tile snapped me upright like the hand of a clock at midnight. I looked at the mess on the mirror and wiped it with the sleeve of my shirt so I could see the mess IN my mirror. Bloodshot nose and runny eyes. I was a study in modern art, with a face like a clenched fist. I waved a hand at my reflection in disgust, lit a cigarette, and slipped into the shower.

Water. Grunt. Rinse. Shampoo. Belch. Wash rag. Full body-scratch. I didn't bother to use conditioner. I yanked back the shower curtain and took a long drag on my Marlboro. My mind flashed back to Molly and those Swedish Fish lips. The curve of her neck, the light hair on her knuckles, the cute way that second toe jutted past the big toe...

I could have stood there and continued soaping, but I had to towel off and get dressed. I hurried to work, but all I could think of as I was being tossed around by various foul-tempered beasts was how that sweet little vixen could probably toss me harder and longer than anything that would probably end up next to my mashed potatoes some day.

I hurried home after work to change. That missing $10 really burned my biscuits. She put the hook in me and watched me wriggle on the line, but something smelled fishy here, and I was going to bait her into telling me what it was before she could worm her way out of it.

(On the next episode of "DUDE TOTALLY - PRIVATE GUY"):

"Mister Totally, is that a juice zester in your pants or are you glad to see me?"

"I'm not wearing pants"

Beat It

Apparently, Michael Jackson's trial ended with the King of Plop being not guilty on all charges. Every news station was carrying coverage of this blessed event, and his fans cheered and whooped it up like he just ran back a kickoff for a touchdown.

Maybe the sports analogy is the sequined shoe that fits this whole idiocy. An hour before the verdict was given, networks were giving bios of the jurors:

"From the University of California Santa-Barbara, playing Alternate Foreman, give it up for Abraham Stoltzfus!"

Commentator: "Yeah, Stoltzfus really brought his "A" game to this trial. He's a two-time Neighborhood Watch block captain, voted Democrat, and goes by the name of "Sugarbear." He uses premium gasoline and cries at Disney movies. Going to have to keep an eye on this one!"

"From 8th and Chestnut in La Jolla, the original "Glory of the Jury"...Gladys Pickles!"

Commentator: "This will be Gladys's third jury trial. God bless her, she's 87 years old and still cans her own peaches. Her strength is home-spun wisdom and "seeing the good" in people. We'd also like to thank Gladys for the wonderful chocolate chip cookies she sent up to the booth"

You get the picture. I am certain Vegas, Atlantic City, and various acre-sized islands in the Caribbean had a lot of action on the trial. I called an off-shore betting company and they answered the phone "Guilty or Not Guilty?" I thought it was a discount law firm.

When Jackson finally pulled up outside the courthouse, his admirers bathed him in plaudits while his detractors showered him in epithets. He was dressed in about as basic a uniform as he probably owns. Sticker price? More than I'll make in a decade. At least I thought it was him. I had a hard time seeing through the waltzing elephants, albino fire-eaters, and Solid Gold dancers leading the entourage.

When the not-guilty verdicts came on the seemingly endless conga-line of charges, I could hear Prince in Minneapolis screaming in agony and flinging gold records against his armada of Bentleys. Internet chat rooms were overtaken by a tsunami of armchair experts pronouncing "Everyone knows he's guilty". People, whose skin had taken on a shimmering minty glow from cementing themselves in front of their televisions during this entire drama, rejoiced in the manna only useless celebrity turmoil can provide. It was a pop culture SIlly String party.

So, Michael Joe Jackson, put on your glove and grab yourself a cold one.

You Beat It.

Get a job - Na-na-na-na Na-na-na-na-na-na

So I'm reading about all these weird job titles: Apparently, there are jobs out there that you wont find at your local job fair:

Banana Gasser - Well, I think we all know what we THINK this job is all about, but the actual description is breathtakingly boring. I think we'd rather use our imagination and snicker or cringe. Or both.

Wrinkle Chaser - You might know it by its scientific name: Anna Nicole Smith.

Snake Milker - Isn't it funny that I'm looking to hire someone for this myself?

We've all had odd jobs in our lives. My first job was sanding down old Corvettes in a body shop when I was 16. It constituted getting high on paint fumes, sanding holes in my fingers till I hit marrow, and drinking coffee that apparently was made on a dare. It was miserable. You'd be amazed how many ways you could absolutely destroy yourself working in a place like that. It was a psycho-killer's dream. I could see it now: Friday the 13th's Jason driving down the road with his family. The kids with their hockey masks pressed against the window shouting, "Dad! Dad! Can we? Can we?" Then have Jason and his wife exchange meaningfully plastic glances before he pulls over the family minivan and into our shop.

No, wait. I had a job before that, too. It was also an odd job. I don't know exactly what to call it. Janitorial services? Office cleaning? Maintenance? How about "Drive around in a cavernous utility van at 2 am with five scary-looking people who you find out later are all on prison work-release and could snap as one of them buries a pick-axe into my skull."? Yeah, that's more like it. I was being carted around in a van that was disposable enough to burn and bury with me in it, all around the county, with the chorus line of "Genghis Khan - The Musical," and repenting my sins to God. Actually, it wasn't too bad. Aside from the casual drug use and heroic portions of Budweiser being consumed by my co-workers, it was actually decent. I lasted a night. I was even part of the notorious Night Crew Candy Bar Ring. We robbed that supermarket blind. Of course, I was a minor, so my record's clean.

Hold on. I had a job before that, too. I was a paperboy for The Philadelphia Bulletin. Don't go looking for it at ecola.com because the paper went out of business in the early 1980s. Now I know your first instinct would be to blame me for that, and maybe you're justified, but my management skills at 11 consisted only of knowing how many strikes made an out. My buddy, Ray, and I shared the route. More often than not, Ray would take advantage of the opportunity to steal hood ornaments from cars, turn off the power in the apartments, and stick nails against the tires of cars in the neighborhood - all while casually telling me about the movie he watched on HBO the night before. But the papers always made it there on time.

I think I'd like to create my own job titles. Something like "Money Spender," "Strip Club Quality Assurance," or "Playboy-Model-Strength Viagra Tester." No need to worry about benefits. The job itself would be the benefit. Then again, I could be a writer. All I need is the opportunity.

And the talent.

Overhang

(Well, now. gather 'round now, folks. We'd like to play you a little song. So sit back, grab your favorite guy or gal and y'all join in!....)

"Wellllllllllllllll.....
Wakin' up to the taste of beer,
Reach for my glass so I can see clear."

(Jethro, grab that old whiskey jug and join in)

- Jugband music starts up -

"Ooooooooooo, my head is poundin' a symphony,
Couch pillows on the floor.
I reach for my bottle of sympathy
And catch my shirt tail on the door.

Lookin' down at my day-old clothes,
They looked great on last night.
How I made it home, nobody knows.
I coulda swore my socks were white.

Oh, the aspirin takes forever.
I must have taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never
Will I ever drink again."

(That's right, folks. Keep clappin')

"I was dancin' like Astaire
With Ginger's leaps and bounds.
I was so drunk, I did not care
She weighed three hundred pounds.

I was kissin' porcelain,
My head was wet with sweat.
I wiped the dribble from my chin -
A night I'd just as soon forget.

Oh, the aspirin takes forever.
I must have taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never
Will I ever drink again."

(Slow it down a bit here, Jethro. Slow tempo...)

- Slow strum -

"Oh, I never ever learn my lesson
And I'll probably get into a fight.
There won't be no second guessin'....

....'cause I'll be getting drunk tonight!"

- Resume tempo -

"Oh, the aspirin takes forever.
I must have taken nine or ten.
I promise myself never
Will I ever drink aga-aaa-aaa-aaa-aaa-ain!"

(Y'all be safe!)

Little Unku

This is a story of little Unku. Unku lived in the desert, with his tribe. The tribe had been together for many years and everyone took care of everyone else. If a member of the tribe was hungry, his neighbor would feed him. Is someone needed clothing, that was offered, too. They were a happy people, who lived off the land for their food, and collected water from a well.

One day, Little Unku and his father went out hunting. Unku liked hunting with his father. They would leave their village for days at a time, eat berries and wild roots, catch game, and camp under the stars, eating what they collected that day. Unku's father was a brave man, a fierce warrior, and a loving parent. Since Unku's mother had passed away the year before, his father now had to be both father and mother to little Unku.

Each night, before they went to bed, they would chant before going to sleep. Unku never really understood the words they chanted, but they sounded like words his father would use, only longer, and more musical. Little Unku would try to copy the sounds his father chanted, which often put a smile on his face. Unku's father would teach him how to live off the land, tell him stories about his ancestors, and pass on wisdom.

The night was overcast, Although it was dark, Unku could see the clouds floating above. Little Unku asked his father about the words he used when he chanted. His father said, "I am talking to your mother. She is up there, watching us." He pointed to the sky.

"Can she hear you?" little Unku asked

"Yes, she can. And she can even hear you when you chant with me."

Little Unku liked that and began chanting lightly under his breath. "Papa," he asked, "can she see us?"

"Yes, she can, Unku."

"Why can I not see her?"

"You can see her, son. When you wake up and see the sun, that is your mother smiling at you and keeping you warm on the cold mornings. She was always a happy woman and always had a smile on her face. It does not rain much here, but, when it does, it means she is crying, and when you are asleep, she looks at you through the stars."

That made Unku happy. He kept trying to sneak a peek between the clouds to see if a star would emerge. Every time he saw one, he would say, "There she is, Papa! Now she's over there! She's everywhere!"

His father said, "Your mother was a strong woman. She was the best wife a man could have and the best mother a child could hope for. I miss her very much." With that, Unku's father shut his eyes tight to compose himself. Little Unku looked over at him and could see a tear squeezing out of the corner of his father's face by the light of the campfire.

A raindrop fell on Unku's leg and he looked up. "Papa, it's raining. It has not rained for many months. I think Mama is crying, too."

"She is crying because she misses you, Unku," said his father. "It is getting late now. We should sleep." Within minutes, his father was fast asleep, but little Unku could not sleep. He wondered because it very rarely rained that it meant his mother did not miss him as much as he missed her. Unku closed his eyes tight, and like his father, a tear rolled down his cheek. He chanted softly and fell asleep.

The next morning, Unku asked his father if his mother really missed him. "Yes, Unku, she misses you very much."

"Then why does it never rain, Papa? Did I make her mad? Have I disappointed her?"

"Of course not, Unku," his father replied. "You could never disappoint your mother. She loves you more than anything in this world." His father pointed to a puddle. "Do you see this puddle? It is full of her tears she cried for you last night, Unku."

Unku looked at the puddle and wondered if his mother's tears filled up that puddle. He thought that all the tears he had cried for her would be 100 times bigger than this little puddle and told his father so. He was sad and angry. Unku's father paused and looked at his son. Although he was still young, Unku had grown so much since his mother died. Unku did not know what his father was thinking, but he kept looking at him and eventually a smile came over his father's face.

"We were going to return to the village today, but I think you are big enough," his father said.

"Big enough for what, Papa?"

"I am going to show you how much your mother really loves you." With that, they packed up camp and began walking west. They walked for a day. Then another. Then another. They had plenty of food, and they were able to drink from the cactuses along the way. Little Unku kept looking to the skies to see if it would rain, but no rain fell. He looked on the ground for puddles, but there were none. Unku's little legs began to tire. They ached with every step he took. That night, Unku said, "Papa, I'm tired. My legs hurt. I don't want to walk anymore."

His father said, "You will not have to walk tomorrow. I will carry you, and I promise you, tomorrow, you will see how much your mother loves you." With that, little Unku fell asleep.

The next morning, Unku awoke to his father sitting on a nearby rock, chewing on a root. He offered a fresh root to Unku, who loved imitating his father. He laughed at Unku, who was not prepared for the bitterness. His father said, "Come on. It's time, Unku." With that, he hoisted Unku onto his shoulders and started to walk West again. Unku liked the view from up top. He could see everything and his legs felt better already. He could also see they were approaching a hill - a hill with no land on the other side of it.

His father stopped. He lifted Unku from his shoulders and set him on the ground. He grabbed his hand, knelt down, and said, "Now, Unku, I am going to show you how much your mother really loves you." They walked to the top of the hill. "Close your eyes, son." He closed his eyes tight. They walked a few steps further. "Now open your eyes, Unku."

Below them stirred the ocean. Vast, wide, and with no end in sight. Unku squeezed his father's hand. "I understand now, Papa. I understand," the tears streaming down his cheeks. His father clutched his son to his chest. "I know you do, Unku. Your mother loves you very much."

And then, it started to rain

That 70's Game

So, I'm watching a baseball game and nobody is running on the field, clobbering first base coaches, or hurling batteries at anyone. It was a nice, sedate game on a nice sedate night on a nice sedate field.

The Ramones would have loved it.

I remember when a trip to the old ball game used to be the concrete safari it was supposed to be. Veterans Stadium. Yes, Veterans Stadium in south Philly. It lurched out of the asphalt like a nuclear weed and anchored the sports-entertainment complex for about 30 years. 30 long, long years.

But, let's step away from that since-demolished mausoleum and hop in the Way-Back Machine to, say, 1978. Back to the days of $1 hot dogs and $5 hookers. Back to the days where players were less worried about being assaulted by biblically drunk yahoos and more concerned with Morgan the Kissing Bandit. Don't remember Morgan? She was busty. But to simply call her busty was like saying Hitler liked to see the world. Good Lord, man, when she came barreling out of the stand towards an awestruck third baseman, her blonde hair flouncing like long johns in a twister, her breasts - two magnificent wonders of physics - looking like two Volkswagens drag racing during an earthquake, it was enough to make you forgive the 1970s for bell-bottoms, OPEC, and The Bay City Rollers.

Back then, the game had colorful uniforms and colorful players with colorful names. Where are the players today with nicknames like The Cobra, Spaceman, The Bird, Tugger, Mad Dog, and The Human Rain Delay? Even the real names were colorful. Guys like Biff Pocaroba, Mickey Klutts, and the unfortunately-named Dick Pole, dotted major league rosters. Things always look better from the windows of the Way-Back Machine.

Some day, today will look good, too.

World Domination - One Street Corner at a Time

So, by now, you've probably heard of my plot to take over the world. I was thinking about just a modest few lines of longitude, but, then I thought, "Why take only a few slices when you can have the whole orange?" I didn't need any more convincing.

The problem with conquering the world is finding a starting point. It's like ordering a large pepperoni at the pizzeria. When it is delivered on one of those wobbly, dented pie pans, you spin it around until you find a slice worthy of your appetite. Then, you tuck in. The same thing with conquering the world, except you don't have the pain of hot cheese slapping against your chin,

So, I figured I'd start at the local Eckard's.

I started by taking the back entrance to the drugstore, but ended up in the Arby's parking lot. This was going to have to be a ground assault. The parking slots were all at diagonals - facing AWAY from my car. So, I had to do that awkward, hand-over-hand drive-reverse-drive-reverse-drive-reverse-drive maneuver. I am sure our alien masters watching from above, upon seeing me, shrugged their shoulders and said "This is a planet of idiots." Great, I have single-handedly turned Earth into the Baltic Avenue of the solar system.

After finally parking my car and stealthily avoiding the glare of the Arby's short-sleeved manager, I stormed the automatic doors of the Eckard's. Not much of a defense. I figured some cool-handed espionage would allow me to avoid suspicion. Only after I had taken over the strip mall and a few Subways would I have the bombast to order a press conference and shake a threatening fist in the direction of the department stores. Know what? This conquering the world thing is going to be hard work. I'd better get in shape.

Anyway, there I was by the Miss Clairol, preparing to storm the photo lab. Suddenly, I was spotted. A jolly manager and pimply-faced assistant manager were eyeballing me from that cube-shaped crow's nest. I disappeared around the corner, pretending to play with the plastic M&M's dispenser shaped like a foot. I could feel the hot breath of the pharmacist only two, three...maybe 50 feet away. I quickly grabbed a bottle of Fleet and a box of Anusol. To disguise my ruse, I engaged the pretty young girl in my aisle in conversation about the products I was holding and asked if she would recommend them. She struck a vaguely familiar martial-arts pose and dropped a lot of F-bombs. These people just won't go quietly.

I decided to just go for the gusto and shanghai the front register. The girls behind the counter, in their fascist powder-blue smocks, smacked their gum like Chernobyl Geiger counters and gossiped back and forth about guys half my age and twice my level of cool. I reached for the rack of bargain CDs, preparing to fashion some sort of Frisbee-like weapon out of The Best of Johnny Mathis and Freedom Rock, but, the damned CD case caught in the shelving and everything spilled to the floor in a symphony of failure. I decided to ask for a pack of cigarettes to get them to turn their backs to me and grab it from the shelf behind them, but, clever people that they were, they asked, "What is the year of your birth?"

They were on to me.

Apparently, in an effort to curb underage sales of tobacco products, they are asking even obviously older people like myself the year of their birth. And they're strict, too. In the line next to me, there was a bearded gentleman waving his arms frantically shouting, "But,I'm freakin' Methusela! I don't HAVE my ID on me! Ever hear of me? Old guy? Bible? Likes to hang around for a thousand years or so?"

I figured this was the time to put my world domination on hold and skidaddle out the door. Think I'll get me a slice of pizza.

Blasting, billowing, bursting forth, with the power of ten billion butterfly sneezes...

So, I went to the beach this weekend. No, not the beach of my youth when we would go to the Jersey shore and stay with relatives, eat sandy french fries, swallow whole gallons of sea water, and get hosed off naked on the side of my aunt's house while everyone and their mother walked by and clucked their tongues...

No, it wasn't even the beach of my young adult days when I was fresh out of college, cracking a beer in the shower, doing shots with names like "the Blue Gorilla," "the Eyeball," and the "Heave Ho," and eating copious amounts of hot wings with my buddies while teetering on concrete parking slabs.

No, dear reader, this was the beach where my mom and her husband live. The mature community. Not a puking teenager in sight. It was quiet and sedate, with all the charm you could pack into a sandy lane; the cacophony of wind chimes spicing up the otherwise spacious silence.

And, somehow, I loved it.

Don't get me wrong. My days of summoning the Dark Lord in the name of boozing and chasing anything tan, hairless, and legal were grand days. Grand days indeed, fellow citizen. But, the bucolic nature of just turning the volume down - WAY down was much more pleasing than I anticipated. What can I say? I dug it.

So, there we were: Mom, her husband, my brother Dave, his wife, and two of their four kids, all huddled together and whooping it up as only lame white people can. Food was eaten, advice was given, and ice cream was sought and conquered. Let the good times roll. We all gathered together to watch a movie, which I promptly fell asleep on halfway through, and, several hundred hours later, woke up and hauled my crusty carcass back to my clinically antiseptic bedroom and passed out.

I was awaken a few hours later with what felt like a stiletto right beneath my shoulder blade. Apparently, it was an acid reflux attack. Let me tell you something, tough guy - I have a decent pain threshold, but I was not prepared for the fury of an acid reflux attack. I was in agony. I was twisting and writhing like a wash rag being wrung out by an obsessive-compulsive maniac. You simply cannot get comfortable. I started machine-gunning Tagamet down my gullet to fend off the nastiness, but to no avail. I sought out my Zen-center to will the pain away, but all I could do was envision the "Tao of Pooh" book that used to sit on the tank of my toilet in my old condo. Finally, the pain subsided, but it left a dark mark on my soul. I have met my enemy and he is a bastard.

So, there I was, two hours from home and The Simpsons starting in, yep, two hours. I gunned the engine, the car rattled like an epileptic Elvis impersonator, and I shimmied up the highway. Racing against the clock, I drove so fast that I actually went back in time. I looked at my Mohawk and rat-tail in the rear-view mirror and decided to slow down. I figured that I would make it back just in time to catch Danny Elfman's overture. I pulled in, grabbed my bags, raced up the steps, threw said bags in the air, raced to the television, turned on Fox, and...

It was a freaking NASCAR race. The screams of anger set off car alarms up and down the street. I HATE NASCAR, or any other kind of racing.

Yeah, and this coming from a person who was doing 100 on his way home. Think I'll go buy a wind chime.

Let's Take Some Calls From the Audience

I have noticed that there are no comments on my rantings by the untold zillions of people who regularly look to me to provide relief from the drudgery of their world. You'd think that someone would at least have something to say. How about a smiley face, the utilitarian "LOL", or at least a "get a life, loser."?

Actually, maybe it's best if I don't get any comments. I'd probably just get all full of myself or fly off the handle, knives flashing, as I sink them into my tormentor's throat. Stabbing and slashing and ripping, and rending and...

1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10

Okay, I'm cool.

Vanity, of course, dictates that I need to check from time to time to see if there have been any surface-to-air missives fired in my direction. So, I will be peeking in periodically to patrol my pathetic personal pjournal. So, stop by, set a spell, and if you have something to say, just say it.

Or better yet, maybe not.


Listening to: "Sir Psycho Sexy" - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Gram

Gram was a very special person who always seemed to have a story for everything - and I loved hearing every single one of them. For the past 10 years or so, when she had begun to lose her faculties, our conversations were still very lucid. When being told that she would not be able to recognize anyone anymore, she still recognized me and we still told those same stories over again.

Before I go any further, I think we all owe a tremendous amount of debt and gratitude to Aunt Nancy and Uncle Joe's family for taking her in, caring for her, and basically taking responsibility for her well-being. That is not a damnation of anyone else, but an honest appreciation of the truth.

Gram's passing signals the end of an era. We are no longer a family of young parents with kids or teens with visions of adulthood. We are now the grandparents, and the older parents. We have leaped one, and in some cases, two, generations, and as we have grown, some of us have grown together while others have grown apart. I am personally guilty of that

But, this is about Margaret Francis - mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, mother-in-law, aunt, friend, sister, wife... There was a time when being a member of this family did not feel like you were a member of a family, but of a dynasty. That began to change once grandpop passed away, and we've been doing our best ever since. Being part of this family felt like being a part of royalty - and no matter if you were born into the family or married into it, you felt it.

This is not my grandmother here. This is my grandmother here (point to heart), and she will live until the last one of us in this room shuffles off their mortal coils, and when we are lucky enough to see her in the next life, we will see the smiling, laughing, loving person we all remember her best to be.

I love you, gram, and I miss you, and I'll see you again, with grandpop, and feel like a member of royalty again. Hopefully, I can do my part to restore that feeling back here on earth first.

Gonna Wait Til the Midnight Hour....

No, it's not midnight. In fact, it's a far uglier time of evening.

It's 3:30 AM

Hell, it's not even evening anymore, it's morning. And it's not even proper morning, either. Its some sort of quasi-morning. It's a Rod Serling-time of day, somewhere between shadow and light. On TV, Homer's singing Nena's 99 Luftballoons. Earth must be spinning towards some sort of cosmic wood-chipper. I am hopeful that I can fall back asleep, but I am becoming more and more convinced that, by the time I fall asleep, I'll eventually sleep through my alarm and wake up sometime this afternoon - just a tad later than my usual 7:00 AM start time.

I also realize my last rant may have had a bit too much jalapeno in it, but perhaps it's the wooziness in me talking. And no, dear reader, before you ask, it was not directed towards any particular individual. It was inspired by those fiends of the fiery pit at my cable company. Sure, I've unleashed my fury on those who have crossed me, but the severity of my recommended punishment was more for cathartic release than anything else. And boy did it feel good! Cathartic release usually does.

Anyway, I am feeling unnaturally chipper and high-spirited at this time of night/morning. Time to crawl back between the sheets and dream about naked women who disappear just before it gets interesting.

The Good Word

People are becoming more idiotic and worthless.

Don't believe me? Try getting someone to keep their word. Invariably, people will give their word to you with absolutely no intention of keeping it, or conveniently "forgetting." What's the point? If you don't plan on keeping your word, don't give it, and if you do not think you will be able to fulfill your obligation (again, to YOUR word), at least contact that person ahead of time so you aren't wasting anyone's time. I took off from work Tuesday to wait for the cable guy. The cable company said he would be there between 11 - 2. I also had to get my car serviced and visit my accountant. Still plenty of time to get all three done. My car appointment was at 3:30 and my accountant visit was after that.

You know, I had a story here, but nothing sucks the marrow from the bone like a LONG bitch session about ONE thing. Let's move on.

I don't know about you, but trust is the number one quality I look for in a person, whether it is in a buddy or a relationship or anything in between. Well, this may be a surprise to you, but, giving your word and keeping it is a gloriously shining example of that trust on display. I don't care if you say you are going to help your friend gun down his enemies or promise your girlfriend you are going to clean the hair out of the drain. Your word is your word, and you are a complete zero when you violate it.

Maybe I'm one of the last of a dying breed. When I give my word, nothing short of my hospitalization or death keeps me from fulfilling that oath. It's simple common courtesy. It's also called acting like an adult. If you cannot be trustworthy by not keeping your word, you may as well do this world a favor and put a bullet in your head, because you are a piece of garbage and you are worthless to every person with whom you come into contact.

Word.

Listening to: "Joy to the World" - Three Dog Night

The Cheese Stands Alone

Starting off with a reference to the child's game "Farmer in the Dell" seems an appropriate place to launch my invective upon the unsuspecting world. Why? Because we are under attack. All of us. Constantly under attack. Be it from psychotic ex-lovers, bill collectors, rabid animals, or in some cases this could all be the same person, we are being beseiged by unsavory knuckleheads. So what should we do?

Go on the offensive.

And I am here to lead the charge, dear reader. In the following days, months, years, reincarnations, etc., I shall rain fire down upon the unsuspecting world (or at least get in some decent bitching). I am not sure how this whole "blog etiquette" works or if there is an Emily Post-ing (and the first bad pun has been launched), and frankly, I couldn't give a hairy squat. What I can promise you is that there is no shortage of garbage to throw on my neighbors' lawns - and I'll attempt to lovingly distribute it to the deserving, unwashed masses.

If you have any ideas for topics, that's great! Start your own blog. Me? I'll be sitting here in my disgrace, maniacally shaking my fists at the heavens, and fixing the problems of the world.

Time's yours.