The World According to JP

I'm a reality TV junkie. Really. I don't know what draws me to these shows, but I like to WATCH. I don't watch all of these shows, but I do watch my fair share of them. I'll rundown a list of shows and why they are or are not useful.

First, the ones I watch and will continue to watch:

Survivor - The granddaddy of them all. I had never even heard of this show before I started watching the first episode. Hell, it was during the "game crazy" era of TV that lasted all of 5 minutes. Back when ABC was running Who Wants to Be a Millionaire something like 600 times a week and ran the genre into the ground. I've applied twice to be on Survivor, and will continue to keep applying until I get on this show. Great television (well, except having to see Richard Hatch naked, that's just fookin gross). I mean, you see everyone at their best and worst. The thing that astounds me about this show is that I can be totally enamored with one person one week and totally hate them the next. Everyone has their moments on that show, well except for Richard Hatch who is a giant fucking ninny no matter how they try to make him look.

Average Joe - Ok, I'll admit that when I saw the first episode, I really, really had no intention of watching the next week. That is until they showed the commercial where they brought the model-quality guys into the house. I mean, how can you NOT watch a bunch of geeks try to win a beautiful woman over a bunch of mimbos? I was actually PISSED when Melana picked Jason over Adam. I mean, is she deranged or something? Jason was an UNEMPLOYED actor, living with his parents while Adam, who seemed like a nice guy, was a self-made millionaire, had his whole life in order and genuinely cared for this wench. Actually, they should have called the show "Average Jane," because I didn't find her attractive in the least. My only consolation is knowing that the "couple" is no longer together. Probably because they spent too much time fighting over who got to use the mirror.

My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancee - Another show I had no intention of watching beyond the first episode. Then they showed a preview of how Randi's family was going to react to meeting Steve and I was hooked. I had issues with this show on many, many levels. First off, is $500,000 worth humiliating your "loved ones" over? Second, why the hell was her family so concerned? I mean, her younger (but older) brother absolutely freaked about it. I think he secretly wanted to fuck his sister (now THAT would get some ratings - not that I'd watch it, you understand). Either that or he didn't want to go to a wedding in a kilt. The look on his face before the wedding was priceless. I mean it conveyed the message that he couldn't even tolerate the thought that his sister was possibly doin' the nasty with another guy; so that's the only reason I can come up with. Even though the dad was old school when it came to rules, he was actually the most level-headed of all, but it was obvious to see that Randi had him wrapped around her pinky toe. Don't even get me started on her total control freak of a mom. Seriously, if I had a family that was that meddlesome, I'd move to Bolivia.

The Next Action Star - I had been waiting for this one to come out. This show is actually pretty good. I love a good action flick, especially ones with marginal to bad acting in it (See Diesel, Vin). I felt myself having a little pang of sadness when Viviana left the house last night of her own accord. I was hoping someone like House was going to relive his gangsta days and mow her ass down in the middle of the night. Alas, it was not to be. Looks like a fun show to go on. Maybe I'll hit the gym and apply for The Next Next Action Star, or something like that.

Last Comic Standing - I'm also a comedian junkie. More often than not, when I'm home on Friday nights, I watch Stand Up, Stand Up on Comedy Central (well, after me and G-Dogg watch American Chopper - a show deserving its own blog - together). This is an interesting show. You put 10 comedians in a nice B Hills house and let the hilarity begin, right? Actually, not right. Whereas there is a lot of silliness going on in that house, some of the comedians are actually getting on the other's nerves. You have Ant, representing the gay contingency; and you have Corey representing the homophobic comics of America rooming TOGETHER. That's just a powderkeg waiting to explode there. I was relieved when Todd Glass got booted last night. That attention whore was on my last nerve. Yes, I find that ironic too.

Here are some shows I can't stand:

American Idol - What a bad phenomenon this has become. Let's take young, impressionable kids with some talent and turn them into performing sea lions. I mean seriously, I can sing every song those kids do. I guess what pisses me off the most about this show is that 99% of these kids have no musical ability other than being able to sing. Most can't write or arrange music, play an instrument or deviate from giving a kareoke-like performance. Don't even get me started on Clay Aiken as that could be a blog in itself, so I'll stop now. Additionally, how these kids even KNOW of the 'celebrity guest judges' is beyond me! Most of the kids are late teens, early 20's. The most famous of the celebrity judges was Barry Manilow, whom most of the kids stared at like a monkey doing a math problem. In all fairness, I barely recognized most of them and I'm 35! I just don't get it. Who wants to hear a bunch of teenagers sing disco and motown?

The Bachelor/Bachelorette/Who Wants to Marry My Dad/For Love Or Money - I lumped all of these together because I just don't think that you can force stuff like this. The Bachelor had clearly jumped the shark when they put Jesse Palmer on the show. I mean, if they need to put a young, rich, successful quarterback on the show to ensure ratings, then how good can the show possibly be? Also, they always slant these shows to only show the good side of whomever the "bride or groom" to be is. Not to mention, not ONE couple has stayed together besides Ryan & Trista, and don't EVEN get me started on that whole thing. I'd rather have my eyes stapled shut.

Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire - See the post above. The only redeeming quality of this show was that Evan was like Joe Putty from Seinfeld. He kept saying things like, "Yeah, I was out on a date with Lisa but the others crashed it. I felt real bad hanging out in the hot tub with these six hot women. Yeah, high five." I don't know how these women thought he was a millionaire when he couldn't even string three sentences together at a time. They all deserved what they got.

Fear Factor - This has got to be the single most stupidest show on TV today. To me, Fear Factor would be dropping the contestants off in Baghdad, draped only in an American flag, with a sign on their back that said Fuck Allah and telling them they had 2 hours to make it to a rendezvous spot or they were being left behind (can somebody make this happen?). I mean, I'm not afraid of eating congealed horse blood or bull testicles, I'm just grossed out by the thought of it. They should call it Gross Out Factor, as nothing they do is really scary. I mean, even when they make them do something like ride a bike between two buildings on a 2x4, they're harnessed up, they're not going to die or maim themselves. Now put them in a locked cage and tell them they have 30 seconds to escape before they release the lions and I'm in.

Celebrity Mole - You mean to tell me that people like Dennis Rodman, Corbin Bernsen and Stephen Baldwin had free social calendars at the same time? Do tell. This show was so convoluted that I never could make sense of what was going on. Or maybe it was just because Mark Curry and Tracey Gold (insert anorexia joke here) were involved.

Yes, I find it odd that I like reality TV too, so feel free to make fun of me. Just remember, I know where you blog.
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In response to my request for a battery, here was Chip's reply:

There are other factors which could contribute to rapid battery drain. Your machine is not that old, so the battery should be fine. I'll need to look over your laptop and recondition the battery prior to placing an order for a new battery. Batteries are quite expensive.

I'll schedule a time to check over your machine within the next couple days, best during the lunch hour.

Yes, Chip, the machine is less than two years old. However, I use the battery every single day, so it's used more often than other's batteries here.

And another thing, Chip, I don't want you to "recondition" my battery. I want a new fucking battery. Batteries aren't THAT expensive. Hell, we just spent close to $50,000 on hardware upgrades and software packages. I don't think a $100 battery is going to break the fucking bank. Quit nickel and diming this place to death. You have no problem ordering all the attorneys here $600 cell phones and $2000 "copier/scanner upgrades," but bring in an old, used scanner for our secretary and give me shit about a battery? Fuck, dude.

As for checking my machine over the lunch hour, abso-fucking-lutely NOT. Every fucking time you touch my deck, it doesn't work and you have to "patch" it for the next 4 hours. I work on my computer. I don't have time for you to fix it during the day. Feel free to fix it at night, when I'm not here. Thanks.

Ok, I didn't e-mail him that YET, but I feel a little better now.
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I went to the doctor's office last Wednesday to go over the second round of blood work stemming from my little BP problem. My cholesterol is ok, but my BP is going haywire again. I've never had this problem before. My doc is baffled.

He hands me a cup for a urine sample. No big deal. I've done that before. Then he hands me a giant, plastic, one gallon container and tells me that I have to piss in it for 24 hours (no, not in a row) and keep it on ice. My first thought is, "How the hell am I going to handle taking this thing to work?". My second thought is, "I'm not going to work tomorrow.". Easy resolution to a difficult problem.

So I'm sitting at home Thursday morning when the first urge to piss strikes me. I grab the piss bucket and try to figure out the best way to position it with minimal leakage all over myself. Let me tell you, the hole in the top of this thing is small. Now I confess, I don't have a Mandingo Warrior massive cock or anything, but it was way too small for me to slide into. So I'm standing over the toilet, holding the container with my left hand, trying to line up the head of my dick right over the opening. My brain must have had a hard time adjusting to this situation and shut the pissing process off completely. I absolutely couldn't go.

Step away.
Take a deep breath.
Try again.

Finally it works. This shit feels too weird. Now I'm trying to figure out how to shake the dew off without splashing. I'll spare the details and just say I did it.

Fast forward to later that night as the beers start flowing. A couple of hours later I'm thinking this thing won't hold as much as I'm going to piss....and it's getting very heavy. There's a little handle on top but it isn't going to do me any good. I decide that's enough piss for my demented doctor, seal it up, pack it in a cooler with ice and call it a night. The next morning I go to get it and bring it to his office when I notice that the ice has melted in the cooler and is leaking on the floor. Well, it better be ice anyway. Then I remember that he also gave me a little cup for a second sample. What the fuck? He's got enough to choke a horse and he wants more in a little cup? Whatever. I start to go in the cup (I got my technique down and everything) when I notice I'm about to fill it up and I'm still going. Ever try to stop pissing in mid-stream? Don't. Once again, I'll spare you the details.

As I drive to his office, I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to walk into a crowded doctor's office while holding a gallon of piss without losing my dignity. I figure I'll keep it in the cooler and not even stop at the front desk. Just walk right on through the door leading to the back and hope to God I find a nurse to take this off my hands. Sure enough, a nurse is right there.

Me: Where do I need to put this sample?
Her: Stool sample?
Me: No thanks. I just ate. (Not really, but it would have been funny.)
Me: It's a 24 hour urine sample.
Her: Just set in on the counter over there.
Me: Do you have a towel I can put it on? It's wet on the bottom.

She looks at me like I just ate her kid.

Me: No, no, no. It's wet from the ice melting.
Her: It doesn't matter. Just set it over there.

I put it down and get the fuck out of there. I'm almost at the front door when I hear her yelling at me, "Sir, did you put your name on the urine container?"

Fuck. She really didn't have to do that in the middle of the waiting room, did she? I tell her yes, my name and date of birth are on it. Kind of like a born on date like they do with Budweiser I guess. Finally I'm out of that damn place and seriously think about taking a leak on the side of the building just to make myself feel better, but there's a security guard outside and decide against it. That whole situation was fucked up. They better not tell me I'm pregnant.

The only pleasure I have is the fact that I purposely ate asparagus the night before, which always makes my piss smell to high heaven. That poor lab tech won't know what hit him.
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Ok, I just had to post the e-mail I just sent Chip telling him I need a new battery for my laptop.

Chip - I need a device that will allow my computer to stay on after I take it out of the docking station. This device would ideally be some sort of lithium/ION byproduct and have the ability to regenerate itself when I re-dock the deck back into my hardware docking station. The current methodologies that I am using for power when I un-dock isn't very efficient as I lose the ability to view my monitor very rapidly now.

I can feel my Internet access slipping away as we speak.
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Sorry, this whole comment-link-gone-apeshit thing was driving me batty, so I set up a Haloscan account. Please leave feedback there instead. Please note that the comment link is at the beginning of the post, not at the end. Thanks.

And, while we're on the subject, if you visit the site, please leave feedback. I am nothing if not an attention whore.
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Do most people consider bicyclists pedestrians or vehicles? I ask this because the bicyclists themselves can't seem to decide which one they'd rather be.

This city is a haven for "ecologically friendly" people that ride their bikes everywhere in the summertime. To work, to the store, down the street, etc. I'm with that. I'm feeling you guys; really, I am. However, pick a position and go with it. I mean, seriously, you can't have it both ways. If you're a pedestrian, adhere to those set of rules. If you're a vehicle, adhere to the rules of the road. I can't tell you how many pairs of spandex I've almost had as my hood ornament over the past 5 years. This is because most people that ride bikes around here don't use common sense. That leads to this question - why do they call it common sense? It's not common. The majority of the dolts in this country don't have it. I think they should call it uncommon sense. Ok, back to the topic at hand. If you're riding a bicycle, use extreme caution. You are riding a 35 pound 'vehicle,' I am in a 3500 pound vehicle. If you don't use caution, you will end up lubing my chassis as you travel underneath it.

The problem I have is that most people that ride bicycles around these busy streets adopt whichever set of rules and laws suit them at the time. I mean, don't roll up on the passenger side of someone that is making a right hand turn and then act surprised when you find yourself hurling through the air, cursing yourself for not wearing those knee pads. I mean, who the hell looks behind them when they're making a right turn? Not me. We all know we're supposed to, but let's face it, on Friday, 5 pm, done with the work week, drooling at the thought of throwing back a 6er of IPA, it's probably the last thing on our minds. Unfortunately, people on bikes don't realize this. Actually, nobody I've ever been in a car with looks that direction when turning. I worked for an attorney that was riding his bike to the office one day and did just that. He saw that some lady had her right turn signal on, but he still proceeded to try to beat her through the intersection. Five cracked ribs and a broken collarbone later, he realized that he lost that battle. How he thought he'd win in the first place causes me to wonder just how he got that law degree. This lady was driving a Toyota Corolla too; a disposable car, not even a heavy one. I can only imagine what my Suburban would do to someone that it hits. Can you say, road pizza? I hope never to find out. The crazy part of the whole thing is that he sued this lady and WON. He got a jury to award him $75,000 for an accident that, in my opinion, was his fault. I know that laws are slanted towards pedestrians. However, in my opinion a bicyclist is not a pedestrian. Yes, I looked up the exact definition to prove my point: "A person traveling on foot; a walker." So there!

Bicyclists should be forced to obey the same laws as the rest of the vehicles on the road, if they're going to ride on it. This means the following:

• You must WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN at traffic lights. You are not allowed to roll up next to the first car in line, you are to sit your ass in line and wait like the rest of us;

• Similarly, you are also not allowed to run the red light when you see an opening. You are a VEHICLE, not a pedestrian;

• If you're on a road that is supremely busy and people are trying to go the 35 mph speed limit, get the fuck out of the way. Stay off to the side. Don't ride your Schwinn down the middle of a two lane road and then become incensed when cars start to honk;

• If you're riding your bike at night, make sure you have lights on it. Note to cycleheads, it gets DARK when the sun goes down. We drivers CAN'T SEE YOU when you're riding in the dark with no lights. Invariably, they wear BLACK CLOTHING! Why do you think cars have lights? That's right, so we can see each other AT NIGHT. This is key. If I can't see you, I may hit you and that will hurt;

• If you wish to use the crosswalk to move from one side of the street to the other, for the love of GOD, get your spandexed ass off your bike and walk it across. Pedestrians have no desire to get clipped by you. They also have no desire to dance out of your way when you decide that the crosswalk is intended for you. Special note here: the crosswalk is designed for pedestrians, not vehicles. Act accordingly;

• If you're in the right lane and wish to make a left turn, please make sure that there are no cars to your left before doing so. Just last night, I saw a dude on some sort of mountain bike almost t-bone the car next to him because he wanted to turn left and the dude in the lane next to him had the audacity to wish to go around him so that he could travel the speed limit. The worst part is that the idiot on the bike actually flipped him off and yelled after he almost caused the fucking accident. I had half a mind to run that dude over on general principle alone.

• ONE LAST THOUGHT: Guys (and girls for that matter) with large fat asses - DON'T FUCKING WEAR SPANDEX!!! Yes, black is slimming, and yes, the tightness of the spandex helps to make your ass look less fat, but hey, it's only spandex, not a miracle worker. At least you're exercising, but there's no need to make the rest of us want to blow chunks.

Follow these simple, COMMON SENSE, rules and you will not become part of the pavement any time soon. Do not follow them and you have no right to bitch and moan when you're taken to the ICU at your local hospital.

Now, if you're a person on this site that rides a bike, I'm going to assume that you already adhere to these rules. However, if you don't, leave your inane comments here so the rest of us can make fun of you.
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I love my job. I love just about everything about it. The house I work out of, I am convinced, is the best place in this city to come to work every single day. The people I work with are fun, can take my sense of humor, dish it right back at me and genuinely get along. We normally have a dog or two running around the house everyday, just keeping us company. They stock the fridge with beer for us, we have a wine cellar downstairs, we are frequently taken to lunch, ballgames, dinner, etc. All in all, it's probably the best place for me to work. I mean, I couldn't have gone out into the city and handpicked a better fit for me.

However, as with every silver lining, there's a cloud. Our cloud is our resident IT geek, let's call him Chip (as in computer chip, he kind of looks like one too). First off, let me say that Chip is very fucking intelligent. I mean, one of the most intelligent people I know, and that's really saying something. He's also legally BLIND. Can you believe that? A legally blind IT dude? Shouldn't being able to see a screen from more than 6" away be a prerequisite for the job? Well, he can see a little...but his nose has to be pressed against your screen. I am forever cleaning my laptop screen after he's gotten done "fixing" or "defragging" it.

Now, Chip isn't a bad guy, he's just extremely young and not very personable, i.e. computer geek of the extraordinary kind - we all know the type, and just about every office has one. He also has zero sense of humor, so most of my jokes irritate him. I've deadpanned, "Uhhhh, dude? I think I fried the motherboard.......and the fatherboard too." Too many times to count. He's told me to shut up more than once, which almost earned him a free trip to the ER last time (it might help, more than hurt), but I digress. When we go out to lunch as a group, I usually say "If any one of you motherfuckers complain about my driving, Chip's driving us back." That gets me a dirty look. Well, as dirty a look as you can get from a dude that's wearing Stevie Wonder sunglasses. He's come with us to ballgames, which I really can't understand since he can't see the fucking game. Must be for the free beer. The beer doesn't even loosen him up any, I'm determined to get him shitfaced one day and really have some fun.

Also, Chip is notorious for giving long-winded answers to simple fucking questions. I mean most questions I ask him can be answered with a simple 'yes or no,' however, I usually get bombarded with about twenty different acronyms that not only do I not recognize, but that I don't care to learn about either. Furthermore, Chip has turned into the Internet Nazi here at work. This is an email we got from him about two months ago:

Because of the current environment on the internet, I need to ask you all to temporarily discontinue personal internet use until security software is updated. The means only visit web sites which are related to the legal industry, or necessary to accomplish work related tasks. The reasoning behind this is purely technical, not personal.

Due to various types of software code called malware, spyware, etc. which resides on a significant and growing number of web servers these days; the system needs to be updated to filter out this harmful code. These types of software code cause systems to crash, slow to a crawl, or exhibit enatic behavior, which requires unnecessary investment of time and money to remedy. More importantly, this software gathers information on how you use your workstation, what web sites you visit, consumes' internet bandwidth causing other users to experience slow access times, is used for unethical marketing campaigns, and in some cases captures every keystroke you type which is a very serious privacy concern(including passwords).

Again please discontinue personal internet use. As of this morning, I noticed a series of rouge connections to some well known spyware vendors, and I have already scheduled visits to those machines from which these connections originated.

Couldn't he just have said, "I'm going to be updating our server for the next week, so please use the Internet for work-related tasks only until I get squared away down here."??? C'mon, three fucking paragraphs to say what I just said in one sentence? Wait, am I talking about lawyers, or IT guys? It's funny how true that statement is to both. In another email, he had the audacity to tell us to "stay away from websites that will not help us win cases." I emailed him back and told him "no offense, Chippy, but you have no fucking clue what websites help us win cases and what websites do not." I mean, sure livefuckysuckygirls.com would probably raise a red flag or two, but there are plenty of sites that I find information on that don't seem like "normal" places to help this firm win cases.

About three months ago, our legal secretary (sup, Vic?) noticed that the "search" feature wasn't available through our Windows Start menu and asked him what was up with that. Here's the response she got:

The Microsoft Windows based indexing service has been disabled because the methodologies used for searching network folders is inefficient.

What in the holy fuckfire does that mean? Is he trying to say that the search function that Windows provides sucks? If so, why doesn't he just say that? Maybe he eats encyclopedias and dictionaries rather than real food. I'm still trying to figure out if he talks that way to sound superior, or if he really believes he is superior to everyone in the office, even to the lawyers that own the freaking firm!

Sure, I understand the need to keep people off our servers here. I also understand the need for a guy like Chip in today's working environment. However, can a brother get a straight answer from one of these guys? No explanations, just simple fucking English will do.

His mother works here as a legal assistant so, unfortunately, we can't kill him. We thought as a group (after many margaritas or beers or scotch, whichever 'friday' it is at the time) of pulling the "dropping him off in the woods and see if he can find his way home," but the more he fixes things and updates things and buys countless new 'necessary' software, the more problems we seem to have, so we actually need him around sometimes. But, we do keep him in the basement, which is pretty fun in and of itself. But I'd be willing to bet he's sitting down there in all his glory, wearing a tin foil hat and surfing porn all day. Anyway, back to the mother. She's pushin' 50 and wears tighter and lower-cut outfits than most strippers I've met. TO WORK!!!! She dates guys who are actually her son's age (early to mid 20's), always thinks the rest of us need to know when she's not wearing underwear, and makes a big announcement every time she's being taken to lunch, or picked up for dinner by one of these guys (assuming they're old enough to drive, that is). I can see getting all gussied up for a big date, but wearing what she wears to the office is just plain..ummm....unprofessional, and this is a guy talking! At firm parties she's always the first one to catch a buzz, and flirt with every male at the party. Not inconspicuously either. If I were her kid, I'd be mortified on so many levels. No wonder he's so messed up. Maybe I should cut him a break on that basis alone.

Naaaahhhh, I don't think so either.
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I almost had to snap a soccer mom's damn neck the other night at a Burger King drive-thru. One hamburger was all I wanted. One. Some might think said soccer mom's life was worth more than a slab of ungodly-overprocessed meat-like substance they call a hamburger, but I beg to differ. You may not think so, but I was really, REALLY hungry.

I pull into the drive-through window and am the third car in line. Not bad, I'll be out of here in no time I think to myself, after all it is 9:30 p.m. WRONG!!!!!!!

First car goes through, BAM, no problems, sweet!

The second car (a fucking red Dodge Caravan) pulls up to order. All of a sudden, I see all these little heads popping up in the back two seats. SHIT! A borderline busload of rugrats. About 6 of the little bastards jumping around back there, no car seats or anything. Where the fuck is the po-po when you need them? Oh yeah, I wasn't at Krispy Kreme.

At this point I'm beginning to realize I got behind "that person" - you know the one I mean, the one that makes you curse the moment you even THOUGHT to go through the drive-thru, because now you're stuck and there isn't one goddamn thing I can do about it. Bitch starts ordering and it sounds like she's placing a catering order. "Threeee Chicken Tenders….. Four onion rings….. two this, four that, sixxxx Coca-Colas." (Coke for kids at 9:30 on a Thursday night? How this woman was overlooked for Mommy of the Year, I'll never know). Of course the mannequin with the headset on has to have her repeat the order about three times before she could find all of the damn pictures on the cash register.

So, I'm back there ready to go Bruce Banner on this baby factory's frickin mini-van while she is informed that her order is about $35. FUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!

So then the douchebag pulls up to the second window and is screaming at her battalion of offspring to settle down while she sets up a monthly payment plan for this meal…
"Dylan, sit down… Tyler, stop that…… Britney, leave Kylie alone, behave yourself Brandon and Hunter……." All of those new, yuppie, trendy names that we have nowadays. It sounded like she was raising the cast of Beverly Hills 90210 for chrissakes.

If that wasn't bad enough, she then proceeds to sit there and eat her french fries. Might I offer a small tip: it's called a DRIVE THRU for a reason. It's not a SIT AND EAT THRU. At this point I'm ready to get out of my car and help myself to some of those french fries of hers, so that she'll HURRY THE FUCK UP. ALL I WANT IS A FUCKING HAMBURGER YOU STUPID BITCH!!!!!!!! JUST ONE FUCKING HAMBURGER!!!!!! Is it possible to go 'postal' at a fast-food drive-thru window?

Luckily for her, she must have sensed that I was about to rip my steering wheel off and choke her with it, or else saw me smiling while flippin' her the bird in her rear-view mirror, she put the fries down and went on her way.

Holy shit....I need some Advil - AND THAT HAMBURGER!


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I had a request to post a picture of my tattoo. I don't have a real good one, but here's one from April. This was taken on a tiny little island off Pensacola Beach, FL. Also pictured here are (l to r) My brother Jamie, my aunt, me, Brandi (cousin in law) and Jeff (cousin).  
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Last night, my little Reesey monster has his last t-ball game. We load up in the ‘burban and head off to the game. We get there, our kids show up, but the other team decides not to show. We decide on a kids against the parents game, to celebrate the season coming to an end. Everything goes off without a hitch and we all had a blast. That is until we try to leave.

The parking lot at the fields is pretty small, considering it serves as the parking lot for a 4 field little league complex, tennis courts and the community center, which has a pool. Since it was 95° when we got to the fields, the pool was packed and there were probably only 4 spots left out of the 50 or 60 spots in the parking lot. We were lucky, we got one of the last few parking places, although if you have a big truck, you can pull it up onto the curb, and I would have had no problem doing that, as I had done it many times before. However, we decided to park “legally.” Little did I know that this decision would affect not only the rest of my evening, but my sanity as well.

After the game, we load up in the truck. I turn it on, get the A/C cranking and look behind me to pull out. There’s a little blue Nissan pickup truck in my way. Ok, no problem, I’ll wait for him to move. The minutes start ticking off, one, two, three, four. When I’ve been waiting there five minutes, I’m starting to get a little antsy to leave. Nissan truck still behind me. Ok, I’ll give it a couple more minutes. However, when I looked out onto the road in front of me, I notice that there’s a full-fledged traffic jam on the road that’s stemming from the parking lot. So I’m like what the frick is goin on? I get out of the truck to see what’s up, thinking there has to be some reasonable explanation. Then I remembered, the world is full of idiots and lucky me, I'm going to meet another one, maybe their leader. Turns out the Nissan truck isn’t the problem, there’s a new silver Kia Rio in front of him just sitting there, without a care in the world. Traffic is backed up behind her and traffic is now backed up on the other side of the parking lot b/c of this dolt.

Soooooo, not seeing any obvious reason for all this commotion, I walk over to her car (while punching in the number to my cardiologist on my cell, just in case) and have this conversation with her:

Me: Excuse me, you’re kind of blocking traffic here. May I ask why?

Her: Well, I’m waiting for this parking spot.

Me: You’ve been waiting for the better part of ten minutes. I don’t think these people are leaving any time soon.

Her: Oh, they’re leaving. Their kids are in the car.

Me: Well, if you look and see, the parents are at the field, watching the game and these teens are playing in the car.

Her: No, they’re leaving.

Me(holy shit, I have met their leader): Well, you’re causing a major traffic tie up here. I mean, they’re backed up out of the parking lot all the way onto 82nd Ave.

Her: *looks at me like I’m an idiot and shrugs her shoulders.*

Me (about ready to hyperventilate): You need to move your car.

Her: I’m waiting for MY parking spot.

Me (getting ready to hit send on my cell, or smack her upside the head, whichever comes first): Lady, I don’t know who bequeathed you this parking spot, but it’s not yours. You’re simply not here at the right time. If you were passing by whilst this person happened to be backing out of the spot, then you could have felt free to sit, wait and pull your car into the spot. However, you’re causing no less than 30 cars to sit and wait b/c you feel entitled to this spot.

Her: I’m not moving until I get this spot.

At this point, I’m about ready to snatch this beeeyotch out of her piece of shit car, drive it to the nearest pier and find out if it can swim. However, I’m trying to stay calm, but failing miserably. I mean, my Suburban is baking in the hot sun, air conditioning cranking. With gas prices the way they are, I can practically see the dollars flying out of my pocket and up her fat white ass.

Me: I’d be willing to bet you are moving before you get this spot.

Her: How so?

Me (noticing that people have gotten out of their cars and have started to walk up to show their support): Because if you don’t move it, I’m going to do it for you. As a matter of fact, if you don’t do it within the next 30 seconds, you’re going to have an angry mob to deal with. Believe me, I’ll be the least of your worries, lady.

Her: Well, if I move, then I’ll have to park on a side street and walk a couple blocks to go to the community center. (She could have fucking done that, conducted her business, and left by now!)

Me: Look, I don’t care if you have to park back at your house and walk a frickin mile to the community center. First off, you look like you could use the exercise. Second off, you’ve managed to stop traffic within a four block radius with your selfishness. Third off, you look like you could use the exercise. Now move your car.

Her: *starts crying*

Me: Do me a favor and blow your nose while you’re searching for a new parking spot.

Her: *puts her car in drive and drives off*

I turn around to see some people smiling, some people nodding their heads in approval and some people actually looking at me like I was a monster. I walked back to my vehicle, and after the colossal clusterfuck of cars shimmy this way and that to find spots, I backed out of my spot and drove my kids to get ice cream. On the way, my oldest asked me, “Dad, did you hurt that lady’s feelings?”

“Yes, G-Dogg, I did.”

“Do you feel bad?”

“No, buddy, I don’t. Selfish people suck. If I ever see you or your brother display that kind of selfishness, you will be very unhappy when I get done with you.”

“Don’t worry dad, we like sharing.”

So, after my kids returned my BP back to normal (the irony is thick enough here to cut it with an axe), we got some ice cream, went home and played X-Box.

All in all it was a good night.
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The sportsfreaks out at a game. 
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Everyone has a "To Do" list. Not me, I believe in the Not To Do List. As long as I can cross these babies off at the end of the day, I've found that my day was a relatively successful one.

Not To Do Today

1. Wake up fussin, yellin and cussin. Drip, drip, drippin and pus, pus, pussin;

2. And for that matter - Look in the mirror and say "Mama mia, I'ma kill that bitch the next time I see her." (Thank you Kool Moe Dee).

3. Sit in a jail cell lamenting the fact that she didn't look like a cop.

4. See either one of my sons skipping through the house whistling show tunes.

5. Hear my name uttered in the same sentence as "Sexually Transmitted Disease."

6. Speak these words to a woman: "Really, this has never happened to me before."

7. Hear my best friend say to me as he's running out of my bedroom, "Honestly, it's not what it looks like."

8. Find out the specific details of how I was conceived.

9. Have one of my kids say to me, "Dad, have you seen my science project? I left it on the shelf in the fridge next to the pudding." As I'm halfway done eating a bowl of what I thought was tapioca.

10. Come home to find the following things are missing: my golf clubs, duct tape, vaseline and the cats.



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Ok, I've tried to lay off the professional sports-related posts, for the most part. This is because I am a certified sports superfreak and I want to keep this blog about funny stuff that either happens to me or that I observe. However, due to my deep-rooted, passionate hatred for the Lakers, I feel compelled to post this. My little men (no not those, they don't talk, at least out loud) will tell you that, in my house, if you like the Yankees or the Lakers, you will "have to move out." Sorry, I ain't buying clothes, food, sporting equipment or even a postage stamp for Yankee or Laker fans, even if they are my flesh and blood. Harsh? Maybe. Do I care? A little, but not enough to change my opinion.

Watching the Pistons absolutely destroy the Lakers will be one of my fondest NBA memories, but not because I'm a Piston fan. One of the most irksome things in sports, IMO, is when athletes that have a legacy with a team, but cannot get it done on their own, jump ship and go to a team for the sole purpose of winning a championship, even if that means they have to sell a little bit of their soul to get one. Needless to say, it gave me great ear-to-ear grinning pleasure to watch Karl Malone sitting on the sidelines in street clothes (shoulda been in handcuffs, IMHO) knowing that he may have played his last NBA game, and played it very poorly. Malone has always been a borderline thug (I know, it's sooooooo rare in today's basketball!), but the finger to the face of a fan has tarnished his image once and for all. If only he could have stuck a jumper like he did that fan's face, but I digress.

I also got great pleasure watching Gary Payton, the supposed Glove, bark and yip at the officials, his teammates, newspaper reporters and the opposing players all the while being unable to guard anyone. Hell, he couldn't have guarded my 7 year old in this series. Phil finally figured out that if the Glove don't fit, he must sit. Only he figured that out a little too late.

Now, on to Shaq and Kobe. Shaq doesn't bother me all that much. I mean dude goes 7'1" 330 and he's quicker than I ever was or ever will be. The problem I have with him is that if the NBA ever decides to call every foul he commits, he'd be gone inside of a quarter, most nights. That little backdown, lower-your-shoulder-to-create-space "power" move he does, has to go. The officials give him way too much leeway. But Shaq's a proven winner. He took the Magic to the Finals and he's gotten his rings in LA.

Kobe is one of those guys I tried to like, I really did. I mean, he's the closest thing the league had to MJ when MJ retired (thank you for going straight to the NBA, LeBron). However, his unbelievable arrogance has totally turned me into an official Kobehater. Just the fact that the dude can fly to Eagle, Colorado for a pre-trial conference and then go back to LA all in the same day and drop 40 on any team is a little creepy. I mean how can one person, let alone an African American, be so unaffected by their own pending rape trial in the middle of White Bread, Colorado (can you say, aquittal for sale?)? I mean, he can't buy 50 carat diamonds for the jury members like he did his wife, can he? Well, justice was done this series. Kobe, bend over and meet Tayshaun. Kobe could not get a clean look when Prince was on him. Even though Tayshaun plays hard only every other game, he played hard enough to frustrate Kobe into a horridly insipid series. With the exception of the Game 2 shot, Kobe never got it going and I’m glad he didn’t. He deserved to struggle, the arrogant bastard.

Then there's Phil Jackson, the Zen Master. He is a great coach. He is a master of managing egos and psyches. However, he's become a little too Hollywood for his own good. When he was with the Bulls, you never heard about his dating life. He had the professor-like beard, not the Hollywood pseudo-goatee. He always knew how to motivate his team to get them to the next level. He clearly didn't have a handle on this team. The Lakers were more unprepared than I was for this series. However, he'll be back with another team.

The Pistons exposed the Lakers for what they are - a team with two dominant players and 10 less than average NBA ballers. I'd say that they'll implode this team and start over. As long as Kobe doesn't end up here, I'm with that. To think that he'd actually end up in jail, assuming he's guilty of course, is actually not realistic, isn't that just the sickest thing you've ever heard?

That said, the Pistons certainly picked the right time to get hot. Ben Wallace is an absolute monster. He was the MVP of the Finals, IMO. Time and again he beat the Lakers to the ball on both the offensive and defensive end. He stuck open jumpers and made a respectable amount of his free throws. He was more valuable to his team than Chauncey was, although Chauncey had a great series. Give me Big Ben over Shaq or Kobe any day of the week and twice on Sundays. I mean, a defensive minded, unselfish under-sized center? He plays taller than 6'10".

We then come to Sheed. I had mixed emotions about seeing him get a ring. Sheed was an absolute idiot when he was here in Portland. He said all the wrong things. He battled officials, teammates, coaches, hometown fans and reporters. You name it, he fought it. He was a horrible fit for this conservative city. A fish out of water. A porn star in the White House (ok, maybe that's a bad analogy). However, he is an absolute perfect fit for the Bad Boys of Detroit. In the end, I'm happy for him and his family. It was cool to see him holding his baby girl after the game.

Larry Brown deserved this championship. He outcoached Phil for a change and prepared his team tremendously. Seeing him with his young kids after the game was a little creepy, since he's old enough to be their great-grandfather, but he deserved this one nonetheless.

Congrats, Titletown, USA. Enjoy this one because you truly did shock the world.
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G-Dogg, JP & The Reesey Monster 
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So I'm sitting at the house right before Memorial Day Weekend, and I ain't got shit to do. So I decide I'll go to the local putt-putt golf center and play 18 or 36 holes. It's Thursday, holiday starts tomorrow, so I figured the place wouldn't be too busy. I stroll right up to the club/ball rental window; game face on, ready to prove my worth as a world-class putt-putter, and begin my wait for the part-time/schools-out-for-the-summer prick to pull himself away from the telephone long enough to take my $4.50 and give me one of those maple syrup coated putters and a faggy pink golf ball.

Anyway, the kid must have been in the shitter or it's company policy to allow the customer to beat on the 2" thick bulletproof (one can only imagine why, is robbing putt-putts a big market or somethin'?) plexi-glass window for 10 minutes before looking around the corner and saying in a I-really-don't-need-a-job-but-I-get-free-video-game-tokens tone, "Can I help you dude?"

My preferred response is, "No, I'm just standing here to look cool in front of the other 35 year old men." My actual response is, in as polite a tone as I can muster,"Yes, I want to play a round of golf." Seeing that the parking lot is empty, and I am the only one in line, not to mention the only one at this fine establishment period, he feels compelled to ask how many will be playing. Me and my three imaginary friends? Now I begin to worry about giving him a $10 instead of exact change. Ya'll know the kid. Same SOB that works at McDonalds. Acne so bad, he looks like he's been bobbing for french-fries. Anyway, after a quick review of third grade mathematics, I get my club, faggy pink ball, $8.75 change back (scoreboard me) and head out for the course.

Hole one straight shot between a couple of 2x4's nailed to the carpet. I miss 3 times, looks more like I'm playing air hockey than golf. After all I'm no Tiger Woods; more like John Daly looking at the concession stand wondering if they sell beer. Fuck a sucky score on the Par 2 hole 1. I'll take a mulligan and start fresh. So I start to tee up again, when Mr. by-the-book burst out of his air-conditioned nuclear holocaust protected gazebo to tell me that double-playing a hole is against the rules and it held up other players (dude must see dead people or something).

That's when the church bus from The Sword Of Joshua First United Pentecostal Church Of The Risen Lord Christ Jesus pulls in the parking lot. I begin to think this outing was not a good idea.

45 minutes later as I race to finish the last hole on the course, I make the shot of a lifetime. A hole in one!! (as if deserved the Green Jacket for such an accomplishment) The last hole, as you know, is a one-chance-is-all-you-got-hole. Anyway, I drill it. Whistles go off as if I'd won the Jackpot in Vegas and boom, I win a free round. Redeemable now, sorry no rain checks. I tell Jo Jo the pimpled-faced boy to use it himself, it may do his scarred face some good to get some sun. If I had to stay here another 5 minutes I was going to rip one of the blades off the giant windmill and begin decapitating under privileged inner city children one by one.

Moral is, if you're bored on vacation, go to the bar. You'll have more fun getting your headache there.
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For those of you that don’t know, I’m a very avid softball player. I play competitively on no less than three teams and am constantly being bombarded with requests from other teams to play ball with them in once capacity or another. What can I say, I'm the Barry Bonds of softball, and I'm still as humble as they come :op

So last Friday, one of my co-ed teams has a double-header. Before the game, I’m checking out the girls on the opposing team. Now these are NOT your typical 'female' softball players, let me tell you. They all take care of themselves and have the tightest little bodies (anyone have a hose - female mud wrasslin' anyone?). Just before the game starts, I hear the name of the team... Starz Cabaret. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and I just got my present – Starz Cabaret has a softball team. Yes, WATJP readers, Starz Cabaret is a strip club.

I go out to shortstop and the girl coaching third base has on a sports bra and a pair of tight shorts. Her cute ass is the kind that when she's laying on her stomach, it still pops up and says hi. She was clapping and cheering on her team while moving that delicious body of hers all about, jiggling in all the right places. Let me just say that on the restraint scale, with 1 being nakedness and 10 being metaphysical cross-your-heart restrictitude, their sports bras rated a 2. How in the frick am I supposed to concentrate on the game when all I can think about is how to become their team’s official “pole” for the night?

My first time up to bat I get a good look at the catcher. Her chest wasn't that big but as she looked to the pitcher and waited, you could see right down the sports bra to see those beautiful young wonderful bosoms. I stepped out of the batter's box for a second to think (what body part I was thinking from I couldn't tell ya). I looked out into the field and saw that every guy playing for their team, be they friend, brother or boyfriend, was a skinny putz that I could handle should the need arise. Confidently, I stepped back into the batter's box and with a smile said hello to the catcher all the while thinking that next inning I will be watching from the stands behind the plate. Yummy on a stick!

The bases were loaded for that at-bat and I got a triple. As I pulled into third, I saw the best looking of the bunch waiting for the throw. It took all my willpower not to stick a couple singles in her coochie-snugging shorts. And to think, just the other day I was cursing the cashier for giving me a bunch of ones back as change.... cha-ching!

We ended up winning both games convincingly, although I suffered a couple lapses in concentration while fielding ground balls and the games were one big horny blur. I’ll also say that I was glad I had on a rather large cup, although if I were walking out of the dugout, you probably saw it before you saw the rest of my body coming around the corner.

I see on our schedule that we play them again at the end of July. I’ve started an official “ones” pile here in my desk drawer for the event.

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I've been trying to figure out exactly why teenagers dress and speak the way the do and have come to this conclusion -- it's got to be intentional, because they can't all be mentally retarded, can they??? Intellect, and to a greater degree the appearance of intellect, can be easily faked, especially in brief encounters. Even Dubya can feign intelligence, and he has descended below them all.

In my brief, highly prejudicial study of teenage communication, I have arrived at one primary reason for their astounding ability to sound like complete buffoons in even the simplest verbal exchanges: They want to sound cool. Where are they getting this from? Their parents certainly aren't teaching them this. Even if you look up the word "cool" in the dictionary, even the slang definition says "Excellent, first-rate." My God, maybe it IS brain damage!

I would like to paraphrase Jack Nicholson, "We learn how to be cool at the movies," in the second part of my theory. These adult wanna-bes learned to be cool by watching unrealistic representations of adult behavior. They pause for emphasis in all the wrong places and it makes them sound like a 80MHZ Pentium trying to search a thesaurus -- it's just plain annoying. They lower their voices to appear strong and intense, but instead sound like they're intentionally trying to pass themselves off as retarded so they can get on SSI Disability. Rather than actually speaking, they will often grunt their satisfaction or dissatisfaction, as though they're Cool Hand Luke with a mouth full of his own teeth and a heavy case of the punch drunks---this ends up sounding like Britney Spears when she runs out of lyrics and tries to rhyme her guttural moans. Only mature men with naturally deep voices can grunt and nod properly (well, and porn stars, but that's another story for another time).

Non-verbal communication is almost as annoying. Watching a 6' 125lb tower of bones try to strut like Denzel Washington in the middle of a bustling Portland street pains me. You know the dude is doing his best; you know he's workin' the junk God gave him just as hard as he can but dizzang, dude looks stupid.

Strutting Rule #1: Don't do it. Just don't bother. Even if you do it right, there's so many who have done it wrong that the ground is soiled and it's not worth the effort. Leave strutting to the movies where the background music lets everyone know that this cat has got his strut on and da nizzle is propah!

Strutting Rule #2: If you have read Rule #1 and still feel the need to do it, don't copy somebody else's stuff. Find your own limping, lurching pattern and develop it to where it's hardly noticeable. People should feel your strut more than they see it. A proper strut is almost subliminal. If you're moving more than four inches in any direction, strap on a bag of water. Shift very far with that thing on and you'll tip over. Abandoned warehouses and discreet basements are the only places where you should train with the water bag.

Strutting Rule #3: You'd dang well better not be white. White boys, you have a head full of stylish, or at least styleable, hair and skin tones that can vary to suit your needs. You also get facial hair that doesn't become ingrown at that drop of a hat. You don't need the strut and the strut don't need you.

Strutting Rule #4: You dang well better not be a girl no matter what your color. Strutting is a highly sexist activity. Black girls, you get the head weave & jiggle along with the partially agape mouth & upraised eyebrows. Leave the strut alone. White girls, you get the same stuff as the white boys except the facial hair(hopefully). Leave the strut alone. Additionally, white girls, please don't try the head jiggle. You look foolish, sound stupid, and lose all your sex appeal, which is the only reason men put up with you.

The final symptom of this desire to be cool is especially devastating to the girls. The overwhelming desire to look cool. For men, looking stylish is pretty simple. Men's fashion favors classic cuts and as long as you don't go with the hemp knee-high socks and coolots or something equally "cutting edge", you should be alright. Women, however, are straight-up, no-holds-barred, full-fledged SUCKERS for whatever Christina Aguilera is wearing. If I never see another pair of hip-huggers in my life, I'll pay double communion on Christmas and every-other Easter. I promise I'll really do that. I mean it this time.

Seriously, and I'm talking to the overweight girls as well as any female over the age of 21, the crap on the racks at Banana Republic and GAP or wherever it is you people go to find this 100% cotton garbage is taking you for a ride. Those pants do not make you look stylish. They don't make you look sexy. And they don't make you look like Mary Kate & Ashley. They make you look like a stupid teenager who just worked 15 hours at the WalMart customer service desk so she could pay $80 to show her love handles and gratuitous gut. Cut your hours at WalMart in half, drop $30 into a health club, and spend the other $10 on some loose fitting jeans until your body is worthy of being viewed. If by some miracle you actually have the self-control to work your fat basket into shape, skip the hip huggers anyway. You will always have fat hips. The .05% of the population that don't are the ones in the 14' tall posters at The Gap. If your airbrushed grill isn't on that poster, you're not one of them, so buy some real clothing for crying out loud. No matter what you do, fat will be in your genes and should not be hanging over your jeans. Got it?

Now, kids, go out there and dress responsibly and speak normally, and maybe I'll address you with something other than hatred bordering on homicidal rage.

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My mom calls me over the weekend and tells me that she has a leak in her roof and asks if I can come over and fix it. Well, you know the spray in insulation stuff in a can? She bought a couple cans of it. Great Stuff, right? Sure it is! I found the leak in the roof where the two angles of the roof met. There was a slight separation in the wood. Simple solution...fill that hole up with Great Stuff. So I Ron Jeremy the stuff in the slit and it's all going well. That is until I overfill it just a tad. No problem, I'll just wipe the excess away with my finger and be done with it. Bzzzt! Wrong answer.

Has anybody else ever gotten this shit on your skin? It's sticky. Really, really sticky. Just a shade under super glue sticky. Not enough that you actually bond yourself to, well yourself (if you've seen American Pie 2, you're laughing your ass off right about now), but really close. So I read the label. If this comes in contact with skin, wash with soap and water. Ok, that sounds simple enough. Bzzzt. I'm gonna look up the ass clown who put that label together and rip him a new one (he can seal it up with Great Stuff later). This has the same effect as putting water on a grease fire. It fucking spreads it. Now instead of having two sticky fingers (S'up high school) I've got this shit on both hands and it's spreading like oral herpes at Lilith Fair.

Ok, now both hands are semi-glued to each other and every door handle I touch feels like a porn theater floor. Alright, maybe a little Go-Jo will clean this up. Strike two! Some mineral spirits? Strike three. Now I'm reading the Material Safety Data Sheets on Great Stuff. Acetone dissolves this stuff. Cool! A half bottle of Nail Polish remover and I'm no closer to having clean hands. Granted, I have a fantastic contact buzz, but I have to piss and there is no way I'm getting this stuff on Thor. Steel wool? Nope. Brillo Pads? Nope. I finally settle on letting the stuff cure and taking it off with a rotary sander. My hands look like they had severe teenage acne.

My mom found another gap in the roof late last night. I really think that the garbage bag and duct tape is gonna hold!
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I stopped off at Target last night to pick up some supplies, which I seem to do just about every night. Funny how my wife (or me, in most cases) goes there just about every day but always seems to need those "couple little things," which are, literally, going to be the death of me, or at least my wallet. The only lane open (yes...one lane out of about 15 or so) was being manned by my favorite trailer park she-beast. Long greasy hair, warts, moles, missing teeth, and no recollection of how she got any of them. It (the only pronoun I can think of which fits - ever see Silence of the Lambs?) seems to have an inability to enunciate and moderate the volume in which it attempts to speak.

Just before it rang up my total, it yelled at me, "YOU-GON-DONATE-MARCH-OF-DIMES-SAVE-DA-BABIES?!?!?"

It took a few trips to the store and having this thing wait on me to figure out what it was trying to mumble/shout. There's no smooth way of stating pre-emptively "and i won't be saving any babies today" without the other people in line looking at me with "it's only a dollar, a'hole" looks on their faces. Like I'm the bad guy here, I'm paying her frickin salary, much to my horror.

It's not that I dislike babies. I like babies a lot. Well, as long as they're not puking on me or screaming "Noooooooooooo!". What I dislike is some drooling mongoloid yelling at me about saving babies for a buck and scribbling my name on a paper shoe or hot air balloon and taping it to the front window of the store. I've seen and heard enough to know that not a whole lot of that buck is going to the March of Dimes to actually save these unknown babies and I don't necessarily feel comfortable having my name on a piece of paper on the front of the store, nor is it worth giving a buck to some fat cat pulling down six figures per year for running a "non-profit" outfit.

As I was walking out, the lady in line behind me was asked the same question.

"YOU-GON-DONATE-MARCH-OF-DIMES-SAVE-DA-BABIES?!?!?"

"Yes, I will," she answered smugly. Probably in some lame attempt to claim scoreboard over my non-giving ass. This prompted me to respond with, "Easy there, charity woman. I don't think the ten cents of your dollar that actually makes it to this "charitable" organization will change a life. The don't call it the March of DIMES for nothing." Then I casually strolled out of Toothless Tessie's life for another 16 hours or so.

What did I buy, you ask??
~Cat food, laundry soap, box of wine, rubbers....all related. Don't ask.
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Me neither, but it was one of the weird things that ran through my mind the other day.

What would it be like? Here's my take:

It all starts so harmlessly. You slip and bump your hip on the first step and you think "That's gonna leave a mark....wonder if anyone saw me fall". You thank the good Lord that your Minute Maid Lemonade fell the opposite way, on the landing, and figure you can get the papers from your briefcase reassembled with relative ease.

But when you bank off the wall and take the second flight, well, that's when the fear sets in. Not "Will I ever see my family again?" fear, but "I've read about this" kind of fear. We all know some poor schlep who woke up in the middle of the night, attempted to go downstairs to get a glass of milk, fell down the steps and in the morning was so dead the dogs ate his balls for breakfast without a second thought. That kind of fear.

By the fourth floor, and you're still alive, the fear subsides because, well, it's been 4 floors and they're not going to be all that different from here on out. Your mindset is more of "What ISN'T going to be marked??" and you also wonder if you'll go so far as to be completely nude at the end of your descent. By the sixth floor, your tie is off and your shirt is ripped.

Around the 15th floor, you think while still tumbling "I ain't goin' out dis way." Anger ensues. "If I ever meet the person who first said 'Ass over Teakettle', I will fight them", you think as gravity acts....well, like it's supposed to. Spiraling through 16 and 17, your body reminds you of that sophomore you dead-horsed after the Fall Break kegger, although she was a little less bloody. The sight of your ear impaled on a thumb tacked poster makes you wince.

Thoughts of Mommy cutting your hair as a bawling six-year-old consumes floors 23 and 24, and you consider a small nap as the anger has taken a backseat to thoughts of riding out the "delicate" cycle in your wife's dryer. Of course, you're still getting your hair cut by Mom in there. Things are really starting to meld together, including your knee and your eyeball.

You wonder what sort of speed you've amassed at around floor 35, and consider yourself a more modern day Chuck Yeager, and even consider who, these days, is filling Theresa Earnhardt's vaginal cavity. And if they wear a helmet and a head restraint while doing so. Is a snicker even possible?

Yes. But barely.

Floor 50 is where the analogies get pretty intense. The thought of your body sailing through the air, like an unwanted ham from a fourth floor apartment on Lombard Street in San Francisco comes to mind. You envy the fact the ham has no arms or legs, although it has endured the curing process. Touche', ham.

Hi, 64. Thanks for providing a happy home to the broken shards of fire extinguisher housing glass. Enjoy that arm.

75 and still alive, although you've taken more hits than Jerry Garcia, Robin Ventura and Buster Douglas combined. You long for just the stairs, and loathe the walls. Damn the geometry. If you had a tongue, you'd chew gum to help break the cochleal pressure.

You fight the urge to sleep by realizing that your carcass sounds almost exactly like a full bladder slapping up against an unfinished wall. Whomp, there it is.

You can also guess how it ends, although the lack of motion provides a welcome relief, actually. Admittedly, it's a well below average experience. I recommend the elevator.

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