I should really be outside now. It’s, eighty degrees, beautiful and sunny and I’m in here tapping away at my keyboard like a kid with no life.
On football Sundays, I don’t shower until right before game time. In this way, I end up actually tricking myself into believing that watching football is actively doing something. I mean, after all, I showered for this, right?
I just got a big screen TV and TIVO. I’m like a teenager with a new drug (or a kid with a new toy, take your pick). I mean seriously, this is awesome.
Would it kill Osama Bin Laden to throw at least one joke into his recorded messages? I mean, really? One measly joke? How about something like, “I will destroy America like Terrell Owens destroyed the Eagles” or “Seriously, you call that a president? My turban has more intelligence”? Are extremists not allowed to have senses of humor? Is it in the bylaws?
Right now, I don’t think there’s one person in America thinking, “Wow, being a miner would be a great career decision.”
Ron Jaworski needs to grow a beard. His face would look like a fuzzy peach escaping a jowly neck. And I don’t think too much stuff could look funnier than that.
Here’s a little known fact about me: I can only snap with my left hand. And I’m right handed. Weird, huh?
I’m only gonna say this once. Manhattan, quit fucking around with the transit employees. This is not a joke. It’s winter. Give them what they want and the entire city won’t be shut down. I mean, seriously… FEMA could have handled this better.
I don’t think anyone will ever convince me that Mischa Barton has a nice body. But then again, I like women with breasts.
I really feel for the women of America. According to a friend of mine, there’s a shortage of men with spines. Let me just say, on behalf of the few bacon-chomping, football-watching, uncaring, unfeeling, insensitive assholes who still pay on dates, refuse to grow up and are just generally aloof, I’m sorry for what has happened to my gender. Oh, and also, I never thought that being a typical male would ever make me atypical. I guess everything does come full circle. Hakuna Matata and all that.
If you get the chance, make love in the morning under an open window while children and their parents gather at a bus stop less than forty feet from you. Just trust me on this one. It’s fun.
Does anyone really like Stephen A. Smith? I haven’t met one person, black, white or indifferent, that likes his show. And yet I hear it’s a hit. Go figure.
Three things that people ask me way too much: 1) You didn’t just have sex all over these couches, did you? 2) Are you gonna eat that? and 3) Why don’t you shut the hell up? I’m tired of all this judging. You people need to look in the mirror, first. And yes, I am gonna eat that. So stop looking at my plate.
I just finished watching a DVD of Busch Stadium’s most memorable moments. And I felt a tear welling up in my eye while near the end of the program. When I told this to my friend Amy, she responded, “So, do all your emotions revolve around baseball?” in a less than enamored tone. Women. (And what more can you say?)
Here’s a little known fact about me: I have never lost a thumb war. Ever.
And finally, because this is one of those entries where I avoid logic and fluidity like I avoid light beer, I leave you with the following, which was said to me Sunday morning:
“So let me get this straight. In your family, you’re the artistic, flaky one? Wow.”