My apartment is a disaster zone filled with pizza boxes, Styrofoam takeout containers, overfilling ashtrays and empty beer bottles. My laundry isn't done." />
My apartment is a disaster zone filled with pizza boxes, Styrofoam takeout containers, overfilling ashtrays and empty beer bottles. My laundry isn't done. My refrigerator is empty. I'm brushing my teeth with old baking soda and shaving with soap. They don't call it March Madness for nothing.
I think all women should be required to wait until they're 30 before they get fake breasts, and here's why: when a woman gets fake breasts after thirty, it's like she receives a Barry Bonds-esque late-career boom. She gets to enjoy all the attention that was once sent her way when she was in the 18-24 demographic. If a girl gets the fake breasts too soon, she's likely to pull a Jose Canseco, peak too early in her career and end up bitter and jaded by the time she's thirty-five. And yes, I hang out with only the classiest of women. Thanks for asking.
I get the feeling that CBS's Billy Packer is the meanest granddad ever. I'll bet his grandkids never, ever feel spoiled. Listening to Packer announce the NCAA tourney thus far has reminded me what, exactly, I hate about certain professionals: they get so caught up in thinking how great they understand a particular subject, that they forget that they are much less interesting or entertaining than the subject itself. This is why I fall asleep when writers write about writing, or when actors drone on about the creative process, or even when strippers complain about the cost of glitter. The lesson here: if you want to entertain people, you need to get the fuck over your abilities and your knowledge and just fucking do it. Oh, and glitter's expensive. Seriously, that cost adds up.
I received an email from an ex-girlfriend the other day. It said, “can I come by?” I deleted it right away. Here's why: whenever an ex-girlfriend sends you a text message or an email, responding to it only encourages future communication. For example, if you receive an email that says, “Can I come by?” and you respond to it with “No”, then you are likely to receive a response along the lines of “Please, I promise I'll behave” or “But I really need someone to talk to.” By simply deleting the email, you guarantee that there is no way some chick is gonna manipulate her way onto your dick. It's for important life lessons like these, that I am here for you. Don't forget that. Ever.
Here's an open invitation to all of my readers who have blogs and want me to link to them. Please feel free to put your URLs in the comment box. Eventually (like, in a few weeks or so), I plan on doing a reader's review of the blogs of the people who read me. And if your name is Jake Klocksien, Lulu, Michael Curtiss or Jake Christie, don't even worry about submitting a link, 'cause I'm gonna review your blogs, anyway. And no, I don't think I'm better than you. Ease up.
And finally, because logic and fluidity just happen to be as Irish as they are hungover, I leave you with the following, which I overheard on St. Patrick's Day.
“Dude, ordinarily I'm faithful, but it's St. Patty's Day. I mean, come on.”
Labels: observations