Nothing is more romantic than the status change process on Facebook.
"Elizabeth said on Facebook that you two are in a relationship. We need you to confirm that you are, in fact, in a relationship with Elizabeth."
Yeah, baby, I love it when you talk Facebook to me.
12.22.2007
12.21.2007
BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW.
If asking how many five year olds you could take in a fight is wrong, I don't want to be right.
www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com
12.20.2007
NEW YEAR'S EVE 2005
I recently retold the story of my New Year's Eve debacle from 2005 to some friends, which reminded me that I had written about it. So here, for your amusement, is a recap of that terrible night.
"01.12.05
So now that I've come to terms with the events that befell me on New Year's Eve this year, I feel the best way to move on is to share my experiences with others. It’s a long-winded description filled with the word “ass.” Enjoy.
The night started out as any other. Playing board games at my grandparents' house and eating fried chicken (Chicken Shack, mmmmmmmmmm) with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. Come eight o'clock it was time to go have non-family related fun and drown my brain in a steady flow of alcoholic beverages (alcohol, mmmmmmmmmmm). I proceeded to join some friends at a "pre-drink" event before we went to "Posh," a somewhat posh bar in Ferndale. It was a good night. Good drinks, good friends, good music. I entered 2005 in good spirits and to that point the night had been stress-free and enjoyable.
And then, at some point, let's say 2:15 a.m. I felt like maybe I had sat in some champagne or beer because my ass was all wet. Hmmmmm...I reached back with my hand to investigate the wetness. Now, when you reach back and feel your ass, what’s the last thing you want to see on your hand when you look? I’ll tell you.
Blood.
Yikes. My ass was covered in blood. I immediately took further investigatory action. I felt between my boxers and bare ass, hoping to find it sans blood, thinking maybe I had sat in someone else’s blood. No such luck. My hand came back bloodier than before. That’s not good. I could now feel blood running down the back of my leg and I started to feel uncomfortable. Keep in mind; I was under the influence of numerous forms of alcohol so my brain was moving at a cumbersome pace. I went into the men’s room to have a look in the mirror. Several friendly patrons informed me I had blood on my pants. Thanks. It’s also soaking my boxers and running down my leg, dickmouth.
The bathroom trip confirmed what my hand-test had indicated. I was bleeding from my right ass-cheek. Apparently, at some point I either sat or fell on some broken glass. Or I was knifed. But at no point did I recall thinking, “ouch, I just cut my butt-cheek open.”
Now that I was sure of the situation it was time to deal with it. First order of business, find someone sober. I approached one of the club’s bouncers and tried to tell him my ass was bleeding. The club was loud, so eventually I had to turn around, point to my ass and shout, “My ass won’t stop bleeding!” He led me to some sort of back storage room. Things are sort of blurry from here. I do know for sure there was a basket of apples in that back room. I have no idea why they were there, but my secondary objective, aside from getting my ass to stop bleeding, was to eat an apple.
Once inside I immediately removed my dress shirt, pants and boxers, leaving me in a t-shirt and socks. Cock'n'balls swinging in the chilly nightclub backroom air. Well, they were less “swinging” and more like “cowering,” probably. Luckily, only some bouncers and waitresses and some old lady were back there. For the next ten minutes or so I tried to stop the bleeding with paper towels and willpower. No luck.
At this point I was incoherent and angry. I was marching around some back room basically naked. I was shouting at people about my nakedness, “It doesn’t even matter any more. It’s New Year’s Eve and my ass won’t stop bleeding. Can things get any worse? I just don’t care about anyone seeing my balls at this point. I’d just like for my ass to stop bleeding.” But it would not.
After a short while longer the paramedics arrived. They had a look and informed me they could take me to the hospital and give me a tetanus shot and maybe one stitch. In my incoherent state all I could think was, there’s no way I’m paying $400 for an ambulance ride to the hospital for a small cut in my butt-cheek (a drunk person can’t be responsible for knowing what their insurance will and will not cover, so I played it safe). I insisted that someone would drive me to the hospital. Yeah, at 2:30 in the morning on New Years Eve all of my friends should be in great shape to drive. So the paramedics allowed me to go find a friend. I put my blood pants on and went to look. One of the paramedics shadowed me through the club to make sure I didn’t just run off.
Eventually I found an angel, Stacey, who agreed to take me to the hospital. All we had to do was find Steve to give us the keys. Of course, after looking around for five or ten minutes we realized Steve had disappeared, leaving both of us rideless. I informed the paramedics that I was not riding in the ambulance, so they should just fix me up the best they could. Which meant one of those poor paramedics had to get on his knees and clean all of the blood off my ass while I shouted at everyone about how this wasn’t funny. He used a tremendous amount of tape to put on some gauze and at last, blood was no longer flowing unchecked from my tender flesh. I signed a waiver and went with nurse Stacey, my caretaker.
In the end, this story teaches us several things. One, your ass is a fleshy area that contains a lot of blood. Two, don’t sit or fall on broken glass or get stabbed in your ass. Three, no girl will have sex with a man who’s bleeding from his ass. At least I don’t think so.
The most painful part came the next day when I had to tear the tape off my poor ass. Thank heavens I’m a relatively ass-hairless individual.
Phew. That’s all.
In other news, yesterday I discovered that one of the scenes you see in movies and think “that never happens” actually happens. I was standing near the curb on the way to grab some groceries on a somewhat rainy night. And WHOOSH, a cab hit a puddle giving me a shower from the chest down. A good amount of wetness.
But after bleeding from my ass, nothing really bothers me anymore."
"01.12.05
So now that I've come to terms with the events that befell me on New Year's Eve this year, I feel the best way to move on is to share my experiences with others. It’s a long-winded description filled with the word “ass.” Enjoy.
The night started out as any other. Playing board games at my grandparents' house and eating fried chicken (Chicken Shack, mmmmmmmmmm) with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. Come eight o'clock it was time to go have non-family related fun and drown my brain in a steady flow of alcoholic beverages (alcohol, mmmmmmmmmmm). I proceeded to join some friends at a "pre-drink" event before we went to "Posh," a somewhat posh bar in Ferndale. It was a good night. Good drinks, good friends, good music. I entered 2005 in good spirits and to that point the night had been stress-free and enjoyable.
And then, at some point, let's say 2:15 a.m. I felt like maybe I had sat in some champagne or beer because my ass was all wet. Hmmmmm...I reached back with my hand to investigate the wetness. Now, when you reach back and feel your ass, what’s the last thing you want to see on your hand when you look? I’ll tell you.
Blood.
Yikes. My ass was covered in blood. I immediately took further investigatory action. I felt between my boxers and bare ass, hoping to find it sans blood, thinking maybe I had sat in someone else’s blood. No such luck. My hand came back bloodier than before. That’s not good. I could now feel blood running down the back of my leg and I started to feel uncomfortable. Keep in mind; I was under the influence of numerous forms of alcohol so my brain was moving at a cumbersome pace. I went into the men’s room to have a look in the mirror. Several friendly patrons informed me I had blood on my pants. Thanks. It’s also soaking my boxers and running down my leg, dickmouth.
The bathroom trip confirmed what my hand-test had indicated. I was bleeding from my right ass-cheek. Apparently, at some point I either sat or fell on some broken glass. Or I was knifed. But at no point did I recall thinking, “ouch, I just cut my butt-cheek open.”
Now that I was sure of the situation it was time to deal with it. First order of business, find someone sober. I approached one of the club’s bouncers and tried to tell him my ass was bleeding. The club was loud, so eventually I had to turn around, point to my ass and shout, “My ass won’t stop bleeding!” He led me to some sort of back storage room. Things are sort of blurry from here. I do know for sure there was a basket of apples in that back room. I have no idea why they were there, but my secondary objective, aside from getting my ass to stop bleeding, was to eat an apple.
Once inside I immediately removed my dress shirt, pants and boxers, leaving me in a t-shirt and socks. Cock'n'balls swinging in the chilly nightclub backroom air. Well, they were less “swinging” and more like “cowering,” probably. Luckily, only some bouncers and waitresses and some old lady were back there. For the next ten minutes or so I tried to stop the bleeding with paper towels and willpower. No luck.
At this point I was incoherent and angry. I was marching around some back room basically naked. I was shouting at people about my nakedness, “It doesn’t even matter any more. It’s New Year’s Eve and my ass won’t stop bleeding. Can things get any worse? I just don’t care about anyone seeing my balls at this point. I’d just like for my ass to stop bleeding.” But it would not.
After a short while longer the paramedics arrived. They had a look and informed me they could take me to the hospital and give me a tetanus shot and maybe one stitch. In my incoherent state all I could think was, there’s no way I’m paying $400 for an ambulance ride to the hospital for a small cut in my butt-cheek (a drunk person can’t be responsible for knowing what their insurance will and will not cover, so I played it safe). I insisted that someone would drive me to the hospital. Yeah, at 2:30 in the morning on New Years Eve all of my friends should be in great shape to drive. So the paramedics allowed me to go find a friend. I put my blood pants on and went to look. One of the paramedics shadowed me through the club to make sure I didn’t just run off.
Eventually I found an angel, Stacey, who agreed to take me to the hospital. All we had to do was find Steve to give us the keys. Of course, after looking around for five or ten minutes we realized Steve had disappeared, leaving both of us rideless. I informed the paramedics that I was not riding in the ambulance, so they should just fix me up the best they could. Which meant one of those poor paramedics had to get on his knees and clean all of the blood off my ass while I shouted at everyone about how this wasn’t funny. He used a tremendous amount of tape to put on some gauze and at last, blood was no longer flowing unchecked from my tender flesh. I signed a waiver and went with nurse Stacey, my caretaker.
In the end, this story teaches us several things. One, your ass is a fleshy area that contains a lot of blood. Two, don’t sit or fall on broken glass or get stabbed in your ass. Three, no girl will have sex with a man who’s bleeding from his ass. At least I don’t think so.
The most painful part came the next day when I had to tear the tape off my poor ass. Thank heavens I’m a relatively ass-hairless individual.
Phew. That’s all.
In other news, yesterday I discovered that one of the scenes you see in movies and think “that never happens” actually happens. I was standing near the curb on the way to grab some groceries on a somewhat rainy night. And WHOOSH, a cab hit a puddle giving me a shower from the chest down. A good amount of wetness.
But after bleeding from my ass, nothing really bothers me anymore."
12.19.2007
ONE GOOD SAYING.
When I was younger, I was always hanging around while my dad and my uncles were building stuff. My father is a real handyman, a do-it-yourselfer. He built a cabin, our garage, decks; he had a side business building jungle-gyms for people. And I guess he gets that talent from my grandpa, who was in construction for 50-some years. While I didn't get all of that ability (most of my work is done with duct-tape), I did pick up a great saying:
"Close enough for government work."
The original phrase "good enough for government work" was used to imply something would pass a rigorous inspection. It was good enough for your mother, father, son or daughter; it was good enough for your country. But since the original coining of the phrase, it has been altered slightly and taken on a meaning that's almost opposite.
"Close enough for government work," as my father and uncles and grandpa use it, means that while not perfect, it'll do the job. It was my understanding, reached by my own logic and zero research, that this stems from construction companies being rewarded government contracts at inflated prices, for work they would do in the cheapest, quickest possible manner. If someone refers to something as "close enough for government work," I understand it to mean, "it ain't perfect, but we can move on."
I love that phrase.
wikipedia explains it
"Close enough for government work."
The original phrase "good enough for government work" was used to imply something would pass a rigorous inspection. It was good enough for your mother, father, son or daughter; it was good enough for your country. But since the original coining of the phrase, it has been altered slightly and taken on a meaning that's almost opposite.
"Close enough for government work," as my father and uncles and grandpa use it, means that while not perfect, it'll do the job. It was my understanding, reached by my own logic and zero research, that this stems from construction companies being rewarded government contracts at inflated prices, for work they would do in the cheapest, quickest possible manner. If someone refers to something as "close enough for government work," I understand it to mean, "it ain't perfect, but we can move on."
I love that phrase.
wikipedia explains it
12.18.2007
J. PETERMAN
I have a friend, a talented artist, who earns part of his living by doing paintings for the J. Peterman catalog. If J. Peterman sounds familiar, it might be because Elaine worked for Peterman on Seinfeld. The company is not fictional, although renderings of the clothing they sell are based partially on imagination.
Granted, these paintings may have character and make the Peterman catalog almost a work of art, but I don't find them very helpful when shopping for clothes. If I was a cartoon shopping for a cartoon jacket, then maybe. But I'm not.
Don't you want to see what clothes look like in real life, where you actually exist? That's why we invented cameras, because paintings took too long and were only partially accurate.
(painting not by friend, I don't think)
Granted, these paintings may have character and make the Peterman catalog almost a work of art, but I don't find them very helpful when shopping for clothes. If I was a cartoon shopping for a cartoon jacket, then maybe. But I'm not.
Don't you want to see what clothes look like in real life, where you actually exist? That's why we invented cameras, because paintings took too long and were only partially accurate.
12.12.2007
HOW TO MAKE FAT KIDS NOT FUNNY.
Fat Kid Successfully Avoids Ridicule By Swimming With Shirt On
I've had several people send me this link, and you know what? Not funny. Sorry. How you manage to take an idea involving a fat kid and have it fall so absolutely flat is beyond me, but it did. Show me a fat kid eating a giant ice cream sundae, or trying to fit the most possible m&m's into his mouth, that's funny. Mock news reports featuring dickhead reporters taking jabs at a soft spoken kid, not funny.
***
Also, I think I'm getting the hang of blogging. Just write every thought in your head here. Awesome.
PLAYOFFS? PRACTICE. PLAYOFFS?
Every time I think I forgot about these, something reminds me. This Allen Iverson press conference rant is one of the the all time greatest:
And the Jim Mora playoff rant isn't bad either:
I may have done this post before. If so, that's because it's awesome.
And the Jim Mora playoff rant isn't bad either:
I may have done this post before. If so, that's because it's awesome.
TWO GIRLS, ONE CUP.
The "porn" craze that's sweeping the nation. What is it? Some sort of terrible video that will make you scream, gag, flinch, vomit and possibly ruin you. From what I gather, it has something to do with two girls, one cup, mouths, some puke and some shit.
Here is my friend Enveris watching it:
And here are The Roots:
While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?
No, I'm not going to watch it.
Here is my friend Enveris watching it:
And here are The Roots:
While I'm tempted to watch it, I'm also afraid. As my new roommate so aptly put it, "some things you can't unwatch." What if I watch it and it ruins women for me? Every time I see a woman, all I can think of is girls puking in one another's mouths and eating shit? I don't want that. Or even worse, what if I watch it and I like it? And from then on, to get aroused, I need to see a girl eating a big log and washing it down with a 32 oz. big gulp of puke?
No, I'm not going to watch it.
12.11.2007
SOULJA BOY!
I'm not going to lie. I crank that Soulja Boy. And I superman that oooooohhhh!
Is it wrong that I love this? Is it wrong that I watch it five times a day and still can't really do the dance? Is it wrong that UT Football also loves this?
No. Soulja Boy is universal.
THE JINX.
As part of my current job, I sometimes write posts for the Nike Football Blog. Because it's not really an open forum, the posts have to be positive and focused on what's good about the players sponsored by Nike. So whenever I have the chance, I get in a plug for my Detroit Lions. Last week I put the spotlight on rookie Calvin Johnson.
Calvin Johnson Post
And then, it seems, he went and laid an egg. In reality, he had a very average game. 5 catches for 51 yards. And he almost (almost don't count) snatched a jump ball out of the air for a TD. But he didn't have the breakout game I predicted.
Someone else wrote a post that same week about rookie Adrian Peterson. Peterson had been on a tear, breaking records left and right. His stat line after the blog feature? 14 rushes, 3 yards. Awful.
Maybe having a feature in InsideNikeFootball.com is a jinx? If so, sorry Calvin. We really needed that game. Damn you, Jason Hanson. Damn you, Jason Witten.
Calvin Johnson Post
And then, it seems, he went and laid an egg. In reality, he had a very average game. 5 catches for 51 yards. And he almost (almost don't count) snatched a jump ball out of the air for a TD. But he didn't have the breakout game I predicted.
Someone else wrote a post that same week about rookie Adrian Peterson. Peterson had been on a tear, breaking records left and right. His stat line after the blog feature? 14 rushes, 3 yards. Awful.
Maybe having a feature in InsideNikeFootball.com is a jinx? If so, sorry Calvin. We really needed that game. Damn you, Jason Hanson. Damn you, Jason Witten.
12.10.2007
SLOW COOKING FOR SINGLES.
Today I received an e-mail that made me feel slightly less confident in myself. The circumstances leading up to the e-mail are as follows:
1. A couple of months ago I bought a crock pot.
2. I love slow cooking chili, stew and just about anything that can be slow cooked.
3. I received an e-mail from my gay uncle entitled "Crock Pot Cooking Recipes"
4. I sent said uncle an e-mail that said "You must have heard I got a crock pot. Thanks for the recipes."
His reply left me a little rattled:
"Your welcome Jim,
no one told me [about the crock pot purchase],
I just thought they were
good for us single folks
enjoy
G-Dude"
First, a fifty-something-year old man should know the difference between "your" and "you're". If you're not homeless and you're not retarded, you owe it to yourself to sort these out.
Second, when he thought, "hmmmm, who, like me, is a single, grown man who would appreciate these crock pot recipes?" he thought of me. While it's true that I am a single (well, was single) grown man who happens to love slow cooking, I think this should come as a surprise to most people. For instance, I would say to you "I love slow cooking," you would reply, "No! You? I never would have guessed that, ever."
And G-Dude? His name is Gordon, so I get it. But he's also a gay man. So is it Gay Dude or Gordon Dude? Either way, I think it's time to give up referring to yourself as a dude.
I guess I should just come to terms with the fact that slow cooking is loved by many different types of people. As it very well should be.
***
In unrelated news, last night I was granted a viewing of an episode of Elimidate featuring my friend Kristyn. She gave us a behind the scenes narration of how it all worked. It's debatable which was the most memorable moment in the show, Kristyn pulling the guy out of the hot tub and straddling him to make out, or her referring to the other two girls and holding up her left then right hand, while saying 'fatty or skank? fatty, skank, fatty, skank..." Brilliant.
1. A couple of months ago I bought a crock pot.
2. I love slow cooking chili, stew and just about anything that can be slow cooked.
3. I received an e-mail from my gay uncle entitled "Crock Pot Cooking Recipes"
4. I sent said uncle an e-mail that said "You must have heard I got a crock pot. Thanks for the recipes."
His reply left me a little rattled:
"Your welcome Jim,
no one told me [about the crock pot purchase],
I just thought they were
good for us single folks
enjoy
G-Dude"
First, a fifty-something-year old man should know the difference between "your" and "you're". If you're not homeless and you're not retarded, you owe it to yourself to sort these out.
Second, when he thought, "hmmmm, who, like me, is a single, grown man who would appreciate these crock pot recipes?" he thought of me. While it's true that I am a single (well, was single) grown man who happens to love slow cooking, I think this should come as a surprise to most people. For instance, I would say to you "I love slow cooking," you would reply, "No! You? I never would have guessed that, ever."
And G-Dude? His name is Gordon, so I get it. But he's also a gay man. So is it Gay Dude or Gordon Dude? Either way, I think it's time to give up referring to yourself as a dude.
I guess I should just come to terms with the fact that slow cooking is loved by many different types of people. As it very well should be.
***
In unrelated news, last night I was granted a viewing of an episode of Elimidate featuring my friend Kristyn. She gave us a behind the scenes narration of how it all worked. It's debatable which was the most memorable moment in the show, Kristyn pulling the guy out of the hot tub and straddling him to make out, or her referring to the other two girls and holding up her left then right hand, while saying 'fatty or skank? fatty, skank, fatty, skank..." Brilliant.
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