Smell My Hair

She asked me to smell her hair. It smelled kind of like a mild patchouli. If there is such a thing as a mild patchouli. Whatever it was, I didn't mind it so much. I told her that much. Then she leaned over and told me that she liked crooked noses. Hmm. Thats weird. I happen to have a crooked nose. Wait, thats really weird. Why would someone like crooked noses? Oh well. Not gonna try to understand it. I like girls with hairy backs, thin ankles, and apparently, girls that smell a little bit like patchouli. But not too much patchouli. Just a mild dosage. I leaned over and smelled her hair again. Yes, that smells nice. It doesn't make any sense at all.

We carry on like this until the group is ready to close the tab and go home. I've had a significant amount to drink. I feel pretty good though. My wingman invites me and my lady friend over to his house to play cards with he and his girlfriend. Even though it is two o'clock in the morning, cards seem like a good idea to everyone. My lady friend is extra excited about this idea because she has already committed to staying the night with my wingman's girlfriend. And if the girlfriend will be staying at Wingman's house, then she can just crash on his couch. I speak up and remind everyone that I only live a block away from Wingman, so I am definitely up for some cards before I go home. Yes, things are coming together.

My lady friend gets excited again when she hears that I live only a block away from Wingman. Strange. She seems to get excited fairly easily. I like this little factoid. I am excited now as well. My lady friend decides that she will drive her car over to Wingman's house from the bar, and I am more than welcome to join her if I am in need of a ride. Wingman lives four blocks from the bar. I live three blocks from the bar. It is a warm and pleasant temperature outside. Our bar tab was well over $200. Yes. We better drive over to Wingman's house.

We pay our tab and exit the bar. We walk across the street to her car. She opens the door and a little dog jumps out onto the sidewalk. I'm stunned for a moment. Wasn't ready for that. It looks like a mix between an English Shorthair and a Blue Healer. Its skinny. Its light on its feet. It weaves around in figure eights like a leaf caught in a vicious wind. It looks like the kind of dog that I might see in the parking lot of a widespread panic show. The loyal follower of the loyal follower of the band. Uh Oh. I glance back over to the car and take a peek inside. There is a bunch of shit in there. Looks to mostly be old worn-out clothes that the dog has turned into his personal bed. It looks like the car of a transient. Uh Oh.

My lady friend corrals the mutt and tells us both to hop in the car. I open the door and say a silent prayer. Oh Lord, please don't let this girl be a crazy transient hippy girl with a dog that only eats her leftover veggie burritos. Amen and we're off!

I guide her to my house and tell her she should just park there because it is safer to drive three blocks instead of four. She is ambivalent, so she agrees. We get out of the car and she asks to get a tour of my house. Good request. We might not even have to do the cards thing at Wingman's house. We might be able to skip it and just hop in the sack. Wingman must have known this would happen. Good wingman. I invite my lady friend and her dog inside. I give her a short tour while her mutt cruises around the place at warp speed. Its disturbing how fast and agile that thing is. I don't want it in my house. Oh well. I try to ignore it while I put the first official move on the girl. I grab her and pull her towards me. She pulls away. Oops. Too fast.

She turns and notices my skateboard leaning against the wall in the corner of the kitchen. She is excited again. I am not excited anymore. She tells me that she has a skateboard in her car and that we should both ride our skateboards over to Wingman's house. I'm really not excited anymore. And I'm not surprised at all that she has a skateboard in her car. I am surprised that she wants to ride it right now. I'm too drunk for that shit. I'm sure she is too. Well, maybe not. She was apparently sober enough to realize that she shouldn't make out with a drunk guy she just met at the bar. Good for her. I agree to ride out. Why not. It is clear nothing will be happening here. And I'll do just about anything to get that dog out of my house. We're off!...Again! Actually, not a real exclamation point this time. This is a sarcastic exclamation point. I am becoming impatient with this girl. She might be a little crazy. Anyway, we're off (!)

I attempt to ride my board, but I'm so drunk I can't really do it at first. I push off a couple of times and lose my balance before I can even get on it. I try a couple times and eventually find my balance. Its a longboard, so there is plenty of room on the deck for me to get my feet situated on there and find a good position to carve back and forth down the street. By the time I am comfortably carving around and enjoying myself immensely, my lady friend has located her skateboard and is attempting to ride. But its not really working out for her. I cruise back towards her to see if I can help her out at all. As I approach I am stunned once again. This time I am totally floored. Stupefied. Bewildered. She is riding some sort of roller-skate. Not roller-skates. Roller-skate. One. Singular. One fucking roller-skate. This girl is officially crazy. I'm done. I must get away. And fast.

When I see the roller-skate, I am shocked to the point of losing my balance and have to bail out. She laughs while I collect my skateboard...and my wits. I ask her what the hell she is riding. She flatly responds that she is riding a skateboard. That is a skateboard? It looks like a roller-skate. The deck is barely as long and wide as my foot. In fact, I ask to try it out and it isn't as long or wide as my foot. You can't ride that thing. Its essentially one roller-skate. You have to kick with your free foot to get speed, then try to balance that free foot in the air while your other foot stays on the ever-tilting deck, your arms windmilling around in every direction to maintain an impossible balancing act. I couldn't believe that this little mini-skateboard was even invented. What the hell is the matter with people? Its just absurd. I tried to ride that mini-skateboard five or six times and ate pavement every time. My lady friend didn't fair much better. Luckily, we were only traveling one block. So we were on our way. One guy. One girl. One longboard. One really short board. And loyal dog bobbing and weaving all around us.

I'm praying again to the Lord to please help me get rid of this crazy transient girl and her dog. I have learned a valuable lesson, Lord. Now please release me. Please.

We slowly make our way to Wingman's front door. I am drunk, frustrated and tired. Apparently Wingman and his girlfriend were tired too, because all the lights are off and no one is responding to the doorbell. After a couple of minutes, my lady friend calls Wingman. He answers the phone and lights come on inside. He opens up the door wearing nothing but an old baby blue bathrobe. He invites us in and I reluctantly accept. My lady friend happily accepts. Help me, Lord.

We settle in the kitchen. Wingman is drunk, talking loud and slurring badly. He pours three glasses of Patron. Not shot glasses - whiskey glasses. Quarter full. No ice. Room temperature. Oh boy. We're gonna sip this warm tequila. Lord, help me. Wingman slams his down in a matter of minutes in between loud, obnoxious and indecipherable explanations of why his girlfriend didn't get up when we arrived. Seems pretty simple though. She was drunk and tired and fell asleep. Sounds like a pretty good plan actually. This was not a sufficient explanation for Wingman. He likes to spin a good yarn, so he goes on and on about something about a warehouse and an artist commune. It is quite impossible to follow. Luckily I have my warm sipping tequila to keep me thoroughly amused.

My lady friend doesn't drink her Patron at all. Wingman notices this and offers to polish it off for her. She relinquishes the glass, fully relieved. The two of them begin a conversation and it moves them into the dining room for some reason. I don't care why. I see an opportunity. I slam home my drink, cringe, and announce that I am going to the bathroom. They walk in one direction. I walk the other. I grab my skateboard and walk right passed the bathroom and out the front door. I run onto the street, throw my skateboard down and hop on. I kick hard and ride fast till I get to my house. I go inside, lock the door, turn out the lights, and turn off my phone. I look outside and see that I was not followed by any crazy transient girls or skinny little bird dogs. Phew! I finally take a long, deep breath. In my nose, out my mouth. I notice a faint smell of patchouli. Just a mild scent. Nasty.

Clever Men Wear Clever T-shirts

Long have I known that I am more clever than the average man. My whittisisms have captured the imaginations of thousands. It makes me sad that I can't reach out to everyone though. Most people pass by me everyday and they never know that they are passing by the most clever man they have ever passed. But that is all about to change. Fore I have found the solution. The most clever solution anyone has ever thought of. The solution has come in the form of a t-shirt! But not just any old t-shirt. Yes, I found a t-shirt with a statement written on the front. A brilliant statement that when read by the passer-by will immediately reveal to them that I am not just your average Joe. This Joe is the most clever Joe on the face of the earth. This Joe has a clever t-shirt.

I wear my clever t-shirt whenever I go out to the bars. People read my clever t-shirt and they say to themselves, "wow, that guy is clever. He must be. Look at how clever that t-shirt is! I bet he has the best sense of humor of anyone at this bar. And I'm sure he is a gentle and passionate lover. I must meet that man!"

Now I am complete. Not only do I inspire all my friends and family with my brilliant Joe-isms and profound social commentary, but now everyone I pass on the street gets a small taste of my brilliance simply by reading the statement on my t-shirt.

I must purchase another. Two more, even. I must wear a clever t-shirt every day of the week. I must go right now! I'll be at Urban Outfitters for the rest of the day if anyone needs me.

Circle The Wagons

I feel like I am returning to the scene of a crime. And as soon as I cross the threshold I see both of them. One of them makes eye contact with me and I can see the disdain all over her face. I think she even shutters just a little bit. She quickly looks away and continues about her business. She walks one way, I walk the other. A quick yet extremely painful hello is exchanged as we pass. I desperately look for my friends. Please, for the love of God, let none of them be here so I can turn around and get the hell out of Dodge.

As I walk through the bar I find myself walking directly towards the other one. She is taking orders from a table. She doesn't see me yet, so I attempt to walk by behind her. As I pass behind her, I guess she catches my scent, because she turns her head towards me in the middle of her order. I can feel her cold stare in the back of my head. But I've already walked passed her. I can't turn around now. And besides, there is nothing to say. So I keep walking, looking ahead, looking for a friend. Doesn't seem like I'll be able to find one in this place though.

I eventually locate one of the people that I am supposed to meet in this lions' den. He already has a drink, so it looks as though I will be forced to stick it out here. And luckily for me, the bartenders are still acting friendly towards me. I grab two stiff drinks and give one to my friend and we hunker down for the storm ahead.

A couple more of our friends show up at the bar and I order more drinks every time another friendly face appears. I stand at the bar and make sure my friends are blocking me in. A modern day circling of the wagons. The strong watch the perimeter and the weak huddle safely within. Every so often, one of the girls passes by the perimeter, most likely totally oblivious to me, but I cannot help but watch and make sure they are disinterested. And, if nothing else, they are definitely disinterested. They perform their duties and socialize with their friends and coworkers, and I watch in constant fear of attack. But the attack never comes. And thank God, because I end up drinking so much that I cannot see straight.

By the end of the night, I can't tell who is left at the bar. I don't know where any of my friends are. I recognize some people, but I am not totally sure that I know them. And of the people that I do recognize I am not totally sure I can trust them. I remember telling all of the people from Georgia that their football team sucked and that it didn't matter if they were ever any good because Jim Tressel is the modern day Colonel Sanders. (???) Or maybe it was that Urban Meyer is the next Kurtis Blow. I don't know. It made sense at the time. And I think I told my roommate that I had suspicions of his girlfriend being a member of the KGB and that I was pretty sure she was poisoning his food and that she had a shiv in her boot. And even if she didn't have a shiv in her boot, she was not to be trusted because...well, I don't know why, but you better just watch your back. So I can't trust any of these people. I gotta get outta here. Pronto.

I collect my tab and ask the person next to me at the bar to help me sign my name. Immediately afterward, I accuse them of stealing my pen and ask them who they are working for.

"Give me back my pen!!! Who are you!! Who do you work for?!"
"Uhhh...My name is Jenny. I work for State Farm."
"Bull Shit! I know what you're up to. Just stay back. I'm leaving now. And don't even try following me."
"Wasn't planning on it."

I walk out of the bar and find a seat on the bench out front. I just need to watch the door for a second to make sure that Colonel Sanders or Jim Tressel aren't following me. I bum a cigarette to some dude. I may or may not have smoked one myself. I may or may not have fallen asleep on that bench for an hour.

I woke up in my bed the next morning. Alive. Intact. And thats all that really matters. I survived...Something. Phew! That was a close one.

Fingernail Ritual

I like to chew my fingernails in the shower. I don't like to clip them. I don't like to chew them in public. And I don't like to chew them if they have dirt caked in them. So after I've cleansed myself in the shower, I crank the temperature nozzle as far to the left as it will go and I stand naked under the boiling stream of water and commence the chewing of thine nails.

Lately, I've been so busy with work and school that I've been neglecting my fingernails. I hop in and out of the shower with my mind on other things. I sit down on the bus and one of my freakishly long fingernails catches my eye and I wince because the nail has already touched a towel, a medicine cabinet, a toothbrush, a button, a zipper, a sweater, a glass, a cereal box, a milk carton, a drawer, a bowl, a spoon, a water nozzle, a dish rack, a medicine ball, a hoola-hoop, a vietnamese hooker, a hundred dollar bill, a ferret, a syringe, an open wound, a doughnut, a doorknob, and a fist pound from the bus driver. I can't chew this nail. I must wait till I get back in the shower and cleanse myself of all this dirtiness.

By the time I remembered my fingernail chewing ritual while I was actually standing in the shower, all ten of my fingernails had grown horrendously long. It was a daunting task, but luckily I had a little extra time and a lot of hot water. I cranked the temperature nozzle and bit into the longest nail. It was soft and my teeth peeled the excess portion right off the base. A clean and quick severing. Like biting into a tender slab of ribs and the meat falling right off the bone as soon as your teeth wrap themselves around it.

I was finished with all ten fingernails in an instant. I had chewed them off so fast I didn't stop to think about the consequences. I had never bitten off more than two or three at a time. Usually I can just hold them in a corner of my mouth while I turn the water off and towel off. But this time I had ten fingernails in my mouth. I couldn't tuck them into a corner of my mouth. They jostled around all over the place.

While I was attempting to towel off my back, one of the jagged little bits of hardened protein poked my brand new canker sore. I yelped in pain and a primal reflex caused my head to jerk to left. My head hit the shower nozzle, I swallowed all ten fingernails, and I careened out of the shower onto the cold tile floor.

I lay there in a heap for only as long as I had to. I stood up and got back into the shower. I turned the temperature nozzle all the way to the left and stared at my fingernails as the hot water cascaded down my battered body. Thank God no one saw that. I just chewed off my fingernails and swallowed them. I am either a pathetic and filthy human being or I am a rather clean and relatively hairless animal. I think that the only way I can let this one go is to assume that I am the latter.

I looked down at my toenails.

The Candlelight Debacle

Tables are hard to come by at The Candlelight on Thursday night at 10pm. So Waterhouse and I are extremely protective of our table and our chairs. When we venture outside for a cigarette, we always remember to leave full drinks, cell phones, used toothpicks, gym bags, watches, and at least one flip-flop on the table. Nothing is left that is irreplacable if stolen, but everything there should tell a passerby, in no uncertain terms, that this table is not available. The current owners of this table are smoking a cigarette outside in a joint effort to protect your lungs from murderous second-hand smoke, and they will be back shortly to reclaim this table and these chairs. The smokers are doing you a favor by reducing your risk of contracting cancer, so you should feel obligated to do them a favor by not commiting a hostile takeover of their dominion. Please and thank you go away and wait for your turn on the foosball table somewhere else.

When Waterhouse and I return from our smoke break, we find that the protocol has been broken. A girl is sitting in my chair. She is wearing a bright orange mini dress that has some sort of flowery pattern. It is way too loud for The Candlelight, but it accentuates her legs and breasts and makes her look fairly cute in an old-worn-out-stripper-kind-of-way. She is hunched over the table, leaning back and forth, while she appears to be staring at a glass of white wine that is four inches from her face. Waterhouse and I are both stupefied. We stop and turn to each other, hoping the other knows how to proceed in this kind of situation. But we are both perplexed. Neither one of us has experienced a break in the cigarette protocol.

Waterhouse shrugs it off and returns to his seat. He says hello to the girl, but she doesn't respond. She seems to be totally fixated on her wine glass. I hover over and try to convey with non-threatening body language that the girl is sitting in my seat. I lean across her to grab my bottle of beer and I take a huge swig of it right in front of her. I pick up my cell phone and check for missed calls. I peel one of the used toothpicks out of a crevasse and begin to dig the dirt out of my fingernails. And for my encore, my coup de gras, I pick up the flip flop and drop it on the floor. I slide my foot into the flip-flop and try to convey a feeling of mock surprise that my foot fits perfectly into the grooves.

She notices none of my feeble antics. I stand at the table like a child lost in a foreign land.

Waterhouse leans over the table to the point where he can look thru the wine glass and make eye contact with the girl. After about 30 seconds, she snaps out of her trance. She mumbles something incoherent at Waterhouse. After a couple of false starts, he begins to decipher her messages, and they are off and rolling on a completely one-sided conversation. Waterhouse asks her simple yes or no questions, she says yes or no, and Waterhouse fills in the gaps.

I try to follow the conversation as best as I can, but I get bored fairly quickly. I turn to the tv and start watching the baseball game. still standing. still perplexed.

A beefy asian girl comes barreling over to the table and gives Orange Mini Dress Girl a bear hug. She begins speaking in a voice that is loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear, but is completely undecipherable. It is a mix of slurring, howling, blubbering, and even a bit of wailing. She turns toward me and begins slurring at me. I can't tell if she is hitting on me or if she thinks I killed her cat. I'm scared because I think she might actually be hitting on me.

I stand there in a state of panic while The Beefy Asian Girl slurs and points in all directions and lurches and laughs. I nod and I smile while I try to figure out a good exit strategy. I've decided to just put my drink down and sprint for the front door when two more girls come flying over to the table. One of them grabs Waterhouse and gives him a giant hug. Its all over now. He knows this new girl. And because of this, we are now all part of a group. Me and Waterhouse, and the four drunkest girls in the world.

I eventually find a new chair to sit in and I sit quietly while the four drunkest girls in the world stumble around and scream at each other. They leave full wine glasses sitting on the table while they go to the bar to order fresh glasses of wine. They disappear to the ladies room for long durations leaving Waterhouse and I to watch their wine glasses and their giant purses covered in rhinestones. Every once in a while The Beefy Asian Girl screams something at me, but I can't understand her, so I just respond with Napoleon Dynamite quotes. It doesn't matter what I say because she is so drunk that by the time she finishes a statement, she has forgotten that she started it.

Slowly but surely, the four drunkest girls in the world lose their momentum. One-by-one they call for a taxi and go their seperate ways. Waterhouse and I are left at the table in utter exhaustion. We have just survived a tornado and the realization washes over us. We are lucky. It could have been much worse. We could have gotten into one of those cabs. But we didn't. We are still here. Here to have another drink. Here to live another day. Here.

Now let's get the fuck outtahere before one of them decides to come back!

Steak Dinner

I want to take you out to a nice steak dinner...at Denny's...at 4 o'clock in the morning. Sound nice? You don't have to order a steak if you don't want. You can get yourself any one of the breakfast "slams". Whatever you want. Because you deserve it. Don't be shy. Let me do this for you. I don't mind. I want to do it. Because I think you are special. And I would do anything for my special lady. Lets go. Do you mind driving?

Second Hand Smoke Will Kill YOU

The surgeon general released a report recently stating that there is sufficient proof that the inhallation of second hand smoke will increase your chances of contracting lung cancer by 20 percent. Therefore, the surgeon general states that there is no safe amount of second hand smoke an average adult can ingest. Therefore, second hand smoke is detremental to your health even if you ingest a microscopic amount. Therefore, second hand smoke will fucking kill you, your pregnant wife, and your six-year-old son. The next time you have to walk thru someone's cigarette cloud you better hold your breath and drop to ground and eat handfulls of top soil to neutralize the carcinogens invading your healthy body. Then go ahead and dig a six feet deep hole in the ground and lay down at the bottom of it. The man smoking the cigarette will gladly shovel the dirt back in the hole on top of you. After your heart stops beating and your lungs and stomach are filled to the brim with dirt, you should no longer be at risk of contracting lung cancer. Phew! That was a close call. You almost increased your risk of contracting lung cancer by 20 percent. And that would have been tragic. Just tragic. Well, not tragic. But a 20 percent increase in the possibility of a tragedy. Either way, tragedy avoided. Well done. We will erect a tombstone above your grave and it will read:
Here Lies John Q Public
He Buried Himself Alive To Preserve His Health
Fucking Moron
Maybe Smoking Would have Helped The TightAss Relax A Little Bit

One Hundred Words For Frisbee

1.frisbee
2.disc
3.'bee
4.plastic
5.white god
6.my only friend
7.my girlfriend
8.my boyfriend
9.lover
10.partner
11.souvenir
12.wall art
13.decoration
14.ufo
15.flying saucer
16.dinner plate
17.toilet paper
18.taco holder
19.$hit bag
20.f*ck face
21.f*ck this

This is too hard. Anyone got any others?

Captain J Crew

Last week I was persuaded to join my roommate for an evening of drinks on the front patio of Govnr’s Park Restaurant & Tavern. The evening started off in the usual manner. We combed the premises for people we knew and when we couldn’t find anyone, we looked for an open table on the front patio. Since we arrived just as happy hour was ending, we could not find an open table. However, we noticed a large group of extremely drunk professionals haggling over their bill. We found a temporary table inside and waited patiently for the J Crew to vacate. We got ourselves a couple of drinks and made mindless small talk that roommates invariably make while staring at a television in a bar.

The landlord put my bike in the shed because she was afraid it might get stolen. The Xcel bill came in the mail today. Something in the refrigerator doesn’t smell quite right. I lost my shoe shine brush, have you seen it? No. You shine your shoes? I used to.

Before long the J Crew began making preparations to leave their table. The lonely souls that weren’t using their cell phones grabbed them off the table and stuffed them into a pocket or a purse. The last portions of drinks were gulped down and cigarette butts were stamped out. They shifted and swayed and stumbled their way off the patio and inside the bar.

My roommate and I cleaned the table ourselves so we would not lose it while we waited for the staff to bus it. We sat down and congratulated ourselves on achieving the small victory of finding a patio table at a crowded bar.

After a few rounds of drinks at our trophy patio table, my bladder required some relief. I made my way thru the crowded bar and I noticed a few members of the J Crew standing in a narrow hall. They were still haggling over the bill and they were blocking the entire hall. When I came upon them I stopped and waited for them to notice that I could not get passed. After a brief moment, one of the guys noticed that I was standing there and excused himself as he moved out of the way. As I thanked him and walked past, he responded by saying, “Nice fucking shirt”.

It took me a moment to digest what he had said. I was simply wearing a t-shirt. It wasn’t too small or too big. It didn’t have an offensive message written on it. It didn’t have any message written on it. No holes, no rips, no stains. Just a t-shirt.

When I came to the realization that I was just openly mocked for wearing a t-shirt to a dingy bar (by a drunken idiot wearing a button-down shirt and neatly pressed khakis) I became angry. This guy couldn’t figure how much money he just spent over the course of a two hour happy hour, but he could certainly stop counting up the tequila sunrises on his bill long enough to ridicule someone for wearing a t-shirt to the bar. Since when is it a fashion crime to wear a t-shirt to Govnr’s Park?

I decided to respond to Captain J Crew. Something along the lines of, “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m not interested in going back to your place. You’re a good looking dude and all, and you dress nice, but I’m not into that scene. Why don’t you go home and fuck yourself. You could clearly use some relief from all that pent up anger.”

But when I turned back to face him, he was already fully entrenched in his bill again. He had completely forgotten about me and my t-shirt and was tiredly trying to decipher that bill. The moment had passed. I felt ashamed. I lost an argument that I didn’t even realize I was apart of. I walked away.

Captain J Crew would probably cheat his way out of paying for most of his drinks, leave the bar with his mildly attractive half-wit girlfriend, and get behind the wheel of his silver Audi A4. He would successfully drive home with The Fray blasting on his stereo and never think twice about driving with a blood-alcohol-content over twice the legal limit. And he certainly wouldn’t think once about scoffing at me and my t-shirt.

But here I am, a week later, still thinking about the incident. Still bitter and ashamed and angry. I am not angry that I did not tell off Captain J Crew. I am not angry that I did not hit him in the face. Both of those actions would have been pointless and would most likely just make the situation worse. But I am angry precisely because of the fact that any response would have been pointless. No matter what I might have said or did, I could not have changed the attitude of Captain J Crew. He possessed a sense of entitlement that he has probably held since he was an adolescent. A sense of entitlement that is crippling our generation.

A person with a sense of entitlement is impossible to reason with. You cannot convince someone to drop their sense of entitlement. They believe that they are entitled to believe what they want. Words like fight, earn, learn, and persevere do not have any special meaning to the entitled. They believe they deserve every benefit they have ever received in their lives regardless of any lack of personal struggle involved. They deserve it because that is their birthright. Humility only exists to these people as a synonym for embarrassment. The idea that humility is also the spirit of humanity is completely lost.

I am angry and I am bitter because I am stuck in a society where people like Captain J Crew are not the exception, they are the norm. This is our world. A world where a sense of entitlement can allow you to join the ranks of the ruling class. A ruling class that rules over nothing except their own shame.

The Adventures of Huff-Daddy and Captaine Destructoe

Huff-Daddy mounted his beautiful new Huffy and locked his flip-flops into the pedals and sped away. The pedals worked well with the Huff-Daddy and the steering wheel fit right into his grip. The Huff-Daddy could go as fast as The Huff-Daddy wanted to go. The Huff-Daddy could turn in any direction that the Huff-Daddy wanted to turn. And the Huff-Daddy rode that shining royal blue beauty towards the horizon with authorithy, with direction, and with purpose.

The Huff-Daddy was riding with purposes to ride thru a busy intersection at Downing and Alameda, and with intentions of making thru the intersection without applying pressure to the braking system. The Huff-Daddy was 10 yards outside of the intersection when the light changed from green the yellow. The Huff-Daddy felt a slight twinge of panic when the light changed because he was unsure of the efficacy of the braking system of the Huffy. Instead of testing the braking system, he applied extra pressure to the pedals and attempted to race thru the intersection.

The light changed from yellow to red and the Huff-Daddy was still not yet thru the intersection. He looked to the left and saw automobiles ready to push on, he looked to the right and saw automobiles already in motion. A quick breath in and paralyzation set in when the Huff-Daddy applied pressure to both the front and rear braking system and his speed did not decrease. The Huff-Daddy squeezed both brakes harder than anything he has ever squeezed before. He looked down at the front brake pads that were not moving no matter how hard and how many times he squeezed the handles. He looked up and to the right as the oncoming traffic approached him as fast as he was approaching it. Total paralyzation took hold as he realized that a confrontation was about to occur. The only thing the Huff-Daddy could do was close his eyes and await his horrible fate.

As the Huff-Daddy sped toward the intersection with his eyes closed and his body parylized in anticipation, a young man stood at the corner with his own bicycle in one hand and a nalgene bottle in the other. He quickly realized that the cyclist was not able to slow down and was about to blast right into oncoming traffic. He promptly dropped the nalgene bottle and yanked a bungie cord off of his utitilty belt which was held securely to the frame of his own bicycle. He secured one end of his bungie cord to a light pole and swung the other end of the cord around two times and used the momentum to lasso the other end of the bungie cord around the frame of the Huffy as it thundered into the intersection.

The bundie cord stretched from the light pole to the Huffy. The Huffy took a hard right turn just out of the collision course with the oncoming traffic. The Huffy became a sort of tetherball that would now eventually wrap itself around the light pole. The Huff-Daddy tightened his grip on the Huffy as it spun around the light pole until there was no more free cord left and the Huffy slammed into the pole. The Huffy was pinned to the light pole and the Huff-Daddy was pinned to the bike.

The Huff-Daddy was hurt, but he was still alive. Had he been pummeled by oncoming traffic he would probably not been hurt, but he would have been killed. The Huff-Daddy realized this and exhaled a breath of relief.

the Huff-Daddy gathered himself and unraveled himself from the Huffy and the bungie cord. As he stood up he came face to face with the man who saved his life. The Huff-Daddy looked at the young man that was still holding his own bicycle over one shoulder as he stood looking at the Huff-Daddy. The Huff-Daddy was speechless for a moment, but he tried his best to show his gratitude.

"Thank you. You saved my life. Thank you."

"Ahhh...Pocket change. Pocket change."

"What?"

"You heard me. It was pocket change. What is your name?"

"I am the Huff-Daddy. What is your name?"

"I am Destructoe...Captaine Destructoe."

The Huff-Daddy

I'm bored. Are you bored? I bet you are and you just don't realize it yet. Here is a good method to utilize to test whether you are bored or not. All it entails is asking yourself a couple of questions. If you answer "yes" to any of them, then there is a pretty good chance that you are bored. Here we go:

1. Are you reading this blog?

Actually, this is the only question you need to answer "yes" to.

Side Note: If you answered "no" to the above question then we have seemed to have entered some sort of alternate universe with extra dimensions in which you can actually experience a blog without really entering the site and reading the words within. But I doubt that is the case, and you are actually just sitting on your little chair on earth physically reading this $hit.

So, most likely, you answered "yes" to the above question. Therefore, by the authority invested in me by The Denver Muffler Company, I now pronounce you...bored.

This makes me sad. No one should have to be bored. I would like to help you free yourself from this state of mind. Let me start by telling you a little story. It starts out with nothing but a young man and a dream. A dream for freedom. A dream for independence. A dream for a new way of life. A dream for...a bicycle.

The year was 2005. Not a good year for gas prices. Not a good year for drinking and driving in the State of Colorado. The result was a young man with a gas guzzling SUV that he could not drive, that he would not drive. Therefore, the young man had trouble getting around town. There were only so many places a man could walk to, and very few of those places were actually entertaining. This drove the young man crazy with boredome and he slowly sank into a state of inertia. A young man that cannot move is an unmoved young man. An unmoved young man is a useless man. A useless man is a bored man. So the question becomes: How do I get moving? And the simplest answer: Get out of that f*cking chair! And get on the seat of...a bicycle!

The young man scoured the classifieds and the bike shops and finally found the perfect bicycle on craigs list. It was the kind of bike that dreams are made of. A shiny royal blue Huffy 10-speed listed in the Wash Park area for $20. And the young man just happened to have a twenty dollar bill in his pocket. He called the owner of the Huffy post haste. A meeting was set up that very evening for a test drive of the royal blue dream machine.

When the young man arrived at the owner's house, he immediately saw the Huffy perched in the driveway, a silver kick stand holding her upright for everyone to witness her majestic splendor. The owner quickly informed the young man that the bicycle had been in his garage for no less than 10 years and he was unsure of her overall performance capabilities, and more specifically, the efficacy of the front and rear braking system.

The young man was undeterred. He wanted that bicycle. Although being keenly adept at the art of negotiation, the young man saw an opening for a low offer after hearing that the braking system might potentially be inadequate. He offered the owner $10 for the Huffy 10-speed. The owner quickly responded with a counter-offer of $15, but he responded too quickly. The young man knew at that moment that the owner would be willing to deal the bike away for just about any price. The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a solitary $10 dollar bill. "I'm sorry, but this is all I have. Ten dollars, take it or leave it."

The owner of the bicycle hesitated for a second. He looked down at the ten dollar bill, and then back up to the eyes of the young man. He maintained eye contact with the young man for a long moment, searching his eyes, searching his soul. He said to the young man, "You realize this is a Huffy?" The young man stared right back into the eyes of the owner and without missing a beat, he said, "Yesss! This is indeed a Huffy. And I...I am the Huff-Daddy."

Scimmage is done. Looking for a new leader?

So. The scrimmage lead by Pete and me is done for now. Both our teams are starting to ramp up and the extra day is just too much. We need a new leader to emerge to lead it. Any volunteers?

the donut

I gathered my donuts off the floor and I proceeded to walk out the door. my donuts were saggy and deformed and there were many hairs stuck to the glaze, but they were donuts g*d d*mn it. And there ain't no dog hair infested donut in this world that is gonna keep me from eating my carpet flavored donuts. I've been told that donuts are g*d's special candy. If its good enough for g*d then its good enough for me. I'll eat that donut, I don't care what kind of hairs have rolled up on it.

And Jesus said, "brush thow dog hair off thine glazed donut, fore thine pastry tastes of divinity no matter what how many thimes thee has to pick thow dog hair off of thine tongue".

And isn't that what life is all about? Pealing the dog hairs out of your mouth after you've eaten something off the ground? You do what you have to do for your donut. I suppose I'll eat my donut whether its got dog hair on it or not. Peter knows what I'm talkin bout. Peter will eat anything. He's f*ckin crazy.

And so it says in Jordy 35:21: Jesus and Peter ate thern donuts and thow ate theirn f*ckin dog hair that liedith within. And it was good...and sticky.

And so I walked out the front door, with my donuts in one hand, and the other hand picking the dog hairs out of my teeth. And I rejoiced in my experience. Today is a beautiful day. I just hope I don't choke on all these dog hairs on my donuts. I mean, jesus. Can't I take one bite without picking dog hairs out of my teeth?

G*d D*mn It!

I guess not.

So here is to you, and here is to me, eating what we want and picking the hairs out of our teeth along the way.

stop the itch

reaching down, reaching out, reaching up, reaching in, reaching doubt. I walked across the hallway and reached for the door. Before I could open the door I turned and looked down at the carpet. It was red and thick and coarse. I could smell the thick, red, coarseness of it. I could smell the fibers. I could smell the mustiness. I couldn't not smell it. It engulfed my nostrils and made me want to sneeze. But I couldn't sneeze. I shook and snorted and rubbed my nose, but I couldn't get the smell out of my nose. Shaking my head and spinning around and rubbing and snorting, there is nothing I can do.

I drop my box of donuts on the floor and I dive face first into the flaming turf. I must itch my nose and I must itch it with the carpet. I must burrow my nose into the thick carpetness of the rug. Oh my god, it itches. Rub it out. Rub it into the rug. Rub it. The itching will not stop, so I commence to move on all fours across the rug. Hands reaching out, reaching down, pulling at the rug, yanking strands of it out of the floor as I drag my nose against the rug, itching. pulling, yanking, itching, moving forward. My knees function as the engine. My hands reach out and down while my knees push my body forward, forward, forward. I push on with my nose buried in the floor. My hands reaching out, grasping, yanking for anything, anything.

The crown of my head slams into the door on the opposite end of the hall. I open my eyes and they are so close to the rug that I can see the individual strands of red hot fiber. My knees burn and throb and my hands ache, but all pain is secondary to the feeling in my nose. Not quite pain, not quite white vibrational numbness, not quite quesy dizziness.

I stand up and run to the nearest mirror to survey the damage. It looks worse than it feels. The skin that used to cover my nose is no longer there. A carpet burn runs in the form of a narrow strip from my forehead down to the tip of my nose. Its wet pinkness shines back at me thru the mirror. I watch it pulsate as I feel it throb. I have stopped the itch, but I have replaced it with nausea and searing pain. oh, the pain. The pain that lies within the carpet burn on my nose. It hurts and it looks disgusting. And now I will go to school and have my picture taken for the yearbook. And I will smile for the camera, fore I am proud of the carpet burn on my nose. I can't wait to pick the scab!