Hit on It

How to lose me in conversation in 10 seconds

2011-11-06T23:49:00.004-06:00

I don’t know if you’ve heard the story – he hates to tell it - but my roommate Jommy lived in Taiwan. I’m only now piecing together all the details of the expedition, but it was two years ago, and had something to do with teaching Asian babies long division.

Anyway, Jommy is more worldly than I am, a fact shared by all adult humans (and most children). He’s also more compassionate. It’s not like I’m a bastard or anything, but he’s a touch softer, and that’s sweet/gay of him. Really, he just likes people to be comfortable.
--

I have no ear for accents. None. Growing up in White Settlement, Missouri*, I was subjected to very few words, most of which were poorly put together, and all of which were spoken by northern Missouri Caucasians. This was well and good until college, when I had to meet people from gasp – elsewhere. And I’m not talking about foreigners…Georgians gave me trouble. I once went to a bar and literally could not hold a conversation with a Canadian girl. It’s an issue.

*Editor’s Note: I’ve come to learn that I have an accent. People guess that I’m from Kentucky, Tennessee, South Carolina, Texas, or, as deduced by one student, a cornfield. I was once told by a group of old women that I sounded just like Matthew McCoughnahey. Not sure if that’s a win.

Jommy does not share this flaw. He relishes the opportunity to talk to foreigners, taught for a year in Taiwan (bet you forgot!), and knows enough Spanish to get by if the Mexican knows a bit of English.

Along with his bleeding heart – or perhaps because of it – Jommy also has a linguistic quirk. While speaking to someone of a different nationality, he actually attempts to pattern his speech to theirs. In short, he takes English words and tries to say them like a Mexican or Asian (sorry for lumping you all together, Asians) or German would.

Only he can’t do it. In trying to make the second-language speaker more comfortable, he creates some bizzarro dialect that 1) sounds effeminate when he’s talking to Mexicans 2) Jamaican when he’s speaking to Russians or 3) is tone deaf when pretending to be JFK.

And I make fun of him. Every. Single. Time.

He can’t help it, I guess…he’s just trying to make those uncomfortable with English a little less self-conscious. And he probably does.

Hearing English spoken as awkwardly as he does would make anyone feel better.

One of us is from Texas. The other is me.

Free things, and shameless ways to get them.

2011-11-05T20:35:00.003-05:00

“I’ve been stung!”

She had not been.

“There’s a wasp in your store, and it stung me right here,” she shouted, pointing above her right eye. “Is it red?” Tears welled.

It was red, the cashier affirmed. Not the wasp, of course – there wasn’t one – but the right half of her face was indisputably flush. It looked kind of like she’d hit herself in the face.

But, for now, let’s rewind.
--

The Schnucks in my neighborhood is of the ghetto variety, not because the patrons are from the ghetto, necessarily, but because they wouldn’t be out of place there. They have the kind of clientele* that, you know, does a lot of drugs, or might up stories about getting stung in the face by wasps in November.

*Editor’s Note: Yes, I also shop there. Full disclosure: I am, like, *so poor.

Anyway, so I’m piloting my cart betwixt the various shelves, picking up off-brand Cookie Crisp (Kookies!) here, and off-brand Diet Dr. Pepper (Diet Dr. Phizz) there, and as I’m making my approach, scouting which aisle has the fewest people/doesn’t have the gay guy who flirts with me as he checks out my things in it, I see a woman, mid-forties, heavier-set and trollish, doing the same. She has a child with her, a sixish year-old girl, and one item, which I could not make out at the time. She may or may not have been a meth head*.

*Editor’s Note: Accusing people – strangers, especially - of being meth heads, without proof, is not my thing. It’s a serious charge. So, no, I’m not saying this woman probably was a meth head. I mean, she might have been. She definitely might have been a meth head. Maybe even probably. She might have been the worst meth head I’ve ever seen. But I wouldn’t say that.
--

So, as I was saying before, ~~meth head~~, old girl, out of nowhere, smacks herself in the face and walks the three feet over to the open cashier line, telling her tale. “I’ve been stung,” she screeched, making enough of a scene that a lady manager in a horrible blazer rushed over.

“A wasp, I don’t know where it went, but a wasp stung me right in the face. I was trying to protect my daughter, and....”

The manager was horrified. What did she need, she asked…what could she do for her? It had been quite the ordeal for her, no doubt.

Sometimes, though…sometimes, God smiles on us. Occasionally, after a raging storm or, you know, like a pretend wasp sting, a rainbow appears.

“Well, I only came in for one thing,” she said, brandishing a small, rectangular box. “And, since I have to use it now, I don’t think I should have to pay for it.”

The product?

Cortizone-10...perfect for itches, rashes, and make-believe wasp attacks.

Say I hang out at a Schnucks again and Imma stab you in tha face!

The (Formerly) Young and the Hopeless

2011-09-18T21:32:00.003-05:00

At 2 a.m. on any given Saturday night, the El Rancho in downtown Columbia, Mo., serves capably as the last refuge for both the hungry and the hopeful. Those looking for their Mexican fix need look no further, while those still looking at the end of a fruitless night continue their search within. Among the party crowd, after hours visits are tradition.

At 2 a.m. this past Saturday, Jommy and I made our pilgrimage, with hunger checking in somewhere behind hopefulness. In truth, we had nowhere to stay. Banking on the charity of Columbia’s prettiest, we neglected to make sleeping arrangements. It was intriguing, if potentially calamitous. What’s the worst that could happen, though? I still had friends about…surely they’d answer their respective phones and take us in, right? At any rate, we were down to our final hope, with two long-shot leads left to chase.
--

No matter how drunk they are, it’s always endlessly pleasurable when attractive women fawn over you. And, let’s be clear, the young lady in the green hat and black tights was very, very drunk. Pretty, pretty drunk, one and the other and both at the same time. At any rate, it took little effort to see that hope lived, and that hunger would be satiated in order to help it along. The only problem at time seemed to be the gangly fellow next to her, but he didn’t appear to be a threat.
--

I had the chicken nachos, Jommy something equally as unnecessary at the current hour, and our girl in green had the lanky boy with her two tables back. At ours, or rather the one we had joined, Jommy worked his angle, but for reasons we won’t list (the girl’s friend was a bitch), he faced long odds. At the time, my car seemed likely to house us for the night.
--

1531 Rolling Rock

“This is where I’m going,” the hatted lass said, having walked up to my table then showing me the address listed in her phone. “You should come.”

Having no better options, we set out in search of a cab.
--

“We’re a non-charter, charter bus,” our cabbie told the officer who had stopped him in the middle of the street.

“You can’t make stops here,” the officer said.

“I didn’t want to stop here,” the cabbie shot back. “They wanted in.”
--

As the drive toward 1531 Rolling Rock progressed, it became clear that not only was this not a taxi, but this also wasn’t a really bus, either, charter or otherwise. It was just a black guy in a van taking $5 a head to take you where you wanted to be. Payment appeared to be optional, so long as you didn’t mind him telling you that you were a thief and that he’d sue you.

“If I ask you something, would you tell me the truth?” I inquired.

“Probably not,” not-cabbie said.
--

1531 Rolling Rock is one-half of a duplex along Rock Quarry Road two miles from the Mizzou campus, and it also apparently is the home of a college-aged guy named Cass, short for Cassidy, who may or may not have been the boyfriend of our adorable El Rancho love interest.

Whatever the case, Cass was having something of a party, although the seven or so nerdy gentlemen riding the couches weren’t particularly raucous. Of the two girls there, our hated heroine was the most-high by a large margin. Whether this was the reason she couldn’t form words, or whether it was because the random guy that she invited to her boyfriend’s house had actually shown up had made things a bit awkward for her is in doubt.
--

Rock Quarry is the most dangerous road in Columbia, with no legitimate challengers to its crown. There are no streetlights, there are no sidewalks, there is no shoulder and if there is more than forty yards of pavement that runs perfectly straight, I would be surprised. Drunken and defeated, Jommy and I set our sights on campus. Having torn up the card of our non-charter, charter, random-black dude, and with my friends proving unable or unwilling to answer their phones, we set forth on foot.

Hope was dead, at least until next Saturday night.

Killing Them Softly

2011-07-11T16:00:00.002-05:00

I guess I should start off with an apology – I never write you anymore, and I’m sorry. I suck, I know, but it’s not you, it’s me. You’re there where I left you, waiting, clicking the refresh button, and a new Hit on It writing spectacular never comes. A perpetual tease, this one is.

The good news? I haven’t changed, not much. I’m still out doing hilariously ill-advised things* and I’m still just dying to tell you about them, but there’s this whole adult thing to contend with now, which brings us to a discussion of appearances.

Editor’s Note: Except this winter. I didn’t do ANYTHING all winter.

You have heard the “those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind” refrain before, which is a snappy little quote that isn’t really true at all. Appearances matter, and if you don’t think so, try masturbating in public sometime. I mean, why not? Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind. That dude by the mall fountain covering the eyes of his confused children? Fuck that guy. Your mom is totally cool with it.

Most how-to-live-your-life quotes are bullshit – life is about learning to dance in the rain? Really? You’re analogizing your life with a rainstorm? – but the appearance one bothers me as much as any. Appearances do matter, and they’re the reason this blog has mostly gone dark. As many of you know, I teach school now, and that carries a few more responsibilities than I had as a sportswriter.

It may come as a shock, I know, but people aren’t that concerned with your booze-soaked womanizing when you’re writing about a ballgame – in fact, it used to be the default for the profession. Show up a little loose to the event, make a few sexist jokes in the box, hit the bar after filing your story, and so long as you didn’t accidentally write “Fuck” in the headline, you were OK.

When tasked with schooling the nation’s youth, however, the League of Adults looks with a pre-furrowed brow. Drink if you want, they say, chase women if you must, but do us a solid and keep that shit quiet. Now, ten years ago, this was no problem. If you were to be caught boozing, it was only going to be if you showed up in the newspaper or smelled of it during recess. Today, what with Facebook and all, little Sophie’s parents have a shorter route to your secrets. Or, rather, your would’ve been secrets, set free when your friends flooded the zone with pics of you “asleep” on the sidewalk.

Is this to say you can’t be doing a bang up job as a third grade teacher while doing a bang up job on the weekends? It is not. In fact, God save the adult with a life. But appearances matter. And that’s why I’m making fewer of them.

Don't Quote Me

2011-03-24T22:04:00.004-05:00

I love quotes. Good quotes, anyway...that inside joke stuff people put on their Facebook page is beyond lame. Anyway, at their best, quotes can be insightful and illuminating, powerful and pointed. Great thoughts can be conveyed in a perfect one, while others are effortlessly humorous or purposely abstract. They are snapshots, the cliff notes of ideas. Suitably detailed life lessons aren’t so easily remembered; the quotable are aware.

For ease of communication, the quote distillation process often sifts out nuance and context. Today, we take a quote at face value.
--

The quote: “Live like you were dying.”
The take-away: Life is short, so live it to the fullest. Tell your family you love them, do what you’ve always wanted, find what’s important and focus on it.

Recently popularized by an eponymous song by Tim McGraw (I had to Google that), the “live like you were dying” concept isn’t a fresh one, it’s just “Live every day like it was your last,” with a new bow on top.

Taken literally: Living like you were dying is a great notion, if not the way the song draws it up. Faith’s husband croons about sky diving, Rocky Mountain climbing, and riding bulls named after mustaches, but figuring out what you were dying from should probably be your first order of business, or at least well before any bull riding shenanigans.

Do you need surgery to remove a bowel obstruction? Maybe a bullet wound stitched up? If it’s just old age, knocking out that will is a good idea before the grandkids start fighting over who gets the Buick. Whatever the case, you’re probably not in good enough shape to climb the Rocky Fucking Mountains.

Anyway, did I mention that this would all be, you know, super sad? I mean, your constantly-preparing-for-death shtick is going to prompt multiple crying bouts a day, at least five by your mother alone. Not only that, but folks are going to get confused, particularly if you aren’t actually dying. If you’re sporting a clean bill of health at 30 and start blowing the kid’s college fund because you always wanted to name a fleet of Harley’s after Santa’s reindeer, well, your wife is moderately more likely to cut off your balls than she was previously.

Tim McGraw has drawn up a nice song here. Or, rather, some nameless lyricist has, because Timmy hasn’t done a one good thing since Indian Outlaw.

My advice? Live as though you are aware you’ll die at some point, but be sure not to flake out at work just yet. And, unless you’ve always wanted to see a plastic surgeon, avoid bulls.

All his friends call him Bear Claw.

Eric Stewart: Ice in his Veins

2011-03-22T22:29:00.004-05:00

Three mid-twenties white men (men?) are walking to a bar in downtown Saint Louis. A man, black, fifty-something, with a knee brace and a cane, walks past, then turns. In less than a minute, he lays upon them the greatest flurry of homeless-guy talking points the world has ever seen.
..

“Hey, man... Why do you hate black people?”

“Why do you hate black people, man? Ain’t no reason to be scared…hold on a minute. Put away your wallets, I don’t want your money.

“My name is Eric Stewart…I don’t smoke crack, I don’t shoot up. I don’t drink, I don’t do drugs of any kind. Look at my veins, man.

“I’m trying to raise money. Do you know what stage four is? You know what stage four is? My mom is stage four…she’s got cancer. Stage four is it, man. I’m trying to raise money to go visit her. I’m trying to raise $120; I’ve got $80 right now.

“Look, I just need a couple more dollars, and I’m there, man. I already told you: don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t shoot up. I’m just looking to raise money to go see my mom, man. She ain’t well off. I ain’t gonna go blow it on drugs, man.
--

Eric Stewart has what it takes to no longer be homeless. Equal part charity, Girl Scout and used-car salesman, Stewart has taken every bit of compelling homeless man shill, isolated them, distilled them, and worked them into a narrative.

Stewart is a student of the game. While other bums are flailing wildly on street corners begging for a bite to eat, he is looking out for mom.

Not only that, but Eric Stewart attacks the stereotype head on. "I don’t do drugs." And he does it like a pro – he doesn’t want to be your friend, he just wants your attention, and for you not to run away when he starts his shill.

“Why do you hate black people, man?”

Well, fuck. You can’t run from that.

The Dream Continues

2011-03-02T21:53:00.002-06:00

Last Friday, I eclipsed the quarter-century mark. Twenty-five, as you know, is the last big milestone before thirty, and since thirty is the first big milestone on the road to doom, I resolved to enjoy it.

…Not that that was an issue. I fucking love birthdays. Twenty-four hours of attention and presents, sandwiched between a day of people asking you what you want to do and a brain-splitting hangover? Yes, please.

Unfortunately, 25 is also the first birthday in which you can’t even kind of pass yourself off as a kid. I still look pretty young, but there’s no way around 25. That’s a real number, a concrete number, a car-insurance reduction number. Think about that: You’re so fucking old that the blood-sucking insurance industry will actually lower your rates, and not because you’ve proven to be responsible. They might not give a shit about your pre-existing condition, but they sure can empathize at 25.

This year, however, I was thinking a lot less about insurance, and a lot more about baseball. As some of you know, I’m pro-baseball, and I’m pro-my life, and so as I watched my fourth grade class do their homework on the in-room computers*, I began to draw some parallels.

*Editor’s Note: Yes, they let me teach fourth grade. And, yes, I encouraged each of them to make me a birthday card.

Baseball, as it turns out, shares some of the aging curve as life:

Age 18-22: Baseball: You’re still just a prospect, all young and shiny and new. You have multiple flaws, but people can dream on you. Anything can happen.
Age 18-22: Life: You’re just entering, or are now in college. Hell, even if you skipped college, you’re just starting out. There is approximately zero pressure.

Age 23-24: Baseball: You’ve still got youth on your side, but it’s time to start making progress. Still, no harm done.
Age 23-24: Life: College is over now, if you went that route, and it’s time to find something to do. If you don’t? Your parents still understand.

Age 25-27: Baseball: Showtime, friends. If you aren’t to the bigs by now, well, you probably aren’t going anyway.
Age 25-27: Life: Step into the sun, or back amongst the rabble.

Age 28+: Both: Look, it’s not like you can’t do big things. It’s just that the odds are against you.

Now, that’s all pretty simplistic, the sort of gross overgeneralization that I tend to skewer everyone else for, but it holds some truth. For most people, in baseball or life, you’d like to be on your way by 25.

Under closer examination, however, our comparison starts to fall apart. In baseball, it’s the bigs or bust. You may or may not be good enough, but how bad you want it isn’t going to make that much of a difference. You’ve got it or you don’t, and there are a limited amount of seats at the table.

In life, though, you can soar or falter, and no one is going to tell you the party is over. You’re going to need at least a few redeeming qualities to get on, but you don’t need to be quick or strong, at least in the physical sense. You get to decide how hard you’re going to work, how you’re going to treat people, and how you’re going to see the world.

Success in baseball has nothing to do with how you define it. There is zero difference between a shitty middle infielder and a shitty middle infielder with a sunny disposition – you don’t get to decide.

Life is a lot more subjective – it can be just as miserable as you want it to be, and only you get to choose. You can be the asshole who works at McDonald’s who hates his life, or you can be the nice guy at McDonald’s who works hard for more and cherishes what he has. Maybe it can’t shine as bright as you dream – you look more or less like you’re going to look, and no one is going to make you CEO just because you wished it – but maybe then you’re looking for the wrong kind of light.

At 25, I am nowhere near where I dreamed I’d be. I have no girlfriend, no kids, no career, no money. In fact, if you’d have told me at 17 that I’d be a substitute teacher who moonlights at a shitty Italian restaurant, I might have punched you in the mouth. But that’s what I am, and I wake up happy a good most of my days.

Seventeen and 25, as it turns out, do not share equal amounts of perspective.

Or car insurance rates.

Hit on it.

Fuck off, Valentine. And take your day with you.

2011-02-15T14:39:00.004-06:00

Another Valentine’s Day has come and gone. How was it for you?

Did you spend a lovely evening with your significant other, making a fine meal and then snuggling up to a Jennifer Aniston movie? Did you go out to eat? Did you have a fight, because one or more of you is an inconsiderate ass?

Well, if you’re like me, you spent it alone, and you may or may not have given a shit. Valentine’s Day doesn’t bother us here at Hit on It, but it seems rather cruel to have a holiday that makes a large portion of the populace feel bad.

Singles, where you at?

VDay has its fans, of course. Many see it as a harmless day of fun, or as a chance to celebrate one’s love for another. The singles, well they see it as crushingly stressful for the man, or worse – you’ve probably heard the argument that people should treat the ones they love that well every day. I heard it at least twice yesterday from people who – I’m speculating here – probably aren’t dropping off flowers at their wifey’s workplace each afternoon.

I just want the elementary school VDay boxes back. Hallmark just chalks it up as a win.
--

Half of marriages don’t work. Roughly half, anyway. This, I suppose, comes as no surprise to you. I mean, everyone but us sucks, right? Matches that two individuals decide are the best they can or will come up with, generally after a long courtship, are a coin flip. People are either naïve, unreliable, or stupid, or marriage is a largely failed institution.

Pick one or more, but those are your choices.

So maybe we’re going about this all wrong. Maybe we’re over-thinking the thing. If I had bigger set – which does not seem to be in my future, despite all the email offers - I’d dress in my finest new shirt, dab on some cologne, and hit up my local library next Valentine’s Day.

I would find the prettiest girl there (supposing one of reasonable quality was in attendance), and I would propose. You know, to be married and stuff.

She might say yes, and she might say no. But she’d probably be reasonably smart*. And, given that I picked her out solely based on attractiveness, she’d have that base covered. And, since it’s Valentine’s Day and she’s alone at a library, she’s probably single.

And sad.

*Editor’s Note: Dumb girls don’t spend much time at libraries.

I broke up with a girl in fourth grade for calling me at my house. My mom answered, and she teased me about it. I broke up with the girl via a note as the class watched Black Beauty. She cried. Because I was embarrassed, I made another note saying I wanted to go back out with her. I broke up with her again at recess. I did not receive a Valentine from her that year.

I suck, you suck, red suck, blue suck.

2011-02-02T18:55:00.004-06:00

Hostess: “Hit on It, someone asked to sit in your section. But since you’re foodrunning, we put them in section eight.”

Me: “Well, who was it?”

Hostess: “I don’t know, they’re in section eight.”
--

From my experience, it does not seem possible for two long-term singles of the opposite sex to have a friendly conversation without mentioning the other person's gender…

…and how it sucks.

At least that’s how it is in your mid-20s, if both participants are worthwhile, semi-depressed people who find themselves in an affection drought.
--

Me: “Hey, do you see anyone in section eight that I might know? Who the fuck would come to see me…I don’t know anybody.

Dude Server: “Well, there’s a table of North African or Middle Eastern girls in eight. Do you know any North Africans?

Me: “Shit.”
--

Dating is tough. I mean, dating is fucking impossible, but even meeting people seems like trying assembling Rubik’s cube with your penis sometimes.

I meet lots of girls. I do. They seem to make up about half of the population. But for my dating purposes, they’re going to need to be in their twenties. They’re going to need to be single. And childless. And they probably can’t smoke, or do drugs, or have dated any of my friends, or live more than twenty miles away.

And I’d prefer if they were pretty. And smart.

Actually, they have to be both of those.
--

Dude Server: “What’s wrong dude? Some of them look cute.”

Me: “ Remember that Egyptian girl whose number I got at that bar, and who I talked to for a while, and then asked to go out on a date with me?”

Dude Server: “Sure.”

Me: “Yeah, well, that date got snowed out…

“….and then I never called her again.”
--

It’s all too easy to see the flaws in other people. And if you’re willing to make assumptions based on things like misspelled Facebook statuses and unhealthy interests the Jersey Shore, it’s shockingly easy to deduce that everyone in the world sucks ass.

It’s a bit more difficult to point out where you yourself have veered off course.
--

Dude server: “Hahaha…so you’re telling me that this girl – who you’ve ignored for over a week – just decided to come find you? That’s classic!”

Me: “Shut up, dude. You’re going to have to take their food out there…I’m not going.”

Dude Server: “Why not? Maybe she just wants to say hi…maybe she’s not mad.”

Me: “Well, I guess tha-…”

Dude Server: “Nah, I’m just fucking with you. She probably got tired of guys just flaking out on her and treating her poorly, and now she’s come to confront your dumb ass. And she brought an audience!”
--

I like to think that I’m something of a catch. Call it vanity, call it whatever, but I’m a good-looking enough guy. Maybe I’m not going to reel in a model, but I’m not relegated to things recently removed from the swamp, either. I’m smart enough. I’ve got two jobs. And, if you’ll let me be genuinely vain, I’m fairly funny.

But I also criticize people too much. And I often don’t give girls – perfectly nice girls – any chance, because I’ve decided that I don’t like this or that about them, even when it’s not much of a complaint.

And, sometimes, I’m a total jackass to girls who have done nothing to deserve it. I’ll get their number, text them for a while, maybe plan a date and just never go.

I didn’t crucify their favorite puppy or anything, but I’ve contributed to the greater suckitude. We’re working on that.
--

Dude Server: “So? Was it her?”

Me: “Nah, it was my buddy Paul…he was just back in town visiting his family, and he remembered that I worked here.”

Dude Server: “So you were scared, and felt like a total asshole for nothing?”

Me: "Yeah, I guess."
--

Or, maybe not.

How to be a Server

2011-01-30T18:30:00.003-06:00

Enroll in college so that you can get the job you’ve always wanted. Try hard to remember what that job was, and then realize you never actually wanted one. Become depressed. Drink.

Begin to understand that your college experience is no longer going to be defined by what you’ve learned, but how much fun you’ve had. Check your bank account. Realize that you’re poor. Call your parents and begin by asking them if you can go on vacation with them this year, or what it is they want for Christmas. Start working in the part where you ask them for money. Fail to secure the funds. Drink some more.

Realize that if you’re going to make this college thing worthwhile, you’re going to need some cash.

When looking for places to apply, think about which job would be the least demoralizing. Skip the mall, because you aren’t 16. Try to think about what you’d be good at. Get depressed again. Eventually go to every mid-level chain restaurant in town because you can only muster the courage to go into places you’ve been before.

When the question comes up on the application, think a bit too hard about whether or not you could be considered a felon. Decide that while you are not, you are going to need to figure out how to contact your local pool for a reference during the winter.

Get hired. Call your parents to boast of your newfound employment, only to have them inform you that, now that you have an income, you’ll be able to start paying the car insurance they’d been covering. Get pissed off. Threaten to not let them see their grandchildren. Hang up when your mother mentions your inability to hold a girlfriend, let alone procreate.

When you go in for your first day, make sure you’re cleanly shaven and sport a newly trimmed haircut. Try to show up early, too. Starting two months later, never do these things again.

Realize that, while you thought you’d like this job because you like talking to people, you badly misjudged the situation. The work isn’t technically difficult, but it requires taking orders from complete assholes. In the meantime, start getting overly upset about fetching your table more ranch dressing.

Parlay this frustration into new friendships. Your new coworkers, it seems, like to drink even more than you do. Go out them with them on a Tuesday. Feel like you have a lot in common. Talk only about the restaurant. To satisfy your desire for escapism, start buying shots.

Accidentally hook up with one of your coworkers. Become flirty with her at work, but don’t mention it to anyone. After fucking like rabbits for a week, you’ll consider dating her, so you’ll have to mention it to your best male-coworker friend.

Become upset when you learn that you’re the third guy at the restaurant to have sex with her. Avoid confronting her until she asks you why you’re being an asshole. Have a huge fight. Tell her to go fuck the fat Mexican dishwasher. Watch her storm out after informing you that she has.

Start genuinely hating your job, and consider getting on at the restaurant across the street. Don’t get around to it, because getting a new job is a pain in the ass.

Complain about all of your tables all of the time. Mention every other night that you’ve never been fucked over quite THIS bad. As revenge, start picking out comically small lemons to put in people’s iced tea. Get pissed when they ask for more lemon. Threaten to kill someone.

Become a genuine drunk, going out four-to-six times per week. To compensate, you’ll have to work weekend doubles and pick up host shifts.

Eventually, you’ll graduate from college and quit the restaurant job. Times are tough, though, so you take a part-time job in a nearby city with a promise that you’ll be able to work your way up in the organization. Get excited about being a teacher or a journalist or an accountant, or whatever the fuck it is that you never wanted to be when you were a kid. Feel accomplished.

Have your mother call, and inform you that your school loans are coming due. The payments are outrageous. Skate by for a few months, denying the obvious. You’ll need more money, and you’ll hate your part-time job because you have no flexibility with your schedule and they won’t let you take off for St. Patrick’s Day and Mardi Gras.

Get a little drunk at lunch one day, and apply at a restaurant down the street. During the interview, talk up your ability to sell appetizers and booze. Cry a little that night.

Show up early the first day with a clean shave and a sharp haircut. Lie to all non-coworkers about what you’re doing with your life. Drink heavily. Hook up with your trainer. Assume she’s fucked the dishwasher.

So far I've made 15% of jack shit.

Yo quiero Taco Bell. Still.

2011-01-25T21:37:00.005-06:00

IRVINE (CBS/AP) — An Alabama law firm claims in a lawsuit that Taco Bell is using false advertising when it refers to using “seasoned ground beef” or “seasoned beef” in its products. The meat mixture sold by Taco Bell restaurants is 35 percent ground beef, and contains binders and extenders and does not meet the minimum requirements set by the U.S. Department of Agriculture to be labeled as “beef,” according to the legal complaint.

So, 35 percent, huh?

Well, this is a shocker. I mean, who could have foreseen such a scandal arising from south of the border?

To be honest, I don’t get the outrage…isn’t that a touch higher than we all figured it contained? We needed a fucking lawsuit from the Pork Rind State to tell us that our burrito overlords weren’t quite on the level? Please.

Here’s the skinny - Extenders are non-meat substances added to help bulk up the amount. This way, you "extend" the amount of meat you have in an economical manner. A binder is something helps a mixture stay together.

So what’s all the hubbub, bub? You don’t like bread crumbs? Love me some bread crumbs. And would you prefer Taco Bell serve it’s Frankenstinian cow-meat concoction with a straw?

Binders and extender’s are God’s gift to fast food lover’s everywhere. I mean, none of us thought that shit was all beef. None of us. You’d have preferred minced dog chow and asbestos as the secret ingredients?

Give it up, ‘merica…let’s just start the debate on where to put them on the food pyramid and move on to more important things, like whether or not we’re really going to let Ke$ha away with having a dollar sign in her name.

Besides, while Taco Bell was cutting corners, they were at least trying to do right by the folks. How else can you explain Fourth Meal? Aint nothing more than a health conscious plot to get us our daily serving of extenders. Err, beef.

At 35 percent, four seems about right.

...because that looked like beef at any point.

Banquet, It's What's For Dinner. And Lunch! And Breakfast!

2011-01-24T16:32:00.004-06:00

I am, in many ways, unrefined. I wear the same four t-shirts I've worn for the last seven years. I rotate two pair of jeans. My last twenty Facebook pictures show me wearing the same outfit.

I can not, for all my efforts, understand any accent outside of the Midwestern drawl. I shop at Wal-Mart. My decor includes four posters, one of which is a painting of Kramer from Seinfeld. Wayne and Garth also make appearances.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I don't cook. And we're not talking about Baked Alaska or creme brulee, here - I don't cook anything. I'd go look in my pantry to tell you what fills the space, but I don't really need to; I've been buying the same shit since 2004.

The rundown:

Grains: Fruity DynoBites, Frosted Mini-Spooners, and bread.
Meats: Tuna, eggs, frozen hamburger patties and 10 cans of chili
Vegetables: Tator-tots, pickles and jalepenos.
Fruits: Right.

In my defense, I don't eat a ton of bullshit. Yeah, I've got a donut fetish, but who doesn't? Like any other deliciously regrettable mistake, I don't keep them in the house.

When it gets down to it, it's just more important to me to eat cheaply and quickly than it is to not appear 7-years old.

All of which brings me to my new diet, which can be summarized as so: "I'm going to eat six Banquet meals a day."

For the unfamiliar, one, shame on you. Secondly, they're frozen mini-meals that can be nuked in four minutes, and often contain two vegetables and a meat product. They come in such incarnations as:

Boneless pork rib
Chicken fried beef steak
Chicken fried chicken patty
Pepperoni pizza
Chicken nugget
Fish sticks
Salisbury steak
Popcorn chicken and spaghetti (yes, those two things)

Now, there are dozens more, enough to suit any non-discriminant palate. It's also a big help if you don't like onions, don't fret over fruit, a balanced diet or not dying at 35. Live for the moment, son.

Anyway, you must be thinking, "These have to be just terrible for you, no?"

No.

Here's what happens if you eat six boneless pork rib meals per day (and nothing else):

Calories: 1,920
Total Fat: 66 grams (102% of the Recommended Daily Value)
Cholesterol: 60% DV
Sodium: 210% DV
Fiber: 120% DV
Carbs: 84%
Protein: 125%
Most Listed Vitamins (A, E, C, Iron, etc.): 60%

Yeah, that's right. Eat six of those babies, and you're going to come in at under 2,000 calories, not ingest too much fat, and wind up lowering your cholesterol. Sure, the sodium content might cause some mild hypertension or a stroke, but all in all, not bad, eh?

So next time you're at Wally, stock up on Banquets, and have yourself a feast.

Fuck peas.

From Me, to You, and Maybe for the Last Time

2011-01-04T19:37:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year! I’m going to be writing you less!

No, not on here…it would be difficult for me to have blogged more infrequently. And I’m not specifically talking to you, though I definitely might be.

Resolution 2011 is a test, a gentlemanly survey of who wants to hear from me. Here’s how it works:

If I have sent you a drunk text within the past year - loosely defined as a transmission sent forth 1) while inebriated and 2) with the hopes that I might at least get a make-out session out of it – your phone number is being deleted.

Now, I know you’re all saying, “But Hit on It, why? All women must desperately desire to hear from you regardless of situation or context.” And, for a while there, I had hoped that might be true. And maybe it is…this is how we’ll find out. If the aforementioned drunk text recipients send me an unsolicited (or, hell, even solicited) message within the next, say, three months, their numbers will be restored to my phone book. Said text may or may not reflect that they’d prefer me at least somewhere on the periphery of their lives, but it’s going to be counted that way regardlessly.

If not, if the line remains cold, well, I suppose this is the end of the road.

Sadly, for many, many beautiful, fun women, the last time that we will have spoken will remain a previously archived event. For any number of reasons, things have gone no further for us, and that is fine.

We’ll always have 12:30 a.m. :)

Or, rather, don't.

Pet Peeves

2010-12-12T20:22:00.003-06:00

Before you begin, know this, dog people: I'd have to really love you to willingly be around you and your animal at the same time.

I don’t like dogs. There, I said it. It’s taken me an entire life of shying away from and being completely disinterested in every one I’ve met, but the truth is out. String me up if you have to, call me heartless, but I’m not pro-pooch.

It’s something of a taboo in our culture to be anti-pet…no one really gets it. To not like a dog you must be allergic or scared – that people understand. But to just not like one? Well, in that case, you’d have to be an awful bastard.

Let me say this: I may or may not be an awful bastard. I know at least a few people who aren’t fans. But if I am, it must be for something worse. Dogs smell, dogs bark, dogs jump on you, they slobber, and they’ll eat your food if you leave it within reach. They’re not all that cool.

In the grand scheme of things, however, people have done dogs no favor in my eyes. I could be okay around a dog if it were merely an unacknowledged, sub-human fur monster. I can deal with that. But the baby-talking to dogs…

The baby-talking to dogs has to stop. It’s gots ta. Has. To. Stop.

Or, rather, it doesn’t have to stop. But it should. Maybe not when you two are alone…you and your not-person friend can have whatever sort of relationship you want, and I won’t object.

But when other people are around – or, you know, just when I’m around – do us both a favor and ask “Who’s a good boy?!?” only once. In a big kid voice, if you can muster it.
--

Maybe it’s because I’ve never been associated with anything – I’m from next to nowhere, I’m a mutt heritage-wise, I’m essentially non-denominational, etc. – but I tend to find displays of what I might gently call “unwarranted pride” off-putting.

Example: Everyone knows that everything is bigger in Texas. Everything.

Only, of course, it isn’t. Most things in the Lone Star State are actually about the same size there as they in other parts of the U S of A. The state’s national identity is based upon a lie.

Jommy, a Texan himself, is a Texas-prider, and he’s pretty sure that Texans think they’re better than the rest of us because the state won its independence from Mexico once upon a time. This, of course, is silly – little Billy doesn’t really give a shit about that. Still, the Texans heart themselves. They get points for being notably delusional, if nothing else.

Sadly, here we are in Missouri, wishing we had something other than “We’re not Kansas” to distinguish ourselves by.

Maybe I could be a dog person…

Brevity and Levity: A Thought Drop

2010-12-04T22:07:00.005-06:00

On the night before Thanksgiving, 20-some Northwest Missourians flocked to Martinsville, Missouri, for the annual Edward Fortyhands contest, doubling the population. (Edward Fortyhands is a drinking game which is played by racing to finish each of the two 40-ounce bottles of beer duct taped to your paws.)

Despite the below-freezing temperatures – we play outside – the contestants were quite excited at the beginning, putting out their best efforts to chug the slushy ale. Because the local liquor store had closed – and not just for the night – I was unable to secure any Old English, and was left with the ultra-lame Bud Light.

I did not win. In fact, I probably drank less than half of the requisite amount. The victor prevailed in something like 10 minutes. For those who don't do math, that's two-thirds of a normal can of beer per minute for 10 minutes. Impressive.
---

Many people seem to disagree with my belief that Facebook statuses should be used primarily for hilarious jokes, sexual innuendo and non squiters. At their most serious, stati should go little further than seeking help for a lost cat. To my dismay, my newsfeed is perpetually inundated with deaths, anniversaries of deaths, relationship troubles, and reminders that “He can’t do better than me. I’m no ones toy.”

How about a little levity, eh?
---

Winter sucks for any number of different reasons – the cold, the dry skin, the four hours of daytime – but I don’t see any reason I need to be shocked every time I touch a light switch.

---

Under no circumstances will I be your Facebook friend, little girl my mother used to babysit.

A Nice Place for a Date

2010-10-31T17:50:00.005-05:00

The thing about my roommate Jommy is that you never know when he's going to disappear. It's not quite magic - it's more inexplicable and far less entertaining - but his absences do inspire varying degrees of astonishment.

Case in point: When I agreed to move in with him, I asked only one thing of him.

Do. Not. Flake. Out.
---

Jommy is a handsome man...even more handsome than I am (oh!). He's smart, funny, and we totally aren't gay, no matter how much it seems like it. He does well with the ladies - a few have told me that he's the type of guy you fall in love with. Unfortunately, because he goes along with this, it also makes him the kind of guy that his friends want to murder with an axe.
---

As best I can tell, Jommy's strategy for picking up women is to, first, see them, and then, without hesitation, hurl himself at their persons. No time is wasted scoping out the scene, no regard is made for whether they are in the middle of a conversation and, if he drinks enough, it might not matter that they are with men. To his credit, this strategy-free strategy has proven somewhat successful.
---

I have seen Jommy actually chase women. Not sprint, no, but do the walk-jog, where you look like you're late for class or a meeting and you aren't so wrapped up in not looking like a douche that you try to make time anyway.

Jommy, for reasons unknown, will adopt the accents of foreign women that he encounters, except that instead of sounding like he's from their country, it sounds like an overly-effeminate gay person is mocking their voice patterns.

In walking around town, Jommy will pronounce certain eating places to be "a good place to take a girl on a date." He does this unconsciously - that, or he is unaffected by the insults I hurl at him for being such a douche.

As a wingman, Jommy has his limits. Sober, he can and will serve as a perfect salesman for you and you alone. He will banter with the ugly friend, or entertain the bitchy one who wants to leave. He will make you getting laid his priority. While drunk, he will promptly interrupt you and flirt with the girl you were talking to.
---

"Do. Not. Flake. Out."

That's what I told him, excessive punctuation and all. Having moved to a new city, away from my friends and further from my family, I needed assurance that I wouldn't wind up the only person actually coming home to our two-person apartment. Loneliness doesn't suit me.

Jommy, in that regard, was not the safe choice. For as long as I've known him - and longer for others still - Jommy has had a bizarre predilection for sustained periods of awesomeness, meticulously bracketed by unfathomable spells of complete absence.

The girls are to blame.
---

I have never known a person who liked to meet a girl, take her on a lunch date, and then hang out with her the entire rest of the day. Not the rest of the afternoon, no, but the entire day. And, though I might be giving certain connections the short shrift, it makes little matter who the girl actually is. She might be smart and worldly, ditzy but charming, or stupid as the sky is blue, but Jommy will find a way to not come home for days, to ignore your calls for weeks on end.

It is an affliction I cannot understand, a curiosity beyond my capacity to comprehend.

Eventually though, after a sufficient number of peers have disavowed him, or after he's taken the dalliance past its "best by" date, he comes back to the party, unable to explain his flakeitude.

The man is a mystery, even to himself, but we all have our flaws - mine might be that I have trouble assessing my own - and his is a minor sin, if one at all.

So if you don't hear from him for the next week or three and you urgently need him, try and find a nice place to take a girl on a date. It's as good a guess as any.

Disguised.

Jommy's Turn: The Story of Jay

2010-09-29T14:13:00.004-05:00

For the first time in Hit on It history, the words you read will not be my own. No, given his experience just yesterday, Jommy, my faithful co-dweller, has earned a turn. Here is his story.

...

Living in any metropolitan area affords one certain opportunities and experiences that the suburbs or rural regions might lack, such as the ability to walk to countless venues where the drink specials are $6 Bud Light bottles, the soothing symphony of sirens playing at all hours of the day and night, and of course, lets not forget…the bums.

In the month that we have been living as close to downtown St. Louis as possible (without actually living inside the Arch), we have come to know this community of itinerant individuals well. This is not to say we regularly dine with these destitute dwellers of the sidewalk or strike up intellectual debates with them concerning pressing political issues, but rather we know them because they accost us EVERYWHERE we go. We have been asked for cigarettes by a Little John look-alike in a power chair. We had a man tell us, point blank, that he was insane and needed $5 to catch a bus to a mental hospital in Illinois. We never have any change because we give it all away to anyone who asks. Hey, we’re nice guys,

Now, the story at hand doesn’t actually involve a bum in the purest definition of the word (he did, in fact, have a house), but his methods were bum-like enough to warrant being categorized as such. Walking home from the store today at around 4 p.m., a white kid wearing a wrinkled black beer shirt and baggy black pants stops me on the street and asks me if I have any change. He seems harmless enough, not to mention shit-faced drunk, so I indulge him.

“Sorry man,” I say, and literally turn the pockets of my running shorts inside out. “I’ve got nothing on me but my keys.”

“Awww, dude, I just need to get back home” he says, scratching the scraggly soul-patch on his chin with his dirty fingernails. “My friends left me last night…”

Thinking he probably got drunk and wandered off at some point in the night, leaving his friends no choice but to ditch him, I ask him why they would do such a thing.

“I don’t know man. I ran into the convenience store to get some soda, and when I came back out they were gone.”

Awesome friends.

“Well,” I say, “I can’t help you with the bus. Where do you live?”

“In Granite (Illinois), about twenty minutes away.”

“Well, I’ve got shit to do. I’ll take you there.”

Now, I know…this is probably not the best life decision one could make. There is a multitude of ways this could play out poorly for me, most of them ending with me being dead in a river somewhere. However, I have never been known to make good decisions….why start now?

I quickly learn this unfortunate and extremely intoxicated young man’s name is Jay, and we make small talk as I walk and he stumbles to my car. I learn he is 29 and unemployed. Not a huge shocker considering his stench was equal parts malt-liquor, three-day old sweat, cheap cigarettes and auto mechanic garage smell. I learn he likes to lift weights and he shows me the bicep tattoo he drew on himself using “a piece of broken mirror”. I learn he would like very much to have sex with a woman in the near future (not in these words, mind you), and seems to think I would make a good wingman. Astute observation sir, but running with Colin Farrell himself couldn’t salvage the human wreckage that you exemplify.

Finally at the car, I let him in. As soon as he sits down he reaches behind him for some hidden object and my mind momentarily flashes panic. “Hell, this is where I get shanked or pistol whipped and my car stolen!” I scream to myself. But no, Jay is only reaching for the 24 ounce Bud Ice can that he had been hiding in his back pocket. Of course! Wouldn’t want to lose that buzz, man. We are coming up on 4:15 p.m.

On the drive to Granite I learn more about Jay:

Me: “Did you play any sports in High School?”

Jay: “Yeah, Grand Theft Auto.”

Me: “Dude, that’s a video game”.

Jay: “No man, I mean I stole cars.”

Or:

Jay: “They say if you do 20 hits of acid you’re legally insane.”

Me: “That’s a lot of acid.”

Jay: “I’ve probably done, like, 500 hits of acid man.”

Me: “Jesus….”

Jay: “But I’m not crazy man. I still know left from up and right from wrong.”

Me: “That’s good…”

Jay: (leaning in closely and whispering) “I can see the future sometimes in my dreams, man.”

Me: “Yeah, that’s not crazy at all…”

However, the best part of the trip comes when Jay turns the radio to the classic rock station, and almost as if by cosmic design, the intro to “Stairway to Heaven” begins to sweetly play through the speakers. We rock out the rest of the way, windows down, pounding steering wheel and dashboard through the guitar solos. For a few minutes, the difference in our education, the glaring disparity between the opportunities I’ve had and the one’s he squandered, the visibly glaring gap between our respective social positions are forgotten; we’re just two dudes rocking out to a timeless song.

I drop Jay off at what he tells me is his house, though it could just as easily be a random house he intends to rob. As he staggers drunkenly out of my car, he says, “hey man, why don’t you take my number”, so I do. “You’re not gonna be one of those pricks who doesn’t call, are you?” he slurs, hope behind his glazed-over eyes. “No man, I’ll call” I lie, and pull away, noting that this is what I usually say to annoying girls, not drunk bums I find wandering around St. Louis. Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything…

Anyone remember this bum?

How Much is that Hottie in the Window?

2010-09-24T13:25:00.006-05:00

"You probably think I'm gross, don't you?" the blond asked, her head hung in shame.

"No, gross? What? Not at all."

OK, so it was a little gross. After all, I'd gone in to talk to her on a bet, and she did have some cheese on her face. Still, she could probably be forgiven for that.

"You're very pretty," I said. "And...you...also must have been very hungry."

Ravenously hungry. Fasting for surgery hungry. This pretty thing was tearing through her plate of nachos as though she hadn't eaten in eight days.

"Thanks," she said, smiling for the first time. "You want some?"

Now, obviously I wanted some. I wanted more than some - I'd just spent the night drinking, and here's a cute, blitzed blond offering to go all Mexican Lady and the Tramp on me.

Outside, a sizable crowd had gathered - my friends and I were not the only ones to notice this adorable food vacuum. In choosing a spot away from everyone in the restaurant, Nacho Girl had also managed to choose the only place in which she could be examined as though she were a caged animal - right in front of a giant, street-facing picture window. Her unfortunate eating habits had brought a few onlookers. My presence, which created an awesome viewing dynamic, had packed the sidewalk. She was a circus talent.
...

With the last chip in her mouth, Nacho Girl looked directly at me, serious this time.

"I know why you're here," she said, chewing. "You want to sleep with me. Well, you'll have to guess my name first."

I looked her over.

She had the look of a Katie, maybe an Ashley. But, rather than guess, I simply got up, thanked her for the food, and walked out amongst the rabble.

Her name was Courtney - she'd told me when I first sat down. But she also still had cheese on her face.

I'll be your nacho.

Chicks You Meet at the Bar

2010-09-22T21:07:00.005-05:00

Christina Gonzales was a woman in need.

"I just never have any fun," she starts. "I go out and have a drink, but it's boring.

"You know, I've never even been really drunk."

This was Christina Gonzales' lucky day. Thirty minutes prior, two handsome, charitable young gents arrived in her section to watch a football game and to consume beers, and now the party-starved little server was on the cusp of popping her fun cherry.

"I tell you what," says I. "Here is my number...call us when you get off work, and we'll go out. You won't not have fun, I assure you."

Before Jommy and I had completed our trek home (a four minute walk...her bar was right by our place of employment), my pocket vibrated. It was Christina Gonzales.

"Eager, this one is," I murmured.
...

An hour later, having added our chick friend Doses to the gathering, I mentioned our good fortune in finding a reasonable attractive woman so willing and excited about getting hammered with strange men.

"Umm, you're an idiot," Doses said. "Any girl that says she never has fun sucks. She's the reason she doesn't have fun. Either no one likes her, or...

"...well that's probably it. No one likes her. Because she sucks."

Doses was coming off a bit jealous.
...

An hour later, Christina Gonzales dutifully followed our convoy to Soulard, where we were to partake of drink. All was right with the world.

"She was good looking, right?" I asked Jommy.

"Enough," said he.
...

"You can't leave me," Christina Gonzales pleaded. "I don't know anyone."

She'd been at the bar for four seconds and, with my hand clenched uncomfortably by hers, it was becoming clear that no amount of pretty was enough to make up for the fact that she was nine-fourths crazy.
...

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you all night," the clinger said, "but I don't know if I should.

"I...I...I don't think I will."

"Umm, OK, whatever," I said, flatly, having lost interest long, long ago.

"Well, it's just that...I think you're really cute," she said, obviously embarrassed.

I mean, of course she was embarrassed...we're in fourth grade, right?

"Oh," I said.

I was finding it hard to take this girl seriously. That I would die by her hands if I did not escape seemed probable.

"Well, thanks," I continued. "Hey...I think we're going to go home. Do you need a ride?"

"Can I stay at your place?" she asked.
...

No. No she couldn't. And so we left without her.

Note: Chicks that never have fun never have fun because they aren't fun. And are apt to kill you.

The Kremlin

2010-09-17T13:11:00.004-05:00

"And this is your living area...plenty of space, floor-to-ceiling windows and, obviously, a great view," Tom Arnold said, drawing the curtains. "You've got the Arch right there, the Mississippi River below it. Just around the corner there is the baseball stadium, and out the other window is the Edward Jones Dome, where the Rams play."

Tom Arnold - which is not who he actually is, though he both looks and sounds it - was making some great points. As a leasing agent, it's his job to make great points, and so he kept after it.

"You guys wanna see the roof pool?"
--

Of course we want to see the roof pool - it's a fucking pool on a roof. Thirty stories in the air.

In fact, that's what we'd come to see in the first place. Having spent a full day looking at apartments all over St. Louis, Jommy and I had decided to indulge ourselves with a place completely out of our league. Tom was probably aware of this, but he was a good sport. And he didn't even seem to mind that we were drunk.
--

"This is our sauna...fits about six people if you feel the need to get your sweat on, but here's the main draw," Tom said, opening the pool doors.

"There's the Arch again, you can see the top of it from inside the pool," Tom continued. "And here's Jessica."

Tom has a remarkable knack for remembering the the names of everyone in the building, but it wasn't like he was going to forget Jessica. Jessica was hot. And wet. And in a roof pool.

She smiled at us, and drew out of the pool. Tom was probably paying her.

"And back here is the observation deck. You can see just about all of St. Louis from here, into Illinois. Doesn't get much better than this."

Tom does not have a hard job. Five minutes later, we were back in his ground floor office, drooling over what we'd seen and listening to Tom's final spiel.

"The apartment I showed you on the 21st floor is the only one we have...this place stays full. The ball's in your court, fellas. I hope to see you back."
--

As we exited the apartment and spilled onto the street, we could hardly have been more excited. Drunk and dreaming, we started hatching plots. Maybe we could get a third roommate...Jommy offered to sleep on the floor. Maybe we could raise enough money donating blood. Maybe we could be escorts. Anything, really...we wanted it. And so we put down the $200 holding fee. It gave us two days to think.

Unfortunately, earlier that morning we'd decided our requirements for an apartment were as such:

1) It's cheap
2) It's walking distance from bars
3) It's cheap
4) We won't be murdered
5) It's cheap

This place satisfied 2 and 4, bud didn't do much for the other three. It would not be cheap to live there even if we had jobs, umm, which we didn't have.

This would be a problem. The first place we toured - which decidedly sucked - told us flatly that we would be rejected since we didn't make three times monthly rent. Tom's place was the same, only more expensive.
--

After another long day of looking, we'd come up with a suitable place to live, which was both cheap and safe, though we'd have to do some driving if we hoped to drink. It was a fairly sweet deal, but we both really, really wanted the roof pool. Sadly, we knew we just couldn't swing it, even without cable or internet, and even with getting rid of one of our cars to avoid paying $60-$90 a month in parking. We were ready to move on.

Enter my father, Wayne. And, surprisingly, my mother, the Queen.

After running all the numbers and detailing our options to them both, they seemed to agree that we'd be kind of dumb not to take Tom Arnold's offer.

"You said it has a roof pool, right?" Wayne asked.

And so the next day, we lied. We walked into Tom's office, made up jobs (Jommy said he was working for his friend's company, and got him to vouch for it...I professed to be driving to Columbia on the weekends to work Saturday/Sunday doubles at the Crapple) and waited for the call.

Two days later, that call came. We were approved.
--

Three weeks in, we've dubbed the apartment the Kremlin, on account of we only drink vodka there. Popov, in fact. Pair it with lemon-lime Gatorade, and you've got yourself a treat - a Lenin-Lime Bomb.

As I write you this, I take turns staring at the screen, sipping coffee, and glancing outside the window. To my left, the Mississippi River churns in the dark, and above it the Arch cuts through the night sky. Straight ahead and beyond, the city lights twinkle, and cars shimmy down Fourth Street.

From my spot on the couch, work - on the Landing - is four minutes away. If you'd like to come visit, the nearest parking is at the Arch itself, and I can walk there before you figure out how to pay. Washington Avenue, a booze-hound's wet dream, is the first street you can turn on going north, iffins you'd like to go out.

So come see us. I mentioned we had a roof pool, right?

Not pictured: Jessica. Or us with booze.

Player Profiles

2010-09-16T22:57:00.002-05:00

I’ve been lazy. You’d need both hands to count the things I’ve written the past few weeks, but they’ve all been my name, and most were signed on bar tabs. In the interim, I found an apartment, signed a lease, got a job and then another. And I’ve mostly told no one.

That won’t do.

Though I don’t currently have the Internets – I told you I moved, right? – I promise to do better, starting now. Today, I give you a quick look at two of our major players, Jommy and Doses. Tomorrow, I’ll detail our journey to the top.

Or at least the 21^st floor.

Jommy (roommate)

I met Jommy in 2006, when I took a job at a crap Italian restaurant where he was employed. Previously prone to extreme flake-outs, he spent last year in Taiwan, dividing his time between teaching tiny Asian kids to read and lobbying me to live with him. The year away has done him good – he is not only flake-free, but now has a much stronger “Most Interesting Man in the World” resume. Without him, I would certainly not be living in St. Louis.

Appearance-wise, Jommy is as solid a ringer for Colin Farrell as you will find, which only mildly pisses me off. Drawing innumerable glances from female observers, he is both epic wingman and rival predator, bringing options to the table but requiring you to fight for attention. Despite his affinity for V-neck tees, he is susceptible to being girlfriended.

Jommy plays guitar, once fronted a band, and has ludicrous amounts of music knowledge, a fact counterweighted by his not knowing a one single thing about sports. A one-time vagabond, he must now bend his narrative to fit the fact that he lives in a super-sick apartment and lives above the poverty level.

Given our current life situations – poor, witty, carefree, mid-20s single males clinging to freedom – we’re a good team.

Kind of like the Cardinals used to be.

Doses

Doses is a 20-something female who likes red wine and attention only slightly less than she likes penis. And, let me tell you, she fucking loves penis.

A blog groupie turned real-life friend, Doses is smart and funny, attractive and cultured, and also in possession of a big-kid job. If she gave herself more credit, she’d definitely be out of our league. Fortunately, she does not, and we like to keep it that way.

A step above mildly neurotic, Doses takes things a little too personally sometimes, yet allows Jommy and I to savage her with witty barbs, so long as one of us will play with her hair. She’s a good sport and a valued resource – she’s not above helping you hit on chicks – but will also pretend that she’s dying if she hasn’t had sex in the last 14 minutes.

Tomorrow, our home, and the ass-backwards way we stumbled into it.

Hint: The vodka helped.

Me v. Regina...and Chadd with two d's.

2010-08-09T00:22:00.005-05:00

“The first thing you must ask yourself is, ‘Why am I here?’”

Around the room, a small elementary school library, 20-odd faces snapped to attention.

“Why are you here,” she asked again, drawing out the you this time. The inquirer, a principal in an urban school district, looked around, then paused for effect.

“Why?”

Two hours earlier, lying on a poorly padded concrete floor, I had already wondered. The principal, beaten to the punch, would receive no recognition from the Academy. She hadn’t even emphasized the right word.
---

It is early August, a Tuesday, and it’s already one of those melt-your-face-off disasters that cause newspapers to print phrases like “heat wave,” and that take the joy out of breathing. Even inside, the air conditioner killing itself, you can sense the heat.

This was a day made for shorts and a t-shirt, and one or neither if you’re at home. Because I’m disastrously poor – and more because I no longer wish to be counted among that lot – I felt compelled to wear a dress shirt and khakis.

Chadd, with two d’s, was not similarly moved. Rolling in 5 minutes late and repping cargo shorts and a rumpled polo, Chadd appeared considerably less destitute. He may also crash job orientations for fun. Whatever the case, I took solace in Chadd’s attire, because no one shows up expecting to land a job wearing their afternoon-at-grandma’s outfit.

One contender down, 20 more to go.
--

“What am I doing here?”

If in 2004 you had told me I’d spend my age-24 season in life begging for employment as a substitute teacher, I probably would have wondered why you were being such a dick to me. I mean, substitute teaching? Begging for that? Come on. By 24, I expected to be a college graduate with some kind of writing job and a boatload of debt.

Wait, I have that? Oh.

Well, in August of 2010, I’m leaving it all behind anyway. My little empire, my little city, I’m trading them both in for an ocean of uncertainty. Ill-advised or adventurous, it’s one or the other, but I’m making the first risk play of my life. It feels good.
--

“So, will we be expected to clean up puke? I don’t like puke.”

It’s a good thing that people are so relentlessly stupid, or I might never get a job. I mean, who asks that question – to the principal - without having their tongue firmly in cheek? Regina. Regina does.

In the corner of the room, you can see the assistant principal crossing out something on her clipboard.
--

There are few things more demoralizing than sending out dozens of applications and receiving a rejection letter in return. Not hearing back – not at all – is one of those things.

For the past month, not hearing back has been the new normal. It’s frustrating. You check your email forty times a day. You miss a call from a number you don’t know and quickly listen to your messages…only to have it be the creepy guy from work. It got so bad that I went and proofread my resume again just to make sure I didn’t accidentally write “fuck” anywhere on it.

Job-hunting with 10% unemployment is no fun. Leaving two jobs to do it is ballsy.

Betting on yourself to come through anyway? Kind of cool.
--

Somewhere near the end of August, Hit on It is going to be changing. It’s proprietor – me – will be moving to an actual city (that he knows nothing about), taking a job that he has never had, making new friends, doing new stuff, and, hopefully, racking up blog-worthy posts at record pace.

I don’t know how it will all turn out, but I’m excited, and I’ll take you along for the ride, so long as you promise not to tell my mother. Oh, right…she Hits on It.

Ok, just read then. I hope to move to a much shorter, daily-updated format, that still makes room for my long-winded tales of debauchery.

Enjoy.

Kids are nice to subs, right?

I'm on a boat. Occasionally.

2010-07-14T16:49:00.001-05:00

After 10 or so tequila shots, my filter failed. Standing atop a picnic table at midnight in the middle of nowhere, I let loose.

“I’m so happy I started working at Applebee’s,” I squealed, and it had to sound even gayer than it reads. But what did I care? It was my first float trip; I had a bunch of new friends and a belly full of Cuervo Gold. I was content.

Five minutes later, using the legless pull-and-drag method, I expelled Jose and God knows what else onto the nearest tree and blacked the fuck out.

Be it a comment on how B-A a float trip can be or merely how far I’ve fallen, I’ve scarcely had such fun since that dehydrated, waterlogged night three years ago.
--

While floating, nothing sinks in. It’s fun, yeah, but out on the water you’re trading around bottles and spilling beers, falling off the raft and eating soggy granola bars. Nothing is processed. Your deepest thought is about whom you’re sleeping with that night.

And of course, by that night, you’re busy heaving, hallucinating or passing out. And even if you don’t, all parties concerned must live with the probability that whiskey will thwart its eleventy-billionth ill-conceived sexual encounter between half-strangers. Or, better yet, too close of friends.

And so it is the morning after — face-melting hangover and all — that I love the most. Yes, the action is over, and yes, it’s time to pack up, but it’s also time to catch up on all the shit you missed. Which, even if you were involved, was probably a lot. The booze will do that to you.
--

At 10 a.m. in a trashed doublewide trailer, six lethargic males – all that was left of the haggard crew – sat amongst the rubble and rehashed. We rented this “cabin” for fear it would rain – the weather man had called for lightening, strong winds, large hail and three of the 10 biblical plagues the night before – and we did about what you’d expect to it; Solo cups littered the floors, liquor-soaked blueberries stained the carpet, and the patio table was on its actual last leg. It was the perfect backdrop.

Guy 1: “Dude, we must have taken like 10 shots in an hour.”

Perhaps the only thing dumber than taking 10 shots in an hour is taking 10 shots in an hour on a float trip. Beyond that — the Triple Dog Dare of being handicapped in the brain — is taking said amount of shots in said amount of time before you’ve made it into the water.

Of course, two of our floatmates did it, and they held up the trip by a good two hours. Yes, they were waiting on two ladies to meet us, and no, it wasn’t all their fault (I was complicit in wanting to wait for these unknown women), but we’ll blame them anyway. Once on the rafts, said friends proved deficient in the “standing up” and “speech without slur” categories. But they brought booze. Good booze. And chicks. I voted that they not only live, but also be named Trip MVPs. They lost their sunglasses and at least half a bottle of liquor before we’d made it 100 yards, illuminating a float trip’s omnipresent truth early on: “Murky water is a quiet thief. Don’t bring nice shit.”

Guy 2: “What was the deal with that bus driver?”

Pop Quiz: What is the harm in offering an attractive girl money to hit on a middle-aged, male bus driver?

Answer: There is no harm, unless his answer to “Hey handsome, would you like a beer?” is “No thank you, my wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver. There is no drinking allowed on the bus.”

And, even then, the only problem is that you yourself would rather die than remain on that bus.

Guy 3: “How could they be having sex for that long? With another person in the room. It doesn’t make sense.”

Waking up to the sound of two young adults doing the dirty is not a completely unusual thing in the life of a 20-something. It is a bit different, though, when you wake up to not the sound, but the sight...four feet from your face.

I give our friends credit…they may be horrible bastards, but they have nothing to hide.

Guy 4: “What is this shit? (Holds up something made of cloth). I wore these around my neck all last night thinking it was my fucking shirt!”

Mistaking another man’s shirt for your own is no big deal. Mistaking another man’s dirty briefs for your own shirt — and parading around with them over your shoulders — is awkward, but still not the biggest of deals. Doing this while screaming that there is a Waffle House across the gravel road in Bumblefuck, Missouri, however, is cause for some concern. Trying to walk there shoeless makes us wonder if you need to go to the ER.

Guy 5: “So, should we clean this up some, or…”

As we drove off, two young women approached the doublewide cabin, trash bags and 409 in hand. We had made no effort. Even from 20 yards out, you could just see them die a bit inside as they flung open the door. The ragtag crew that rolled in the day before?

They lived.

I Thought I Was Your Snack Pack

2010-07-08T00:07:00.003-05:00

Four months ago, a gold-toothed African American woman walked in on me in the men’s room.

“Ain’t nothin’ I ain’t seen before!,” she said, cackling in delight. “We gonna meet in here ev’ry night, Mister Man?”

Mister Man, that’s what she called me. And then she tossed her head back, cackled again, and walked out.

Since that day, the janitor and I have shared a camaraderie, a situational friendship that sacrifices depth for cheap laughs. It works for us.

Most of the time, that is.
--

Offices are a lonely place at night, and I work a quasi-graveyard shift at mine.* It works out well enough – I’d see the sun come up most mornings even if I didn’t work until 2 a.m. – and I don’t mind the job, but being awake in the early morning hours because you have to be is a different thing than being up because you want to be. Most minds, given a full day to wind themselves, start to unravel at night, fooling even the best of us into texting an ex-girlfriend or thumbing through some old photos. When you let it, the night can make you mad.

*Editor's Note: Yes, I have a non-Apple job.

Me, I busy myself. Not with work, so much, but with music and reading and the like. Sometimes my Saves The Day/Alkaline Trio Pandora station goes on a run of gems, and I play music louder than I should. You can almost see the cubicles loathing their existence a little bit less.

OK, no you can’t. And so when I see them, I trade how-ya-doin’s and one-liners with the janitors. In an office that holds 200+ in the light of day, it’s only us three at night.

The banter isn't much, or at least it wasn't at first. Just bullshit – “Hey, hey, how’s it going” – mostly to pass the time, and also because it’s lonesome. There’s a male janitor and a female janitor, and they’re the same ones every night. The man, who is 50ish and black, and I usually just ask each other what’s up, and get some variation of the old “same shit, different day” routine back, or I tell him how a sports game went or something.

But with the woman, well, with the woman, it’s different. This lady, who looks and talks much like the maid in Billy Madison, is what the old folks would call a character. She’s black, she’s loud, she wears a do-rag, and from every audible indication, she would like to have sex with me in the bathroom.

“Ha ha,” you say, humored by my joke.

But it isn’t a joke. It’s all harmless, but in maybe 50 night-time encounters, we have NEVER exchanged a pleasantry that has not ended with her asking me if my girlfriend would be jealous or how I got so cute for a little white boy.

Of course, I flirt back. I tell her, yes, my girlfriend would be jealous…but she don’t gots to know. What can I say? I like attention, even if it’s from middle-aged janitors.

Only some nights, every once in a while, it just isn’t the same.

I get bored and trade lines with the man janitor, like always, but she doesn’t seem to notice me. I don’t know what it is. I know we’re not dating, buutt…

Really, though. After all the little fun we’ve had, once in a while she just ignores me. I could talk to her first, yes, but it’s always been that she talks to me first, and that’s half the fun – a 40-something janitor is after a 20-something night clerk, she’s aggressive and I’m shy, and that’s just how it is.

So, no, I wasn’t going to talk to her when she was acting all funny…maybe she’s bipolar or something.

But this past Thursday night, I changed my mind. Who was she to ignore me? I thought we had something. And so when I noticed her in one of those weird moods, not letting out a whistle after I’d walked to the copier, I just went up and put it to her.

“What, you don’t want to meet up in the bathroom anymore?”

I smiled. She did not.

Apparently my janitor lady has a cousin, and sometimes she fills in on Thursdays.

Ooh that boy's a fine piece of work all right. He's a fine piece of ass though, too.

The Nude Luge

2010-06-19T00:02:00.009-05:00

1st Rule of Fight Club: You do not talk about FIGHT CLUB.

2nd Rule of Fight Club: You DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.

----

Some things are best done naked. Sex, for instance, is best done naked. Showering. Sun bathing, too.

Hurling your drunk ass down a slickened plastic tarp at top speed?

That's debatable.

In 1999 Brad Pitt/Ed Norton cult-classic Fight Club, one rule was so critical that they listed it twice – “You do not talk about Fight Club.” Don’t. Fucking. Do it.

This does not apply in the world of Naked Slip ‘n’ Slide. Here, pride be damned, tales will be told. Folks will find out. And the relative glow-in-the-dark-ness of your backside will be discussed ‘round the water cooler.

Talk all you will. The first rule of Naked Slip ‘n’ Slide is…don’t smash your dick.*

*Editor’s note: I’m thinking about printing up t-shirts.

----

On June whatever, 2010, some of my no-longer-so-young friends and I went out to celebrate the birthday of – get this – someone who still isn’t 21. I mean, holy shit. Once we’d exhausted the downtown scene (fun, but nothing happened), Afterbars loomed. For a 21st, they are not optional…admission to heaven hinges on your participation. That said, no one NEEDED any more booze – nudity was never a darkhorse.

But the young and stupid, well, they drank anyway.

The rest was, as the rest often is, a blur. I do not remember any discussions of more rational options, if they were presented, and I do not recall who rallied the troops. Matter of fact, I don’t even know why the fuck someone had a Slip ‘n’ Slide.

But they did.

Outside, thirty-odd feet of slickened plastic lay glistening in the moonlight. To my memory, it was already spouting as we approached, small streams of H20 reaching absurdly low heights, waiting for the party to start.

It would not take long.

Here, in the backyard of a large apartment complex intended for the college-aged, seven to ten upstanding he’s and she’s slipped into bikinis or down to boxers, and began diving headlong into the fun. Aside from the setting, it was not entirely unlike your 10th birthday party.

But things were different. At age-10, you were on a raging sugar-high thanks to four-too-many Capri Suns and half a box of oatmeal pies. At 20+, Anheuser-Busch sponsors the fun. And when the Busch’s beat out Little Debbie for dibs on providing refreshments, well, shit happens.

As most drunken, half-clothed encounters between the sexes do, this one escalated quickly. Each of us had only a few turns before it was decided that nudity was required to keep it interesting.*

*Editor's Note: Sort of like a third date.

I went first. I had no particular rhyme or reason, but I'll bet I assumed that there was an infinitely higher chance that boobs would make an appearance if my white ass did first.

While I was correct (boobs happened), the ass is not all a man deals with when it comes to bottom-free entertainment, is it?

Standing in the moonlight, nude, it became immediately apparent that my bum was the least of my problems. An appearance by the man up front was no worry either – hey, with a bunch of bikini-clad women, you HOPE someone sees it. But, having never partaken in Slip ‘n’ Slide nude before, I stood there trying to imagine a scenario in which he would not be horribly mangled.

My plan? Run fast, stay low, and favor one side.

…success.

No sooner than my birthday-suited bod reached the end, girls start dropping tops. I am an inspiration to all.

Greater success.

Post-sliding, co-ed showers are scheduled for grass removal/to save water.

The Lord smileth upon me.

Cuts and burns methodically track the entirety of my torso and down my leg, narrowly missing my unmentionables?

An Epic, not-discovered-until-the-next-day Fail.

...a very temporary - very painful - so worth it, fail.

I dare that kid to jump like that once his balls have dropped.

Anatomy of a Wingman

2010-06-13T20:52:00.005-05:00

Picture yourself in a bar in the district
with willing women
and no other guys
Somebody calls you
you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes
--

In the bustle of the night, five types of men will talk to women.

The beyond gone.
A friend of a friend.
The admirably detached.
The tool.
And a gent with a wingman.

It does not make a great deal of difference to which group our man is a part of…all will go home with a phone number or a lady on his arm at times, and all will spend a great deal more shuffling through his phone at 2 a.m. But no other males are submitting applications.

Though as a single man I am no authority, it seems there are a number of cards that any man might play in his quest to successfully engage in conversation (or whatever else he plans afterward) with a strange woman at a bar, but they can generally be boiled down to these: attractiveness of the male, a good opening line, enough money to buy strangers drinks, a deft use of stereotypes in selecting a target, and the possession of a wingman.

All of these cards are more valuable in groups – if you’ll allow the stupid card playing metaphor to continue, a flush is a better draw than a pair – but that same pair will win you a few hands.

Obviously, your best bet is to be handsome. This is no comment on women – everyone likes a looker – and you’re apt to catch some young lady looking in your direction if you qualify. From here you can do what you please, but you’re off to a strong start. If you’re a douche, don’t expect to hold an audience long.

Stereotyping gets a bad rep, but we all do it. Perhaps the 5’5 male should avoid the she-giant, and maybe the 26-year old looking for a wife wants to avoid the freshman sorority girl. If you’re only up for so much rejection in one night, you might want to narrow the options.

A willingness to buy girls drinks is somewhat self-explanatory, but if you’re bottom-ass broke and chose this bar specifically because it had no cover, you’ll want to work on your opening line, be it “Hi, I’m Jim, what’s your name?” or something higher risk that might induce a laugh.

But, provided you are just an average fellow, one sporting an ego just big enough to want to avoid rejection at all cost (the tools are exempt, on account of they’re tools, as are the wildly drunk (who will try anything), and the ultra-confident, immune-to-rejection types (here’s looking at you, Tom Johnson), a partner in crime is a man’s best friend.

The wingman, in popular culture, is commonly portrayed as a man with all of the gifts we’ve discussed above: he’s got money, he’s handsome, and he’s a smart smooth talker with no abandon.

Obviously, this is bullshit. If this were the average wingman, one must wonder what the hell is he doing trolling around with some scrub buddy…and why is he single?

No, if you’re rolling around in tandem with Owen Wilson, you’ll be fine. In real life, we have our friends, all of whom have their faults, all of whom have their qualities, and none of whom have ever been in a movie.

In the past six years, I’ve run with many different wingers, some good, some bad, and most of whom no longer live near me. Right now, as age, work and loans have caught up with us, it’s ever more difficult to coordinate our plans. On more nights than not (and generally to no fault of my remaining “bar” friends), I am a One Man Wolfpack.

While I have made astounding improvements in my single’s game, it is not my strength. For better or worse, I am a double’s player, as is most every other fellow. I am no fan of rejection – I used to not even talk to girls who were staring at me, figuring that they were just looking at my dumb haircut or something – but it no longer removes the possibilities.

So if not Owen Wilson, what makes a good wingman? Let’s have a look…

1) He needs to be handsome, but handsome in a different way than you. After all, you’re seeking to pique interest here, and offering a buffet to a bar full of women is far better than offering them the chicken or the chicken. Every woman likes a handsome man, but different tastes are your friend, not your enemy.

2) Be it because he is more confident or simply more drunk, he must be more comfortable than you are in talking with women, if that is your deficiency. If you’re the one who doesn’t mind initiating contact, a funny man is your friend. While you’re figuring plans, he should be shooting off the good-guy vibe and letting it be known that you’ll be worth their time post-whatever.

3) While no man will be begrudged for having preferences, the picky shall be shunned. If you like blonds but your buddy has already established a rapport, you’d best be open to darker shades or risk complete disaster.

4) It would help if he’s not a dick, because someone’s car is getting left downtown, and someone has to be at work in the morning.

And that’s it.

Well, it probably isn’t, but it’s something. Brilliance? Nonsense? Blather? Unapologetic bias?

We report, you decide.

Laughed at.
This fellow could've used a wingman

What Not to Wear

2010-05-31T18:15:00.002-05:00

As we lay in bed, sandwiched somewhere between discussions of the night before, what we drank and what we want to be, the truth seeps out.

“You know, you’re really cute,” she says. “But I hate the way you dress.”

The statement is blunt but not malicious, though the way the word hate is drawn out can’t help but give you pause. After all, here is a nude, ostensibly attractive young female taking pains not to offend her new…whatever…and she comes up with “What you wear sucks.” Obviously, there must be some sort of problem.

Given that modesty is, perhaps, my most spectacular strength, I do not argue. As I’ve intimated, this exact subject comes up something like every time. Every time. And I do not limit myself to classy women.

At 24 years of age, it’s time to reevaluate. I cannot say how many opportunities my choice of duds might have cost me, but a man who ignores the truth is an ignorant bastard, indeed.

I am no ignoramus. A bad dresser? My closet is a toxic mix of freshman year (of high school) and whatever repairs past girlfriends have attempted to implement. The only theme, if there is one, is comfort. Over the past 5 years, I can guarantee that I’ve allocated no more than $300 on the entirety of my wardrobe. My mother, renewing the stock twice a year (Christmas and my birthday), has had more influence than she should have been allowed.

What hath indifference wrought? Let’s have a look, bottom to top.

Shoes. Until the age of 18, I received one pair of shoes every summer before school began. Without fail, said shoes came in the form of enormous black Reebok sneakers, comfortable enough to wear year round, yet heavy enough to bludgeon an intruder if need be. Easy on the eyes? Well, no. But who looks at shoes? Apparently some do. As college wore on, I was encouraged – no, urged – to buy new footwear. Today I sport either canvas and brown Asics or a pair of chocolate colored dress shoes.

Pants. I might as well have just said jeans, because that’s what I wear. My best looking pair are snug BKE’s that I salvaged from a friend’s garage sale. It is the only piece of clothing, outside of the Asics, that I receive compliments on. I have a couple of other pair I work in, another good fitting BKE pair, and another a very baggy, very comfortable pair. I do not often wear dark jeans, and if I wear shorts, they tend to be brown, below the knee, and old.

Shirts. I like t-shirts. Actually, I love t-shirts and, if they’re comfortable, they will not exit my casual rotation until they fall apart or are hidden from me by a fed up female. Obviously, this is the area that most women focus on, because it is rather inexpensive to upgrade. I wear polos to work…again, nothing fancy, and might own two long-sleeve shirts.

Jackets. I wore the same blue Michigan Wolverines pullover for 10 years. This is not an exaggeration. Once it became inadequate, I stole a Hollister hoodie from a female friend who had copped it from some frat dude. Today, I wear…a blue, Michigan Wolverines zip-up hoodie. I like it.

Hats/Watches/Necklaces. I rarely wear hats when in mixed company, because I enjoy showing off my shaggy, wavy brown locks. Girls either love or hate – there’s that word again – it, but they can agree that it’s both appealing and enjoyable to play with. It receives no product. If a hat is worn, it’s a blue and white Kansas City Royals mesh-backed thing. I have a nice watch…I got it in high school, but have taken great care of it. Females still comment on it. I wear a brown-and-tan surfer style necklace at almost all times.

And that’s it. All told, I can assure you – and my unembarrassing track record with the opposite sex can verify – that I don’t look like a complete disaster.

But, apparently, it’s close.

She wants those jeans off.
...so she can hide them.

Hi, how may I help you?

2010-05-13T13:40:00.003-05:00

Hit on It is on vacation. Okay, that's a lie...but he is trying to complete writing projects which he will be paid for. For now....a Facebook Throwback!

On Sunday, June 14, 2009, the Kansas City Royals, channeling the powers of great men like God, Santa Claus, and the one-armed drummer from Def Leopard, won a baseball game. This was, I believe, a miracle.*

Editor’s Note #1: Scratch that. They were playing the Reds, so we’ll just call it a surprise.

Happily, Stump, the parentals and I, were in attendance at said baseball contest, making the Royals 2-0 in our presence this season, and generally awful at all other times.

This, however, is not the point. The game is a mere means to an end in this tale, kind of like how you have to go through a whole birthday party to get to the presents, or woo (read: drunk-dial) a chick before hijinks can ensue. Or maybe that isn’t how it is at all…whatever.

Anyway, after the game, the fam and I made a pilgrimage to Gates BBQ. This was to be, as they call it, a “time.” It was a gorgeous day, I was hungry, and the prices at the park ensured that I stayed that way. Plus, you know, barbeque is good. Especially Gates BBQ, I am told.

So, after padre and madre argued over how or how not to get there for a sufficiently insufferable amount of time, we pulled in the parking lot around 4 p.m. to find what appeared to be Gates, though, because it might just as easily have been a front for a crackhouse, we were not sure. Apparently, like that Lindsay Lohan character, Gates is not only world renowned, but also rundown, dirty, and possibly infested with AIDS.

Now, it should be said that we were warned. One member of the caravan (my father), had already been to Gates, and he was hesitant to return.

“They yell at you. A bunch of black women will just yell at you. Its stressful,” he said pre-us choosing this over Arbys.

But, as he would become upset about during the trip, we did not listen to him. My dad, the most wonderful man I know, does not enjoy being out of his comfort zone, and this constituted that. He’s kind of like Hank Hill…very moral, upstanding, and not a big fan of change. While Hill sells propane and hates charcoal, my dad runs the phone company and curses at passing Mediacom vans. Where Hill says “dear God!” every time his son does something effeminate, my father temporarily loses sanity when I am late arriving home for an uneventful weekend in Bethany, or when someone fails to wave at him. I think the comparison is a fit, but I digress…

So we walk in the door, right, and, to our pants-shitting terror…

“HI HOW MAY I HELP YOU!”

We’ve been welcomed to the Jungle. No fewer than seven twenty-something African-American women startle us with a planned barrage (I swear to God it was in all caps) of venom-filled faux welcomes, demands in disguise. We will be helped, damnit, or we can get the fuck out right now*.

Editor’s Note #2: From the way it reads, it would be impossible to fully understand the way in which these generally happy words were delivered. I am told by the internets that the instantaneous “HI HOW MAY I HELP YOU!” is their trademark, which is odd, given the fine work they do with pork. To me, it seems as though they’re bent on avoiding repeat business - it is the greetings equivalent of shaking a baby.

My father stood frozen in horror…he was doomed. The board above him (you order there as you would at McDonalds) listed off maybe seven items, all presumably barbequed, none with descriptions.

“HI HOW MAY I HELP YOU!”

My father, seven seconds into the restaurant, has taken seven seconds too long. Help must be administered.

Foolishly, he blurts out a question:

“What are the, uh…what is a short end?”

Either deaf or unfazed (or both, I guess), he is rebuked.

“HI HOW MAY I HELP YOU!!!”

Two more exclamation points have been added, and not because Levonda was excited. Steve “Deer...Headlights” Miles has ruined the system. Unlike with Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi, questions do not result in expulsion here…they are simply disregarded. Eventually he picks a sandwich and Iced Tea, which they do not have. Simply relieved to be out of line, my father moves on to the nearest table with a Diet Pepsi, which he did not ask for. Part of him, you can see, has died.

Next up: Me.

I also have no idea what I want, but only because I was so caught up in watching the car crash that was my father’s ordeal that I hadn’t bothered to examine the board.

“HI HOW MAY I HELP YOU!”

At this point, it’s merely routine; sort of like what it might be like if fire alarms were tested not every month, but every 10 seconds. Next to your eardrum.

My fear has subsided some, but only because I’ve resolved to order the first thing on the board, with fries (which cost, no lie, $3.75. For the fries.) Meanwhile, my father is back at the table, glassy-eyed and staring vacantly, going through what must have been the food-service equivalent of Vietnam Syndrome.

This, you see, is why my family stays in Bethany…nothing changes there, and people who shout are stoned to death. Our barbeque is bland, but at least it doesn’t cause night terrors.

In fact, were I differently talented and in possession of the right equipment, I might go back to the ‘80s, form a band called Poison, and write a song about the experience, entitled Every Rose Has It’s Thorn. ~~That might be good.~~

But, since I sing like Susan Boyle looks and do not know how to get ahold of Christopher Lloyd, this note will have to do…my little bit of jealousy, for no one can know how badly I’d like to contemptuously yell at my Applepatrons and get away with it, to be able to disregard their inane queries and move them the eff along.

Only in my dreams, I suppose.

Applequickie's: Fun with stereotypes!

2010-05-02T23:12:00.004-05:00

From the vault! This one's a throwback from April '09 because, well, I haven't done anything exciting lately. Except puke in two different yards in one night. But that's nothing.

In these tough economic times (...what, you've heard that one before?), people have questions - important questions - and they want answers.

Can I put my kid through school?

Will little Jenny be able to get her braces?

When will things get back to normal?

What Britney Spears song am I?

Oh, well, ok, some of them aren't that important (I mean, really...who cares about braces?) And people are obviously looking for a good bit of leisure...or the old folks that have joined up here are just killing some time until retirement...as you can tell by the dozens of quizzes that now show up on the ultra-lame thought wire that is our Facebook home page. Thanks Zuckerberg!*

Editor's Note #1 "Zuckerberg? More like Suckerberg!"

Anyway, given that I like to be helpful *AND* that I have a few minutes between now and ~~killing myself~~ my next shift at the Crapple, I thought I'd do you a favor and:

1) Answer your questions

2) Satiate your narcissistic thirst

3) Help you kill some time

And what's the cheapest, most funnest kind of fun? That's right! Stereotypes!

We'll do this in the form of a Facebook quiz...only it isn't a quiz. I'm just going to, you know, tell you what you are if you were to, say, purchase X drink at Applebee's.

Disclaimer: These stereotypes...like all stereotypes...do not fit everyone. They just usually do. Most of the time.

Friendly neighborhood AppleServer: Gee whiz, heya folks? Ain't it a great day to be alive? What can I get for ya. I tell ya, we've got some great stuff...how about a delicious Pe...

Unfriendly gangland AppleCustomer, cutting me off: I'll have a....

Pepsi: You're a normal guy or gal, not too concerned about your weight (even if you should be) or probability of developing some form of diabetes (Brimley!). You don't eat out much, but when you do, you make it a treat for the whole family. Which is, umm...why you've come to Applebee's. I guess. Great father you are.

Diet Pepsi: You're fat. Well at least you probably are (You could also be gay). After this, you'll be ordering something covered in cheese grease (*Cheese Grease* is a patent-protected product of the AppleHop Corp., and is not for consumption by those who wish to outlive their children). And then you'll cover it with ranch. You look with envy at the man drinking Pepsi not only because it tastes better, but because he isn't single and dining out with his just-as-single 45-year-old sisters at an Applebee's.

Mountain Dew: Happy Honeymoon! You and the little lady have just decided to stop off for some wonderful, super Exxxtreeeme Refreshment before you consecrate your marriage across the street at the Drury Inn. But, seriously, you can't park your trailor there unless you're buying entrees.

Root Beer: You're five. Tell your Sweet Tea drinking parents to stop letting you color on the fucking table. And try to hit your mouth, will ya?

Sweet Tea: You're from the south. Or at least you think you are. You're probably just Mountain Dew wanna be's who are convinced that tea - regardless of its, you know, factual, known nutritional value - is good for you. And tell your kids to stop coloring on th...

Strawberry Lemonade: You're black. Definitely. That, or an effeminate white male who is sitting alone. But you're probably black, and you'll be drinking a lot of these. After you ask if the refills are free, of course.

HYBRID ALERT!!!

Sierra Mist: This one's tricky, because you have equal parts chance of being either black or five. We'll say you're both black and five, like the little kid named Lamondreus (Spelled like it sounds. I guess) that celebrated his birthday at the Crapple last year. The only difference is that the little kids will get it because its caffeine free and their exhausted, liquor-drinking parents are tired of them. The black people get it because they asked for Sprite.*

Editor's Note #2 Umm, I don't know if this has been remarked upon, but how sensationally effective has Sprite's NBA-centered marketing campaign worked? Who in their right mind wants to drink Sprite when they aren't sick?

Black people. And Grant Hill.

Hot Tea: Get fucked. It's 80 degrees outside, and you want hot tea? There is a zero percent chance that you are under 50 years of age. Or pleasant to be around.

Coffee: You know what, to hell with this quiz. And people who get piping hot coffee, pour 5 ice-cold creams in it, and then complain to me that their coffee was just "lukewarm." I don't know how well versed they are in science, but hot+cold=...I don't know. Katy Perry.

She's hot and she's cold.

I'm just bitter.

You got strawberry and you got kiwi? You got strawberry kiwi?

Movie Review: Funny People

2010-04-26T15:58:00.005-05:00

In the mid-to-late 1990’s, Adam Sandler was the shit. There is no room for debate – the man who cranked out Billy Madison, Happy Gilmore, The Waterboy and Big Daddy in a four-year span was the master of cheap laughs. The dude we knew as SNL's Opera Man had quickly moved from TV filler - Sandler got his start as one of Theo Huxtable’s friends on The Cosby Show in 1987* - to major star. He was, in the words of Joe Biden, "A big fucking deal."

*Editor's Note: Who knew this? Wikipedia did.

Sandler’s rise accompanied my childhood and, for a while, dude was a god. Unfortunately, Y2K was just around the corner; While the computers handled it well, Sandler did not. As it turned out, he was just a really bad actor hidden by schtick. While this was OK for cheesier films, his turn to seriousness kind of cost him.

Up next: Little Nicky. Mr Deeds. Punch-Drunk Love. Anger Management. 50 First Dates.

That was painful. While each film wasn’t a disaster in it’s own right – Mr. Deeds wasn’t even terrible, but only because of the “very sneaky” butler – Sandler had obviously moved on from his more childish roles (post Little Nicky, which was a travesty).

...and then came Spanglish.

Spanglish didn’t make me give up on Sandler, but movies in general. It is, to this day, the worst film I have ever seen. To compound the horror, I saw it on a date. This was 2004.

Sandler's follow ups were scarcely better - a backhanded compliment if there ever was one - with The Longest Yard and You Don’t Mess With the Zohan reaching walk-out-of-the-theater-status, but Click was a short moment of redemption, a flicker of hope.

I remind you of this only because I had been avoided seeing the movie Funny People simply because it has Adam Sandler in it. The man had truly fallen from grace. In fact, the premise was good enough that if it had only starred Seth Rogan, I'd have called it a must-watch.

Still, I’d heard good reviews and with nothing more intriguing on Netflix, I watched it.

Afterwards, I wasn't even upset.

You can do it, Adam! You can make not-shitty movies!

Talking to Girls: A true ramble.

2010-04-19T15:40:00.002-05:00

Elaine: So how are all these people gettin' together?
Jerry: Alcohol.

Dating – I believe we can all agree – is stupid. Argue that it’s awkward, too pressure-packed, contrived, whatever…pick your adjective. Stupid (or fucking stupid) seems to sum it up nicely.

Some don’t agree – folks who are naïve or have recently been on a series of successful dates – but I would challenge that if dating wasn’t stupid, they’d still be doing it.

Oh, what? You have a girlfriend? Exactly - that’s a relationship. Different thing. After, like, five dates, you and your other thought it would be mutually beneficial to not date anymore, and entered into a monogamous pairing. No one blames you.
--

Here at Hit on It, we do fine with the ladies. Scouts honor. Am I sporting a GF? No. Have I done so in the past year? Umm…no.

But I’m not worried - after all, I COULD (maybe) have a girlfriend right now…females aren’t entirely averse to me. No, the problem seems to be finding one that fits my specifications/I wouldn’t hate, and likes me as well.

Oh, and one that I don’t make an ass out of myself in front of prior to a potential sober conversation.
--

The problem with dating people is up front, literally: Meeting people is impossible. Yes, people are everywhere, but we all know most of them suck – I’ll be generous.

% of people who you find reasonably attractive: 40%
% of people who you find intellectually stimulating: 20%
% of reasonably attractive, stimulating people who are single: 5%
% of reasonably attractive, stimulating singles who like you: 2%

“Best of luck.”

----------– God
--

I have been on exactly zero dates with a completely random girl. Zero. Here, random is defined by a girl who does not share a closeish friend connection with you.

Obviously, the friend-of-a-friend route is where it’s at, because the most difficult part of meeting someone is coming up with something worth saying.

Depending on your definition of “worth saying,” black men do not have this problem.

Black guy at bar (while cocking head to check out girls ass): “Damn girl, you be lookin’ fiiinee.”

Girl: Giggles.

Let’s try this with, say, me, or any other white dude.

Hit on It (while cocking head to check out girls ass): “Damn girl, you be lookin’ fiiine.”

Girl: (Looks shocked, then sneers, runs away)

It’s a paradox.
--

We’ve gone over the whole singles problem – how do you know who is single? – and I don’t have the answer.

Once I thought it would be a good idea for all singles to wear shirts saying they were single, but then I realized it would amount to a sort of Scarlet Letter, and that all of the women who weren’t snapped up would die in a stampede or would simply kill themselves.
--

Girls get depressed at bars because boys don’t come talk to them. Boys get depressed because they don’t have one fucking clue of what to say, and have to spend the entire evening getting just hammered enough to lose their inhibitions, while remaining sober enough not to stumble over their words and/or stare at the ladies’ breasts.

Your mission: Go up and talk to some girl for the sole reason that she is attractive, but try and say something interesting, engaging, and not entirely about her attractiveness.

Bars are the world’s worst place to meet a worthwhile human – or at least the worst place to meet them and figure it out.

Soon enough, I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop next to a pretty girl, and I’ll wonder what to say just long enough that she’ll have gotten up before I say it.
--

Has anyone just tried approaching a girl with their penis out of their pants? Oh, right. Ben Roethlisberger.
--

Fill the comments with your angst, not comments on how fate will bring each man and woman together some day, if it's meant to be. I wouldn't want to have to kill you.

How To Lose a Soul In Ten Days

2010-04-12T15:17:00.005-05:00

Late last month, I promised I would hit the gym 30 times in 30 days, and that I wouldn’t bore you with updates during my “Look Good for the Ladies” summer training program. I have succeeded on one of those points.

Yes, going to the gym every day was a stupid idea, a plan I surely couldn’t follow through on, and haven’t. That said, yours truly is not a complete failure – I have gone about 80% of the time. And I’m in quite a bit better shape, as marked by “amount of weight capable of being lifted.”

Have I gained the weight I wanted? Umm, no. But that’s OK…it’s because I’ve been doing way more cardio right? And I haven’t kept up with the eat a shitload of food plot, right?

No. It’s because I have a fucking tapeworm or something. After 16 days, countless extra calories, a daily protein shake and more food than I ever cared to eat, I weigh…

…the exact effing same. No, not just 165 lbs, but 165.4 lbs…which is stupid.

All is not lost, however. Photographic evidence proves that I do, indeed, look better, and it is true that my boundless ego hasn’t been scarred in the process.

Yes, it has been a successful plan – if not one followed to the letter – to this point. I’m sure you’re interested.
--

Look, I know I’m three-years late to the game on this but, Extenze…what the shit? Seriously, people, if you’re buying this stuff while harboring the impression that a pill could literally increase the size of your penis, well, we’ve now identified everyone who isn’t smarter than a fifth grader*. I mean, you can’t get a pill to increase the size of your ear, can you?

*Editor's Note: Is this joke cliched yet? Was it ever even funny?

But, in all seriousness, we should use the purchasing information to determine who is and isn’t allowed to procreate. If you’re a buyer, you and your tiny dick can save face by never showing it to another human being, thereby benefiting all involved.

Also, Women’s Extenze? I can only imagine what this does. Were too-small vaginas really a problem?
--

Breaking News: My younger – and only – sibling/brother, Stump, has just been hired at Crapplebee’s, and I must say, I’m quite conflicted over it.

On the one hand, Stump now has work, will make more money, and will have more friends.

On the other, he no longer possesses a soul. Employment at the Crapple is a cruel quid pro quo.

Me, 16 days after beginning fitness training

The Real World

2010-04-04T03:06:00.008-05:00

Here at Hit on It, it's past time that we stop being polite and start
being real, so to hell with political correctness: Your dog/cat/horse fucking sucks.

Yeah, I know you're sitting there thinking "Yeah, most people are so up their asses about their animals...but my dog is pretty sweet."

No...I mean YOUR dog/cat/horse fucking sucks.

I'm serious - stop showing me pictures of it, and stop talking about it at work. It isn't cool. We both know that the second I walk into your house the thing is going to start jumping on me.* Am I a sourpuss for not liking things that jump on me? Maybe. But, you know, I don't. So fuck off.

*Editor's Note: For the purposes of this blog, we're going to pretend you have a dog. Which sucks.

Do I hate animals? Of course not. I'm not all about them or anything, but I used to have dogs - hunting dogs. We kept them outside, which is where animals go.

Now, you might say, "Dude, you've gone mental. Pets are great, and I love mine, and it really is well behaved and so fun, and this one time...."

Nope, no stories. For the love of God, no stories. It's not that I mind a good animal story...it's kinda funny if your dog chews a hole in girls underwear or bites your neighbor in the face or something...but I do hate the Animal Story Domino Effect.

Example:

Person 1: So, last night, my super cute puppy peed all over my living room. I so forgot to puppy-proof it!

Person 2: Oh, well my dog, Rufus*, totally peed all over me last night. I need to laminate my clothes or something! It was crazy!

Person 3: Well Plato drinks his own pee, and its gross, but it's really kind of cute watching him try!

*Editor's Note: Using your pet's name in a story is retarded. 1) It isn't a person, and I don't care what you named it.

If you've ever attempted to one-up someone's animal story, you need to take stock in your life, because while everyone loves THEIR dog, nobody gives a shit about anyone else's. At all. Like, not even kinda.

Your dog, while providing companionship and entertainment to you, is nothing but a pain in every other person's ass. Is it fine to own and love an animal? Sure. Hell, I live with one, and it totally sucks: It barks whenever anyone comes to the door, it pisses and shits on the carpet, and it tears up my trash. But I deal, and will go on dealing.

Just don't expect me to listen to your story.

He's a Wrecking Machine!

2010-03-29T13:55:00.005-05:00

Every summer and winter and spring break for all time, it’s been my distinct pleasure to proclaim that this time my endeavors would be epic.

You know the drill: School’s about to let out, the fog lifts, everyone’s excited in their pants, and you have a pre-set, finite period to engage in the various debaucherous activities you deem even reasonably plausible after the consumption of alcohol.

You and your best pals have huddled up in a nervous excitement usually reserved for streaking and Christmas to plot, and you’re sure – SURE – that this time, unlike every other, you weren’t going to royally fuck it up.

And, of course, most of the time it turns out to be lame.

Well, yeah, it was built up too much. There was never much chance that you were going through with pulling six-straight all nighters, drinking a case of beer a day, or that you were even going to get the opportunity to mark off three spots on Whore Bingo*. But we aim high, and that’s half the fun (I guess).

*Editor's Note: Whore Bingo is an idea I had to create a Bingo board with various different "types" of women in place of the traditional numbers. Examples of "type" might be races (Asian, Black, Pacific Islander), Heights (sub 5 foot, above 6), weights, and so on. The free space would be "Sorority Girl." Sue me.

Well guess what – when you get fucking old, it turns out that there aren’t any spring breaks. Nope, just more fucking Mondays, all in succession. Not that it would matter – most off your friends moved off – so unless your big plan is to go out on Saturday and corral another aged straggler at the bar, you ain’t doing shit.

Yes, life can be a drag sometimes. The good news is that while you think all the daydreaming you did back in grade school was just to pass the time, that isn’t why you did it at all – it’s a natural process that gets you ready for adulthood…

Because there's nothing to do.
--

This spring break – which, again, doesn’t exist – I have no plans. Well, I have plans, but no money or availabilty, so it’s pretty irrelevant. My options are limited to reading books, crying myself to sleep, or being productive. I’ve chosen the latter.

This month, for the first time ever, I intend to go to the gym every day. That’s right…every day.

Now, I know what you’re saying…”But dude, you’re already in such great shape!” And I appreciate that, but I’ve made up my mind. This month, for lack of anything better to do, I’m going to see how good/much better of shape I can get in with a few guidelines:

1) I have to go to the gym every day.
2) I have to go to the gym and not fuck off – I have to go at it until exhaustion, or at least what passes for it.
3) I must eat. Now that must be easy, you say, but it isn’t. I usually don’t eat until 3 p.m., and if I consume more than 2,000 calories most days, it’s an upset.
4) I must eat a lot. The goal is to eat protein-rich food, and plenty of it. I’ll be eating healthy (no soda, chips, candy, fried food), BUT…
5) I can have donuts. I just can. Deal with it.

And, really, that’s about it. I usually work out like three times a week, sometimes half-assing it, and I usually eat pretty healthy – but this will be different.

Now, I know you don’t REALLY care. In fact, I assume that you’re spring breaking it out on some beach, so just know that I hate you. But if you are reading, know that I won’t be posting about this more than like a tiny paragraph a week (unless something funny happens), because you don't care. And, as promised before, I’ll be posting more regularly.

And, for the ladies out there, yes, there will be before and after pictures*.

*Editor’s Note: Arrangements for in-person authentication can be made.

Gas Station Murders, Booty-Poppin' Mayors, Whatnot

2010-03-14T14:16:00.007-05:00

For those of you who don’t know me, one, all apologies…let's fix this. I’m a cool guy. You probably are, too. Or, you know, maybe you’re a cool girl, which I think we can all agree is both somewhat more rare and infinitely more awesome. Either way, drop me a line at hitonit@gmail.com or in the comments section of this blog, and we’ll work on arranging a you-funded play date.

Secondly, if you and I were to discuss who I am and what I am, we wouldn’t make it very far without touching on my nocturnality. Because, well, I’m nocturnal. Ish. I’m not vampire-like, drawing the shades at dawn and what-not, but given my druthers*, I’d wake up an hour after noon and hit the sack somewhere around four a.m. That’s just what I like, I guess.

*Editor’s Note: That’s not true. Given my druthers, I’d go to sleep at 1 a.m., wake up at 9 a.m., and feel good about it. But, I don’t, so eff it. Living in the light of the moon isn’t a choice in the I-choose-to-like-it sense. I just, you know, feel like balls in the morning, and funky fresh late. Hit on that, ladies.

Anyway, there are lots of great things I miss along with the morning hours…sunrises, breakfast, my father’s respect – and that sucks. But you know what I don’t miss? AM radio personalities. Is there a lower form among us*?

*Editor’s Note: If you'll read on, you'll find that, yes, there is.

Now, generally don’t have to deal with the inanity of Greg and BJ yucking it up about a stupid-ass prank call they made to the mayor's office, or listen to Bob and Tom yammer on about this and that and nothing at all. It’s a major bonus not because they suck, but because I think there aught to be spot reserved in hell for anyone who has christened themselves B-Love or “Cowboy Chris in the morning.” Apparently I've got a problem with shitty monikers. I mean, think outside the box or, you know, use your actual name. Because we don’t give a shit who you are anyway.

All of this brings me to one Smokin’ Kevin.

Who is Smokin’ Kevin, you ask? The nicotine junkie that hangs out at the pool hall, but whose name you can’t remember? A B-Movie character? A cautionary tale from a 1990s Public Service Announcement?

Well I don’t really know who he is, other than a guy that happens to be on the radio, even though it isn’t the morning, and despite the fact that such asinine nicknames are frowned upon. I mean, it’s not like this guy’s name is Steve, and there’s some alliteration going on. No, dudes name is Kevin, and I’ll venture a guess that he came up with the Smokin' tag in grade school, back when we boys liked to make up American Gladiator-esque pseudonyms like Ice and Tombstone and Outlaw Mitch whilst playing detective.

That this man has yet to give it up – and that no one has been able to persuade him that it's stupid – dampens my enthusiasm for life.

Quick Hits

I hate Smokin’ Kevin, but I could never kill him. The next rat bastard that buys a lotto ticket at the gas station and scratches it off at the counter in front of me had best watch his ass, though.

There’s a guy running for mayor in my fair city named Sid Sullivan. I think that if there ever were a name for an evil, underhanded mayor, Sid Sullivan wins in a walk.

Sid Vicious’ opponent is a man named Bob McDavid, who sounds practically benevolent in comparison. I also think his name is kind of funny in the Big McLargeHuge sense.

I’d vote for a man named Richard McDick over either of them, simply for the newspaper headline potential in the event of a scandal. (“Mayor McDick accepts stimulus money," “City gets McDick'd!," etc.

You have, I’m sure, heard about the latest advancement in helping women trick men into sleeping with them: Booty Pop Panties. Long story short, it’s a pair of panties with pads in them…a push-up bra for the ass, so to speak. The first time I find a pair laying on my floor, let it be known that I’ll be composing a tersely worded letter to the female in question. Since, you know, I won’t be calling her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4EvVErNhVE

And finally, in the “It isn’t fair that these people are afforded the same rights as the rest of us,” department, is the tale of six New Jersey women who, in lieu of either the Booty Pop Pads or cosmetic surgery, opted to have caulk* injected into their fannies to give them a fuller look.

*Editor’s Note: Yes, c-a-u-l-k. I thought it was a typo, too.

Later they were checked into the hospital, not for being fucktards, but because that shit is toxic and what not.

From the story:

The substance used in the botched procedures was believed to be a diluted version of nonmedical-grade silicone.

“The same stuff you use to put caulk around the bathtub,” the New Jersey Poison Information and Education System director said.

Hair Theory

2010-03-05T18:09:00.004-06:00

Imagine for a moment that the collegiate bar scene is a vending machine and that you, a not unattractive man, are a candy bar.

Imagine that in this vending machine there are only three products, all candy bars, and that there are 10 total.

Now, select three candy bars (remember, you are one). The only stipulation is that two of the candy bars must be somewhat similarly appealing, if not similarly widespread. The other candy bar must also be appealing, but in some way markedly different.

Choose whichever bars you want…I’ll use Snickers (generic, but for a reason), Twix (good and underrated), and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups (whatever you think of them, they're not as populous in the marketplace).

Imagine, now that of the 10 candy bars, 8 are Snickers, and there is 1 Twix and 1 Reese’s.

Now, let’s say that there are only 5 fine young women who are in need of a sweet that evening.

Again, you ARE one of these candy bars.

So, if you wish to have the best chance of being purchased/selected/had sex with, which one of these candy bars would you want to be?

Do you want to be a Snickers, when all 5 girls could pick Snickers and you STILL might not Satisfy anyone?

Or would you want to be the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, of which many people wouldn’t pick given the choice, but enjoy an endless devotion from some customers? (And there’s only one!)

Or would you want to be the Twix, a solid, distinct candy, which is arguably just as good as the Snickers, but is reasonably likely to appeal to at least one of the 5 young ladies?
---

Well, I don’t know what you picked. But, if we assume that Snickers (popular for a reason) correlates with having the short, spiked up hair of every frat boy and his dog…

…and we assume that Twix is not unlike being a fellow with a distinctly bushy, Sampson-like, and adorable mane of hair…

…and we assume that the Reese’s Cup is a black guy…

Well I think I’ve made my choice known.

Two for me, none for you, suckers.

From left to right: Snickers, Snickers, Snickers, Snickers, Twix and a girl.
Not pictured: Reese's.

Banging on Drums All Day

2010-03-03T16:30:00.002-06:00

A lot of people ask me why I still work at Applebee’s. There are plenty of answers to the question…it’s easy, it pays good, I make my own hours, I’m never restricted from anything – if my buddies call me at noon and want to go to a ballgame at 2 pm, I can go for $15 and a bit of begging.

All of these are valid, but I think the true reason lies a little bit deeper.

New jobs are fucking terrifying.

Well they are, aren’t they? I mean, I’m not talking about your new job at the school bookstore, or your new job helping your dad paint, or even your new job at Applebee’s – I’m talking about big kid jobs...careers, if you will.

Turrifying.

Now, as usual, it could be that I’m just being a whiny little bitch – it’s a bad habit. And it IS true that I’m just happy to have a job in this climate.

Am I excited? Mercy no.

For those of you who haven’t kept up (or for those of you who click on this blog every hour waiting for that new post that never comes…), I recently reclaimed my old job at a certain newspaper covering sports and the like. Well, not the like – just sports.

Now, I can’t say this clearly enough: I’ve. Already. Had. The. Job.

Done it. I know how to do it. I’m even pretty ok at it, I think, given that I was hired twice*. That, or they just think it’s funny that I’m willing to work for couch-cushion money.

*Editor’s Note: I was “laid off” the first time, as a result of the shit economy. Thanks again, George!

But new jobs, jobs that aren’t “The one you always dreamed of,” or a job that comes with little-to-no level of expectation… are frightening.

Now, I won’t rule out that I’m wrong. It happened before, once. It could just be that I’m a cotton-headed ninny-muggins who needs to pull his head out of his ass. Or it could be that I’m a great talent holding himself back with timidity. It could even be that the problem is unique to my own profession, a profession in which mistakes are quite literally handed out to tens of thousands of people. Yes, it might be that newspapers are the lone source of new-job terror.

But I doubt it. I don’t think mine is the only profession in which one worries that his co-workers will find him to be a dullard, or where you’ll worry the boss will second-guess his decision to hire you each morning as he drinks his coffee.

No, new jobs – even not so new jobs – suck.

But mine they’d suck a lot less for something north of $7.25 an hour.

The Hangover(s)

2010-02-22T00:05:00.004-06:00

On Thursday, I turn 24-years old. Twenty-four. As a number – in the abstract – that sounds pretty old. I mean, I don’t feel old. I don’t act old. And if I ever thought I looked old, it went away when a senior citizen asked me if I was in school last week. High school, she meant.

In fact, the only thing that keeps me aware of aging is the hangovers.

Hangovers, of course, are nothing new. I’ve always had hangovers. When I was a freshman in college, I used to wake up with Post-It Notes on my wall begging me to never drink again. My head hurt. I felt like shit. I used to need the night’s events recounted to me…

…but that was after washing 10 shots of lukewarm Congress down with Dr. Pepper. Before we left the dorms. And, as I recall, those hangovers eventually went away.

No more.

No, at my age (am I allowed to say that yet?), the hangovers hang about like a shacker who didn’t get the memo. Symptoms that used to subside with Gatorade and a little ibuprofen now laugh in the face of anything but another full night of sleep. Entire days are shot, and if I haven’t taken the whole next day off of work, a fine line between employed and unemployed is walked.

And it really, really sucks.

If you’ve broken the 22 mark, I’m guessing you know what I mean. You’ve moved past the “they’re all part of the charm of drinking” phase and into the “my phone is vibrating, but I don’t feel like reaching into my pocket” chapter which will haunt you until cirrhosis-spurred death.

In fact, I’ve got a pretty good feeling that God’s implementation of the Super Hangover around your 22nd birthday is his way of telling you to get your shit together. After all, if we could all go on drinking without repercussions, we might never settle down.

…at least until our drunken sluttery secured us our first child.

So, like I said, hangovers…better than fathering a child with someone whose name you don’t remember.

But at 24, only marginally.*

*Editor’s Note: Dear God…being dramatic. Let’s not lose our heads.

The Ultimate One-Up: Sex Addiction

2010-02-13T17:36:00.005-06:00

So here we are, another year, another Valentine’s Day…they just keep on coming. But at least it’s the one Hallmark holiday we can all get behind, right?

I mean, who doesn’t love VDay? Except for, you know, guys. And people who think it’s a sham to show your love explicitly on only one day. And singles.

Update: Okay, so four-percent of the population likes VDay. And most of them are douches. But you know what’s even more asinine than Feb. 14?

Sex addiction. I call bullshit.
--

Things you can be addicted to: Drugs. Alcohol.

And that’s it. I spent, like, ten minutes thinking about the possibilities, and this is what I decided.

Sex? No, sorry. I mean, what’s the cure for sex addiction? Is there a patch? A buddy system? When they send you to this “sex rehab,” do they go cold turkey or try and wean you off? First week you get sex twice a day. Then once a day. Then a blow job. Then an HJ.

And what the fuck do you get for graduating sex rehab? A hug?

Besides, every good addiction has side effects…what are the side effects of sex addiction? High morale? Low sperm count? Somehow I don’t think anybody’s worried about Joe Cock getting all jittery if he doesn’t get his rocks off. And there are no long-term consequences, except maybe the Super Herp. And losing your wife. But something tells me you didn’t like her that much anyway.

It’s just all too counter-intuitive for me. After all, no one calls a chick a sex addict…we already have the word “tramp” for that. And I’ll be damned if we’re going to lose tramp from the lexicon.

You’re all with me here, right?

You’re not going to let some asshole go out and claim he’s sick because he likes to bone, are you? And not only that, but there’s the implication that he or she likes to get down more than you do, which I know we all reject.

I mean, are we saying I’d be a sex addict if I could get girls to return my texts after 1 AM?* Or if I wasn’t too funk to drunction when they did?

*Editor’s Note: And maybe after this blog hits it big, they will.

So Tiger, Usher, Michael Douglass, David Duchovny…go fuck yourselves. We ain’t buying it.

…unless you’re going to dumpster dive like Steve Phillips did. Then we might not have any choice but to admit that something’s wrong with you.

The Future Looks Bleak. And Hilarious.

2010-02-03T17:58:00.006-06:00

Do you ever wonder social networking will change the politics of the future? I sure do…

The Online Times of New York
October 19, 2024 – The dream is over. Two years after announcing his candidacy for President of the United States, Anti-Tea Party Party Nominee Hitt Onnitt suspended his campaign on Tuesday after screen grabs of his old Internet postings began circulating.

Much of the furor surrounds Mr. Onnitt’s long-since deleted, but recently-dredged-up social networking profile on “Facebook,” which was banned from the Internet in 2012 after Congress found it legally culpable for creating America’s lost decade of the “Aughts.”

Among the material in question are posts including depictions of women as trampy, derogatory remarks about obese people, and numerous kind-of-funny black jokes.

“I regret to inform my supporters that I will no longer be able to continue as the Anti-Tea Party Party Nominee for President in light of the distraction my past actions have caused,” Mr. Onnitt said Tuesday. “Had I known in college that I would actually have a career outside of the food industry, I never would have made such hilariously stereotypical remarks about my fellow man.

“Although you have to admit, some of those black jokes were kind of funny.”

Though many of his supporters encouraged him to continue, Mr. Onnitt warned that it would be best to bow out now before photos of him putting his balls on someone’s face caused the party further embarrassment.

Viewed as an underdog early on, Mr. Onnitt’s departure from the race is a crushing blow to those who hoped to return to the comparative era of civility that reigned during the Obama Administration.
--------

It goes without saying that if you read this blog, you’re pretty smart. Really. It’s the crowd I draw. But indulge me:

In 1995, the Internet’s greatest feature was the message board.
Your grandparents probably got their first camcorder (remember those?) in the 70s.
Ten years ago, most folks in their early-to-mid-20’s didn’t have cameras. Today, 5-year olds have them on their phone.

And really, this is the point: If George W. Bush had been a teenager in 2010, someone would have a photo of him snorting cocaine. And a YouTube video of him passed out in his own vomit after playing Louisville Chugger. And there would have been Facebook posts detailing the no-pants parties at Yale.

As a result, G-Dub never would've become President. Take that however you like.

But, I don’t mean to single out George. I’m sure Bill Clinton would’ve accidentally texted Hillary a message for Monica at some point, and I’m positive that someone would’ve clicked a cell phone photo of the Watergate break-in. Tommy Jefferson would’ve never gotten away with sleeping with his slaves, Lincoln might’ve shot off a drunken tweet about all the problems the blacks had caused, and people would’ve been quite aware that FDR couldn’t walk.

And let’s not even start with the Kennedys.

I’m not saying people aren’t going to go to great lengths to hide all this stuff – they will. What I’m saying is someday you’re going to see a President’s penis.

Bush Circa 1972 during Operation Poon Wrangle

The Gym: Society on Steroids

2010-01-30T19:02:00.007-06:00

I like to think that I’m a fairly astute observer of the human condition*. And, as such, it should be no surprise that I’m a major fan of people watching – be it at a restaurant, a park, a bar, wherever. It’s one of the greatest sources of free entertainment known to man.

*Editor’s Note: And even if I wasn’t, the temptation to say, “I like to think that I’m a fairly astute observer of the human condition,” sounds too mature and well thought out to pass up.

Having said that, I’ve always wondered where the best people watching spot might be. Is it the local watering hole, where all the beautiful people come, dressed to the nine’s, in hopes of becoming so inebriated that they wind up with another patron, beautiful or otherwise? I doubt it. Totally unrepresentative.

Might it be at the park? Probably not. There are too many children at the park, and too much people watching can easily lead to the assumption you’re a pedophile.

I’ve heard the argument that Wal-Mart is the spot…the people watching Mecca. Let me just say that I hope not. I mean have you ever seen the people at a Wal-Mart? It’s a leper colony. And, while it’s certainly more representative of the population than a college campus, it’s far too depressing to earn consideration. If that’s society’s effort at the median, we’re fucked.

Personally, I think the gym is the best forum for people watching. Is it completely representative? No. Not a lot of elderly folks busting a sweat at the gym*. Is it kind of creepy staring at people at the gym? Well yes, but you’re supposed to be discreet anyway.

*Editor’s Note: Speaking of old folks…I never see them anywhere. Not even Wal-Mart. Think about it. Where are they? How do they survive?

Whatever the reason – I assume it has something to do with the carnal aspects of it (men trying to become more powerful, opposite sexes attracting, all while knowing that everyone there has a self-esteem issue) – I love it.

And how could you not? Just walk in the door, and immediately you’ve got…

The girl sitting by the coats who quit her workout long before her friend – who made her come in the first place.

Coat girl’s friend who, while still extremely large, has managed to block out the notion that everyone in the place is cracking wise to themselves about how this must be her first time. Which, of course, we are. Because we’re awful.

The 50-something dude who came wearing the same workout clothes he wore in the 80’s. Obviously he feels that the headband, tank top, butt shorts and white tube socks–look has yet to go out of style. Like that whole daily bathing fad.

Scrawny Asian man who, despite all his efforts, will always be scrawny. And Asian.

The treadmill trio…one sprinting way faster than is acceptable in polite society, one plodding along, pounding the machine into submission without a hint of grace and, my favorite, the girl who is running (if you can call it that) so slowly that she appears to be sneaking up on the wall in front of her. I mean, I didn’t know that speed was an option. You’d almost have to pause in mid-air to go that slow. She was doing this when you got there, and will still be creeping when you leave.

And speaking of creeping, there’s the hot chick in spandex on the elliptical machine that catches you checking her out every five minutes. She knew this would happen when she picked spandex over sweats, but it just highlights the fact that the gym is an AWFUL place to meet people.

Middle-aged guy on his cell phone, who seems to think we’re interested in his life. Or is a dick.

The grunter. Also known as the guy who is way too into this workout. My motto has always been “Hit on It,”…but if it were about working out, it would be “don’t lift so much weight that you need to expose yourself as a douche.”

Me...the guy who is wearing a sleeveless shirt and walks around slightly puffed up, certain that everyone is looking at him. Because he’s looking at them.

She knows you're looking.

Stalker, Apple Stranger

2010-01-25T01:37:00.009-06:00

Quick: What’s the highlight of your workday? Is it drinking that first cup of coffee? Jackassing around with your coworkers? Slipping something into your boss’s food? Punching out?

At Applebee’s, we don’t have highlights – just moments that are more or less soul crushing. The arrival of a hot chick* at your table would be one of the latter. And, on Friday, I had a couple. One stood out.

Editor’s note: Or at least a fat one with her boobs out.

--
...At the table…

Me: Hi, welcome to Applebee’s, my name is *redacted*, and I’ll be your server. What can I get you two (she was with a male coworker) to drink?

Her: (smiles) Oh, I’ll just have a water. I think he wants a Pepsi.
Him: *Nods*

My Inner Monologue: That voice…I know that voice! Or maybe I don’t, but it’s very familiar…and she was definitely smiling a lot at me. But, of course, that’s nothing new, am I right?! I’m right. But I still don’t recognize her.

--
Time passes as their delicacies are prepared. I return to the table a few times, she gives me the big smile/big eyes/remember-me-dammit! face, I remain vexed.
--

...In the bar area…

Me: Hey, in a second, look over there…do you recognize the girl? Her voice is so familiar…it’s that St. Louis-I-sound-like-I’ve-smoked-my-whole-life rasp, and I don’t know if I know her or if she just reminds me of someone.

Bartender: Who, the one with the rat face? Yeah man, I don’t recognize her. I’d probably let her have it though. Who’s the douche she’s with?

Me: No idea…I think he’s a coworker. Wait, what? Rat face? You’re blind.

Bartender: I said I’d probably let her have it.

Me: Well, whatever. He can’t be a boyfriend, because she was totally checking me out the entire time.

Hostess, who overhears: You are so full of shit…you think everyone’s checking you out.

My Inner Monologue: Well they are!

--
Time passes, I give up, but half expect a phone number.
--

...At the table, after they’ve left...

Hostess: Sorry buddy, no phone number…I thought she was “totally checking you out?”

Me: I mean, she was. But she did didn’t even leave much of a tip...

My Inner Monologue: Could it be possible that I was wrong…that she wasn’t eye-f*cking me the entire time? There must be some mista…

Me: What? Let me see that….

…Holy shit!

--
Signed on the credit card tip line in large, cursive script was the name Rachel Z. As it turned out, she did not need to leave her number. She’d done that before.
--

Hostess: So who is this girl?

Me: So, I met this girl, like, three months ago at a bar. I was really drunk, and all I really remember about the night was that this girl, Rachel, kept buying me shots and wound up giving me something of a face-oriented lap dance, given the difference in levels. Well, anyway, she leaves the bar kind of early, and I was out with friends, so I stayed…but she left her number.

Next day, she calls and I answer…we talk some, have a reasonable conversation, but she sounds kind of drunk and also kind of…stupid. Stupid enough that she’d still be stupid without the alcohol factor. I don’t pursue. Well, she does. Every week since that time…probably three times a week, maybe more, I get a drunk dial or drunk text from her, and it’s always either “You at work?” during the day, or something considerably more suggestive, which would definitely require me to work nights.

Hostess: And you didn’t recognize her the entire time?

Me: I've seen her once! Ever! But I’ve talked to her a few times...I knew I remembered that voice!

My Inner Monologue: I knew she was checking me out!

Hostess: Do you have any idea how awkward it must have been for her to have you as her server? She had to be wondering the whole time whether you didn't remember her or if you were just a huge dick.

Me: Yeah, I feel bad, but she didn’t say anything…
--

...Later that night...

Incoming Text Message: You still at work?

Telemundo, Hilarious Work-Out Toys, Post-Up Rd. II, and Smut

2010-01-19T01:38:00.002-06:00

Sometimes I wish I had learned Spanish.

It would have been useful for many reasons, I’m sure – for, say, ordering Mexican, or when I have a hunch that my gay Hispanic co-worker is making lewd comments about mi asno. But I can get by pointing at pictures and pretending that things never happened. I’m fine with that.

But if ever there were a reason to know Spanish, Telemundo between 2-5 a.m. is it.

Why? Because it’s little more than softcore porn at that point. And I think we can all agree that softcore porn reminds us just a little bit of watching scrambled Cinemax when we were 12.

Added bonus: You know the commercial for the "body shaper" (which is basically a giant, elastic corset) which shows women trying on the product and going from frumpy to not-quite-as-frumpy in a flash?

Well Telemundo does them one better – apparently, with the Spanish version of the body shaper, you can go from fat (and dog-ass ugly) to electric hot, TO EVEN MORE ELECTRIC HOT, if you’ll only buy the added bra contraption. It’s remarkably silly. And I assume they’ve sold millions.

That said, what if these things really work, and women with no business even being on dates wind up being whisked back to su casa for extracurricular activities? What happens when the shirt is dispensed of, and the young male finds that this formerly attractive woman is a heifer in shrinkwrap?

And what happens when they come out with a men’s version?
---

Other ruminations:

Here at “Hit on It,” I take great pride and keeping you up to date with the latest in hilarity, be it in my life or any other. And, in case you’ve somehow missed out – I figured the news would be spreading like herpes in a whore house – there is a new greatest commercial in the world, and it belongs to the Shake Weight, which is either the latest in home exercise technology, or Nicorette for the chronic masturbator. We report. You decide.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bq9993iJlYU

(This link should not be considered optional viewing. But I think it navigates you away. So, you know, watch it after you've finished here. Which could be now, I guess.)
---

On Saturday, I accompanied Stump to the Hy-Vee Christmas party, because he needed a date, and because I was told there would be booze. What I was not told, however, was that it would be a “don’t dress like you’re going to the bar” event. I, of course, did. Jeans. TShirt. BTown style.

Did I still get hit on? Of course. The play-by-play.

17-year-old black girl to her sister: “He’s cute, I want to post-up on him.”
Sister to 17-year-old: “He probably don’t even know what that is.”
Me: “What? I’m standing right here. I can hear you.”

Apparently, they were unaware.

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?ref=profile&id=15926141#/note.php?note_id=348425435194
---

Victoria’s Secret keeps sending my house their catalogue. Which would be fine, of course, because two girls live here.

But they send them every day. I think they want me to look.

The Shake Weight: God's gift to humor.

Drunken Ruminations and Angst

2010-01-14T20:25:00.000-06:00

Leaving home can be a scary thing, even if you don’t go far. In 2004, never having strayed more than a weekend without a family member, I left for the University of Missouri. By myself.

I could not cook, I would not clean, and possessed a general inability to fill out any amount of paperwork without calling my mother.

But leaving home can also be an empowering. Some go to Taiwan, some to San Francisco; some just go three hours south of their parent’s house. It doesn’t really matter. Because, over time – and it definitely can take time – you come to realize that you CAN cook, and that you WOULDN’T rather die than clean your house. You might even find that you can write a check without your mom’s input.

But you can’t fix your fucking car.
--

Fathers are an amazing thing. When you’re little, they’re heroes and role models, breadwinners and baseball coaches, and they love ice cream almost as much as you do. They’re super strong and super smart, and they’ll scare monsters out from under your bed. And though you’ve offered to pit him in an impossible-to-survive ass-kicking contest against every other Fourth Grader’s dad, he’ll still be awesome when you’re older.

My father, for example, can still run faster than me and, though I can lift more weight than he can*, it doesn’t translate into the ability to move washing machines. And he can eat ice cream without getting a headache.

*Editor’s Note: Because, you know, he has “dad strength:” The mythical ability to do shit you shouldn’t be able to, even though you’re fat and old.

But, above all, dads can fix things. Surely this won’t be the same for my children’s generation – I’m not going to rail some chick and suddenly be able to tell you what’s wrong with the microwave – but our dads can do it.

This is most important when it comes to cars.
---

By the time you’ve been away from home long enough that the newness is gone – once the sense of empowerment no longer seems as important as, say, having someone do your laundry – you realize that, while you can do stuff, you can’t do it that well. You can cook, but you can only make pancakes, Ramen, and Fruit Loops. You can clean – even will clean – but you can’t do it often enough to please your roommates. And paperwork still sucks.

But it doesn’t matter. You could never fix your car. Not even kind of…there’s just too much there. You need dad.
---

Three months ago, some girl (who will hereafter be known as Laura Cantu, of Columbia, Missouri) decided it would be a good idea to try to make an illegal left turn in front of me. Long story short, it didn’t work out. In the end, my beautiful, reliable, memory-laden ’96 Ford Thunderbird was no more. The car that I had so carefully coasted – headlight free – into my parents drive at night, the car in which I had received my first real kiss…the first car alcohol ever made me throw up in…was gone.

One month later, a memory-free ’95 Grand Am entered my life.

A month after that, the bastard blew its transmission (do transmissions blow? or drop? is there a consensus?). And cracked it’s radiator. And had a bad wheel bearing. And had a leak in something I’d never heard of.
---

Once you’ve left home and need your car fixed, you are doomed. Your father is not there.

Repairmen know this.

There’s no way around it. You’re going to get the shaft – these men make money off of things being wrong with your car. And, what you didn’t know about your car before it quit was that everything is wrong with your car.

The question is, what’s the way to get shafted the least amount? Or at least to get the grease monkeys to use some lube?

Well, I’ve always tried the “Talk to my father on the phone route.” I do this, because auto repairmen have a great system of finding out whether you’re ripe for the dicking or not: they talk to you.

Example: “So, Sam, we’ve looked at your car, and we know that you just wanted an oil change (me, nodding…yes, oil, I know what that is), but we saw that you also have some corrosion on your battery (nodding, yes, I’ve seen that), and also that your CV Joint is loose (nodding, that sounds like it’s a thing), and that your differential fan (nodding…is that real?)…

Of course, I only nod because it’s awkward to stand motionless, staring. I would reluctantly pay in full whatever they wanted. The problem is that my dad can only pick and choose his spots to say no when they give him the list, because he can’t actually *see* if there’s a problem. But he doesn’t want my car to explode with me in it. He’s helplessly compromised.

After six years of going it on my own, feigning knowledge, I finally gave in: I begged. I had dad call, and then I begged. They just. Kept. Finding. Things. Wrong.

“Sir, I know there’s a problem, but I’ve had this car for a month, and it was just inspected and all I have is $1,800, that’s it, I just need you to fix it. Please.”

Estimated total? $1,800. What a coincidence.

He's probably checking the differential fan...

Random Thoughts

2010-01-10T16:47:00.000-06:00

– First a shout-out to my uncle Randall Dean – a loyal blog reader and goatee grower extraordinaire – who must be thoroughly amazed that my $40,000 dollar degree has gotten me *this*: http://tiny.cc/Y6nrh

– Whilst waiting on my steak taco the other day at our friendly neighborhood Taco Bell, a shaggy haired, camo-jacketed homeless man came inside to return a chalupa which, apparently against his wishes, had lettuce on it.

– Speaking of homeless people...

I saw a story the other day talking about how there were so many homeless people in Detroit.
Many people believe that you have to “have something wrong with you,” or be crazy, to be homeless. This is not always true.
But you WOULD have to be crazy to be homeless in Detroit. It’s fucking cold there. Move south.

– Texas QB Colt McCoy looks like Bertram from Family Guy at age 12. Four months from now, he'll make more money than I will in my entire life.

– Have you seen the commercial for Electric Amish Fireplaces? You know, the one where they talk about the high-quality of Amish-made electric fireplaces? I have, and one question keeps bugging me: What the hell do they know about electricity?

– I saw the movie “Up In the Air” with Stump last week, and I went in with huge expectations. It was nominated for like a billion awards, every review bestowed greatness upon it, it has George Freaking Clooney…

…and it was just ok. It’s partly about aging, and partly about travel…in airplanes. Never been on one.

– There's a new census coming up. For Bethany, the good people from the government have asked us just to take roll at Thanksgiving.

– Remember back a couple years ago when all us college kids were so worried about high schoolers being allowed into the fold? Yeah, well, turns out we failed to forsee the true enemy: Adults. Are they all bad? No. Some of them even read this here blog. And a couple of them don't even make it a point to tell my mother what I say. Buuuuuttt....

My Facebook feed from any average afternoon:

***** says…"Time to take down the Christmas decorations ☹ Should take all day. Then going to doctor tomorrow. Hope everything is fine.”

-----

***** says…”Sure hope it doesn’t snow too much today, all the kids are coming in for Jesus’ birthday."
**** comments…”We’ll pray for them!”
**** comments..."Gosh, we haven't seen them in ages. Send them over, will you? They've all gotten so big. Do you have any new pictures."

-----

***** says…”Made cookies today, chocolate chip. Did it different than the recipe, added some brown sugar and nutmeg. Might be my best yet!”
**** comments…”Oooh yumm!”
**** comments…”Bring some to my house!”
**** comments….”How wonderful! My daughter made some gingersnaps just last week!”

....and heaven fucking forbid someone has a baby.

Taco Bell: Partying Like It's 1999

2010-01-06T02:16:00.000-06:00

Commercials suck. I think that’s fair, no? Outside of Super Bowl Sunday – when they’re (about) as appealing as the game – commercials might be the largest time-drain this side of Facebook. We enjoy one of the two*. Nevertheless, we endure…because it’s less painful than productivity.

*Editor’s Note: I don’t hate all commercials. I spend at least 10-15 minutes in the 2 to 4 o’clock AM hours watching the “Classic Country Hits” spot. But that’s an infomercial. Which is different. In a related story, I turn 64 this week.

Anyway, I’m sitting in front of the TV between Seinfeld reruns the other day and, as luck would have it, it appears Taco Bell has gone and made an awesome satire of their generally unhealthy menu, sort of along the lines of what Burger King did back when they just kept coming up with things that were awful for you as a response to Subway. BK was feeding – both literally and figuratively – the backlash against healthy food. And they succeeded.

And so, with their new healthy options ad, Taco Bell had seemed to do the same. Hey, it beats another fucking insurance commercial.

But, as I should have expected – given that people are, you know, stupid and all – they weren’t kidding. It broke my heart.

– And now, from the people who brought you Fourth Meal and the reddish-orange beef juice that drips from your burritos, it’s the Drive-Thru Fresco Menu, now featuring seven items with nine grams of fat or less! –

You can see why I thought this was a joke.

First of all, Taco Bell, understand that you’re revered in the fast food community for the deliciously unhealthy shit you serve….it’s part of the experience. But now, a decade after every other restaurant jumped on the bandwagon, you’ve decided the time is right to get healthy. For fucks sake, even Colonel Sanders beat you to the punch. Give it up.

And why is it a “Drive-Thru” menu? You can get it inside...I checked. Of course, no one does that much anymore*.

*Editor’s note: Which again, begs the question, why label it so? We kind of figured the option was available.

And, hey…seven items under nine grams of fat? Congratulations. You know what else has nine grams of fat? Nine English muffins. With margarine. Also, my Chicken Nugget Banquet meal (which is cheaper, too).

But, whatever. It’s their prerogative to make stupid decisions, I guess. And something tells me it won’t work.

Why?

Their spokeswoman – Chick Jared – claims she lost 50 lbs. on the Fresco diet. Admirable. And she looks pretty hot. Know how many calories she ate a day?

1,250.

Hope you weren’t planning on giving any BJs.

2010: An Odyssey. With Liqour.

2010-01-03T01:30:00.000-06:00

Life is about a lot of things – family and friends and God, and baseball and movies and good parties, too. Unfortunately, it’s also often about money and work and video games and Facebook and other things that we can generally agree it should NOT be about. Such was my struggle on the afternoon of December 31, 2009.

As we all know, I don’t like to work – or at least I don’t like working a job I hate. For many a parent, mine included, THAT is what life is about...just dealing with what you’ve got and not bitching about it. Well, I’ve been kind of hedging…I haven’t been to work in a bit. I’m fairly tight with my money, and I haven’t been blowing it – that’s how I justify it to myself.

Well, on NYE day, as the world made its plans to ring in a new decade, I was debating the merits of leaving the house. After all, I haven’t got much money. And I have some perfectly good video games. And traveling is such a pain in the ass. Same old shit, different day.

I went out.
---

Sometimes it takes being in the back seat of a random black man’s Cadillac at 2 AM somewhere outside of Westport to affirm that you’ve made the right move. Sometimes.

As I left that evening with my pal Nathan on a course for KC’s Martini Corner, I was anything but sure of myself. After all, I didn’t know what a Martini Corner was, and the pre-paid drinks system had run me $75*.

*Editor’s Note: The notion of pre-paid drinks is only cool if you’re the only one that has arranged it. Under such conditions, you could stand at the end of the bar and “buy” a drink for any girl that tickles your fancy. Something tells me you wouldn’t wind up with an ugly wife.

But, like I said, I went. Just before we hit the bar (9:30ish), I got a call:

Short, blond caller: “Sam, meet us at the bar. Also, _____ brought a super-hot blond friend, and she’s DTF. I’ve arranged everything.”

I have good friends.

Anyway, the first bar, the Velvet Dog – a three-tiered place not entirely unlike the upstairs of Fieldhouse – is where we spent most of the evening. And it was good. The drinks came fairly quickly, I knew tons of people, and I did not go New Years kiss-less. That in itself usually makes for a solid night.

Still, the Velvet Dog hadn’t cemented itself as great until I saw a girl, a very pretty girl, become quite upset over her inability to open the door of the women’s bathroom. Now, obviously this was because someone was leaning on it or pushing on it or something. She seemed to sense that, but maybe not. Whatever the case, not going down without a fight, pretty girl decided to get a running start at it.

You can imagine the rest.

Just as she began to heave her 110-ish lb. frame at the heavy wooden door, it began to crack open. It wasn’t cracked much, and not enough to caution our petite kamikaze friend, but enough that I could see the door impact upon the face of the girl on the other side.

Thud.

Shriek.

After taking a short look at the carnage, one girl ran off. The other lay crumpled in tears and trace amounts of urine, her face contorted in pain.
---

There was more, of course. Much more.

After witnessing that scene and making a quick stop at either a dance-party or a gay bar, we moved onto “The Drop,” where a full night of drinking began to take its toll. One couple fought, one girl cried, and the short blond girl of phone calling fame vomited in the bar’s kitchen.

As for me, I’m not really sure what I was doing, but I know that when they threw us out at 1:30 (when that set of bars closed, the rest closed at 3), it was very cold. Heinously cold. It was so cold that, after being unable to find a cab of our own, a few of us ran after a random girl who said she had one.

After the five passengers piled in – the four of us and rando – Nathan and I argued about whether to hit up Westport or Power & Light next.

Apparently the driver was in a hurry.

“Dudes, what the hell?” “Hey, sorry, I guess we’re going to Westport. How far is that?” …. “What? I’m not a cab.”

And he was not. Apparently, he was just a single black man cruising around in a Cadillac, and the random girl – as an alternative to freezing – had jumped in his car.

In retrospect, we should have been suspicious – no black men drive cabs anymore. And they don’t make Cadillac taxis, probably.

Whatever.

Though the liquor had by then stripped us of most of our higher faculties, the situation was inexplicably hilarious, and made funnier still by the fact that we weren’t about to get out, despite the fact that he definitely wanted us to.

Twenty dollars was the price to get to where we were going, and it was more than worth it.

Though we did go into a few more bars, it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I knew much about them…I was done. I do recall that we went into an Emo bar, and I do remember coming up with a reasonable enough line that I spent about five minutes talking to a girl that at the time seemed way out of my league*. But that’s about all.

*Editor’s Note: Everyone knows the term “beer goggles,” but I swear, I think I need to move on up to a prescription pair or something. For those that actually go out with me, do me a favor: only let me talk to the ones that I think are out of my league. That probably just means that they have all of their teeth and don’t smell.

Here’s hoping your New Years Eve was as difficult to remember as mine. And, also, that you didn’t get rocked in the teeth by any doors.

The OG and Me

2009-12-30T16:22:00.000-06:00

As mid-Missouri’s most prolific internet scribe on the subjects of restaurants, sleep, and whore-mongering, it should come as no surprise that I receive a good bit of fan mail. Most of the letters are no more than a few unprintable sentences, a naked photo and a phone number, but some of them are more curious about my past.

To the mailbag!

Q: Brian, from Detroit: Hit on it! Love the blog. Love it. Anyway, what was the worst job you’ve ever had?

A: Excellent question, Brian, and thanks for asking. You’ll be getting a T-shirt in the mail.

While most of my longtime readers expect the word “Applebee’s” to appear here, it will not. Just don’t tell my bosses.

No, I’ve had many jobs, from lifeguarding to digging holes all summer for my neighbor. I even umpired in high school, and once had an opposing coach line up all of his 10-year old boys to tell me that I’d lost them the game. Classy. Another time I covered for my grandmother as a sample-giver at Wal-Mart…only the only thing I had to give out was pamphlets for deodorant. No sample. Pamphlets. As you can imagine, people were clamoring for them.

But, alas, none was worse than my introduction to serving – a six-month sentence in hell, the Columbia Olive Garden.
---

In the summer of 2006, I was poor. I had no particular desire to work, either, but something had to give, so I applied at every business in town that didn’t require me to do any manual labor or be awake before 10*. Olive Garden hired me.

*Editor’s Note: I still work in the industry today, largely because of these factors.

In retrospect, I probably should’ve seen the writing on the wall the first day of orientation when the trainer stood up and said: “In three months, only two of you are likely to still be working here.” There were nine of us in the room at the time.

She didn’t say why that was, but she left us to believe that it was generally people being fired that led to the turnover.

It was not.

No, Olive Garden has a high turnover rate because people would rather live in poverty than spend an extended period of time there. After three months you cry every day. And by then, your tears taste like garlic.

Why? Well, we can start with the music. And, mind you, I like Italian music. But no one except for employees and fat bastards would know that there are only 20 different songs, and that they play on a loop all day, all year. It’s madness. They also don’t tell you that the white collared shirts you wear conspire with gender-neutral ties* to increase your body temperature to 107 degrees.

*Editor’s Note: The only time a tie is attractive on a women is when they’ve begun undressing you and put it on as part of some seductive ploy.

Just as you gently fudge your credentials during a job interview, the OG has no problem concealing the increased likelihood of you taking your own life.

For brevity’s sake, let’s go with a Top 8 list to finish. While there are hundreds of reasons the place sucks, we’ll try to keep the complaints to those unique to the OG.

The Olive Garden sucks because:

8. Your boss, whom we will refer to as “Mo,” which is his name, has but one redeeming quality: his mustache.

7. The company’s slogan, “Hospitaliano,” is a fake word.

6. The restaurant has two halves, and the only thing worse than actually being there is being there with your friends on the other side. It’s sort of like being in solitary confinement in prison, only with breadsticks.

5. They demand that you hawk their crap wine, even if it’s 11 AM. Old ladies just out of church appreciate it about as much as you’d think.

4. Customers, many of whom are of the lower to lower-middle class variety, are CONVINCED that it is a nice restaurant. It is not. Don’t take your wife there for your anniversary. And if you do, don’t call my boss over to tell them that I didn’t seem to give a shit about your experience. He knows.

3. The drinks, salad and breadsticks, are all free refills. So is the Parmesan cheese that employees are required to offer from a hand-cranked grater. If you ever want to know what it’s like to hit rock bottom, try getting through half a block of cheese – long enough for your arm to go numb – grimace, and have the customer say “Oh, just keep going until it falls off!” And then smile at you. Fuckers.

2. The breadsticks and house dressing, which are the only things you can eat during a shift (and those have to be stolen), eventually leave sores on your tongue.

1. The OG requires drinks to be carried on trays. Massive, unstable trays. On Father’s Day, 2006, I asked an older, gray headed man in a matching gray suit how his Father’s day was going.

And then I dropped an Iced Tea on his head.

New Year's for Christmas

2009-12-27T23:02:00.002-06:00

I don’t think I’m going to make any waves by saying that – as segments of time go – 2009 sucked. It isn’t just any year that a handsome, promising young journalist can have a job, get laid off, and then get an even better job…only to find out the next day that they double-hired for the position and that you’re the odd man out.

That, in a nutshell, was 2009, except that after that, the job offers ceased, and you spent the rest of your time lamenting the existence of hot tea and those who drink it.

But, hey, the year sucked for everyone else, too, so if you’re the “base-how-well-your-life-is-going-by-comparing-it-to-other-people’s” type, you broke even! Great success.

It's true, though, that other things happened in 2009, and they weren’t even all bad.

Take, for instance, Zack Greinke, who won the Cy Young Award for baseball greatness. He played for the Royals.

Unfortunately, other people also played for the Royals. They won a third of their games*.

*Editor's Note: Which, you know, was way more than the Chiefs.

But that’s just sports, and who cares about them? 2009 was about more than sports – it was the year Stump and I took our great journey to Chicago, an adventure that could only be considered an adventure by two people from Bumblefuck. But it was fun. And Stump lives with me, which is cool.

On the down side, one of my best pals moved to Taiwan. TAIWAN, which isn’t a St.Louis-style I’ll-see-you-every-other-weekend type place. It’s Taiwan. Bonus points if you can finger it on a map.

Mercifully, it’s almost over. In a few short days, a new year will be rung in, and we can pretend it was all a bad dream. We can pretend like it wasn’t sad and depressing and boring.

And, as soon as trash day rolls around, my brother can pretend one of his Christmas gifts wasn’t family-size can of Hormel Chili that expired in 2007.

Sometimes You Wanna Go...

2009-12-22T02:03:00.000-06:00

If you asked graduates the one thing they wanted along with a diploma from the University of Missouri, the most popular request would be for a one-way ticket the fuck out of Columbia, Mo. I can understand that.

Though it’s a hotbed of action and intrigue compared to my hometown of Bethany, it’s true that, unless you drink or like to go out to eat, there isn’t much to do here. And so, as soon as they can, most run down the road to St. Louis or KC or Taiwan, for jobs or family or just to get away.

That was not my path.
---

Five. Five is the number of years that I have now lived in Columbia, and I’m halfway through the sixth. It’s a long time, sure, but it seems about right…I’ve been here a long time (nearly 25% of my life, come August). And, as awkward as I feel when I have to admit to it, I don’t see myself leaving next week or anything.

And so, as much as anyone, I have a fairly decent hold on what I consider to be my favorite places in town: the Columns, my little booth at the campus McDonalds, Reactor Field on a Saturday back when Mizzou wasn’t up its ass. We’ve all got them.

But, the more I think about it, The Penguin might be my favorite.
---

For those unacquainted due to age restrictions or a personal rule against ingesting toxins, The Penguin is the local piano bar and features dueling pianos – or at least it has two pianos, and whatever characters they’ve hired for the night take turns playing them to reasonably adaptable pop songs. It’s not exactly Cheers, but it is a scene.

As you might imagine, though, given the pianos, the upscale dress code, the exorbitant prices and the ACTUAL carding they do at the door, it does have a considerably older crowd than other bars in town (and it has about 85% fewer of the fraternity/sorority folk, if that’s a positive for you.) Unfortunately, it’s also the most popular spot for students to bring visiting parents, which, you know, can be a major pain in the ass when you’re trying to pick up chicks. It’s hard enough getting that one sober friend to buzz off…it’s an entirely different deal to lose their mother.

But, anyway, they’re there, and it’s not so bad…most of the mothers usually get sauced and start acting like fools, and there’s some value in that. Either way, the place completely redeems itself by offering actual buckets of liquor – let's say two gallon buckets – which contain something like 8 shots each of vodka, whiskey, and gin in sugar water, as well as wine, schnapps and trace amounts of Viagra, Zoloft and God's tears*. All of this is meant to be shared, of course, and it costs something like $15. It’s the perfect gift for that special person who wants Swine Flu for Christmas.

*Editor’s Note: The accompanying photo includes said concoction. Approximately three hours after this was taken we stumbled across the street to El Rancho. At some point during the ingestion of nachos, I walked back outside and passed out on the sidewalk beneath the front window. My friends did not know where I was. A bum covered me with his coat**. Epic.

**Editor’s Note #2: On Halloween 2007, the esteemed Mr. Tommy Johnson and I again patronized the Penguin, where I, dressed as a bum, finagled my way onto the stage and showered the crowd with Ad Sheets. It was suggested shortly afterward that I leave the premises.

Anyway, I only tell you of all this because I’m getting old and nostalgic, and also because I went there Saturday and danced with a very nice, drunken 260 lb. woman. She was 45.

To be honest, I did it at first only because someone said, “Hey, there’s your girl!,” and I'm highly susceptible to such taunts. And I did expect it to be somewhat amusing. By dances end, though, I’d gotten to know her name, what she did, and why she was there. Not only that, but I flashed my Weak Knees move that the black girl from Tonic never gave me a go at. It was a long fucking song.

Afterward, someone bought me a drink because they thought the escapade was funny. Another bought me a drink because he knew the woman and was glad I didn’t act like an ass to her.

But, as is the case anytime I leave a bar that serves its alcohol by the pail, I walked away a winner. Only I didn’t walk home…a girl (and her parents) kindly dropped me off.

During the drive, the family talked amongst themselves as I tried not to pass out. They talked about how fun it was, and how great it was that she had graduated, and what they were planning on doing in the morning.

Halfway home, the father – in a fantastic humor from the alcohol – got curious.

“I only have one question,” he said, leaning back in the passenger seat.

“Who the fuck is this guy?”

Sexting Up Nancy Grace

2009-12-16T02:11:00.000-06:00

It is a common misconception that I lead an interesting life – that at 23 I’ve managed to box life right in its nuts so’s that I can booze and womanize at all hours. Sadly, this is not true (…but feel free to keep the faith). In fact, I spend most of my waking hours playing video games, half-assing it at the gym and working. It’s this last one that’s uniquely demoralizing.

That said, I do believe I would rather spend the rest of eternity shilling CrappleWares to overweight pricks than watch 75 seconds of Nancy Grace.

I wish were exaggerating.

Nancy Grace – in case you’ve managed to escape her seeping pall of awful all these years – is a talk show host who capitalizes on the disappearances of children, almost all of whom are named Chloe, by pontificating for hours about how awful a crime it was and how the mother probably did it. She’s a real class act.

Anyhow, it was my misfortune the other day to actually be at work while Nancy Graced (sorry) one of our new flat screen TV’s. Work AND Nancy Grace. It was then I knew there was not a God.

Fortunately, the single, white-haired old woman at my table was watching with keen interest.

Old Lady: “Land sakes, have you ever heard of such a thing?!?”
Me: “What’s that?”
Old Lady: “Look.”

She wanted me to look at the television. Against my better judgment – what was she going to do, not leave me that dollar? – I looked.

And, bam: Sexting. Turns out I HAD heard of such a thing. I did not make this known.

Anyway, long story short, old girl was watching with unwavering focus as Nancy and a couple of fugly chicks talked about the horrors of sexting in tones usually reserved for murder and interracial dating in the 50s. What were they to do, the guests asked? How could their daughters be caught up in such a thing? How could they – AS THE DEFINITION FLASHED ON SCREEN – be involved in “sending explicit messages or photos from one phone to another?”

Well, as I’ve said, I hate Nancy Grace, but I almost wish she’d have invited me on as a guest for this particular show. I imagine it would go something like this:

Fugly Chick (sobbing): “I just can’t even believe she would do such a thing! It’s not like her. She doesn’t do drugs, she’s never tried to commit suicide, she’s never attempted to overthrow the government – she hasn’t even had inter…”

Me: “Heh…”

Nancy: “Mr. Miles, did you care to say something? You must have, given that you rudely interrupted this tortured woman…”

Me: “No, it’s just...well, I mean, the fugly chick knows that her daughter is getting plowed, right?”

Nancy and Fugly (in unison): “Gasp!!!”
---

And then I’d probably have my mic cut.

But anyway, I think it’s fair to say that I find the adult community's infatuation with sexting to be fairly amusing; it’s as though they’ve found a lighter in their kids’ car – flipped the fuck out – and yet somehow fail to acknowledge the fact that they’re smoking weed. Or maybe it isn’t.

But, contrary to popular belief, no one has ever gotten pregnant sexting. Ever. Not even with an IPhone. And yet it’s the non-Tiger gossip of the day. Old folks are of the mind that sexting is the new disease to be fought, like rock and roll music and huffing paint before it.

Some things, I admit, I do not get. Because as sure as I sit here today, no 16-year old boy is going to receive a still photo of a girl’s breast and that be the end of it. I’m fairly sure that it wasn’t the start of it.

Sexting, of course, is not an end in itself…more of a precursor, foreplay if you will. Forty-percent of teens “sext.” I’d wager that every last one of them also did the no-pants dance.

Not with Nancy Grace, though.

Woof.

Ronald McDonald, Amputee

2009-12-11T01:55:00.000-06:00

When I started this blog, I didn't envision it causing me any problems outside of ever, say, procuring a job and/or girlfriend. I was wrong; turns out my brother Stump gets a little edgy when I fail to mention him in a post. Any post. Regardless of content.

His mistake was mentioning it.
---

My brother and I are very differently proportioned fellows. Stump stands 6’2” and has a powerful, bullish build while I…well I do not. I’ve got some muscles (swear), but I could also look decent in a dress had I less hair and one fewer penis.

We were not, however, always so different.

No, there for a while, just as he was preparing to pass me in comparative enormity, Stump was a scrawny blond-headed kid whom I didn't much like. Truthfully, we were never big fans of one another until at least my senior year – five years of age difference can do that. (We are now bff's)

Anyway, one day in 1996 or so – young Benjamin, 6ish years old then – was bounding about the BTown McDonald’s play area, which included a life-size plastic Ronald McDonald, which sat on a bench with his left leg crossed over his right knee.

Well, naturally, Ben thought climbing on the thing would be fun. And it probably was. Or at least it was until his not so scrawny head got stuck between Ronald’s legs as he attempted to crawl through them.

Epic fail.

So anyway, there sits Benjamin on the floor, face flush in a plastic clown’s pretend man parts…and he starts to cry. And I don’t say this to embarrass him…he was six, and I’d cry even harder if it happened today. No, I say it because when he did, the entire restaurant (which was pretty full and included about all of Bethany’s population) turned to look at what was the matter.

Well, the problem seemed to be that this little boys head was stuck in Ronald’s lap, and no one could get it out. You could not push, you could not pull. And, for a while, it looked as though Ronald’s leg would quite literally have to be amputated to free him.

Was I embarrassed? Was I, an 11ish year old boy, sitting as far away from the scene as possible in shame? I must say that I was.

Fortunately, after what seemed like hours of attempting to maneuver Stump’s swollen head, he was freed, and without bloodshed. A bit of soap – which had already been tried as a solution – decided to offer him his ticket out.

And so, finally, Stump Miles emerged into the world once more, red faced, teary eyed, and with shit in his hair from the loins of a clown.

Plastic or otherwise, it does not take much to accept that this was probably not the first time man has exited a like situation in such a state.

Circling the Drain

2009-12-08T01:25:00.000-06:00

*For ages 18-29*

University of Michigan Board Meeting, Friday, December 4

Michigan President Mary Sue Coleman: "Look, I don't care if we have to stay locked in here all weekend, we simply have to pare the budget down for the winter semester. Think outside the box."

Board Member #1: "Madam President, there just isn't much else we can do without cutting our own pay...."

Board Member #2 (interrupting): "Semen related costs...what if we pared down our semen related costs?"
----

And so it is.

In case you missed it – and you never can trust that damned mainstream media to keep you abreast of the real news – but the University of Michigan recently began posting these fliers on dormitory walls, ensuring sky-high suicide rates for the foreseeable future. This is an issue close to my heart.

Many of you know that I'm an ardent Wolverine booster and have, for God knows what reason, sported Michigan garb throughout my adolescence and into adulthood. In addition, I fully intend to name my first interracial child Tyrone Wheatley Miles, after the famed Michigan running back.

What you may not know – it's a slightly more recent bond – is that I am also a full-fledged supporter of masturbation rights, and I know oppression when I see it. These young men aren't gallivanting around campus with their penises out, they simply wish to engage in a bit of hand-on-man combat in the privacy of the men's room showers. And, aside from the dumb guy standing by the drain, no one's being hurt.

Now, you might say, "Well, it says you can do it in your room, just not in the shower." Riiight. The truth of the matter is that Michigan is giving its male students the following options:

Self-on-self abstinence
Hope the roommate isn't skipping his 2 o'clock

Nonsense. But there is a compromise...

Fix the pipes.

After all, has there ever – by multiple definitions – been ANY better use of Stimulus money?

I haven't seen it. Replacing the pipes – which could be done with state money – would bring work and jobs to the 3o-percent unemployed state of Michigan.

And, honestly, this whole situation stems from a lack of foresight...this is a controversy you'd expect to have erupted at a former all girls school. Sure, I could see how those pipes might not have been "meant to handle semen." But Michigan? You're better than that.

And why can't they handle it, anyway? Think of all the things that are fine to put down toilets (no, really, go ahead): Feces, tampons, condoms, toilet paper, dead pet fish...but no, heaven forbid a little splooge gets down there.

Shame on you Michigan. Everyone knows that major universities have two mutually exclusive options: Be good at football, or be a bunch of buzz kill prudes.

Looks like you've made your choice.

Gatorade's for Suckers

2009-12-03T02:15:00.000-06:00

So, I think you all know the big sports news of the week: Famous black guy with a big-time temper keeps a couple of secrets for a very long time and, when they come out, everyone is shocked – but not that shocked.

Yes, it’s been a big week for Ron Artest, the LA Lakers forward who admitted to The Sporting News that he used to drink Hennessey during halftime of games between 1999-2002.

From the story: "I (kept it) in my locker. I'd just walk to the liquor store (near the stadium) and get it." Awesome.

Now, generally I don’t care much for the NBA, what with their damned baggy pants and loud music. In fact, my only real enjoyment is watching the Indiana Pacers quest to employ an all-white team*, in hopes that they would then lobby to have the basket lowered to a more Caucasian-friendly 7 feet.

*Where’s the affirmative action in sports, anyway? Whites make up 75% of this country, and I’ll be damned if we’ll settle for just sitting up in all but one of the owners boxes while none of our kind get more than mop-up time on the floor!

But, I must say, I like this Artest fellow…seems we have a lot in common.

First of all, the man drinks at halftime, likely to settle his nerves. I do the same – albeit with whiskey instead of cognac – in the middle of my double shifts at the Crapple all the time, mostly so I don’t kill anyone.

And, speaking of straight-up murder, Artest was the point-man in the “Malice in the Palace” a few years back in Detroit. You know, the one where the players went in the stands, assaulted everyone, and put an end to those goddamn “Airball!” chants. Well, I’m a fighter myself – once, in 4th grade, a kid by the name of Ricky Hillyard got to smarting off, and I challenged him to a fight behind the tires* at recess. We charged an entry fee, collecting $10 in all. He got caught. I kept the money.

*There is no punch line. The fine folks of Bethany, Missouri, furnished grade school playgrounds with equipment made of used tires.

Anyway, I can’t say that I’m any more likely to watch an NBA game this year – I probably haven’t seen a full one since Jordan was in his prime – but Artest does provide intrigue, that “what will he do next?” feel. He’s a bad-boy in a sport that never has anyone choking coaches or killing men with shotguns or beating their wives or having eight illegitimate children...

But, you never know. Maybe sometime whilst flipping through the channels some night I’ll see Mr. Artest stumble out of the locker room for a second half against the Indiana Segregationists, and I’ll be hooked.

Until then, I’ll have to fill my adrenal glands with the one sport where men stand tall and honor remains unquestioned.

Golf.

No Time For a Banquet

2009-12-02T01:36:00.000-06:00

Time and I have not always seen eye to eye.

More often than not, I stay up past three and sleep past noon. I once (only semi-consciously) took a swing at my father for trying to wake me up ten minutes before my alarm went off. I have not been on time to work. Ever.

"On time," has always been a very fluid notion to me. It is, of course, not. Five minutes past five o'clock is not five o'clock.

Lately, however, I've grown concerned with my impatience. (Please, take a moment to grumble about the instant-gratification society we live in.)

On Thanksgiving day, my father and I ran a 5K –I finished in a slower-than-ever 27 minutes flat. And, honestly, I wasn't all that upset that I'd had to get up and run and all, but CHRIST, it took me four minutes longer than usual to do it! I wasn't so much upset that my fitness level had regressed, but that it took me nearly half an hour to run. I have better things to do, you know?

That's a lie. I do not have anything better to do. At all.

Which is why, on Tuesday afternoon, I believe I hit a low point...here's the scene:

With no CrappleShift to contend with, I'd grudgingly woken up from dreamsleep at 1:30 PM CST with nothing to do. And so, per usual, I threw on my robe (black-and-gray checked, thank you), read the news, and then headed into my brother Stump's room to play some COD6/video games. These things are pressing, you know. After about an hour had passed, I realized I was hungry. Fortunately, we were well stocked.

My options, in order of favorability: Pancakes, eggs, macaroni, frozen pizza, canned chili. soup, frozen dinners.

I went with the frozen dinners. Why?

Because I'm a sick, sick man. The frozen dinners were chosen solely because they were the quickest fix, even though I had all the time in the world, and despite the fact that the other options didn't exactly need to be smoked and cured.

And, you know, that's fine...every man likes his video games. So what if I'm willing to sacrifice good food and good health to play with a child's toy?

The crux of the problem: I went with the chicken nuggets.

...because they took three minutes less than the garlic herb chicken I wanted.