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"You have to be prepared for the possibility that God does not like you."
- Tyler Durden. Fight Club
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Review Witt and Wisdom

28 August 2003

The Test

Following is a test for all single men. Many of you are not fit to be dating and it's time that someone told you.

If you answer in the affirmative to three or more of the following questions, you fail. If you don't know what it means to "answer in the affirmative", you fail. If you drool on your keyboard while reading this, you fail. If you are surfing for porn at the same time as you take the test, you fail. If you are touching yourself right now, you fail. As previously discussed, the penalty for failure is jumping naked from a speeding bus once a week until cured. Believe me, it's better than you deserve.

You have five minutes to complete the test. You may not understand how the statements are relevant to dating women, but it's not really for you to understand. Just trust me. I am much, much smarter than you. If you were so smart, you'd be getting laid by much prettier people right now.
Please use a #2 pencil.

1. I like a smart girl, but not as smart as me. And she also has to have a tight ass, if you know what I'm sayin'.
2. Dude, women love my long, flowing, blonde hair that I sometimes put in a ponytail.
3. No, seriously, dude.
4. I think the best first dates take place at events that end with the word "Rally" or "Pull".
5. Women melt when I wink and point at them.
6. I think it's only fair to go "Dutch" until I'm sure I'm gonna get laid.
7. All chicks are feminists, so I let them open the door for themselves.
8. Being tan is more important than what kind of shoes I have.
9. When I see a group of girls out at a club, I'm pretty sure they want me to come over and annoy the shit out of them.
10. Pinching or slapping a girl's ass is a good way to start up a conversation.
11. You can never go wrong with a nice sleeveless t-shirt.
12. And also mesh.
13. Women love it when I get their phone number and then go back and high-five my boys while yelling, "SCORE!". It shows them that I'm excited.
14. If I buy a girl a drink, she better put out. What am I, made of money?
15. Bitches in tight, spaghetti-strapped tops are so asking for it, man.
16. White or black, women love it when I talk like I'm from Compton, yo.
17. If some bitch doesn't understand why Metallica rules, then she doesn't understand music, man.
18. I think wearing my baseball cap backwards gets women horny.
19. I stay away from fat chicks, because even though I'm 30 pounds overweight, I carry it well.
20. I've hit on really hot chicks because I've heard that sometimes guys are too intimidated to talk to them. Not me!
21. Most of my clothes can be worn four or five times before I need to wash them.
22. I don't need to learn how to cook - that's woman's work.
23. I think women are okay with it if I tell them that they have awesome tits. Also, if things are going well, I'll sometimes add that I'd like to bury my face in them.
24. When I first start talking to a girl and she acts like she's not really interested, I'm experienced enough to know that it's all part of the sexy conversational tango that will eventually get me laid, so I keep bothering her.
25. Girls find it quite charming when I refer to them as Baby, Sweet Cheeks, Sugar Tits, Mama, Fine Mama, Pretty Mama, Tasty Lips, Hey You, Hey!Yo!, Whad-Up Gurrl or simply DAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY-UM.
26. There is no finer compliment I can give to a girl than telling her I want to eat breakfast off of her ass.
27. I don't like to use "pick-up lines" (air quotes) with girls. Usually, I just say something like, "Baby, are you wearing chrome jeans? Cuz I swear I can see myself in your pants!"
28. In my initial conversation at a bar, I like to refer to my penis by a first, middle and last name. Possibly with a Jr. at the end. Women think it's cute.
29. Fuck that girl's friends, they don't even know me.
30. The best second date for me is usually an Adam Sandler or Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. As long as it has tits in it or something, ya know.
31. My hobbies include: Hanging out with my boys, playing X-Box, getting laid, sleeping, drinking and backyard wrestling.
32. Why should I clean up my crib when the shit is just gonna get dirty again.
33. All women want is to break a guy down and change him. Ain't no woman gonna change me.
34. I hate homos.
35. Women like to be ignored; it makes me a challenge for them.
36. A woman has to understand that I might cheat on her if something unbelievable comes my way. It's just the nature of man.
37. I'll tell any girl that I love her if it gets me laid.
38. If I find out a girl's mom is fat or ugly, I dump her ass.
39. I want a girl that will shut up when I tell her to shut up.
40. Good girls are a dime a dozen.

Hell, what was I thinking with three affirmatives? If you answered even one of these in a positive fashion, go here.

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27 August 2003


I swear to Christ, there needs to be some sort of test for single men to see if they are fit to enter the dating pool. It should be administered every four years, like the Olympics, and if you fail to pass, you get thrown from a moving bus, naked. Once a week. Until you snap out of your stupidity.

Julia just described a recent dating excursion, and I've got to say, she should have been allowed to bring a can of mace or stun gun or something. This is what men deserve. I mean, how clueless are some of you handjobs?

On Saturday night, I got to witness some single-guy-genius in action. A gem from an overheard conversation:

Him: "So...you work here long?"
Her (bartender): "Uh, yeah. What can I get ya?"
Him: "You look great. I bet you hear that a lot. You're really sexy."
Her: "Yeah. What do you want?"
Him: "What do ya got?"
Her: "It's a bar. We have al-co-hol."
Him: "What time do you get off?"
Her: "Get out."

Guys, just stop. Staaaahhhhhhhhhhh. P. You are sad. Try to focus and look for subtle clues such as:
- "I hate you."
- "You have a small penis."
- "DieDieDIE!!"
- Vomiting directly on you
- Punching you in the balls and kneeing you in the face

Tomorrow, I am posting the test. If you fail, start checkin' bus schedules.

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26 August 2003


Andy Warhol punched me in the brain on Saturday night.

I attended a bachelor party for a friend where I was able to enjoy the sweet, swirling ride of vodka over my tongue and a full display of flesh-toned transgressions. The night began at 7:00 with dirty martinis and tender filets and ended at 4:00 with ice cold water and cheesesteak omelets. Somewhere in between were live nude girls and women in cowboy hats.

My favorite kind of night is when I can feel myself falling down the rabbit hole. The liquor warms me and turns my brain sideways, so that I can see the world in a fresher light. Motion all around and everything blurs.

Mother of God, I do love alcohol.

Here's roughly how the night progressed:

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25 August 2003

Truth and Consequences

If you haven't read my three stories yet, you should go and play the little game now. Go on. Let me know which of the three is the truth.

First, I really did have a friend named Chuck in high school. He and I shared the same common bond that every one of the people I can remember in my small group of friends shared: we were shy. Oh, sure, maybe we were occasionally extroverted, but we were shy nonetheless. Shy with girls, in particular. Chuck is extremely genuine and I knew that eventually he'd find a girl who would see him for the great guy that he is. That's why I would've been especially disappointed if I had killed him that night on the gravel road. I swear I thought that road was straight. Although everything happened really fast, I remember distinctly looking over at Chuck right as the car was spinning and he had the look of complete terror on his face. And we were both yelling "fuck" as loud as we could. When the car landed, down in the ditch, I saw that one of the tires had blown and I didn't have anything to fix it. I can't remember how we got the car out of the ditch, but we did and then we drove it very slowly down the gravel road and out onto the main road, keeping the right front blown-out tire on the soft shoulder the whole time to avoid further damage. We drove like that all the way to my friend Larry's house (about 4 miles and 2 hours later) so he would help us change the tire. All cuz we couldn't get dates to the prom. I'm still not a fan of gravel roads.

When my parents saw the spare tire and the weeds wedged in the front bumper and grill, they rightly asked what in the hell happened. It just so happens that this whole true story led to me telling one of the biggest lies I've ever told my parents. I said, "We were driving out on the gravel road and the tire blew! I lost control and went into the ditch. It wasn't my fault! The tires are almost completely bald! We could've been killed!"

My dad had all four tires replaced the next day. And he got a talking-to from my mom.

The second story is complete horseshit. I named the girl Jamie after Jamie Lee Curtis. I named the gravel road Tasker Road after Helen Tasker. Jamie Lee Curtis played Helen Tasker in this movie. I made myself giggle a little bit about that. I'm not sure if I ever had a girl sit with me in the front seat of my old Chevy Nova and I sure as hell never got any over-the-shirt action there. Also, the line "it's too cloudy to see the stars anyway" is just way too good of a line to be real. Ya know, if I do say so myself.

The third story is also unadulterated bull poo-poo. I was sort of a dork in high school, but I had a few really good friends who would never let me drink alone. We did drink that damned fruit-flavored schnaaps though. God, that stuff is hideous.

So, as I'd hoped, the true story got the fewest votes. Which I guess means I'm a really good liar and you should never trust a damn thing I ever say again.

But if you didn't know that, then you don't know me at all.

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23 August 2003

It's Never About Truth

Lies save trouble now, but may return in thunder and lightning.
- Mason Cooley

I was tired and lazy and wandering yesterday and simply not in the mood to write. Today I'm still tired and lazy, but I am feeling a bit more the wordsmith. As promised, I am taking part in Obfuscation: The Blog Game, mostly because I like the name, but also because I like the idea.

Of the following three stories, only one is true. Can you figure out which one?

The Drive

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than driving down country roads with my friend Chuck. We had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than two adolescent boys driving around lamenting their soon to be squandered youth. The conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around "not giving a shit" and wondering what particular girls might look like in (and out) of their dresses.

High school boys like speed. Our bodies spin on freshly forged cylinders and our minds zip from thought to action with little reasoning of consequence. It is the desire to recapture some of this vibrancy that makes grown men buy highly polished, overpriced, sporty red cars later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a power that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

I turned down a gravel road, leading into a darker part of the country that may provide more shelter from our thoughts.

"The thing that pisses me off, Chuck, is that I think I might have been able to go, if I'd just had the guts to ask someone," I said.

"Yeah, me too. You know there are girls sitting at home tonight that we could've gone with...just to go," he concurred.

"Ah, fuck it. I didn't want to go anyway. I'd just end up going with someone I didn't really like and then stare at Beth all night anyway..." I sighed, accelerating down the long, straight patch of pebbly road.

"Man, you know you have no chance with her. We aren't in her league," Chuck stated with a friendly bluntness.

"That's what I'm saying! I know I can't get a girl like her, but that's what drives me crazy! I can't stop looking and thinking, 'What if', ya know?" I said, turning on the brights of the old Chevy Nova.

"Fuck 'em. I didn't want to get all dressed up and shit anyway. I hate wearing a tie," Chuck said, pushing his feet into the floorboards a little, "man - slow the fuck down. There's no lights on this road."

"This is a straight fucking road; don't worry about it. Live a little, fer chrissakes," I said, peering slightly into the darkness.

"Just slow down, it's a gravel road," Chuck said with faux indifference.

"Teenage boys found dead in mangling car accident," I mocked, in my best newsman's voice, "Gay love affair suspected."

"Fuck off," Chuck said, "...shit, TURN!!"

"SHIT!" I yelled, braking hard and sliding the car to the left.

The gravel was like ice. The car was sliding sideways in sickening-super-slow fast motion. I saw the ditch. The wheel spun away from my hands.

I looked at Chuck.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!" we screamed in unison, as I felt the car flip and saw the world go upside down.

The car seemed to twist in every direction. A carnival ride out the windows.

Ditch. Stop. Right side up.

Holy shit.

"You ok, Chuck? Did we just flip?" I whispered hoarsely.

"Asshole. That was fucked up," he said, shaken.

"Man, we really shoulda gone to the dance," I said.

"Yeah, no shit."

The Date

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than with a girl that I only pretended to like. We had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than a horny teenage boy and a naive teenage girl. The conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around our "fucking parents" and debating what other girls looked like in their dresses.

High school girls like romance. The mind of the adolescent girl sees boys as better than they'll ever be. Their youth glosses over the fact that romance is the exception, rather than the rule. Magazines and television train them to find romance where none exists and hold on with the ferocity of a wolverine. It is the desire to recapture some of this romantic sentiment that makes grown women stay with cruel men and immature boys later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a belief that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

The dance itself was, for me, filled with an awkwardness that I'm certain Jamie could sense. The up-tempo music drove me to the standard air guitar/hop-twitch combo that I was positive made me look awesome. She was incredibly tolerant.

When the slow songs came and the chaperones on the outskirts of the gymnasium looked a bit more intently at the couples, I would slowly and uneasily grab her around the waist and interlock my fingers behind her back. I had no idea what to do with my head, as I was a good ten inches taller than she was. Also, I was sweating like fat hooker in a sauna from my jump-dancing. The only gentlemanly thing to do seemed to be to bend down and put my head on her shoulder. This made for an ugly silhouette. Jamie didn't see to mind. When I looked down into her eyes at the end of the last dance, I saw that she liked me far more than I liked her. The funny thing is, when I saw that, it made me like her more.

We left the dance, hand in hand, like lovers. My hand was sweaty and she had to reach up slightly to compensate for the height difference, but she was smiling every time I looked at her. Thinking about it now, I am convinced she was making plans for our wedding.

I opened the passenger door of my old Chevy Nova, with its newly Armor-All'd vinyl interior and led her with my hand into her seat. I ran around to the driver's side, trying to get clear in my mind how to put sexual thoughts into action. I waivered momentarily in reflection of how this girl really liked me a lot and how I wasn't especially attracted to her and how I didn't want to eventually hurt her feelings...but these were fleeting moralistic thoughts and I was able to ignore them with the help of raging, brain-hazing hormones.

"So..." I queried, "where to next?"

"Well, Jenny is having an after-dance party in her parent's basement and they promised to leave us alone. Her parents are so cool," she said.

"That sounds good. Can we just go driving around first, though?" I asked, as I reached over and took her hand.

"Sure. That'd be nice," she said, in what she imagined was her coy tone.

At this point, I had no plan. I just wanted to have some time to figure out how I could possibly kiss her and maybe feel her breasts.

"Let's take Tasker Road over. It's dark out there and we can see the stars," I said.

Jesus Christ. See the stars?!?

"That sounds really nice. Isn't that a gravel road, though? Do you want to get your car all dirty? It's so clean and new," she baby-talked, running her other hand along the plastic dash.

"Nah, I don't mind. It'll clean up," I said, plotting my next move.

I made the turn and drove a mile down Tasker and then began to slow the car as I shut off the headlights. I pulled over to the side, near the ditch. I sat there for a minute, letting my eyes adjust.

"I hope aliens don't come and take us away. I can just see the headlines, 'Young teens abducted after prom'," I mocked, in my best newsman's voice, "Anal probing suspected."

"You're so silly. I love that you make me laugh," she said.

"I had fun tonight," I said as I leaned over, hardly aware of what my body was doing. "I liked being with you."

I kissed her at a sideways angle. A dry, strange kiss. I saw that she belatedly forgot to close her eyes, as she imagined she should, and then I realized that I forgot to close mine and I pressed them tightly shut to compensate.

I reached one hand over to turn her head toward me and reached the other hand over to...

Shit. I couldn't turn far enough because the lapbelt was locked.

I backed away momentarily.

She smiled at me.

"That was nice," she whispered, "thanks."

I unbuckled my lapbelt, but somewhere in the time between, the moment must have gotten lost, because as I leaned in for another kiss, she backed up slightly. I persevered. I pressed against her lips and brought my hand up to her left breast.

"Please...don't," she whispered, gently.

I pressed a little with my lips. Her lips were flat in return. I took my hand away.

"Maybe you should just take me home," she muttered, "it's too cloudy to see the stars anyway."

The Dork

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than being drunk and alone in an elementary school parking lot. My subconscious and I had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than a lonely teenage boy and a fifth of fruit-flavored schnaaps. My conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around what a "pathetic fuck" I was and debating if I'd ever get my hand up a girl's dress.

High school dorks like drama. The mind of the dork imagines revenge and the belief that someday, everything will be made right. Logic sees only the unjust actions of the world around and the superficiality that seems to be neverending. The cruelty of others and the absolute indifference of the world incites one to bitterness and cynicism. It is the desire to recapture some of this anger and empowerment that makes grown men beat their wives and demean their co-workers later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a belief that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

I drank and drank. I tuned the old Chevy Nova to radio stations that would play music to which I should never have been listening. Sad songs meant to push me further. I cried to myself the pathetic whines that adolescents sometimes do when the world crashes down daily. I was angry and defeated. Angry at myself and angry that others couldn't see that I was a good person. God, it hurts to think of it even now.

There was no country road. There was no fantastic crash or shy, sweet girl. It was me and a sticky-sick bottle of liquor and my thoughts about how I wouldn't escape the teenage years without hating the world. It was me sitting there wishing I had a friend to help console me or a girl with whom I could spend crazy, awkward moments.

Sometimes reality isn't full of grand moments, just little hard ones that make you the person you are later in life.

Or maybe I'm lying.

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21 August 2003

The New Commandments

1. Thou Shalt Stop Doing Stupid, Crazy Shit In My Name
2. Thou Shalt Sit The Fuck Down and Shut The Fuck Up

Call it the new "streamlined" gospel.

Praise unto me.

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20 August 2003


I think it's important to note that even though there are annoying distractions going on in our world (such as war and bombings and terrorism), there are still trained and skilled professionals that are deeply concerned about your penis. Well, unless you're a woman. Then I'm not sure if anyone is really worried about your penis.

According to this article, the scientific community is preparing newer, faster and longer-lasting methods to keep you harder than calculus. In the future, through the evolution of modern medicine, men will just walk around with a raging hard-on 24 hours a day. So, not much different than the present, really.

The thing that cracks me up about this story is the names under which these new drugs are being marketed. God bless marketing people for taking six-figure salaries and coming up with names like "Levitra".

An excerpt from the staff (HA!) meeting on naming:

Marketing Idiot #1: Ladies and gentlemen, we are tasked today with coming up with a name for our client's incredible new drug.
Marketing Idiot #2: Uhhh...whatzit do?
Marketing Idiot #3: I like ham. (drool)
MI#1: This new drug is for the male downstairs region. Our client is looking to "raise expectations" (air quotes) for men, if you know what I mean.
MI#2: Um, no. I don't.
MI#3: (drool).
MI#1: Don't make me spell it out people. I'm talking about enhancing the dangle-down. Making the noodle naughty. Putting the jack back in the rabbit.
MI#2: I like pasgetti.
MI#1: Jesus Christ, I'm talking about giving guys boners here.
MI#2: Ooohhhhhhh.
MI#3: Not bunnies?
MI#1: Now, we need a name that says "power" and "strength" and "erect!" (extreme air quotes).
MI#2: How about "Erect - The Pill for Erections"
MI#1: I like that. It's a good start.
MI#3: How about "Boner - The Pill For When You Can't Get It Up"
MI#1: Subtle. I like that.
MI#2: I like: "Cocky - For A Big Cock"
MI#1: That's genius. But I'm looking for something that conveys more of a "magical" feel.
MI#2: Maybe, "David Cockerfield's Wangtastic Hard-On Pill"?
MI#1: Just now, I fell in love with you.
MI#3: Magicians scare me.
MI#1: Trevor makes a good point. Magicians are scary. What else is magical?
MI#2: "Hairy Putter and The Rock-Hard Bone"?
MI#1: I love that like my grandmother, but it sounds too much like a porno movie. What else? Come on people, it's close to 3:00 here - I've got a 3:30 tee time...
MI#3: I like tea.
MI#2: I always like it when magicians pull stuff out of hats. How about "Abracockdabra - For When You Need to Pull a Huge Dick Out of Thin Air!"
MI#1: I like how you worked "pull" and "dick" into the tag there...
MI#3: I like the floaty ladies. Magic guys make people float. Up in the air. Floaty!
MI#1: I see where you're going...and we're working...we're working...what's like floating...?
MI#2: Isn't it called "leveltration"?
MI#1: Well, technically, it's called "levitation". Let's run with that...
MI#3: "Levitration" is too long for me to remember...how about just "Levitra"?
MI#1: Well again, technically, it's "levitation", not "leviTRAtion". But I'm really tired and it's late. Levitra it is. Here's a bonus check Trevor. I guess you could call it a "boner check".
MI#3: I don't get it.

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19 August 2003

You Don't Own Me

There appears to exist a belief that I am "whipped". I'm not sure how these filthy lies get started, though I suspect it may be because I write about how I'm a gigantic pussy all the time.

But that's strictly for comedic purposes only.

Rest assured, I am all man.

220 pounds of unbridled sexy majesty. And sometimes, when I'm in the mood, bridled.

I've seen whipped, my friends, and it is not me. For example, I heard the tale of a woman last week on the radio. This woman stated that she demands that her man respect her. To that end, she forces him to turn his head when beautiful women are on television. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Shitting. Me.

Lest you think this woman is some isolated whack-job, no more than two minutes later another woman called in to say that she makes her man do the same thing. Don't these two sound like an absolute treat to be around? These men are praying death will take them quickly and soon.

By whose definition of beautiful does the man go by? Does the wife hold up a green card for safe and a red card for danger?! Fun life.

I am convinced that this is the exact kind of woman whose husband is deeply involved in S&M during his lunchhour with Mistress Veronica Von Kidneypunch. Later, after the bitter divorce (wherein it is revealed that she enjoys using a strap-on during lovemaking), she will wonder aloud to friends, "Why? Why did he cheat? What did I ever do?"

Now, I am not condoning cheating in any way. What I am condoning is that when your spouse tells you to turn your head from beautiful women, you calmly look at her and say, "You are out of your fucking mind. Here's how the rest of this marriage is gonna go: I will look but not touch and you will not make ridiculous, asinine comments like that. Also, you will make me sandwiches with lots of bacon without being prompted and I will give you ear popping oral sex. Whoever cheats gives all money and possessions to the other person and goes to live under a railroad bridge. So let it be written, so let it be done."

Just. That. Easy.

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18 August 2003


My wife was up in Canada this past weekend for work. God only knows what kinds of exotic Canadian diseases she's come back with. I'm hoping for monkey pox, of course. Or something monkey related. Monkey strep throat, maybe.

In her absence, I thought it best to honor her with a weekend of hookers, gin and a Donkey Show at the house of Witt. Ahhh, who am I kidding? It was another weekend of computer games and crying into a pillow. I'm lucky to have stayed clear of my own filth.

But, again, I've jumped the tracks here already. My point is that on Saturday night, I attended a birthday party/housewarming for some friends of mine downtown. They have a beautiful house and it was quite a good time, but I attended it solo. Cuz my wife was out of town. Jesus, try to keep up here, people.

While my wife and I have the kind of marriage where we do many things independently (movies, exercise, masturbation), we rarely attend parties separately. It was an odd sensation to be at a function alone while groups of couples mingled around me. There was no reserve chute. No backup plan. No ripcord. Introductions were awkward: "Hi, I'm CW, and this is my...um...penis."

It was all wrong.

See, the best part about parties for a married couple (or even dating couples) is to sit back occasionally and make fun of the other attendees. What good is a party if you can't bolt to a quiet corner and place bets on how long each of the couples is going to last? How much fun can one have without telling the partner how much better her ass looks than everyone else? How many laughs can I have if I can't lean over every now and then and whisper, "Skank", as some overly-dolled harlot walks past?

I still had fun and made pleasant conversation, but everyone eventually retreats to his or her cohort and I was left looking at family photos for the 20th time.

Next time, I need to find an escort service that specializes in my particular situation.

Escort Agency: Hello, this is Mistress Edna's Gock Cobblers, how may we service you?
Me: Um...yeah...I've never done this before. I need a date for a party this evening. But just a date. I only want to talk.
Escort Agency: Uh huh, sure you do sweetie. Our ladies specialize in talking. What color of hair, nationality and bra size would you like to "talk" to?
Me: Whatever, she just has to have a good sense of humor.
Escort Agency: So, like...a C-cup sense of humor?
Me: Lady, I'm serious. I'm married. I just want to have someone to take to a party.
Escort Agency: Hmmm, married eh? Yeah, we never get married guys, so you must be telling the truth. If you are going to a party, you should look into Gock Cobblers special "Group Rate".
Me: It's not like that, I swear. How much for just talking for three hours tonight?
Escort Agency: Let's see...three hours...just talking...you want hand release with that?
Me: Well, sure.
Escort Agency: I figured. That's $500. She'll be there at 8:00.
Me: Super.

My wife is out of town again this coming weekend. I've gotta run this by her.

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15 August 2003

The Study Of Relaycast Dominion Transmutation In Our Ecosystem

Many of you are saying, "My heavens, CW certainly has taken a long time to post something today. He most assuredly has some weighty issues of global import which must be addressed before he can pander to our needs."

Right you are, dear reader. There are matters that may be beyond the reach of your meager brainstem that need great care, thought and experimentation. I am the man for these tasks. For you, and for the good of humanity itself, I have devoted the better part of this day to the analysis of the unknown and unseen: Atmospheric based communication controlled through electromagnetic current (probably).

I speak, of course, of the test flight of my brother's $10 remote controlled helicopter inside his living room and the inaugural journey of my $10 remote 4X4 Hummer into the Georgian outback. God bless Closeout Warehouse Center of Georgia and GOD BLESS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!

You want pictures? Oh, I got pictures.

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14 August 2003

I Got A Bag You Can Check, RIGHT HERE!!

The trip home a couple of weeks ago brought with it yet another joyous experience at the airport. I flew from Atlanta to Moline, Illinois, because it was the cheapest option that was anywhere close to Iowa. Now, you’d think that there wouldn’t be more than a few people a year that would want to travel to the greater Moline metroplex, but the plane was full of adorable little doe-eyed travelers. My brother and I were standing in the gate area picking out who was going home to Iowa and who was just visiting – Iowa, Iowa, Atlanta, Iowa, Atlanta, Iowa, Iowa, Iowa. It’s quite obvious really. People in Atlanta don’t wear full beards and flannel shirts in the middle of summer. Especially the women.

So we boarded the plane and wedged ourselves into the seats, listening to instructions on what to do in case of a water landing. What? Are we taking a little-known westerly route over the Pacific between Atlanta and Illinois? Seems inconvenient, but I’m not a major airline, so what do I know? I chose to stay quiet, lest they think me a terrorist.

Turns out that I didn’t need to immediately worry about traveling over a major body of water anyway. The major body of water was coming to us. We were 27th in line for takeoff and nobody was in a real big hurry. To hear the tower tell it, there was some sort of flash-monsoon heading directly to the Atlanta airport. Storm of the Century. Hail the size of poodles. In the distance, I saw a man building an Ark.

So we sat. Our Captain was very helpful with the updates, telling us that nothing whatsoever had changed and we were waiting for the storm to hit.

Ah. Yes, let’s not get the fuck out of here before the poodles come. Let’s wait and enjoy the show.

We were all very careful to not move from our seats, because the plane could move AT ANY MOMENT!! WAIT FOR IT!! The excitement in the cabin was palpable. Plane sitting should be a ride at Disney.

Then the Captain came on again and said that the storm was moving more slowly than expected, so he was just gonna go ahead and power down for a while. We were free to move about the cabin until further notice.

Sweet joyful liberty!! Finally, I can run free in the aisle!! Go horseback riding!! Swim in the Olympic sized pool!! Use a hydrangea scented douche!!

Or I can sit and stew. And seethe. And berate God.

After two hours on the tarmac, I hear the engines power up. The Captain comes on over the intercom with his cheeriest voice and proclaims that we are ret’ta’go. I look out the window. No poodles. No rain. I’ve seen porno movies that were wetter than our runway.

I made a mental note to kill an innocent hooker later.

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13 August 2003


My ninety year-old grandma is the matriarch of a family of five kids, 15 or so grandkids and 20-plus great grandkids. She walks around with a souped up, three-wheeled, all-terrain, burgundy walker that sports some sweet-ass six inch rims in the back and hand brakes for laying down the rubber. She will mow your lazy ass down if you aren’t careful.

She is also a computer nerd.

I mean, by your definition maybe she’s not, but if you ask her, she is.

A few years ago, we gave my grandma one of my old laptops to putter around with, because she has always been interested in the technology of them and she especially enjoys playing solitaire on my parent’s computer when she’s at their house. She’s a pretty independent person, so the opportunity to figure something out on her own is invigorating.

We thought that she might be able to use the laptop to write notes to family and maybe play an occasional game of solitaire when she is bored. Also, because she enjoys cards so much, we installed one of those Hoyle-type card games where she can play against artificial computer opponents.

Um, yeah. Big mistake.

We are lucky to hold grandma’s attention for more than five minutes anymore. Not because she is frail or senile or experiencing Alzheimer’s. Grandma is now addicted to computer cards games. In the games that she plays, there are anywhere from two to six computerized opponents. She is convinced that they are all real. Oh, go ahead and try to explain to her that it’s “just a computer game”. I dare ya. She will have you believing otherwise by the end of the conversation.

The funny thing is, she holds grudges against some of the players in the game. I believe she’s not on speaking terms with two of them. The players talk after almost every card is dealt and grandma simply doesn’t care for some of their attitudes. Each computerized player has a vocabulary of about five or so phrases apiece, so they are basically saying the same things over and over and over. But if you ask grandma, it’s the way they say it. Also, she cannot comprehend how they can make a decision and play their cards so fast. There is clearly some sort of plot going on against her.

Until my trip home a couple of weeks ago, I thought this was all just a nice little diversion for my grandma. But she sat me down and told me differently.

“Honey, I used to sit here night after night watching TV and I’d look up and fifteen minutes had passed and I’d think to myself ‘Oh, dear God, it’s only been fifteen minutes, what am I going to do for the rest of the night?’ and I’d be so bored. Now, when I’m playing on my computer, I’ll look up at the clock and it’s nearly midnight and I think to myself, ‘Oooo, I can sneak one more game in’. It’s been a Godsend. Thank you so much for teaching me about computers.”

How great is that?! My grandma is a gamer!

So I decided to watch her play with her new computerized friends for a while and I’m tellin’ ya, little twelve year-old Susie does appear to have it in for my grandma. Sitting there with her sweet, innocent blonde hair, tied into pigtails with that obnoxious pink bow. I don’t care for her. Not one bit. NOBODY IS BUYING YOUR LITTLE ACT, SUSIE!!

My grandma handily kicked her ass.

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12 August 2003

None Of The Above

I had an interesting conversation while taking a walk with my dad when I was home a couple of weeks ago. It went something like this:

Me: So you’ve lost about 50 pounds, then?
Dad: Yeah, just eating right and walking everyday.
Me: I’m really proud of you. I was worried about your health at Christmas.
Dad: The doctor pretty much told me to lose weight in no uncertain terms.
Me: How’s your health otherwise?
Dad: I feel good, except for…ya know, down there.
Me: Um, what?
Dad: Well, I had that hernia surgery, remember, and I’ve been sore down there ever since. It hurts more now than it ever did with the hernia.
Me: What’s the doctor saying?
Dad: I went in and he can’t figure out what’s wrong. It all looks perfect.
Me: (Suppressing giggle)
Dad: I mean, there shouldn’t be anything wrong. He doesn’t know what to do.
Me: That’s real encouraging. What’s he gonna do about it?
Dad: Well, he said I have three options…
Me: Yeah?
Dad: Number one, wait six more months and see if it feels better.
Me: Uhhh huuuuuh…
Dad: Number two, he says he can send me to see this specialist lady that can work to deaden the nerve endings to take away the pain.
Me: Okay…
Dad: Number three, he told me he could just go ahead and take the testicle.
Me: Take it where?
Dad: Yeah, I wasn’t too happy with that option either (dad executes one of his perfect mock double takes), “What was that last one, doc?”
Me: What kind of quack is this guy?
Dad: He’s a good guy; he did the surgery in the first place.
Me: And it sounds like he may have botched that.
Dad: Good point.
Me: You need to get a second opinion. I gotta tell ya dad, I’m not a fan of option one OR option three. I mean, I’m not even a doctor and I could tell you to do nothing. For free. And I’m not following the logic of alleviating pain by cutting off a nut. Jesus, what the hell? The only reasonable option is the second one, wherein he’s telling you to go to a doctor who knows what the hell she’s talking about!!
Dad: Maybe I should go see her…
Me: Ya know what? I don’t like that option either, come to think of it. Basically, you are telling me that you are going to pay a woman to deaden the nerves in that area. I don't want any doctor using the word "deaden" when discussing that area. It just ain’t right. If anything, you should see if she can intensify the nerve endings down there, for God’s sake.
Dad: Now that’s a very good idea.
Me: Maybe she can make it so you have an orgasm when you sneeze or something.
Dad: I’ve got a lot to think about now.
Me:You’re damn right you do.

See, it’s all about helping family. You people can learn a lot from me.

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10 August 2003


Time to get back into the swing of things.

I've finally finished my submission for the 26 Things Project. It was a lot of fun. However, I must give the standard disclaimer that I am by no means a photographer in any possible interpretation of the word. Well, maybe one interpretation: I take photographs.

So I guess I am a photographer in pretty much the only sense of the word.


Wow. So then, in a way, you should be considering this a privilege. You are getting the chance to view the cutting edge pieces of an up and coming artiste. I envy you with every fiber of my blubbery torso. Embrace this honor, dear reader. You are one of the chosen few.

Ah, who am I kidding, this whole project was just a way to try to use the ol' digital camera for something other than gay porn.

Did I say gay porn? I meant "flower pictures".

Anyway, I thought it would be kinda nice if I gave you a little information on each of my 26 Things so that you have some context. Also, I know that quite a few of my readers are mouth-breathing, slack-jawed, genitally inferior dimbulbs, so I figure detailed explanation is always welcome. Of course, by now, you've drooled on your keyboard and electrocuted yourself. My God, you are a mess.

Onward to the narration:

Animal - I know a lot of my gay, female and gay female readership can't get enough freakin' cat pictures, so I took a picture of my puma-esque unholy ninja-cat, Moe. He is looking innocent, but if you turn your back, he will kill you and leave only tattered shreds of your clothing as evidence.

Authority - This is one of my favorites. The suspicious black woman in the background was just a happy little accident. Blind justice is the best kind of justice. Just ask OJ.

Colour - Um, it's like...ya know...a car and a fire extinguisher.

Communication - It occasionally sickens me to see wiry tower after wiry tower rise from the formerly treelined hills of Atlanta.

Construction - A bulldozer taking a break from tearing up more of Atlanta's natural beauty. Look at me, I'm all Eco-Militant and shit.

Empty - Turner Field after a Braves game. The place was downright spooky.

Food - Looking down into a canister of angelhair pasta. No, I am not interested in what you think it really looks like.

Footwear - The shoes that my wife is using for her marathon training. These are still warm after a 17 mile run.

Home - I'm disappointed that I didn't come up with something better for "Home". This is just an artsy side picture of our house. Not even that artsy, really.

Light - This is looking back and up into the balconies of a new theatre in my hometown in Iowa.

Little Things - Not terribly original here - just some painfully bright flowers from the front of our house.

Love - My sweet grandma on her 90th birthday.

Money - Oooo, look at me! I'm all avante garde with my wacky lighting and foreign currency. You may not touch my beret.

Monument - This is the reflection of a sculpture on my college campus. It also happens to be where I proposed to my wife.

New - Somebody's new toy with some bling-bling rims, yo. The guy driving it thought he was bigger than Jesus.

Numbers - Baseball is a game of numbers.

Scape - This is what greeted me when I arrived in Iowa a couple of weeks ago. I made my brother hold the wheel while I snapped the picture.

Signage - A road in my hometown. That's corn there, for you city folk. Remember how I once said that when I was growing up there was corn for as far as I could see in all directions? DID YOU THINK I WAS KIDDING!!??

Sound - My dad's big ol' floppy ear. It can easily detect the sound of lies.

Sunset - In Iowa.

Symmetry - Just got lucky with this one.

Time - The campanile on campus in my hometown. It lets you know that you are way too late and hungover for class.

Transport - And you people wonder why I rant so frequently about traffic and moronic drivers? This picture is taken during a normal commute day for me.

Water - What don't you get about this one, dumbass? Move on.

Weather - Rainy days and Mondays and genital herpes always get me down.

You - I am a giant among men.

Exciting, yes? Try to catch your breath for a moment. Okay? You good now? Good.

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04 August 2003


Certain memories fly into my mind and make me suddenly smile when I am driving alone, thoughts shifting with pinball randomness.

When I was nineteen and able to run faster than the world could spin, I found myself with group of friends that could hunt down fun and make it their own. Anytime, anywhere. We knew how to manufacture a life-altering good time from an old sock and a wad of bubble-gum. Sometimes, just a look or gesture from one of these guys would double me over with laughter. We all have friends like this; they're friends that make you realize that there's no better place in the world to be at that moment than with them.


In Iowa, any trip becomes an adventure, because it takes you away from the stagnation in which you are currently wallowing. I remember one of the first road trips in which I ever participated, my friends Keith and Mike decided to head down to Des Moines.

The two hour drive to begin our journey was inconsequential. I imagine we were preparing ourselves, mentally and physically.

Keith is older than Mike and I by a few years (married college student, in fact) and he had family in the Des Moines area that were out of town, so we had full run of their house.

I've always considered myself to be quite an extroverted person, but when hanging out with these two, I am downright humbled. Mike's nickname is Animal (after the Muppet's drummer) and he has a knack for being the first man starting and the last man standing. Keith is simply a drinkin', smokin', laughin' machine who will do whatever pops into his mind at any given moment, if it will make someone happy. They are both instigators of mayhem. Mike's casualness and Keith's infectious laugh offset most trouble that comes their way. Such was the case that night.


Keith decided that it would be best if we began the evening at a nearby hotel bar because it had colorful locals, interesting out-of-towners and a big ol' dancefloor. We knew to trust Keith - he wouldn't lead us astray of a good time. When we arrived, however, we were a tad underwhelmed. The DJ's selection of music was questionable and the crowd was sparse. In fact, the only patrons were a group of WWII veterans and their wives that were having a reunion for their Air Force unit.

I looked over at Keith.

"Man, this place is lame. Let's get out of here," I stated over the bad eighties background music.

"Are you kidding me," Keith questioned, "we have the run of the place, we can pick the music, it's $2 drinks and you know that WWII veterans know how to party."

"Oh yeah," Mike concurred, "we're gonna have fun tonight."

Old sock. Wad of bubble gum.

We sat in one of the big leatherette booths off of the dance floor and drank and people watched for a good two hours. The music wasn't particularly loud, in deferrence to the veterans who were obviously talking the awkward talk of men who haven't seen each other in too long.

Suitably warm with alcohol now, Keith says, "Let's go see what those guys are up to."

I look around at the still empty bar.

"Who? Those guys?" I ask, throwing my thumb toward the vets.

"Hell yes!" Keith says, as if I'm the crazy one.

So we walked over to the group and sat right down next to them. And they told us about how the group gets smaller every time they get together and how it's always good to see each other, no matter how much time has passed. They were a little depressed, though. The reunion had become more of a reminder of how much older they are and how much less time they have.

We wanted to change their mood.

Mike jumped up and ran over to the DJ booth. I could tell from across the room that he'd just made best friends with the DJ in about thirty seconds, as was his unique skill. He ran back to us.

"Let's dance!" he said as he grabbed one of the ladies and pulled her to the dance floor.

Keith let out a whoop and within seconds, the whole group was out on the floor, men jigging around and women being spun about by Keith and Mike and I.

To Ice, Ice, Baby.

Everyone was laughing. We were caught in a bubble where none of this behavior seemed the least bit unusual. Rollin' in our five-point-oh.

Afterward we all sat and talked for awhile and then Keith, Mike and I danced by ourselves on the empty dancefloor while the vets beamed at us from their booth. They would applaud whenever we finished.

As we were out on the dancefloor near the end of the night, Keith leaned over to me and said, "See? I told you this would be fun! That's gonna be us someday, getting together at a hotel bar, a bunch of old farts remembering the good old days! Wouldn't you want to have fun?"

"Yeah," I said, "you're right. This was awesome. Who'da thought I'd party like it's 1941 tonight? If you would've told me that I'd have this much fun with a bunch of WWII veterans, I'd have told you that you were crazy."

"Well, I am crazy," Keith said.

The DJ said it was time to wrap things up. Mike ran over and instructed him on the final song.


When I was nineteen and the evening wound away in the bar of a little Iowa hotel, my friends and I formed a kickline across the dance floor with a dozen WWII veterans and their wives as Sinatra sang.

I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps
To find I'm king of the hill, top of the heap
These little town blues
Are melting away


Early last week I got a call.

My friend Keith is sick.

He developed a cough in May.

Surgery in June.

But it doesn't matter.

The cancer is all over.

Doctors say there is no hope. He may not make it until the end of the year.

I am planning on going to see him this afternoon.


I get another call.

This past Saturday night, a man who knew how to grab every moment from life...had to let go. He was 38.

I want so badly to sit with my friend Keith in a little hotel bar and have a drink and talk about old times.

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01 August 2003


Everything here is smaller and time is measured differently. People smile at me and laugh with me and understand me. My gramma looks into my eyes and tells me that she loves me so much as she holds my face in her soft, worn hands. Nobody told her I was coming.

I am home today.

"You are brilliant and subtle if you come from Iowa and really strange and you live as you live and you are always very well taken care of if you come from Iowa."
Gertrude Stein

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Witt and Wisdom