I plead the fif! I plead the fif! FIVE! 1,2,3,4, fiiiif!

The past two days of my life have been some sort of weird Twilight Zone episode, all the while reinforcing the idea that my friends are crazy and that Charlie Sheen could not even hang with us (or he totally could given his millions of dollars, coke habit, hooker seducing, alcoholic ways). Anywho, Wednesday night karaoke somehow turned into Brian inviting people to the after hours hotspot known in popular circles as 742 S. Lombard (or my house) and said people staying until 6am or later. Which is insane for a freaking Wednesday night. Needless to say I was a tad late for work. Then last night, the normal BBQ was going on, it was low key (although the amount of beer in the house was not, as I had purchased 18, Brian showed up with another 60, and then Logan's friends showed up with yet another 60) and then Paul showed up out of nowhere and next thing I know we are back at the bar. Once again, people return from the bar with us and this is where the shit gets Twilight Zone-esque. I went to bed at a reasonable hour, like 4am, but when I awoke at 7:30, I find Brian asleep on the couch (the second night in a row he slept at the house, which is bizarre when you consider he lives four blocks away), Paul on the floor, and Trevor talking to a girl in the front yard. How is this even possible? As Dave Prak eloquently put it, "It sounds like you are living in some sort of cross between the house in Animal House and the one in Old School." Craziness. I am half surprised Bryce didn't jump out of the bushes this morning and reveal he had been doing top secret shots of Patron in said location all evening and that "they were after him", whatever the hell that means.

On my air travel adventure last week, I had the fine opportunity to peruse one of my favorite aviation magazines, Sky Mall. (Motto: "Companies Had the Misguided Notion to Manufacture this Crap, and We are Going to Sell It To You, So Have an Airline Cocktail and Ponder What You Really Want Out of Life, Like a Miniature Statue of 8th President, Martin Van Buren") If you have never perused this publication, it is a must and I always try and imagine who they are trying to target with what products. The magazine literally has just about every useless trinket or gadget one could imagine, some stuff so useless, I wonder if the higher altitudes of flying on a plane make people believe that they actually do need their own cotton candy machine. I must admit, I have purchased something from Sky Mall, and I do always see things in there that get me inappropriately pumped up, like a wall sized Crossword Puzzle. On land, this would not fire me up, but something about being at 37,000 feet in cramped quarters with someone trying to recline their seat into my already severely lacking in space wedged in legs, while I sit profusely sweating because the one cute girl on the flight had to sit next to me and I inadvertently offended her with my coarse language two minutes into the flight, makes me live for this shit. Well...only some of it, because other products have specific target buyers, and I am just not one of them. For instance:

Ahhh, yes the classic M&M club head covers. Nothing says "I'm a zany corporate middle management type with two kinds of diabetes and an inadequate sense of humor that makes me think that these club head covers are hilarious" like some fine colorful candy inspired club head covers.
Target Market: Males aged 50-63 with chocolate addiction issues and lame ass senses of humor







Who out there, when reading The Da Vinci Code, was not like, "Shit homes, I need to get my own cryptex! I have something so secretive that I need to hide it in a device I did not previously know even existed! " Just as I thought, slow witted people from the red states who will buy this shit and then store food stamps in it.
Target Market: People who, if not named Bubba, know someone named Bubba. You know a guy like this, and he plays the seek and find on the cereal box. And does so very seriously.



Eureka! And to think my tropical hut in my yard previously lacked a roof! This tropical thatch look will complete it perfectly! Don't mind the fact that my yard is very small and lacking any tropical flavor, I need this! (answer: no you fucking don't)
Target Market: People with way too much money who for some reason desire a thatched locale in their yard.









Ask Carl Winslow, last week's popular column, actually prompted some questions from loyal reader, Sarah P. So, I fired them off to Carl and here are his responses:

Sarah wrote:
"dear officer winslow,
why are you sooo dang cool? also, what kind of shampoo do you use? and what is your favorite kind of doughnut?"

Cool is not a river in Egypt, Sarah! My wife Harriet and Grandma Winslow keep me grounded. I use Neutrogena T-Gel Shampoo as long as that wacky Steve isn't doing experiments where my hair might fall out! I love the long john doughnut. Classic, simple, delicious. Don't tell my wife though!

Random tidbit from my youth that might explain something:
Last week my Mom shared this fine tale with my older sister Eileen and myself. Evidently when I was very young, a friend of the family was watching Eileen and I while my parents were out. I was speaking random jibberish, the friend of the family was trying to understand me, and when she asked Eileen what I was saying, Eileen calmly replied "He's speaking Spanish" and went back to watching TV. I guess when my Mom was telling it the story was funnier. Oh well. Tough balls.

I used to rock the flying toasters...on the real

I am not really too sure why when people I have just met find out I toil at an accounting firm, they are always shocked. "But you are so fun," or "But you drink SO much," or "Why are you capable of staying out so late on weeknights?" and the occasional "That was very presumptive if you, you are lucky you are not homeless and unemployed as I originally thought." I seriously do wonder what these people had thought I did with my life. Seriously, if you were to see some of the surprised looks you would feel the same way. (these looks feel like I have just told people that I am in fact a hemaphrodite, and don't feel bad about enjoying the lapdance....except minus like three levels of surprise). True, if the tables were turned and I had to figure out what I did based on say, a Wednesday night escapade, my guesses would include things like: professional drinker, rich kid living off of daddy's dime, hobo or even something really awesome like mall security guard. So, basically no one of any importance to anyone else in the corporate world, which I some how am (but let's not stretch this too much, I am not that important as my company will discover when I leave them). But, a quick analysis of the external factors might help to figure out this accountant shock (which, in all fairness, I guess I am only employed by a company that happens to do accounting, not that I am anything close to an accountant. For God's ((respect)) sake, one of my big "project's" at one point in time this year was making thousands of copies for an audit because my boss wanted to make more money. I would have thrown it in his face, and refused to make copies if it were not the most work I had done in a long, long time.)
So, external factors:(mainly Wednesday night, and if only Wednesday night, ONLY this summer)
-Drunkardly
-Usually dressed in a humorous t-shirt (or a Polo if I feel, as Trevor would say, "elegant")
-Carousing with many other fun loving people and from time to time trying to be funny and the center of attention. Awww hell, I am always trying to be funny. It has really started to interfere with my life, like in situations where people want seriousness, like at the bank ("Sir, do you have your deposit slip?" "No, (shuffles through pockets) this is really a hold up!" (shot with taser by bank teller) "I was just kidding, I was just kidding!")
-Usually perform some awful karaoke.
-Have done many pushups in a bar
With all these factors in mind, can't I be what I am (wow, that was deep), a young recent college grad who works as a pointless corporate monkey and has mucho fun with his friends? I guess having misled several people previously and informing them that I had worked in such professions as professional hopscotch player, muse, ornithologist, or nail salon owner, I don't have that much room to complain. (By the way, all of these professions are excellent conversation starters, but ESPECIALLY muse and ornithologist. Most people don't know what a muse is, and if they do, they have questions about how someone can be employed in such a manner. As for ornithologist (a bird expert) this works best in an outdoor setting so that you can act extremely enthusiastic about any bird that flies by. Just trust me on this one)
Airport travel was supposed to be getting more secure and safer and stuff, right? Yet the other day on my fine Air-Tran flight (which only made me think of Air "I plead da fif" Tron Airlines) when I was checking in, the only reason I ended up showing my ID was because I was already prepared to do so and had thrust my ID in the worker's face, thus prompting her to ask "Oh yeah, your ID". Not that I am one of those pansies that is afraid of terrorism (yay my blog was just "discovered" by several federal agencies...hooray!). In fact, I would love to see one of those guys try to hijack a plane I am on....you want some inappropriate anger? You can bet they would be scared of the angry 6'4" guy coming at them when they are armed with a knitting needle and toenail clippers. Please don't let me read about "beefed-up security", "better employees" or "friendlier homeless people" when it seems I could have just waltzed in. But, I do look quite friendly. I guess my extremely friendly appearance always helps.
And now for the first ever As Carl Winslow. Carl Winslow was the black cop Dad everyone yearned to have next door in the early 90's (especially if you were a dorky black science geek in love with neighbor's daughter). Now, you too can ask for advice.
Dear Officer Winslow,
I have been having an ant problem in my kitchen, please help!!!!
-Annoyed in AZ
Laura!!!!! Did Steve have anything to do with this? For such a smart kid he sure does screw up a lot! Harriet! What are we going to do to fix this before the commisioner gets here? In all my years on the force, I've never dealt with anything like this.
Dear Carl,
I think my wife is cheating on me with the janitor at her office, which makes it doubly insulting.....what should I do?
-Dishonored and degraded in DeKalb
Steve! I understand you just wanted to give to give everyone a Christmas display they would not forget, but now we are stuck on the roof on Christmas Eve...with no ladder! Awww....Steve.....don't cry...here, here, ok, ok I'm Santa and I'm happy.
Dear Officer Winslow,
I killed a man. This cannot be good. Not good at all.
- Killer in an undisclosed locale
Robbie, Laura, even when your Mom and I, or your grandmother get in a fight, we still love each other and we'll still always be family. No matter what. Family is all you have sometimes. Remember that.

If this were a Lifetime Moment of Truth movie, this would be our act break

I have a bone to pick with the dry cleaning community. And society as a whole is really a part of the problem so I will likewise pick a bone with them (a radius or ulna....nothing as serious as a femur or pelvis). My problem is, and please hold back your shouts of support, getting charged more because I have longer shirts. I have longer shirts because I am taller. Duh. And this is where society comes into play in a dual manner.

1)Society frowns on men wearing shirts that are far too short, such as the ones would be if I purchased "normal" sized shirts.

2)Society (and by this I mean people I am seen with, like prostitutes, off duty cops, and harlequins) also seems to get mad at me wearing extremely wrinkly clothes, something which I have no problem with, but something which prompted an ex-girlfriend to take over my laundry duties for me because my clothes would always be so wrinkled.

So, even if I had shorter shirts I would still have to spend money to get them dry cleaned. Screw you for that society. And, I think the government should start a fund to pay the difference that I must pay for having longer shirts. Over the course of a lifetime, at an additional 10 to 25 cents per shirt, I could be looking at literally, around millions (of thai baht...more like $2,000 dollars maybe? I dunno. Get on that math whizzes). So, presidential candidates 2008, please shirk the important issues and talk about how you are going to pay for my dry cleaning. And I wish I were kidding.

Subway Restaurants have currently positioned themselves as an advertising BEAST. Have you seen the deadly combination of people they are using for their commercials? A former morbidly obese man who ate Subway down to moderately chunky, Jared, and the most brilliant comedic mind of our time, Jon Lovitz. I am surprised with the Jared/Lovitz combo I have avoided being brainwashed into eating Subway a minimum of 7 times a day. God help us should they ever decide to pair the two in a commercial together....just think of the straight man Jared paired with comic wiz Jon Lovitz, playing off one another and expressing the multitude of reasons to enjoy Subway. God help us indeed.

In baseball news, the other day Vlad Guerrero of the Los Angeles of Anaheim of California Angels of Seraphim of Heaven, removed himself from a game in the 5th inning, citing "fatigue". Several questions I have after this:

-Was he not expecting to play baseball that day and gotten all tired out in his daily squash match?
-If he, who is paid 13.5 million to play baseball per year, can remove himself in the 5th inning due to fatigue, shouldn't I be able to leave work after, say, half an hour for the same reason?
-What kind of pansy manager lets his player leave the game? Tell him to drink some Gatorade between innings and be a man. That's what I would do. Because Vlad, who are you kidding....you are one of the best players but most of the time in the field you stand around and at the plate you just go up there and swing at every pitch, so it is not as if your at bats tire you out...seriously. So Angels, if you want to take a serious demotion in skill, but gain a player who will never be fatigued for significantly less money, contact me. I will crappily play 162 full games per year for not very much money. I don't want to lowball myself by saying something like $50,000 since I believe everyone gets more than that. But let me know guys.

"Blue Steel? Ferrari? Le Tigra? They're the same face! Doesn't anybody notice this? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!"

In this crazy blogging world in which I am already far too deeply involved (I had to kill a man and then make a payment in hamsters....it's a long story....don't ask. Well don't you care about my life? "The don't ask" was simply meant to make you try and ask. Oh sure, now you want to know, but I think you just want to know because I called you out on it. Whatever. No. No. I'm not telling you now. Maybe later. Well don't act all pissy at me. This is stupid. The story wasn't even that good.) people come to expect a certain level every blog. Which I guess is sort of fair, but it also seems quite unfair. Baseball players have crappy games, artists do weird experimental stuff (possibly involving rooms of candy or fecal matter), and mayors seem to be constantly screwing up. So, if I am ever off my game, which I know has happened before, please just reread some of the archives and remember that I am the best writer you have ever read, (if you never read anything else) a sensational wit, and just one of those guys who makes your life better (although you might have done better than to heed my advice and not do laundry last month so you could still pay for the Internet and read my posts, I guess I could have just printed them out for you or something. My bad. And now you smell awful.)(by the way all these inane parentheticals are actually directed at no actual person. just my inner dialogue. but I really did do my laundry)

I also want to call out my friends. Friends, I, your friend, Timothy Charles Radway, am going to go down in history with such names as Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and Sedaris (mainly I am going to be associated with these names when I paint a cardboard sign with their names on it and start my daring life as a nude homeless man holding a cardboard sign with some authors names on it and darting across expressways). If you casually dismiss my blog as "something he does to keep himself happy" (which sounds like something you say about a "special" person). WRONG. I do it to share my supreme command of wit and verbal juggernautetry with the masses. I know, or at least have a general idea, of those friends who read my blog, as they will try and discuss it with me, tell me how much they enjoyed it, or hurl cedar chips at my face for insulting their families. So since I know who does read it, I also know who doesn't, and I also know that since they don't read this, the entire preceding paragraph has been pointless. God I am a fucktard sometimes. I probably should have thought of that first.

Too many people associate blogs with lame outpourings of emotion or like it is some Internet diary. Lameness. True I have used this forum a couple times for such a display, but that was when I was not as manly as I am now, which is pretty much the pinnacle of man. I even received a nomination for the Jack Palance/Clint Eastwood/Johnny Cash/Chuck Norris Hall of Fame. So, if people are going to keep using blogs for that kind of shit and therefore giving people the false notion that I am some emo dweeb who sits in the attic of my great aunt's house simultaneously weeping, listening to Saves the Day, and blogging, then I am going to try and eliminate all those kinds of people. In matter of craptastic stereoptypes, some douche wrote this:

"I cannot stress enough how lame blogs are. If you are so desperate for attention maybe you should turn off the computer and pick up the phone or go meet some people. Write it down in a journal for YOURSELF. Nobody cares what mood you are in at this moment. I'm sorry mommy and daddy obviously didn't love you enough or give you the attention you so sorely needed."

See, let me tear this apart. My Mom and Dad loved me very much. I do love attention, I do socially interact with many people and if I wrote this phenomenal garbage in a journal no one would laugh at it but me (which might be the case already, who knows). I am the most important person in my world, and maybe THE world (wow that was awesome to type....in fact, if you are having a bad day, type that about yourself). If you would like to be dumb and not enjoy a chuckle or perhaps even a hearty guffaw at either my expense or your expense, do it to it.

Enough of the tootage of my own horn. I am so deep and incredibly emo that I just blogged about blogs. But don't fear me. Embrace me. No, seriously, give me a hug.

"Why can't I be the one in slow-motion? I'm tired of being the one in the doo-doo"

There is pretty much no greater feeling in the world than going for a fine $350 trip to the vetrinarian, because I am sure you know, me, as a human, gain so much both in actual material goods (ear ointment, dog heartworm medication, rabies tags) and just a general overall feeling of warmth. I mean, the people at the vet office do kindly refer to Wrigley as "my friend" as well as sending postcards about shots for which "my friend" is due. It is indeed very bizarre to hear someone say "Can you just bring a recent fecal sample of your friend?" "Just lift your friend up on to the table and hold her so that she cannot move." "How is your friend doing altogether?" Wrigley is my damn dog. I would not consider her a "friend" and it is weird to even think about. I mean, we aren't enemies or anything like that either, but she is just a dog. As a general rule I do not take my actual friends to places where I might need to bring some of their poop or where I can purchase them fine ointments for their ears.

I now realize this is the second time in the last few weeks that I have mentioned the main lady in my life, Wrigley, and many of you are now thinking weird thoughts about me and my dedication to my domestic creature. "Are you one of those dog weirdos?" "Do you hang out with actual humans, and maybe even actual females?" "When did you get dragged so far into this mess?" "Who is the only major league pitcher to strike out the same number in batters in a game as his age?" "Can you really use whipped cream for THAT?"

1) I am not a dog weirdo. She is just around a lot. And there are from time to time silly stories that involve her too. And all the drinking stories might make everyone worry, and plus they are for the movie/book/screenplay/musical/book of poems/performance art thingy.

2) I do spend the majority of my time with actual humans and even females too. Of course the means by which I get these people to hang out with me, with such white lies as telling them I live in a house made of gold, am having Kanye West over, or that I need help because I am a quadrapelagic (that girl was really stupid) might be less than typical.


3) Yeah, I don't know either. This cutthroat world of blogging, with the gory underside that no one dares mention, is much more than I bargained for. And I never should have gotten drunk and posted all those comments on the blog written by the Yakuza boss (Yakuza is like the Japanese mafia, duh).

4)Kerry Wood, with 20 at the age of 20. Of course, now his arm doesn't function and may, in fact, randomly falloff when he is doing in arm intensive activity, like using chopsticks.


5) Yeah I was surprised too, but try it, just trust me on this one.

In one of the more stirring developments in life, the summer continues to be awesome and somehow every week I am able to look back and think to myself "Wow, this past week was awesome." But really it is isn't that surprising to think that when you consider the fact that I definitely rank as at least one of the top 1,000 Awesome People in the World. Not too modest, I know, but who are we kidding? I implore my friends to name instances (ones when I was not in a bad mood or suffering from tuberculosis) when I was not at least a semi-decent time to be around.....exactly. You can only think of like 700 times when I was not fun, but I was preoccupied those times with visions of time travel in the Weinermobile. Which is my bad.

TASTY. I'll write again sooner. Promise.

If I cannot be a good example, may I at least be a horrible warning

As some of you know, or wish that you didn't know, Wednesday nights have become the IT night of the week again. And by again, I mean for the first time since the days of the week were given names, and Wednesday was plopped dead in the middle. Sort of exciting because the end of the week approaches, but not really enough to start going buck wild, like you would on say, a Monday.

But that is neither here nor there. Due to my housemate and co-worker's whorebagishness, and the fact that he does not work on Thursday's, he somehow convinced me and of course Brian and Paul to start going out on Wednesday nights. And it was soon discovered that local favorite bar, Doc's, featured karaoke and the brilliant musical stylings of Nick B. (a man who I cannot begin to describe in writing, but let's just say I heard a rumor he was deaf and during a performance of Pretty Woman, he actually says the word "growl" rather than making a growling noise) on said Wednesday nights. Long story short, Wednesday nights suddenly started getting crazy, and to tone it down for the infantile readers, Wednesday nights cause me to wake up fully clothed, including shoes, on Thursday mornings. That is far too drunk for the middle of the week. (Haha, no it's not. No it's not at all)

With the combination of drinking and karaoke, and my natural lust to entertain people, I obviously have been an active performer on karaoke nights. Here, with some more ado, is a week by week play by play (there are probably supposed to be a bunch of hyphens in there, but down with the grammatical rules imposed upon me and countless innocent others).

Week One- Before we were even sure what had happened, Paul, Brian and myself were signing up to perform. I had suggested "Under the Bridge" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, a song which, when I sing it to myself in the car with the volume turned up loud enough that I cannot actually hear myself, I sound exactly like Anthony Kiedis. So, I thought we were signed up to do this song, but evidently one of the other brilliant singers with whom I was performing decided we should do "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC. Unfortunately, like all other AC/DC songs, it sort of has a high pitch. So the three of us drunkasses get up there and it is like we are having a falsetto outdoing contest (fal-set-to (n.) when a man sings all girly like and high pitched ((Random House dictionary)), each one of singing more high pitched than the next. Needless to say, I think we ruined that song for everyone who heard it.

Week Two- With a larger group of drunkards this week, Paul, Brian, Logan, Derek and I performed classic standby "Bohemian Rhapsody". Luckily Logan is like a doppelganger for a young, and just as fruity Freddie Mercury. But all kidding aside, and placed in the cupboard appropriately, this song is a fun one to do. And we did not sound half shabby. Then Brian and I did "Under the Bridge" as I had so desired to do the week before. And it was also not half shabby. And I was filled with such hubris that I quit my job the next day and I began writing songs while strumming along harmoniously on the kazoo. Or not. It should also be noted that I did pushups during all instrumental breaks for every karaoke performer that night, and may have also grinded on Nick B. But that didn't really happen, people just made that stuff up and told me I did it because I had been drinking. But really I did do this stuff.

Week Three- We accidentally arrived a tad late, but performed the biggest crowd pleaser that we had performed thus far. The Ray Parker Jr classic, Ghostbusters. Seriously, people were really into this song. And to think the karaoke lady made an exasperated sighing noise when I turned in my request to perform this. Little did she know.

Week Four- In the name of keeping it tasty or some disgusting drinking ability that I do not know of, I decided to have a couple to six Jack and Coke's prior to even going to the bar. So then I performed my top secret karaoke standby, Mack the Knife. Little did everyone know, I had been performing this song for many years and pretty much can do it without the words, which I think due to the amount of liquor I had consumed, I was doing it without the words. Then, Logan and I did a brilliant version of Minnie the Moocher. Which, the the part of the song where it speeds up, I butchered it entirely. Then I performed Adam's favorite karaoke song with him "Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy", which he always makes me do with him, even though he usually ends taking my microphone from me because I hate that song. Or something.

So, Wednesdays are fun. The new hotness.

This brings me to the etiquette section of the blog. Now, I know you are thinking, there is no etiquette section in this blog, and I say "You are correct, but seriously, shut the hell up. A plague on both your houses." And I had not yet gathered enough information on the new etiquette from the new age Emily Post, Trevor Giancarlo. Here are some of the rules of the new Trevor code of etiquette. Bring these rules with you in lifes social situations, and you will prosper, or maybe get beat up. But it is up to you to try it out.

-If invited to a party and told to bring along some extra food to grill, bring an old package of hot dogs you find in the fridge at home, preferably extra slimy in texture and with questionability as to their freshness. And NEVER ever bring buns.

-When leaving a party, after politely asking if you may bring one for the road, grab the one beer. The, when no one is looking, put as many more as you can in your pockets. Because, the host should not have the burden of drinking all that beer.

-ALWAYS take the last slice. No matter what it is, if it has been sliced, take the last one regardless of how much anyone else has had. And don't pull a dick move and ask if anyone else wants it.

That is all the rules I have for now. More etiquette later, worry you not.

"Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Sparkle Motion"

Internet banner ads. They may very well be a scourge to my existence. Or not. Not at all. Generally I don't look at them I guess. But every once in a while, one will catch my eye, usually because it is flashing bright colors, and well, I like shiny things. Anyways, the other day one in particular caught my eye. It had a caricaturized picture of George W. Bush (who actually looks like a caricature himself without caricaturization, but that is a whole other blog unto itself. well, like a three sentence blog at the very least, speaking on my general amusement at having a President who is monkey like in appearance and says things that I believe monkeys might say if they could talk...phenomenal) and then a large blinking "YES" and "NO". Evidently, as was spelled out in smaller text, people were supposed to vote, either yes or no, and by doing so, could then receive a free dinner for two to the Olive Garden. So, somehow the Olive Garden will give you free meals simply by voicing your opinion of the President. And to think, I never knew there was a hidden agenda behind their breadsticks and salad. Now I know. It really is a restaurant founded by the Gallup Pollsters, and by the waitstaff there asking casual questions like, "How is your garlic marinara chicken?", they are really asking "How do you feel about H RES 794, a bill recognizing the 17th anniversary of the massacre in Tiananmen Square, Beijing, in the People's Republic of China, and for other purposes?" So, watch out.

The other day, for some reason, I found myself watching a high quality soap opera on Telemundo. Unfortunately, I do not speak Spanish, but I found the show highly entertaining and hope to inadvertently watch it again in the near future. Here is a brief summary of the excitement that you may have missed on whatever the hell show I watched. (I think it was called "Frijoles Loco" or something...and please, don't correct me if I'm wrong)

So, in the first scene Juan was just walking in the forest, and then was suddenly being held at knifepoint by a ninja. All this before the credits for the show even went by. Then we are cut to a scene of old wise Pablo (with equally thick eyebrows and mustache) entertaining a few people in his fine mansion and drinking some very fine tequila with them. They then discuss something happiness inducing until one of the three women there says something that angers Pablo greatly (at this point I am just WAITING for a ninja to appear) and causes him to furrow his eyebrows such that it looks like they are going to fall off. After some emphatic gesturing towards the woman, she leaves, crying. Then we go back to the ninja attacked Juan, and suddenly, whammo, Juan remembers he's packing and pulls out his gun! what a retard. Pretty much, as a general rule of mine, when being attacked by a ninja and I have a gun, I will then shoot the aforementioned ninja. So then there is all that going on. Then we go back to the drunken old man and his lady friends. They all seem rather discouraged and I believe Pablo has a drinking problem judging by the looks that he is getting from the women as he pours more liquor from the waterford decanter into his glass. Either they are giving those looks, or there drawn on eyebrows are making me incorrectly gauge their emotions. Eyebrows=Important. This was all I was able to view, but you can understand my excitement at hoping I get to watch this show again.

Yesterday, while watching the NBA Draft predraft thingy (sweet lord I use some descriptive language...thingy), they commentators were discussing some player and one of them then used the phrase "I'm not quite sure I'm ready to drink the Kool-Aid on this guy yet." And I was just like whoa. Are they reaching that far for phrases now that as a way to express uncertainty about something, this man is referring to a cult suicide? Wow. If you have no idea what I am talking about, I'll include a link and then you can read about it and understand what I am saying when I use this phrase, cuz you best believe it is getting thrown into my lexicon. (http://www.infoplease.com/spot/jonestown1.html the Kool-Aid part is at the bottom, then you'll get it)

Earlier today a co-worker and myself were discussing our departure plans for the weekend, and I told him I was leaving after we got off work at noon and I stopped at home to get my dog. He replied by saying "Yeah, I'm doing that too, but I just have to stop at home and get Ann. I'm not even going to go inside, she's just going to bring everything down. I guess that is one more reason why a wife is better than a dog." Ummm, yeah, chalk that one up to the list of how a human can possibly be better than a dog. So, I thought of making a brief list, and hopefully everyone can add to it, their thoughts of why wives may in fact, be superior to pet dogs. (please note I do not have, nor have I ever had a wife, so this is all speculation)

1. They can carry things to your car when you are going on a road trip and you don't have to go inside to get them.
2. Rather than crapping on your lawn, they poop in a toilet (if you are lucky)
3. They can cook YOU dinner, instead of you having to keep smelly crap around that you have to put in a bowl for them a couple times a day.
4. Wives can express themselves verbally. Dogs, not so much.
5. Wives leave it up to mild clues and tiny hints that they are upset. Dogs wag their tails, urinate, and do other such things to indicate their mood. ADVANTAGE DOGS!

Seriously party people, add some of your own to the list. And comment. Or else I can just keep all this stuff to a witty inner dialogue. Extremely witty at that.

"Rabbits can't cut they own hair...that's CRAZY"

Dear Tim: Should I keep in touch with my ex-auto mechanic?

Tim: Aw hell no. That is one bad idea. This is the guy who knows all about the fluids, care and general state of your automobile. What are the two of you really going to talk about once he's doing all that kind of stuff with other cars and not with yours? Oils, lubricants and how well the brakes work just won't have the same comfort level anymore.

Did you end the relationship or did he? Because if he ended it, and he's not retiring, you know all he's doing is looking under even more hoods now, overhauling more transmissions and generally forgetting your piece of shit car.

If you ended it, how much more awkward could it get? What are you going to bring up? New things that your new auto repair guy does to your car that you enjoy more? Or things that he does differently you never really thought of? Basically, you need to just move on.

I was inspired to write this because whenever I login to my hotmail account, there are links to these little articles, but they always only include the first few words of the title, like, "Should you keep in touch with your...". One day, I was for some reason really hoping it was about keeping in touch with your ex-auto mechanic. It was merely an (exhaust) pipe dream I guess. And yes, I am, in fact, cornier that the state of Nebraska.

Sometimes, when I am walking on some surface that allows footprints to be left (like sand, snow, etc.) or if I hate someone and have muddy footprints, I try and walk in really bizarre patterns to either throw people off or make them wonder what the hell kind of strange gait I possessed. Really, it is one of my favorite things to do. Like go with a giant step with a drag of one foot proceeded by a slithery S shape with the next foot. By then, people will be wondering not only how you walk, but what the hell kind of creature you are. And when you eventually commit that crime that you are bound to committ, CSI will be so thrown off that they won't be able to just plug you into their footstep database and figure out it was you right away (well they wouldn't be able to figure it out right away if you hadn't signed your name on the wall after hearing how all great criminals had a "signature", not knowing this was meant to be a beacon for something creative you did at each of your crime scenes rather than an actual autograph).

The other day I was discussing with someone what superhero they would most like to be, and while I opted for the obvious of Superman (what did you expect me to say, something boring like The Green Lantern?) he opted for The Flash because of all the "bets you could win". For some reason my mind automatically pictured The Flash playing normal casino games like blackjack and roulette, thus leaving me totally perplexed as to how his super speed would be helpful at all. I think the person who I was talking to saw my confusion and explained what they had obviously meant, but I have not ceased thinking about the sheer nonsense in the idea of The Flash playing roulette and due to his Flashness, thinking he had some sort of advantage.

This past weekend was a tad out of hand. Two Cubs games, two nights out, lots of drinking and many funny times and fun moments. Like when we were out for Joe's birthday on Saturday night and someone ordered shots of Chambord and I for some reason mistook them for saying "Jeff Gordon" (I have no idea how this happened) and for the rest of the evening I was clamoring for more Jeff Gordon. It was simply whelming. I really did myself this weekend.

I think I know what you mean, but watch what you say

Try walking into conversations at bars with that one. Or just saying it over and over again when you are talking to someone. It will lead them to believe they have offended you or your heritage in some way and frighten them to ask what you mean. Or you might end up fighting someone to the death. Speaking of which, two all too frightening and common utterances of mine lately have been, "Do you want to fight to the death?", and "I'll murder your family". Of course, both are said in jest, I do not desire to fight anyone to the death nor will I murder anyone's family. Luckily I must say it with a humorous tone as no one has been too offended as of yet, nor have I fought anyone to the death. But, being in Chicago, I am scared I might say this to the wrong eye-talian person when I am drinking some night and end up getting killed in a fight to the death by a bunch of angry men with aluminum bats.

So anyways, I have some linguistics for everyone to ponder. Think about, laugh at, urinate towards, whatever. For this gay ass blog I had literally at least seven post it notes with shit scribbled on it to write about....funny shit, I think. But some of my notes I just don't quite get. I'm off track again. So, words and phrases and humor are my intention, yet my mind seems to have a one track focus on working in some weird reference to insects. I probably should not go out on anymore Wednesday nights.

The phrase "you really outdid yourself". Can someone, rather than outdoing themself, just do themself? Will I ever, in serious company, be able to say this without laughing really hard and pretending like I thought it was an actual phrase.

"Oh this dinner is good. You really did yourself." Why the hell can't that work? If they outdid themself, which if you say it enough or type it enough starts to sound bizarre anyways, they should be able to do themselves. Man law.

Same thing with the word "overwhelmed". Can someone just be whelmed? I say fuck yeah. It just means that I am neither overly impressed or unimpressed. (right now, I am thinking, goddamn, my family full of english gurus who already love mocking my making up of words and lack of verbal whatnot, are going to have a field day with this crap....oh well). Everyone start being whelmed with shit, and pronto. I'll start the revolution, like the Che Guevara of meaningless words that no one really cares about.

The phrase "if you will", well when people say that, do you really have a choice of not? Can you say, "No I won't" or an enthusiastic "Oh, I will". For instance when someone is talking and says something like "So I was walking down the avenue, if you will, and...." that's when I would be a complete dick and throw in a "NO I WON'T"....then when everyone was really confused as to what the hell I was talking about, I would have to walk away and probably have a drink. Not that I wouldn't be drinking already.

A couple more things:
1)Shut the hell up, I owe you nothing. I know I may have promised the best blog in the history of the world (or at least of the day) but I still have yet to overcome my general disdain for typing. I really need to voice record my thoughts and have someone type them up. Or just have a direct connection to my mind, but then everyone would be frightened at what came out on the screen. Like 45 billion random thoughts a minute. Like one second thinking about how cool pterodactyls were, and the next pondering why people think hot air balloons are cool, then thinking about a funny time in third grade.
2)Don't do that.

Let me know what you want to hear. I will talk about it. And let me know if you want to be my typist.

TASTY.

MEXICO: DAY 4: ARMAGEDDON

As I arose on the 4th day of our trip, well rested from an evening of general nothingness, I noticed the sun was shining hotter than it had, the birds were swooping closer to people's heads, the cleaning staff were generally more agressive, and people were not moving out of my way when I walked straight at them (this has long been a tactic of mine...I don't mind a collision, it is sort of like a slow pedestrian game of chicken, and usually, given my physical stature, I win. Sure, I have not won when I run into some 35o pound man who is searching out the funnel cake at whichever crowded venue I have been walking, but usually things turn out okay). This was going to be a frightening day, I could just tell.

Alright, truthfully, I had no clue what the day would hold, nor did I really see any of these foreboding signs. My life is slightly cinematic, but when I am writing the screenplay about it, I will definitely have to add some shit to make it more exciting, like explosions and transgendered actors.

So, as was the usual routine, we went and ate breakfast and people discussed their plans for the day. Thankfully, finally people had likewise abandoned the beach, where the sun could beat down upon you with some extra solar "flare" and cause 4th degree burns all over your previously pale body....errrr.....yeah. So everyone wanted to go to the pool. Terrific. So, we went to the pool, and Bell and I began the drinking for the day. I figured, last day, what the heck, might as well start early. So, I began with a strawberry daquiri, and it was quite delicious, and I thought, well I might as well keep drinking these for the rest of the morning time. It will be refreshing, relaxing, resin-filled, and other r words. So, after the first one, I got another strawberry daquiri. By this time, Matt and Kevin had joined our drinking expedition, with Matt informing me that he was going to get "wasted" that day. And, we also began a 4 man drink system. Everytime someone went to the bar in the pool they were to return with 4 drinks. So, after my two delicious strawberry drinks and Matt's declaration of achieving wastedness, I for some idiotic reason decided it was time to switch to my mainstay- the good old Jim Beam and Coke. So, switch I did. Luckily, neither bartender who had disdain in his heart for my liver was working yet at the early morning hour. All the same, I began consuming these powerful libations with a zeal generally reserved for contests of some sort, like that used by Kobiyashi when he eats all those damn hot dogs.

Within probably an hour, I was ten or so drinks into my day (this is deceiving because the cups they used were probably only like 8 ounce cups....these were not huge drinks), and five minutes or so into underwater breakdancing, discussions of going into the center of the water aerobics class occurring in the pool (they were in a huge circle), and hiding our groups now impressive tower of cups underwater whenever the pool guy came by to collect them. I was also having trouble maintaining balance while keeping the majority of my body underwater to avoid too much sun, and singing quite loudly.

At some point, orange bikini and her sister, pink bikini, arrived to lounge by the pool, seated no more than about 100 feet away from us. So I began talking, ummm, to is not the correct word, I was definitely talking at them, or actually yelling in their general direction. "HI. ARE YOU GUYS SISTERS OR WHAT? YOU WANT TO HANG OUT OR SOMETHING? CAN I GET YOU A DRINK?" And five minutes or so into it, I began to respond for them, "OH? YOU DO WANT TO HANG OUT, BUT AFTER GETTING SOME MORE SUN? TERRIFIC. YEAH, I'M NOT TOO HIGH ON THE SUN RIGHT NOW. YEAH I GUESS I CAN WAIT. DON'T WORRY I WON'T LEAVE." At that point in my drunkenness, there is no way of knowing if I was serious about this, or if I was just trying to entertain those around me. Matt also began using the best line ever, "Have you met my friend Tim?", said in the general direction of any woman that passed by, and as Matt did not have his glasses on, some men as well I think.

So the drinking continued. It was big fun. Then the speedo adorned pool activity dude asked us if we wanted to play some water volleyball. I told him "No, we just really want to drink." But then he came back and asked again, and I told him we would only play if he gave me his Ray-Bans. So, he did, and thus we ended up playing some pool volleyball. There were maybe four or five of us from the group out there, but all the rest of the people we did not know. But they quickly became acquainted with me and my loud shouts of "boo-yeah" and my Jekyll/Hyde type play on the court. First of all, I was a huge dick and kept trying to hit basically every ball. Secondly, I would sometimes make phenomenal spikes and blocks, while other times playing my typical volleyball style of nearly maiming people really far away in strange directions that no person in their right mind could expect the ball to travel. So, it was as if I was both the best and worst player on my team at the same time. Except for this damn guy from Canada. He really did maim someone on the other team with a shot right to the side of her head while simply giving them the ball so they could serve. And, given my slight or extreme intoxication, I was quite loud. My presence was felt. Unfortunately we had left the shady spot in the pool and my shoulders were now out of the water. I could feel them burning and began screaming things like "OH GOD I FEEL THE SKIN CANCER" and then frantically splashing water on my shoulders. Eventually everyone grew tired either o my antics or of the volleyball, and we decided to get back to drinking.

Then it was time to eat lunch. Again, I ended up with some of the most random foods on my plate that only a drunkard would wish to combine. Something like some pieces of iceberg lettuce, an intricately carved, decorative piece of some gourd, a hot dog, and some feta cheese.....I mean seriously, I don't even like that food. Then, it was back to drinking in the pool. It was our last day of vacation, so seriously, why hold back? Not that I really have much of a holding back speed. As the day wore on, we lost some members of the expedition, as I recall. But eventually Matt and I were still drinking at some point in the late afternoon and we went over to the pool bar to sit around in the shade of it and just drink there. Who was working but none other than Leo, one of the bartenders who wished to cause immediate liver decay. I saw this, and being six to seven sheets to the wind already, tried to hide and whispered to Matt that I would just like a strawberry daquiri. The pool bar had columns at the corners and I had ducked down behind one, nearly underwater to avoid being seen by Leo. Unfortunately he peeked around the corner and said, "Ken-too-key! Beam and Coke?" It's like I really made this guys day. And then it was like he really made me something that was not a Beam and Coke, but rather a cup of Jim Beam with ice and the mere good intention of a drop or two of Coke. This was the first of maybe three of these I consumed. And although I complained and made whiney, three year old type noises, I drank them. Then proceeded to go to the other side of the pool and just start "talking" to people. By talking I mean, go into the center of the pool near no one in particular and just start yelling in the general direction of people. And I think actually talking to people that Matt had "Have you my my friend Tim?"ed. And then at some point some people that had made my acquaintance (and I think by the end of the day, everyone in the pool probably knew who I was...you can't really miss the large, drunken, red man yelling strange ass shit) by way of Matt's phrase were like "Yeah, we have met Tim" so then Matt offered them high fives. It was all too funny.

Then, everyone departed to their rooms to clean up before dinner. I never really made it back out of my room, in fact. I was totally gone. I laid around being drunk and sunburnt, evidently tripped over a water bottle on my way to answer the door at some point (with a fantastic crashing noise and laughter by those on both sides of the door), was delivered food by Christi and Bell and just laid around. It was basically great. Everyone was going out to one of the bars on the resort and I eventually showered and aimed to meet them, but by the time I finally fell out of my room at like 11:45, I ran into Christi and Bell on their way back and then returned to their room for some Office Space viewing and eventual sleep in my own bed.

The next day we left. It was a long day of travel but we returned. It was an awesome trip. I am sure I left out a lot. But when that much drinking is involved, stuff gets left out. My bad. Out.

MEXICO, DAY 3

Day 2 of this fine journey was a little rough on me, I am not going to fib. Thus the next day, I woke up after a restless night of sleep, sunburned and weary of drinking so early in the morning. I must mention, however, the brilliant programming of the televisions in Mexico. The FOX station played The Simpsons for about six hours in a row every evening, with random intermittent epsiodes of Malcolm in the Middle. Then random infomercials for Jack Lalanne's Power Juicer would come on, and this is a man for whom I believe was an inspiration for Martin Short's character on Arrested Development of "Uncle Jack", and if you watch the show, you know the hilarity involved. So, here I am all drunk and delriously tired waking up to see this man on an infomercial in Mexico....high comedy. Alright, now that aside is aside, on to the tale of Day 3....Saturday.

I woke up and went to dine with everyone else, on this day refraining from drinking until "at least 11" (I know it sounds very extreme when I put it that way) and eating a complete breakfast. As I mentioned my sunburn I had also grown some spite for the muy caliente Mexican sun and wished to not be in it all day. So although everyone else was headed directly for the beach, I decided I needed to go for a run. So, I returned to the room, put on my running shoes and other appropriate clothes, grabbed my mp3 player and headed down to the beach. Obvious statement ensues: After nights of drinking and extreme sun exposure, the already arduous task of running on the beach is even more difficult, and death might potentially feel imminent at several points during the run. So I ran for a good long jaunt down the beach, and returned to our resort area, quite sweaty and feeling rather mortal. Then it was time to go throw on the trunks and play some frisbee in the ocean. So that I did, but only after applying what seemed like at least seven gallons of sunscreen. I did not aspire to burn the burn. After maybe one hour of frisbee or so, Bell and I decided it was too hot at the beach, and more importantly, we needed to drink.

So, we walked to the bar above the pool, sat on the shady veranda and drank some fine Coronas, which actually tasted quite good. More of our group joined us and before I knew it I was back in the pool drinking Beam and Cokes. I guess it was more a matter of facilitation that I began drinking these drinks. When one person in the group went to get drinks, it would always be easy to remember to grab at least one of these, and possibly two depending on how quickly I was drinking. Ummm yeah...I was a drunken facilitator. Also, this was the day orange bikini girl and her seemingly younger sister showed up. She was a cute girl, and she comes into play further on Day 4. So then we went and ate lunch, once again at the buffet near the beach, and I consumed whatever the hell looked decent to eat...nachos....pizza...chicken nuggets...salsa that was way too spicy yet I never learned not to gloop on everything....you know the deal

After this I laid around in the room for a long while, napping and watching movies. Then Darrell returned to the room and I suggested we head down to the pool and we did. At first, we were the only two down there, but then Matt, Lisa and Adam appeared out of nowhere and next thing I knew we were back at the damn bar in the pool, at which point Adam suggested that I get drunk with him. But, he was not the only one at fault for my pre dinner drunkeness that fine evening. None other than Adrian the bartended was working the pool bar. So I always had a Jim and Coke in my hand for the next couple hours, and due to the prescence of friends chanting "more! more! more!" while he poured the whiskey in my drink, I ended up with some pretty potent drinks. Adam also ordered a Long Island which came to be known as "bee repellent" since with all the sticky drinks in the area, there were quite a few bees, but this drink was so strong they definitely stayed away once this drink sat there, and I believe a couple bees even died. Anywho, I ended up getting wasted, and once again before dinner. Yet I still remembered dinner that night....so...uhhh....bonus?

That night we had made reservations at the resort for the one place that you had to have a reservation- the Brazilian style steakhouse place. For those of you not familiar with the Brazilian steakhouse principle, you eat meat until your body begins rejecting it. So we went to this place, ate lots of meat and whatnot, and then decided we were going to Senor Frogs in downtown Puerto Vallerta. So, around nine (more drinking and more drinking all the while) we left for this frog place. Unfortunately no one informed us that until about 11 o'clock, kids are allowed in the place, and in fact, the place is filled with them. Tiny ass kids bumping and grinding....it is actually quite disturbing. Luckily we were unfazed and everyone began getting buckets of beer like quasi cool people purchasing Oakleys. At some point, the wee tots cleared out and the place got really unbelievably packed (with all legally aged people) and then got very sweaty. But at least it was more fun once the mini humans left and brought their creepy reminders of 4th grade with them.

We got a cab home, which ended up being a wild adventure in which we nearly ended up at Domino's Pizza (who the hell knew there even was one?) and then returned to the resort for a nightcap of some White Russians and some phenomenal sleep.

Day 3. Done. But Day 4 may have been the wildest of them all.

MEXICO, DAY 2

If you have already read Day 1 and you are thinking, "Well, the bar has been set too high. The rest of the trip probably sucked." And if you are thinking that, I am thinking about laughing in your face. I am like a high jumper capable of jumping 80" over the bar, and Day 1 was only set at 6". So, yeah.

Day 2, we woke up and convened for breakfast and to discuss the goings on of the previous night. Strangely, I kept hearing people talk about me and my fountain escapade. To me, all it was was a drunk man who was quite warm trying to cool down. Not really anything to write home about. Of course, due to my requirement of keeping it tasty like a job (one that I care about, and try at), I located a beer dispenser in the dining area, one that gave out Negro Modelo. So, I grabbed a glass and made sure my day would be fun, at all of 9:30 in the morning. Upon returning to the table, most people thought I had some raunchy apple juice. "No," I calmly explained, "this is beer." They laughed, and still just thought it was apple juice (well only the people on the trip who didn't know me very well....and Darrell, an impossible skeptic). But, I was definitely drinking beer. Which, in retrospect, was an awful idea. Especially if I had the intention of remembering eating dinner.

Then, we all headed down to the beach for some delicious frisbee playing in the ocean. Unfortunately my SPF 15 was not aware of this and decided to quit working after 20-30 seconds. But, I am cursed with pale Irish-German skin, and as far as I know, the only way I ever develop any color is too first get a fine red base. lUckily I accomplished this quite well by being the water for so long tossing around the frisbee. After possibly an hour or so, Bryan Bell and I decided (which, by the way, Bryan kept with a quite excellent philosophy of not drinking anything sans alcohol the entire trip......exemplary....exemplary) that it was time to truly begin the day. Of course, we had both consumed some beers at breakfast that morning. So, it was back to no other bar then the bar in the pool. And this is when I learned of one of my worst interactions of the trip. I had befriended, or evidently, amused a bartender.

As we approached the bar in the pool to order some lowkey, it is 11:00 in the morning and I am drinking drinks, one of the bartenders says, "Kentucky!....Beam and Coke?" When someone you don't even remember meeting says your name AND calls out your drink, it is well known that it is pretty much a requirement to consume that drink. Fuck me. At that point the Beam and Cokes began flowing. Luckily I am a whiskey and Coke consuming juggernaut and really have no problem drinking them at the same rate as everyone else in the group consumed their beers and various other fruity drinks. The great thing about having a specific drink that bartenders and friends identify you with, is that you really never have to even say what you want. People just know. But they really have no idea. Which led to them having an enjoyable time and me being quite wasted. Which led to them having an even more enjoyable time as I began my shift into "Extreme Entertainment Tim".....doing things like talking to strangers, Goulet-ing, and breakdancing underwater. Unfortunately, this day was much more subdued than it would be later in the trip.....or fortunately however you wish to look at it.

At some point we went and ate lunch....I think once again I ended up with some strange combo of tortilla chips, chunks of meat, and chicken nuggets on my plate. And I consumed it all. Then I resumed (although resumed is the wrong word to use when I never ceased drinking) some fine drinking in the pool. There isn't really too much to talk about for the entire afternoon. I was wasted, suburnt, and being my typical entertaining self. I am sure others could chip in more intimate details, but this is my perspective of the story, and I am giving all the detail I possibly can.

At some point, we returned to our rooms for a brief rest and Christi was kind or unkind enough to give me my first extremely wet, cold towel on my back and shoulders and aloe treatment. I say kind and unkind because she would soak the towel in icy water and then apply it to my back....and laugh the entire time at my dual misfortune of being sunburnt and then extremely cold. But then again, who really knows why the hell Christi is laughing 3/4 of the time.

I believe this was the day that I was so intoxicated in the mid-day that I ended up passing out for quite some time, went and robotically and drunkenly consumed dinner and then had no desire to go out. The combo of drinking, sun and not much sleep in the previous 50 hour period had finally caught up to me. I am sure there are countless details I am leaving out from this day, strange, hilarity filled things that I did, but I will have to wait until I post this and am better informed of such stories prior to writing about them. So, eventually I went out to one of the bars where everyone was, had maybe one drink, and then snuck off to the beach where the chairs still remained, and just laid around gazing at the stars and relaxing. Some people on the trip looked at vacation the wrong way and were constantly in disbelief at my laying around or lack of activity, as I napped an watched many movies and stuff the entire trip. But when I am on vacation, unless I am hanging out with X games friends or something, I would prefer to live the life of choosing to whatever the hell I want. It is the best. I don't typically have time set aside in my normal day to consume a shit ton of liquor and then just lay around in an air conditioned room and watch crappy films. Normally I require decent films. That is Day 2. Day 3 coming soon. I promise. And a regular blog is brewing and should be one of the best you have ever read. Especially since that Sean Hannity blog does not offer all that much in the way of wit.

MEXICO, DAY 1

Let me break down Mexico for you in just a couple words….alright it will be more than a couple, I’ll just say a few. I will attempt to give the most descriptive, showy, blasphemous storytelling presentation ever now. But due to many of the activities in which I was partaking, you will probably get, even with my skilled storytelling ability, about 20-25% of every story. But hey, it was worth it. Although my liver, who is evidently union, is still picketing outside my house…which I’ll admit, does suck quite a bit, but at least the other organs were willing to cross the line.

DAY 1

Day One actually began on the night before day one, which was Wednesday night. I had packed my bags and headed over to Matt and Lisa’s, who would be providing me with transportation to the airport along with them at 4am the next morning. But of course I did not show up empty handed, nor did I have any desire to sleep for some scant amount of time before going to the airport. So, I had 24 beers and a mission: to stay awake all night drinking and get Matt to as well. Missions accomplished. We drank quite a few beers, played video games, and were the models for Lisa’s gesture drawing class. I fell asleep for about ten seconds, in which time, as Matt said, “You drooled on your collarbone.” Well-played Matt. I know. But I was drunk and had been awake for about 20 hours; so some drooling was bound to happen. Then we departed, and after various car journeys and various phone messages for some, we arrived at the airport. Our first flight was a quick one to Denver and I could get no one to drink with me on that brief journey, maybe because it was like 7am. But, on the flight to Mexico, I did indeed consume a couple margaritas, but not alone, as I am sure even though no one else in my traveling group was drinking, some others on the plane had to have been drinking.

Finally, we reached Mexico, and even getting off the plane was…..well….more Mexican. Many of us were seated in the back of the plane, and all of a sudden a little man pops up and says, “Well, are you getting off or what?” as he gestured at the now open backdoor with a staircase leading down from it. Right Mexican airport worker, because we are so used to debarking by way of the backdoor down a staircase. Then we went through customs that consisted of such fun activities of pushing a button where a green light would go off. We had many ideas as to why we did this, but most of them were shot down when we were not required to press a button when leaving the country that would then emit a red light.

We then took a bus to our resort, where all guests were ushered into a welcome room. In this room they had drinks set out for us, drinks for which I loudly inquired, “Do these have alcohol in them?”. Sadly the answer was no, but the woman doing the hotel introductions got an idea about the tastiness of our group and made sure to highlight the many bars and drinking activities as well as the importance of wearing the wristabnd with the name of the resort on it which we could wave a cab drivers if we passed out in a gutter in the city. Anywho, luckily Matt’s sister Christi had a flask of tequila and our previously non-alcoholic welcoming drinks now had a zesty kick to them.

At this point, our rooms were still not ready, but we were encouraged to go eat some food at one of the four restaurants on the resort (which we soon found all consisted of buffets with very similar foods, but luckily I am not an epicurean of any sort and I did not travel to Mexico to sample worldly foods….let’s be serious). I got some food on a plate and set about to find one of the many aforementioned bars. I found one, ordered two rum and cokes and let the tastiness continue, as everyone else marveled at my ability to find liquor. Not that challenging on a resort with like 8 bars.

Now we were finally able to check into our rooms. I was rooming with Darrell, who of the other three non-coupled people in our group on the journey. The rooms were very nice and the nicest part of them was the fully stocked mini bars. And since this was an all inclusive, you did not have to worry in the least about drinking whatever you wanted. There was a dispenser with a full bottle of tequila, rum, vodka, and gin and a mini fridge full of Coronas, Pepsi, 7-Up and bottled water. So, pretty much, awesome.

We quickly changed into pool and pool bar drinking clothes and joined everyone down by the pool. By this point, I am rewasted, and have not slept in like 40 hours. Then, everyone else wants to get wasted too. And then it got a little wild in that beautiful bar located in the swimming pool, which, by the way, is a brilliant feature to life. I want bars anywhere else I can be comfortable. By my bed, at the back massage place…you get the idea. So everyone got wasted…I think. The rest of the story for this day, I remember somewhat, but was more or less told.

We went and showered and changed clothes prior to eating dinner. Once at dinner, which was once again at some buffet style place, I proceeded to get a plate full of nasty foods that do not go together and started throwing them around at people. Then I followed Christi to the buffet and got what she got and slopped it together on my plate, and somehow ate it all.

We then proceeded to this outdoor stage area where there was some sort of show for the people of the resort going on. I got some beers at a nearby bar, and proceeded to walk, in front of the stage, nearly on to the stage, and wave at all my friends in the back of the crowd…a crowd of about 100 people, mind you. Darrell said that my escapades back and forth in front of the stage were evidently to talk to a girl, who I may or may not have spoken to, as he said it was too far away for him to see, and I don’t really recall. This is not really black out drunkenness, but rather the effects of no sleep and mucho drinking. The black outs occurred later in the trip.
After I was asked to leave the area by some sort of resort employee, I proceeded to go…yep….in the fountain. I was in the fountain swimming around and doing God knows what for apparently half an hour. And, there are pictures, although I have yet to see any of them. Then I wished to lay down on the grass outside the fountain, at which time people decided to attempt to throw purses and sandals at my crotch, which I was wise enough to cover. Who said people don’t learn from their mistakes? After this amusing time, I was trying to go back to sleep in my room, all the while forgetting that my room key did not work and only D’s did. So, I laid down on Bell and Christi’s floor, soaking wet, well prepared to sleep on the tile that night. Somehow, I was let into my room and woke up in my bed the next morning.

It was that damn Sasquatch

Here are some words I could use to describe Thursday evening for me, without actually telling any stories:

Whiskey sours
Beer
Ultimate Fighting
Beer splash
punch
karaoke
numbers
wallet
church
field
mud
fight
drunk
3 am
car
bar
urination

Make what conclusions you want. But it was one fun ass night. And, I did not wet myself, so don't draw that conclusion...unless you have a jumping to conclusions mat. But even so, I did not wet myself. I have yet to become one of those peeing drunks. Well, I pee a lot when I drink, but never any place weird other than the outdoors.

So first, some exciting news. I passed the 2,000 hit mark on my blog according to myspace. Mind you, this probably consists of Trevor looking at it everyday to try and figure out how to be so witty, eloquent, educated, manly....and pure tasty. So that is good. Also, there is a search function on myspace for the blogs, and....hold on to your pants...if you search for "cous-cous" there are five pages of blogs listed and none other than yours truly appears on page 4. So basically I am a bonafide celebrity...I have yet to let the fame go to my head too much aside from yelling at people I don't know, like bartenders "Don't you know who I am?" (all the while banging my hand on the bar)....Actually last night I did order a pitcher of beer and then motion at the foam, as if to say "Are you serious, what do I look like? Some sort of foam imbibing creature?" Of course with the celeb status I have...the bartender responded to my actions by saying "Six dollars." Which I know that meant something more like...."I know your game, you brilliant blogging machine...you are a real Jessica Joffey of the Chicago area. And I know if I mention this I won't be blogged about, but if I just say something like the price of the pitcher you will mention it."

I would like to apologize to some advertisements/advertisers. Your commercials are funny, memorable, even at times worthy of turning up the volume too and kindly requesting everyone in the room to "Shut the fuck up"....but last I checked the point of an advertisement is to SELL a product, not merely to entertain people. If an ad entertains someone, and they in turn buy the product, then boom, good work. But, this is not the case, at least not from this consumer.

Commercial example #1- The Sierra Mist commercials: These are slightly funny, feature funny people, and even sometimes funny situations. BUT Sprite still kicks ass in market share, and you know why? No one is ever in the soft drink aisle pondering, "Which is the one that might get confiscated by airport security as was shown to me by Tracy Morgan? I want THAT one" or "Which one is the one that is 'that refreshing'? I need that one, because other non-cola carbonated lemon-lime beverages have been unfulfilling as of late."

Commercial example #2- The Skittles Beard Commercial- This is a HILARIOUS commercial. But, the whole idea of a creepy man who can use his beard as an appendage, is once again not that big of a selling point for me. I would totally buy the beard, or might even think about being that man for Halloween, but as far as desiring Skittles as a cause of that, it just doesn't work.

There are many others. But as long as I am discussing advertising, why do inappropriate companies keep buying the naming rights to athletic arenas? For example, the Cleveland Cavs play at Quicken Loans Arena. The Astros used to play at Enron field, and now play at Minute Maid Park and there are many others...like the St.Louis Rams playing at Edward Jones dome. Enough. Unless....unless...there start to be some more inappropriate names, or even weirder sponsors...and if any of you companies wish to use these, just send me the check for my idea:

Tampa Bay Devil Rays- Preparation H Field
Pittsburgh Steelers- Metamucil Dome
New York Jets- Johnson Baby Oil Arena
Baltimore Orioles- O.B. Tampon Dome
San Francisco Giants-BALCO Park

You are very welcome corporate juggernauts.

And with further ado, here are the Top 10 numbers:

1) 583
2) 8.923
3)7,862,194
4)a kabillion
5) 22/7
6) 14
7) 49.7
8) 3
9) 15 hundred thousand
10) .456

Merci beaucoup. Vous n'avez rien envier a Charles Atlas.

"You don't want those mullets parking 2,000 cars"

The above quote was uttered by Andy Smart in 2002, and your guess is as good as mine as to what it was about, but let's not miss the humor. First of all a group of people is referred to as "mullets", secondly, he seems to wish them to not be parking cars. My apologies to the mullets who read this, and to people that look like muppets.

Well, as I have been informed that last week's post lacked the necessary humor that I always bring to the counter (yes, I know the phrase is "bring to the table", but I am merely keeping it tasty...to the nth degree), and I'll admit, it was a tad unfunny, but after my editor (my left brain) and I went over it a few times, it was definitely just as absurd and slightly offensive as usual. But anywhat (yes, I know it's "anywho", but see tastiness reference above) I have decided to provide a special Monday post to discuss the humorous occurences of my real life this past weekend. They are funny enough that I might be able to weave a not so intricate cobweb and let everyone in on the general malaise of the situations. alright there was no malaise at all, except for one or two parts.

THURSDAY: Trevor had called me on Wednesday and asked me if I wanted to go out Thursday night. I, of course, responded in the affirmative. He had hoped only a handful of Vatican power brokers knew of Opus Dei's impending annulment (WRITER'S NOTE: the last sentence is a line from The DaVinci Code, by Dan Brown...I was hoping to make my musings just as exciting and popular as Dan Brown by inserting this line). Thursday, after a quick trip to the grocery store, I began cooking dinner (some exquisite salmon, cous-cous, and other stuff) and drinking 7 and 7's. Trevor arrived and began drinking low quality LTD and Cokes (the drink makes the man, or the man makes the drink or something, isn't that what they say?). Long story short, by the time Brian returned to the casa to pick us up for a trip to the bar (and upon arrival he said "Damnit you're smashed already, aren't you?"), we had become too intoxicated to even desire to leave. Sleep ended up occuring pretty early that night, and the ill effects of the previous evening were felt the next day

FRIDAY: After a lovely day at work, Trevor and I once again convened at the house, once again consuming the same spirits we had been drinking the previous day. Trevor invited over some girls and we were sitting around drinking. Brian showed up and abducted me....alright, alright, he asked me if I wanted to go to Wrigleyville and I later claimed to have been abducted (which would have sounded more convincing had I not left, and then returned to get my wallet while Brian peed). We made it down to Wrigleyville at which time many "summers of" people convened (many other people are having summers of themselves, not just the Summer of Tim is out there....but it is the main one, and sort of like the Central seat of the government). It was good times and I somehow ended up spending a decent amount of money there. All the while Trevor was calling me millions of times to find out where I was and evidently I was accused of stealing someones cell phone (well actually they thought Brian did it...racial motivation...because he's so damn white). Eventually 7 of us piled into a five person vehicle, and for a good part of the ride I was stationed in a non existent middle seat in the front....how does the biggest guy in the car end of there? seriously now. Then once we dropped some people off, I evidently, due to sheer exhaustion I am sure, "fell asleep" in the front seat of the car, even while Brian stopped to get food and do various other activities. Wowzah. Langdon nodded, feeling the first faint wists of possibility materializing (DB....plus I can't get sued for copyright infringement by this guy...he likes it).

SATURDAY: Trevor after another evening of fine couch sleeping for him, woke me up at nine AM, at which time we promptly sat around for about three hours. In the meantime the girl who had been accusing everyone of cell phone thievery returned to find it leaning against my computer monitor as she had left it. During our idle time, we decided we had finally come to a day to attempt the vaunted nine for nine. One baseball game=nine innings=nine beers=nine hot dogs....one of each per inning. So we purchased our beers, and hot dogs and set about on the task at hand. At first, due to not eating the whole day, everything was going quite smoothly....and I must say the beer, not so much of a problem. By about the fifth or sixth inning though, Trevor, Jay, and me were dreading the hot dog we had to consume and they were sitting on our plates until two outs in the bottom of the inning....I'll tell you this much none of us have futures as competitive eaters or anything like that. Actually writing about this makes me feel rather disgusted at the feat, but now we are part of an ultra-exclusive club containing the likes of Chris Farley, George Wendt, and other fat people like them who may have accidentally eaten this much at some point. The drinking then continued....7 and 7's, beer...everything. I personally did not eat for about the next 27 hours. So as we continued drinking into the evening, I went to Brian's briefly to have some beers with him and Paul. While there, a couple things happened: 1)Trevor called and asked if he could give away/eat some of my food. To which I told him no. Trevor happens to be the king of the not so secret society of mooches. He is good at it, I will give him that, but you really have to put your foot down sometimes. 2)Brian, Paul, and I were watching Ultimate Fighter, and on this show they always endorse a nutritional supplement called "Xyience" so as we are watching this (and I have been drinking for about seven hours) I inform them I am going to buy some Xyience. Only the next day do I realize I have purchased about $156 worth of these products. Brian's karma is going in the shitter for that one. So I eventually returned home. Without ever lifting his eyes, he stepped backward, out into the room's vast empty spaces (DB). At this time, around 10:30, Trevor and I were both growing very tired. At this point Brian and Paul were becoming very not tired and very ready to go to the bar. At this point I was then dragged by my leg out to my living room from my bed. It was then I discovered I also lacked the faculties to stand up. So we went to the bar, a la Jean Parmesan (arrested development reference) and stayed for about two hours. Due to some reasons for which I feel deep unrest, Brian and Paul had to step up their drinking efforts for the evening. I offer my condolences to all the friends and family members involved in that. Trevor and I finally concurred and said "Why the hell are we even here?" and left to a waiting cab out front. Upon arriving home, the cab driver requested $7...I had $6 and Trevor (which I don't even think I asked him) obviously had none. So as a sign of good faith, I gave the driver the six dollars and explained that I was leaving Trevor with him in the car as collateral. sweet move, is it not? I then went inside, got a dollar from Derek, and got a big handful of change from the good old piggybank. The driver was more than happy with this and agreed to let Trevor go. As T-Bag was falling asleep he confessed that he had eaten some of my deli ham "Three slices" he even added to show how little damage he had done.

SUNDAY:I find my ziploc bag of ham torn open with 1/4 pound remaining of the previously unblemished 1.08 pounds.

Moral of the weekend: Trevor is a glutton for meat and is not to be trusted around meat products in your home.

Funny picture I found

Angry in a Santa Hat. Out.

Thoughts while thinking....por favor TOO TASTY

A lot has gone down since last week. I attended a Candle and Rose at Dominican, had a whirlwind KY Derby trip, and....well that is pretty much it. But it seems like a lot.

Candle and Rose is this ceremony at Dominican where the graduating class (The Candle) picks someone to be their Rose and their is a ceremony with the exchanging of the two things. I had participated in all of the last four. It is always a sweet ass time of drinking as well. So this year I was supposed to partake, but some things happened and I was not even going to go. I did not need anything to ruin my Cinqo de Mayo. But then I ended up going and for the first time, watching the ceremony rather than participating in it. It was pretty cool, sort of boring but still pretty cool. And I sat with the Plovanich family and we enjoyed some delicious adult beverages, and then three of us peed on Mrs.P's minivan. Sounds dirty, I know, but Joe, Sarah, and I all had to go, and we did not actually pee ON it, but rather in close proximity to it. Then we went to the beer garden and everyone drank to their merry delight.

No less then 4 hours after I arrived home, I woke up to depart for the whirling dervish KY adventure. It was kickass. The drive, the party, pretty much everything kicked ass. There was drinking, a Goulet off, a fine death metal performance, some Mack the Knife, a stolen can of garbanzo beans, a skirmish to the death and even a Proctor sighting.

I would like to take this opportunity to once again note: IF SOMETHING FUNNY IS OCCURING AND I AM AROUND, DO NOT MENTION "OH I KNOW THIS IS GOING IN THE BLOG" OR "THIS IS GOING IN THE BLOG, IS IT NOT?" YOU KNOW WHAT, NO IT'S NOT. I LIKE TO THINK I HAVE CREATIVE CONTROL OVER WHAT GOES IN HERE. AND IF SOMETHING FUNNY HAPPENS, IT MIGHT GET MENTIONED, IT MIGHT NOT. I AM NOT A GOOD ENOUGH WRITER TO PAINT A CLEAR PICTURE OF EVERY, OR IN FACT ANY, SITUATIONS SUCH THAT THEY CAN BE SEEN AS FUNNY. I TRY, BUT OFTEN IT IS A BATTLE SIMILAR TO A BABY FIGHTING RICKETS, JUST LET LIFE TAKE ITS COURSE. AND ALSO I ENJOY MY ORANGE JUICE PULP FREE. THANK YOU.

I have been thinking lately that I would love to be a writer...all the time. However, until I was able to write something worth publishing (other then this writing which is really like gravel in a freshly asphalted world) I would not really be able to support myself. I would therefore like to extend an invitation to myself from someone I know. You should let me live on your couch, I will do your laundry, make your food, and do your bidding with the devil, as well as have occasional rendez-vous with homeless people in your house while you are at work. When I put it that way, it doesn't sound too shabby, does it? And if I didn't feel like doing any of that stuff I wouldn't, because I would be a moody British writer. Yes, British.

The other night Christi and I were kind enough to help Brian with the painting of his room which had previously been made a joke by the painting stylings of one Paul Stover, who paints as if applying extra paint and pressure would help the situation...he is basically the Juggernaut of painters. So if I ever have a house and want to have a funny looking room, I know who to enlist to help me. So Christi mainly painted, I supervised and Brian did some painting too. I am an excellent supervisor. Worker morale was high, there was very little tension, I kept up with Union and OSHA rules, and even sexually harrassed people when the situation was deemed appropriate according to the handbook of supervisory rules. I did not really paint since I was once called "one of the worst painters in the history of mankind....in fact Jackson Pollack would have been a better choice you nimrod...seriously, have you been checked for Down's Syndrome? I don't mean to offend you, but seriously".

Jason Whitlock is a writer on the Page 2 section of Espn.com and frequently starts his column with little love notes he receives from celebrity women...totally fictionalized of course, but slightly witty all the same. To outdo him and everyone else in the world, here is my love LETTER I received from Elisha Cuthbert:

Dear Tim,

It feels as if it has been months since I last felt your warm embrace, but thank goodness I had that cardboard cutout made of you so that I can have a hug whenever I want. And you were right, the digital recording of your voice saying incredibly witty, funny things does help me fall asleep at night. I never knew what I wanted in life until there was you. I know, I know....it makes me sound so dorky and I feel sort of silly too, since I know you must be going on dates with literally hundreds of thousands of women.

I am so thankful that you were able to help me sort out my life and realize I had more potential as an actress then starring in commercials. And you were totally right when selecting roles for me in "Old School", "24" amd "The Girl Next Door"....to think I wanted to be the new face of Reynolds Wrap Aluminum Foil...I never really thought I was pretty enough to get these "young cute girl roles" and had even thought about giving up and going back to my old job cleaning bathrooms in Canada. That is just the effect you have on people though...to make them their best because you are always trying your best. I don't think you are like a unicorn or anything (tee hee) but you are magical.

Well, I will be back whenever you allow it. I am so sorry for that night and I swear it was an accident. I really had no idea that you were so anti-Canada, and I apologize a kabillion times for being Canadian and for wearing that Maple leaf lingerie set....I got rid of it and got some Stars and Stripes if that helps anything. Please call. I miss you and Kiefer Sutherland is really starting to creep me out. Call or whatever as soon as you can.

Love,
Elisha
XOXOXO

So, that's what I get in the mail like once a week. But Canada, seriously now?

A tasty weekend to all.