I Just Don't Know Anymore

I was walking back from the 7-11 a few minutes ago, when an old, gold-toothed, greasy black man walked up from behind me...Here's the exchange:

Black guy - "Hey man"

Me - "How you doing?"

"You smoke that bud, man?"

"No, I quit."

"don't get high, huh? Well you got yourself a girlfriend?"

"Yeah, kind of" (note - a blatant lie, but I didn't know where he was going with all this)

"Well...Then...You want a free blow job?"



And he ran away.
And that was the single most disturbing thing that has ever....evereverevereverever...Happened to me.

I feel like simultaneously vomiting and crying.


Unsolved Mysteries, My (Baby) Bulls, and New Years Resolutions Fulfilled (Nearly)


Dateline...two weeks ago. I wake up on a Sunday morning to find my front yard looking like this.

So you know, we do not normally have 1) a water heater, 2) a traffic cone nor, 3) a 50-gallon barrell of oil in our front yard.

The questions of: Who put it there, why did they put it there, and just an all in general "what the fuck?" have still not been answered.

Here's what happened the night before:My roomate's girlfriend was celebrating her 21st birthday. Her and her sorority girls from Saint Louis University rented a party bus to take the group to a few bars around the StL. I was fortunate enough to get the invite. Unfortunatly, however, this "party bus" ended up just being a regular school bus and the only thing "party" about it was that you were allowed to can beers while aboard.

Now, I'm a rather simple man, and in theory, that sounds absolutely grand. But, I am also a weak man. A very weak man. A very, very weak man. A very, very, ve...well you get the idea.

I am a man who happens to get motion sick on occasion. And canning beers on a school bus most definitly qualifies as one of those occasions.

By the time we got to the first bar, I had to call up the reserves (my friend Cathy) to give me a ride to the next bar. For some reason, her Honda didn't make me quite as nauseus as the 1978 "Bluebird" school bus that was leaking as much diesel as it was burning. So I made it to the second bar and had a few beers...things were allright, but my stomach was still a little off. I decided to walk home (living in the biggest bar district in St. Louis does have it's advantages)

When I got home things were normal. I poured myself a glass of wine, put on the Killers album, and called it a night.

Apparently, during my slumber, all hell broke loose out front...Leaving my front yard looking like a sketch out of a Jeff Foxworthy video (not that I've ever seen one.)

The most remarkable part is that during the course of the next week, all of those pieces also dissapeared (one at a time) from the front yard.

Was this mearly just a prank aimed at making us scratch our heads? Because that's all it really did.

Or was it more sinister? Terrorists perhaps?

Granted, this isn't your normal terrorist attack, but when people leave random (and I mean random) things on your lawn, wouldn't you find that somewhat terrorizing? I know I do.

Just so you know, The Chicago (Baby) Bulls are 22 and 19 and currently in 6th place in the Eastern Confrence.

Consider me the official conductor of the (Baby) Bulls Bandwagon.

All Aboard!

Three more days. That's all I have left.

Three more days.

Three more days to what, you ask?

My number one New Years Resolution was, of course, to meet Burt Reynolds.

Number two: Do not make out with a random girl for one calendar month.

If I go three more days, I have completed my goal.

It took some work. A lot of me wearing a backwards hat. Me constantly wearing sweatshirts. Playing Golden Tee whenever possible. And just being a plain old jerk in front of girls.

Now, don't get me wrong...Random make outs are one of the greatest things ever (right next to good back rubs and Super Pretzels) but I've got a pretty healthy ego. It's bigger than a fucking Super Pretzel (God, I love Super Pretzels!) And every now and then my ego simply must be put in check. So I make myself no longer desirable to girls, leading to no random hookups, and eventually diminishing the size of my ego.

But, come next weekend...yes, Mardi Gras weekend...I'm back on the "make" hunt.

So, girls of the StL...don't say I didn't warn you.

Seacrest...out (I've always wanted to say that)



You're Not An Astronaut...Neither Am I

Whoa, Nellie! It's been a while! Here's whats popping.

While driving back and forth from Saint Louis to Peoria over the last few weeks, I listend to the following CD's:

Phish- Billy Breathes
Nick Drake- Pink Moon
The Killers- Randoms
Nas- Illmatic
Some weird CD by The White Stripes
Cat Stevens- Greatest Hits
Dire Straits- Brothers in Arms
Dr Dre- Chronic 2001
Rolling Stones- Exile on Main Street

What does that list say about me? Maybe I'm a little too eclectic. Pick a fucking genre dude.

For crying out loud. I mean, Nas and Dire Straits? Fuck.

As you may or may not know, The Surreal Life on VH1 is unbelievable.

I mean Flavor Flav and some man-chick getting baby-making close? Wow.

The best part of the show? You and your friends sitting around and picking your all-time personal (super-awesome-ultimate-favorite) Surreal Life house.
My house:
1) Harriet Tubmann
2) The Ultimate Warrior
3) Anna Nicole Smith
4) Ghandi
5) Morganna the Kissing Bandit
6) President Rutherford B. Hayes
7) Just some random coke-whore
8) Mr. Belvadeire
9) The guy from the "Micro Machine" commercials
10) Aunt Jemima

With special guest host Mike Tyson.

Thats my show.
Please feel free to come up with your dream house.
If you think that's a time killer...think about this:

The debate (still) rages:

Which was the better spin-off:

Family Matters


Just The Ten Of Us

Let me know.




Willie McGee and "Ashy (Blank)s"

The Baseball Hall Of Fame voting came and went this week and one of my childhood heroes was on the ballot for the first time.
Willie "Pretty Boy" McGee had his first oppurtunity to enter the halls of Cooperstown and sadly, his bid failed.
Here are what some experts have weighed in with:

Jayson Stark (senior baseball analyst, espn.com):

"First Timers On The Ballot:
Wade Boggs- 474 votes (91.9% - Hall of Famer)
Willie McGee - 26 votes (5.0%)
Jim Abbott - 13 votes (2.5 percent)
Darryl Strawberry - 6 (1.2 percent),
Jack McDowell - 4 (0.8 percent)
Shut out: Mark Langston and Otis Nixon.

Only Willie McGee will live to see another ballot. His 26 votes just kept him above the five-percent cutoff line.
Final observation: True, Willie McGee was a fine player. But it sure would have seemed strange, somewhere around 1987, if someone had suggested that McGee would be a multi-ballot Hall of Fame candidate -- but Darryl Strawberry, Joe Carter, Frank Viola and Kirk Gibson wouldn't be."

Bill Simmons (Sports Guy, espn.com's Page 2):

"Exciting to watch, fantastic 1985 season, even gave us Lou Gorman's classic 'What would we do with Willie McGee?' quote during the 1990 trading deadline.
I loved watching him. He's also a charter member of the All-Ugly Hall of Fame -- he's either the Babe Ruth or the Ty Cobb, I'm not sure. Really enjoyable career.
In my personal Hall of Fame, he's probably in. In the real one, he's out."

However, since he did garner 5% of the vote, he will be eligible next year, too. Maybe then the voters can see the man behind the stats, and put Willie in his rightful place. Cooperstown.

I mean, could you imagine the bronze bust of Willie's mug? Hilarious.

After reading an online article from the New York Post I know now the following information:

Jay-Z is hung "Like a one-liter Pepsi bottle. It could block out the sun."

Method Man is"a beast in bed, he likes to spank and tell you to lay down, do this, do that ... He likes to pull your hair."

Jadakiss is a "minuteman", although "It might have been a fluke. I just don't know how it happened that fast. He's gotta be able to last with somebody."

Allen Iverson has "Had the littlest, ashiest [bleep] I've ever seen, It wasn't even worth taking my clothes off for."

That's right AI supposedly has an "ashy penis." Is that the worst insult a man could here?

Yes. Yes, it is.

On second thought: "Ashy Penis" would be a decent name for a Punk band.
Discuss amongst yourselves.



N.Y.E, World Series Closure, Chapelle Show, and N.Y. Resolutions

Ney Years Eve has never meant very much to me. It is, and always will be, the most overated holiday of the year. There's no real signifigance other that the fact that you're going to write the wrong date about twenty times in the next few weeks.


I spent the new year's eve drinking rather heavily with some old friends. I can't say it was a bad NYE, per se. And since I haven't had a good one in about 7 year, I really have no room to complain here.

I did,however, enjoy partying in my backyard at 3 a.m while my cousin Jeremy and I wore Red Sox jerseys and sprayed champaign all over each other while yelling "WORLD SERIES BABY! WE DID IT!"

I would have done this in October directly after the actual World Series, but since the Sox beat my real team (the Cards) I promised myself I'd hold off on any celebration.

N.Y.E. Seemed like as good of time as any to celebrate.

I started thinking about last November's presidential elections today and I remember hearing Sean Combs (a.k.a. Puff Daddy, a.ka. P. Diddy, a.k.a the worst black dancer ever) threatening every American to "Vote or Die" (Actual quote.)

So how many non voters has Puff Daddy killed since November?


That's how many.

Talk about a flip-flop.

This dawned on me today when I remembered that my roomate Andy did not actually vote. He was "too busy with work", supposedly. (He was voting for Bush anyway, so it doesnt really matter.)

Anyhoo, the day of the election, Andy came home from work and I asked him if he had voted; he answered "no."

I immediatly feared for his life. "P.Diddy's gonna kill yo white ass," I told him.

His response: "I made my bed. I'll lay in it."

So, since that day, we've been waiting for P. Diddy to show up at the house and shoot Andy. He said he would.
Now follow through, Diddy.

(The Chapelle reference at the title of this post is because I am convinced that P.Diddy stalking across America, killing non-voters while saying "I said 'Vote or Die'...I told ya it was a-coming bitch...I thought I told you we won't stop...I said I told ya we won't stop!" Would be the funniest skit ever.)

But, I digress. I'll move on to the stupid notion of "New Years Resolutions."

Three reasons why New Years Resolutions Suck:

1)They never end up working out (way to lose those fifteen pounds, fat ass)

2)They always stink ("I'll be more sensitve of other cultures." Why?)

3)There is normally no way to tangibally measure them (Ex. "Be nicer?" What the fuck is that?)

So, in responses to crappy resolutions world-wide, I declare, that by the end of the year 2005:

I will meet Burt Reynolds.

It will neither better nor worsen me as a person. But, if by Dec 31, 2005, I do not have a picture of me and Burt Reynold shaking hands, my year will have been a disapointmnet.

I don't care if I cure the clap, me without Burt Reynolds in '05 means my year sucked.

Happy ought-five players.

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"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."