Betting On Cow Poop. Because Why Not? That's Why.

I was out with a buddy the other night who says that at the small college he attended in California they apparently bet on cow poop.  My understanding is they send a cow out onto a field, and people bet money on which square foot of land the cow will choose to shit on.  So, it's kind of like craps.  No, it's more like roulette in format, but it does involve crap.

But hold on.  I got lots of questions.

     1. Could you bet on two to four squares that the cow could crap on at once, seeing as cow pies can be quite big.

     2. Do you think all the people hollering at the cow could make her clam up and tighten up her sphincter, thus messing up the game?

     3. Would if the cow releases all of its payload before it is sent out into the betting field?

     4. What is this game called?

     5. Do you think they put a little visor on the cow like a roulette dealer?  Because that would be adorable.

Unfortunately I haven't had any of these questions answered due to my buddy's only vague recollections of this practice and there seemingly being nothing about it on the internet.  Please let me know in the comments section if you know anything about this.

Also, below is the second installment of the best naked scenes in movie history podcast list that myself and Crom compiled.  We really upped the video production for this one, since we learned more what the hell we're doing.

So, poop and boobs today.  In that order.

Best Nude Scenes Ever #10 through 7

In this first installment, Crom and myself discuss our personal top ten lists, numbers 10 through 7.  Stay tuned to when we finish out lists and come up with a master nudie list.  This is important stuff, people . . .

A couple quick things . . .

1. There was a time where I really did think I would be a published writer of some kind.  As I get older, the creative juices don't flow like they used to.  I wish I could bottle up whatever manic crazy energy I had back then and use it for a couple hours a day.  Just a couple.  Not all day long because I might have been out of my mind back then.  

2. Want to know what I'm doing these days?  Still podcasts that hardly anyone listens to.  And the topic of the latest one?  The best nude scenes in film history.  Yeah, still stuff like that.  But who cares.  As long as I stay busy.  Tonight my good friend, Crom, is coming by to edit the podcast and fix up some snags we have hit along the way.  Look for an installment to come out really soon.  

3. Oh, here's a funny story.  I'm lying down on my stomach the other day (editing the boobie podcast), and Mrs. Noisewater says, "Ooh, I think that's a spider vein on your leg.  Does anyone in your family get those?"  I sullenly reported that my dad gets them, along with varicose veins, and hemorrhoids.  To cheer myself up I said, "But can we call them spidey veins?  It's cuter."  That got a laugh.  That's all I need are laughs from friends, loved ones, and you fine folks . . .

On Ice Buckets

Like most of us, I'm really tired of people dumping ice on themselves to raise money for ALS research. Curing diseases is a good thing.  Yes.  But when your Facebok feed is full of people dumping ice water on themselves, it just gets a little old after a while.  Also, I had been in saying that this trend praying on people's addiction to filming selfies and obsessing over social media.  It is kind of genius, actually.  But I had made up my mind that if I got "challenged," I would just give the money and not make it all about myself with me on my porch being an idiot with some cold water.  Also, I'm really cynical, and I can't help but think that with all the insane amounts of money being raised, someone is going to get greedy and pocket some of it.  I have seen too many famous charity events that turned out to be later the victims of someone having sticky fingers.  So, I decided I'm out if anyone asks me to do this crap.

Then I got asked by a good friend who I play volleyball with all the time.  He is a terrific dude.  I remember when ladies would ask if I had any single friends, he was just about the only guy I could say was a friend who is single and a decent human being.  That being said, he does have a fatal flaw: he is always late.  Having 24 hours to complete the challenge, he waited until the last hour possible.  He didn't bother to check the framing of the shot, so his head is cut out of it.  Also, It was dark outside, and I guess he didn't have the means to light up his back porch enough, so he dumps the water on himself just outside his screen door, getting water all over the carpet.  It cracked me up, and it made me love the guy even more.

I think it would have been easy to say no to a lot of friends, but with him I was put in a bind.  However, Mrs. Noisewater's parents were coming in town, and I had to hang out with them through out the whole next day while Mrs. Noisewater was at work.  They're great people, and I really couldn't see myself saying, okay, you guys hang tight for a moment while I buy some ice to dump some cold water all over myself because someone dared me to do it.  Or even worse, "Why don't you guys help me film myself dumping water on myself while you visit your daughter and her idiot boyfriend in Chicago."  Believe it or not, I worked out all the details and found a way to get it all done on my own, under the deadline, but ultimately I just decided to give the money away and skip the ice bucket challenge.

How about you, readers?  Answer one or a few of these questions:
Have you been challenged, and have you completed it?  Or have you even heard of this thing?  Do you think social media fundraising challenges will be a trend, given the success of this movement, and what do you think about that?  

Doctor Kenny-o Euro Gigalo

Mrs Noisewater and I are headed to Dublin, Oslo, Bergen, and Stockholm in that order. I'm typing this blog post on my phone and just learned that the auto correct for Noisewater is nauseated. That is merely a sidebar.

I likely won't be updating until I return on the 11th. Who knows, I may be ambitious and keep my travel log on the ol' blog, but if you have been following me at all, then you know that I will do more boozing than writing.

In case this is the last you hear from me until my return, go ahead and leave a comment on another recent post and I will comment on them all when I get back.

Okay, blog buddies. Talk to you soon!

Top Secret Coaches For the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights

The fantasy football league that I'm in is 10% so that I can get excited about meaningless plays by random players in insignificant games and 90% to stay in touch with high school friends who all have kids and live in the suburbs.  I rarely hear from some of them, if at all, outside of the emails and message board from the league.  So that's why I do it.

Sometimes people get mad when I won't join their leagues, and I have to explain to them that I hate running the one team, so why on earth would I want to run another?  If this were a bunch of guys from the office and not my good buddies from high school, I would have bowed out a long time ago.

But today I had a stroke of genius: I will make my nephews run my team this season!  This makes perfect sense because . . .

A) During football season it's all I hear these two guys talk about, so they obviously enjoy it more than me.

B) It's a good way to text my nephews and stay in touch with them because sometimes two months or more will go by without me hearing from them.  If we win the whole thing, I'll split the money with them.  And win or lose I'll take them out to some cool arcade place out by where they live that they have been asking me to take them to.  

C) I'm 100% sure they will do a better job at it than me.

(It's finally the year for the Flying Fire-Breathing Shark Riding Knights!)

I told the two of them that they have to switch off weeks managing the team, so when Monday comes around the new manager steps in, and the previous manager can't say anything about any moves being made while he is out - he just has to wait to the following week to see what kind of team he has left after trades and add/drops have been made.  I decided this would be better than a simultaneous managing deal because that would undoubtably lead to the two of them calling each other idiots, getting each other in headlocks, and holding each other down and farting on one another.  And if I'm causing more headaches for my sister who is already working full time as a lawyer, raising three boys, and dealing with a shit-heal ex-husband, then the whole project will be a disaster in my eyes.

Another rule is they can't read the message boards with my friends in the league saying disgusting things.  Okay, so they will end up reading once I've told them not to because they will know some profane stuff will be on there, but they can't under any circumstances tell their mother about any of the jokes they've read.

Keeping it a secret is another trick all together.  There is only one person I can think of who might still check in on this blog on occasion who might come in contact with people in the league, so James Douglas Morrison (JDM), if you're reading this, please keep my Boy Genius plot top secret.

I contacted the two boys this afternoon via text, and the 16-year-old said yes right away.  The seventh grader sent a text back saying, "Sure.  Sounds fun."  Then another text moments later saying "Wait, who is this?"  It's all the more encouraging that he likes this fantasy crap so much that he agreed to do it without even knowing who it is!

This is going to be a fantastic season.  While I'm drinking a cold one on a Sunday game day, I'll be able to text the boys about our players that are kicking butt - and never sending negative stuff because as the prudent team owner, I know that would be bad for my coaches' morale.

Also, for no good tricking reason, here's a picture of Alien playing Predator in a friendly game of pool.

(Pretty sure Alien is drunk because he is drooling.  And the drool is probably acid.  Which will burn its way into the apartment below the bar.)

B-4 and After the Lesbian Proposition

I went to a Cubs game the other night with my buddy, Dangerous, and he and I went to a great little cozy bar called the Burwood Tap for a few night caps.  It was Bingo night, which sounds stupid and an activity meant for folks 40 years our senior, but in reality it was great fun.  For some reason Dangerous knew all the corny jokes to yell out.  For instance, if B-4 is called, you just have to say "and after!" And when it's time for B-9, you gotta say "or malignant!"  So stupid, but funny as hell when you're as drunk as we were.

Me thinks their sign needs a comma, but I love them nonetheless. 

But here's where things get interesting.

After Bingo, an attractive woman I hadn't said one word to walks right up to me, hands me a piece of paper with her name and her number written on it and says "I can't talk to you right now because I'm kind of on a date, but call me."  Then she walks away back to her table, and her date comes out of the bathroom.  And her date is another woman.  I watched the two of them leave shortly after that, and through the window I saw them across the street both stretching their hamstrings.  What sort of insane lesbian sex acts did they have in store for the night that required stretching out their leg muscles?  And did one of them want me to be a part of said acts?

"That's it!  Breathe on my back!  And don't ever talk to a Bingo dork again!"

I'm in a committed relationship with the greatest gal I've ever known, so I discarded her number.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  I tried to get it out of my pocket as proof to some guys at the bar that it actually happened (or prove to myself that I hadn't imagined it), but I had already lost it.  I'm the least organized person I know.

When I woke up the next day with a clear head, I had decided that it couldn't be that she was totally taken with my rugged good looks and my command of the Bingo stamper.  What was going on was one of these three scenarios:

A) She was on a date with a woman who exposed all women to be what she was growing tired of, and she decided right then and there that she needed to mix things up with a fella.  And I was nothing special but the nearest halfway decent looking man with a functional wang.

B) Her date was her girlfriend and she wanted to start a fight with her by coming on to someone that would piss her off the most: a man.  Had I taken that bait, I would be in store for an epic cat fight with me in the middle and being crushed to death between their super-strong stretched out thighs.

C) She wanted me to be part of a an epic three-way sex romp that would go all night and I would have to ice my genitals all the next day.

I have actually ruled out choice C.

Then Dangerous is taking pictures of some people he happened to know in the bar, and he says "hold on, that great big tall girl was right in the way of that shot."  And the girl got all sad about it.  Then he spent the better part of an hour consoling tall girl and trying to convince her that she is pretty.  She went on-and-on about how she has a low self concept.  I had no idea what they were talking about, so I walked over there and said "Wow, you're tall!  Do you play volleyball?  Stand up for a second and put your arms up.  You would be terrific at the middle-block position!"  I think that set Dangerous back an extra twenty minutes on his quest to make her less self conscious about her height.

We're going to need a bigger lens to make this shot work.  That or shorter trees.

So that's it.  Anyone have any thoughts about the lesbian proposition or the poor tall gal with low self-esteem?  

Remembering Tiamat

I was tired at work the other day and said to myself "Man, I am draggin' like Tiamat." Tiamat is the only dragon I could think of at the time, although Smaug is one more people would know given the popularity of "Lord of the Rings."  Still, I like to let my inner nerd shine by referencing the Dungeons & Dragons mythical beast and one of the stars of the 1980's Saturday morning cartoon series.

Also, Tiamat represents a dark day in my past when I was around 8-years-old and snuck down to the Christmas tree before my parents woke up to find that I had the toy Tiamat, the five-headed dragon!  I yelled "Tiamat!" and my sister, my partner in crime that morning, told me to keep my voice down.  All that hard work my parents went through assembling those toys and laying them out, and they didn't get to see my genuine reaction.  When we got back out of bed to open gifts as a family, I had to fake the surprise of seeing Ms. Tiamat under the tree and scream her name a second time and fain the same level of enthusiasm.  All five heads appeared to be shaking their heads in their disapproval of my treachery and disappointment in my lackluster acting performance to conceal it.

I damn near just ordered this shirt. 

I played fricking Dungeons & Dragons as a kid.  I'll admit it.  It's cool to like knights and dragons again, I suppose, with the popularity of Game of Thrones now, but all you have to do there is flip on the television and talk about it at work on Monday.  D & D was a big commitment.  But I didn't mind rolling dice, reading all the rules, getting out the graph paper, and creating a character with all his/her attributes.  I'll admit it.  And I still remember all five heads that Tiamat had, the color of dragons, their breath weapons, and the order of how strong they were from strongest to weakest.  Observe:

1. Red: Fire.
2. Blue: Lightning.
3. Green: Poison Gas.
4. Black: Acid.
5. White: Ice Blast.

Shit.  I think I mixed up a few.  My nerd powers are waning over the years.

I always wonder what the stomachs were like for those green and black dragons to be able to belch up acid and poison gas.  What must their farts smell like?  Actually, in the case of Tiamat, all five heads shared the same body, as well as the same dragon butthole.  Do you think she could turn around and blast out all five breath weapons at once out of her butt?  How many hit points of damage would that do?

(Notice he tucks in his legs to avoid injury?  This isn't his first rocket blast fart joy ride.)

And this free association random-ass blog post has led us to . . . dragon farts.  Why not?

The other night I was at the bar and got talking to one of those guys with a curly-cue mustache.  The Rollie Fingers mustache, if you will.

"Top 10?  More like Top 1."

I asked him how long it takes him to do that in the morning, and it sounds like quite an ordeal, styling it and spraying it down and all.  And if he doesn't do anything, then it looks like a Fu Manchu.

"I may not have the curls, but can you guess where this pinky thingy goes?"

He went on to tell me that he won 2nd place in his category in a facial hair contest.  My first question was what the name of that category was (because it really should be the Rollie Fingers Category).  He said it was "Freestyle Mustache."  Oh.  I then asked how many were in his category, and he said there were only three.  I let him know that he also placed 2nd-to-last.  I was buzzed a little and speaking freely . . .

But also I just hate hipsters with stupid facial hair, piercings, and just dumb stuff like that in general.  You're not a turn of the century boxer.  You work for Whole Food, or whatever, and when you're late for work and don't have time to style your 'stache, your coworkers call you Fu Manchu Fuck Face.  And when you're primped up beautifully, they call you Old Boxing Photograph Fuck Face.

Fight?  I thought we agreed to a Mustache Contest?

Not all styles are coming back en vogue or are somehow ironically cool.  When does it stop?  Do you want to throw on a powdered wig and be all 1700's?  Probably if a true hipster saw people wearing the wigs, he would get really pissed and go back to a look from 50,000 years ago and just throw on a loin cloth and go to the bar and sip his Pabst Blue Ribbon.

So I guess the conversation with the weirdo from the bar was still in my head because yesterday I'm driving in the car, I'm a little lost and crabby, a hipster with a terrible old-timey mustache is crossing the street and I find myself yelling "Fuck that guy!"  He wasn't doing anything wrong - just crossing the street like everyone else.  I just couldn't take it any more.  I actually caught myself off guard with my sudden outburst.

Am I out of line here, or has the hipster thing worn thin with anyone else?

This has got to be the longest time I have gone without updating my blog, and I apologize.  Here are some updates . . .

Mrs. Noisewater and I finally moved out of our tiny apartment where our bedroom window faced the alley of decadence and a Chicago life of excess.  Just about every night we would hear a couple getting ready to get it on, some people doing cocaine, a fight breaking out, but usually just people being loud and drunk.  I really knew it was time to go when I saw the aftermath of what I could only assume was a hobo orgy.  This is an actual picture that I took:

Aren't you glad the bums are being safe?

So now I'm back in Lakeview, my favorite neighborhood where I lived for around 7 years before the party-alley-place.  But back then I had 4 roommates.  Now I just have one, and she's the best roommate ever.  Does it bother me that Mrs. Noisewater is more handy than me and is painting, hanging up shelves, and using power tools that I don't know how to operate?  A little.  But I'm in charge of . . . the record player.  And that's important stuff.

Our landlord is a Chicago cop part time, and despite the fact that he looks precisely like Vic Mackey from "The Shield," he is actually a really nice guy.  He doesn't want us grilling on the balcony because he doesn't want us burning the place down, so he lets us use the grill and smoker in the courtyard and even buys and replaces the propane tank for us.  Now that's a hell of a deal.

"Don't beat a confession out of me!  That was me playing Captain and Tennille on my record player last night.  And singing along."

Our downstairs neighbor is an elderly four and a half foot tall Japanese woman who has been living in the building for forty years, and when she moved in her rent was sixty bucks a month.  Very sweet woman, but a bit of a hoarder.  She has filled up the basement with years and years of useless crap.  She was telling me one day when I was doing laundry down there that sometimes she buys two of something because she forgets she already had one.  Probably because it was buried under other stuff.  Landlord Vic Mackey has given her until the 15th of this month to have all that stuff moved out of there.  She will often offer us something, and usually we say no.  But sometimes we will take something just to make her feel that some of those objects have a home.  I fill a thermos of hers up with Gatorade all the time and tried to tell her I was using it, but her English isn't very good.  I have been thinking about taking some things that she offers and just throwing it out for her - a few dumpsters away so that she doesn't see that I tossed it.  That way she's happy and I'm helping her clear the joint out, right?

Hope you're enjoying your summer as much as I am, readers!  

Zeptual Healing

I got bad news from my best buddy (Heterosexual Life Partner) the other day that his Uncle Bill is in critical condition after a serious accident.  He was loading his truck for work and either fell or had a seizure, and the end result was a stroke that has left him incapacitated.  He can now only move his left arm and toes.  If his condition doesn't improve by next week his kids will have to decide whether or not to pull him off life support.  His youngest just graduated high school.

The first time I met Uncle Bill we were at a gathering in a backyard with "Dazed and Confused" projected onto the garage.  Bill, myself, and some others were talking through the whole thing, which I think bothered some folks, but the fact is I've seen it twenty times and Bill lived it.  I have always loved rock music from the 1970's, and Bill is that guy who saw every awesome band from that era.  So, when you put the two of us together, you're going to have long discussions about rock music that go about like this:

     Dr. Ken: "Did you see Pink Floyd?"

     Bill: "Yup.  On the 'Dark Side' and the 'Animals' Tour."

     Dr. Ken: "No way!  How about (insert legendary rock band here)?"

     Bill: "Sure did.  Saw them on the (insert seminal work of given artist here) tour.

Another time I saw him he was fresh off a divorce and dancing his face off at The Liars Club, the best bar on planet earth.  The dude is always smiling and just always fun to be around.  When my buddy told me the news about him, I was devastated.  I asked if there is anything I can do, and knowing that I'm not a religious man and I don't know shit about praying, my buddy told me to play some Zeppelin for him.  So that's what I'm doing now.  

Hear those opening chords on "Ten Years Gone," go towards (or is it away from?) the light, and pull yourself out of this, Uncle Bill.  Your family needs you, and we all want to see you smiling and dancing again.

So I had this dream last night that my girlfriend and I were desperately trying to screw in this giant grotto style public pool type place, but we kept getting interrupted.  It was as if it had to get done or something bad was going to happen.  And at one point I looked down to see that I had way too much chest hair.  Truth be told, I'm a bit of a hairless mammal, so it was a little scary for me.

In other news, when I went to pick up my contacts today, I dropped into the record store across the street that I usually go to when I see the eye doctor.  They specialize in dance/house type music so their rock collection is very limited.  They play their shitty house music the whole time, and when I was done selecting my $13.10 worth of records, I found myself waiting at the register with no one to ring me up for a couple minutes.  So I peeked into the back room to find three employees hanging out and not working, and I had to interrupt them and ask if someone could actually do two minutes of work and ring up my purchase.

Yup.  That's what your typical record shop in Chicago is like.  They're snobs, they are way over staffed with guys doing nothing, and they suck.  When I did that job, I loved every single shift.  It was the best job in the world - listening to music all day and talking about it all day.  Real jobs are hard, and that's what they need to realize.  The record shop gig is fun and really, really easy, but you do have to staff one of the three guys to be not in the back room so that they can spot when a customer is trying to spend money in the shop.  That's one of the only rules.

Okay.  I gotta go spin my $13.10 of music that was well spent, even if the proprietors didn't make it easy for me to spend it.

My lady and I were at brunch the other day, and I looked up at her to see that her eyes were watering and she looked like she might be having a stroke.  She said the hot sauce was way, way too hot.  She started coughing and sweating, and I was getting a little worried.  I tried just a dab of the stuff, and yes, it was the hottest damn stuff ever.

The hot sauce came in a little metal dish, like the ones you get ketchup in.  It came with no explanation of what it was and how hot it was.  There was only one explanation: It must have been the infamous ghost pepper.

(I guess we should have suspected something when we saw this guy go back into the kitchen)

The waiter, in between apologies and delivering milk to her, said that it was, in fact, ghost pepper hot sauce.  Apparently some customers complained that the hot sauce was hot enough.  So the solution was to get the hottest stuff in the free world and hand it off to customers with no warning?  Seems like they could have dialed up the hotness slightly to make some people happy instead of waging secretive chemical warfare upon all the rest of their patrons.

What do you think?

Jackson, Home of Two Oblivious Racists

Mrs. Noisewater just got back from a business trip in Jackson, Mississippi and encountered two of the most oblivious racist comments of all time.  She is half Asian, by the way, and apparently they don't often encounter races other than African American and Caucasian.  So you get these sorts of things . . .

#1

While at a restaurant, a man she didn't even know walked up to her table to ask her what other language besides English that she spoke.  When she replied that English was the only language she was fluent in, the man was shocked.  What a crazy assumption.  I would have responded "Klingon," and then spouted off some angry grunts.

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/sJhPa4lMLDo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(I was searching for Klingon youtubes, and while there were plenty that made a lot more sense, I had to go with this one because of the pretty girl.  It takes all the way until 3:25 to get to the Klingon part, but good god. she is hot.  Anyway . . .)

#2

Then Mrs. Noisewater is at a meeting in Jackson, and on the way out she drops a pen.  When she bends down to get it a guy actually said, "Oh, I thought you were bowing."  I laughed my damn ass off when she told me that one.

<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/yAHKqtsGZLU" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
(Now, are these fellas bowing or looking for their pens?)

Come to the party! Bring your monkey!

Tamarins are wise wizard partygoers. 

I had an extremely F'd up dream last night.  I'm at this party, and it must have been some sort of BYOM (Bring Your Own Monkey) type of gathering because guests were arriving with all different types of monkeys.  I started to get uneasy and wondering if all those different species of monkeys should be around each other.  It's not that I wanted segregation of monkeys for some sort of political reason, I just feared that if you got Spider Monkeys, Tamarins, Saki, and Marmosets in the same room, you're just increasing the likelihood that some monkeys just wouldn't hit if off, and there would be a giant monkey brawl of epic proportions.  I think some of the folks sensed my trepidation and thought it would be funny to place different monkeys on my shoulders, head, and wherever else a monkey would fit all at once.  The monkeys were tweaking and shrieking a little, not really wanting to be on my shoulder all that much, but I didn't get bit (and getting bit seemed to be the over arching fear I had at the time).

On Ebay.  Sold only to Ape Men.

Things really started to get insane when a guy arrived with a six foot tall upright ape-man.  His face was more ape than man, but he had perfect posture and was dressed in human clothes.  Ape Man had jeans, sneakers, and a sleeveless jean jacket with heavy metal patches on the back (probably a cool Iron Maiden picture), and he had bulging, hairy biceps.  His owner (or buddy?) was saying how cool it was to work out with his monkey-man friend.  Suddenly, 80's metal fan Ape Man darts over to me with lightning speed and bites into my neck.  Blood spurts everywhere, and everyone busts out laughing like this is the funniest thing they ever saw.

Pop Quiz: What show was this guy on?

For whatever reason, it was my job to clean it up the bloody mess on the carpet - my own blood, as if it was all my fault.  And the blood was dark, almost black - the kind where you see that shade in a movie and you just know the guy is going to die.  But the guests weren't at all concerned about me, they just looked down on me while I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the carpet, casually offering advice on what chemicals might get it out during lulls in their conversations with one another, cocktails in hand.  What was really odd was that Ape Man just kept chillin' at the party, and no one seemed the least bit worried that he might bite them next.

What the hell does it all mean?

I work with this woman who I'm not too crazy about, and the more she goes on and on at meetings, the more crazy I start going.  In about three consecutive meetings she has said "strag-e-dies" instead of strategies.  I was screaming inside my head, mad as hell that someone could get over 40-years-old in a professional setting still saying a word that horribly incorrect.  Then "Tragedy" by Bee Gees popped in my head for reasons I at first didn't know, but then I laughed having realized that I was singing "Stragedy!"

Songs pop in my head all the time and crack me up.  There are people I see every day who have no idea that they have their very own theme song playing in my head when they walk in the room.  And it's a good trick that I recommend to keep you from getting too serious and angry at work.  Just assign that awful person a funny song and get through that meeting, humming and laughing to yourself like a crazy person.

Set Your Blasters To . . . Fun!

I was in a cab on my way to meet some friends at a bar and chatting with my cab driver.  He was lamenting about there being no laser tag in Chicago.  Yes, a grown-ass man who is dying for some laser tag.  They have them in the suburbs because there are more kids out there, but I was telling him that if they had one in Chicago proper, it would need two things.

The sport of laser tag is perfectly integrated.  

1. Booze.  The thing about Chicagoans is that most any activity when coupled with alcohol suddenly becomes doable.  They have a place not far from me where you can learn how to paint, and it's always packed.  You know why?  Because you can bring your own wine, set it next to your easel, and paint happy, drunk trees.

2. It would need a fun gimmick of some kind, and I'm thinking "Star Wars."  Who wouldn't want to play Rebels against The Empire and dress as a bunch of storm troopers and Vader against Han, Luke, and Leia?  And Chewbacca!  Who among you would not put on a hairy wookie outfit, strap on a crossbow, and run around the halls of the Death Star, howling and shooting storm troopers in the face and balls?  And the bar in there could be the Mos Eisley Spaceport Bar!  A guy could drink blue stuff and cut off arms all night long in a place like that.

I swear to God, Greedo.  I will shoot you right in the green penis.

 The cab driver said that was a great idea and asked if I was in marketing.  "No."  I replied.  "I'm just a drunk who knows how to have a good time."

Mrs. Noisewater and I are going to miss some things about this apartment.  Hearing the drunks congregating in our alley having loud conversations filled with "WOOS!" is not one of them.  This often wakes us up out of a dead sleep, and then they hang out by the dumpsters and we can make out every single word they say.  I never could figure out why they would want to smell garbage while they converse, but then the other night we could gather from their conversation that they were doing cocaine.  Lovely!  As I have said in previous posts, rather than telling them to shut the heck up, like some of my neighbors have done, I prefer to just interject, chiming into the middle of their conversation.  They suddenly hear from above, "Is that pretty good coke?"  The problem is that they would probably want to talk about that all night with me, so I would have to add something creepy like "Can I come down there in my pajamas and do a bump?  And then maybe you guys can come upstairs with me and cuddle?"

Anyway, one thing I am going to miss in this hood is the middle aged Black man on the block who takes excessively meticulous care of his sky blue circa 1991 BMW.  The thing is dented all over the closer you look at it, which is no surprise because he parks it on the street in a busy section of Chicago - a great way to get dinged.  He is down there when it's cold out warming up the engine while he fusses over cleaning the interior or checking the oil, but I have never seen him actually go anywhere.  Sometimes I will see it parked in a slightly different spot, suggesting that he has taken it for a spin, but it's always returned to the same side of the street.  It's not so much that I'll miss him, it's that I'll never figure out his story/solve this mystery.

In case I don't get a chance to talk to my favorite OCD neighbor to get an explanation, something I will be doing if I see him again before I go, would any of you like to wager a guess at why he behaves this way with his "beemer?"

"Herpes Simplex 2: Part 1."

(The title doesn't mean there will be more parts to this story.  I just thought it was a funny title, like "Rambo: First Blood Part 2.  Let me know what you think, readers.)

Joanie and Jon are enjoying steaks fresh off the grill, seated at the dining room table in their modest two bedroom ranch style house that they rent, with their one-year-old daughter sound asleep in the next room.

"So, how was work, babe?" Asks Joanie, smiling lovingly, as she refills Jon's wine glass."

"Thanks.  It was okay.  The doctor visit wasn't as good though.  Got some kind of bad news, I guess."

"Oh no!  What is it?" Asks Joanie, setting her fork down, wiping her mouth and turning to give him her full attention.

"He dropped the H-Bomb on my ass."

Joanie furrows her brow trying to figure out just what in the hell that meant.

"I got the herpes, babe."

Joanie abruptly stands up, puts her hands on both sides of her head, makes a face of hers that Jon knows all too well as pure anguish and begins to pace the around their narrow dining room.

"Hey, relax, it's not a big deal" says Jon, trying to calm her down, but it wasn't working.

"But it is.  It's completely my fault.  I know the exact time where I gave it to you.  I sort of felt an outbreak coming on but thought maybe I was just itchy down there because I didn't wear undies that day and my jeans were rubbing me funny."

Jon starts to laugh, "It's totally fine" he said, continuing to cut and take bites of his steak.

"Are you kidding!?  It's a huge deal.  I've infected you.  Yuck.  I'm so gross.  And now you have it for life too!  Why aren't you mad at me!"

"Why would I be mad?" Jon asks, slugging back the rest of his wine.

Joanie is now even more visibly upset "Because not only did I give it to you, but I did so recklessly, taking a chance like that only to give you the "h-bomb," as you so grossly put it.

"Hey," Jon says, "I'm allowed to make jokes like that with you now.  We're herp buddies.  For life."

Joanie, "Stop messing around!  You always make jokes instead of say how you feel, but if you're mad, I wish you'd just tell me.  Because I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself.  I know I was a wreck when I got it.  You maybe just haven't allowed it all to sink in quite yet."

"Listen, babe" as Jon grabs her by the hand, "I knew one day you would likely give me this thing.  I was going to get it sooner or later.  Who really cares?  I don't plan on going anywhere or being with anyone else."

Joanie persisted,"But you don't know that!  Would if you found yourself single and stuck with a lifelong STD?  You would curse my name for the remainder of your days."

"Nah, I'd just sign up for herpdate.com and meet some insane, horny herpes chicks.  Hahaha.  I'm sorry.  But seriously, to be honest, I freaked out for a minute in the doctor's office, but by the time I got to the car, I was like: I got herpes for life.  And I got Joanie for life.  And I have our beautiful daughter for life.  And it's okay.  It's more than okay.  It's perfect.  I love you, Joanie."

Joanie cried and threw her arms around him, and after the crying had subsided and he had kissed away the last of her tears, they made completely risk free love on the floor, as to not wake their daughter because their crappy bed always creaked loudly.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Perverted Signs

Mrs. Noisewater and I were driving home after having dinner with my parents in my home town when I saw a sign by a local church that read this:

Of course I got out of the car to get a picture of this for Facebook and the blog!

Now, I know this church has tried to be funny in the past.  For instance, I remember when "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" came out they had a sign that "Satan Is the Real Phatom Menace."  How ominous!  But this one about Easter and cumming seems like a bit much.  Is it possible they meant how often we "come" to church?  Even then, wouldn't someone, think about the other, more dirty, use of the word?  I mean, I know some church folks can be a little naive, but come on, people!

This reminds me of the time my mom left work for the night, leaving an intern on his last day of work in charge of changing the sign out front.  Then she had to field one hundred calls the next morning about why the library wanted everyone to "Honk If You're Horny."

Do I speak for all of us when I say "Beep! Beep!?"

"Did Someone Just Skip My Song?"

So I'm out drinking the other night and loading up the jukebox with songs with that application where you can pick songs from your phone.  It's great fun to not have to leave your friends to stand by the jukebox, and that way everyone can brainstorm songs together and pick them as a team.  So when we heard the first few thundering bass notes to our first song, "Ace of Spades" by Motorhead, we were very pumped and I was head banging as such.  Then before Lemmy can get through his hoarse voiced,  bellowing first verse, I hear the song being skipped and look up to see one of the bar maidens suspiciously setting down a remote.



I calmly walked over to the bar and said, "Did someone just skip my song?"

To which she said, "Yeah, that was awful."

I told her it's Motorhead and probably not for everyone, but I was excited to hear it.  I added that it would have been over in 2 and a half minutes, and surely she could have just waited that out.  Just then the other, much cooler, bar maiden handed me a dollar while not as cool bartender asked me if they had any other better songs?  I explained that they did have lots of other songs but they all sound: Just.  Like.  That one.

I told her she would hate them all equally and this was the only one other people in the bar were likely to know.

I had to add "And you skipped my song and stuck us with this Rascal Flats crap?"  All the while I stood there with my returned dollar bill in my hand, unsure if it had resolved the situation.

The cooler bartender said I looked familiar, and I said that I have been in there a number of times and I'm a pretty good customer.  Just then I heard the country song get skipped, and I heard the beginning of "Give It To Me Baby" by Rick James - it was my next song.  I smiled ear-to-ear, and they both laughed as I danced my way back to my table.



Then my friends and I laughed our asses off seeing Rascal Flatts guy getting hopping mad about his awful Rascall Flatts song getting skipped.

It's always more funny when it happens to someone else.

A Friend I Will Miss and Another I Avoid

A Friend I Will Miss

I got a really good friend, one of the guys I officiated a wedding for as Reverend Ken, and he suddenly announced he is moving away in three weeks.  It's really sad, and I feel like I wasn't given enough notice.  If you told me a few months, sure, but three weeks?  Sorry, but my man-love heart needs a little time to process these things.  I tried to be happy for him when he told a few of us the other night, but I couldn't.  And then I made him sad by being sad.  Eventually I just gave up trying to feign happiness and I posted this video on his Facebook wall.



I thought the clip would be good for a laugh, but I ended up crying.  Guess it was good for a cry too.  I know.  A man crying over a Star Trek clip might be the nerdiest thing ever, but it happened and I'm better for it.  I needed to get the crying out of my system, and Kirk and Spok helped me out to those ends.  Those devilish, space traveling, pointy eared (one of them), bastards . . .

And Another I Avoid

This other friend of mine I have been playing volleyball with for years, and he makes everyone miserable by telling everyone what to do and how they messed something up.  He has a thick accent and his command of the English language isn't too good either.  He often times ends his description of how he thought you should have returned the last serve with "does that make sense?"  And it never makes sense.  The thing is, he is easily the worst player of all of us, yet he always tells people how to play, which makes it all the more difficult to stomach his lectures.  I always have to do some affirmations on my way to the court like "Okay, he is going to be terrible.  Just nod your head and be positive.  Move on to the next point and don't yell at him."  Sometimes it works, and on rare instances, usually when I'm hungover and emotional, I do end up yelling at him.  And then I'm disappointed in myself because it doesn't do any good.  

He isn't much better in social gatherings either.  His jokes are often as misunderstood as his volleyball analysis, and he will try to make wise cracks about people that never quite work.  This makes it sound like he is a jerk, but that isn't quite it.  He is just a little off.  It's no longer cultural, and he can't use that as an excuse anymore.  He has been in the country a long time now.  He is just kind of weird. 

So some of the volleyball friends are meeting up to watch NCAA games, and I actually asked if this dude is going to be there.  I felt really bad about asking that, but here is the thing: I really value my weekends, and if that dude will be there describing how the little people on the television should have executed that inbounds play and I have to keep taking pees I barely have to take and get beers I don't need just to get away, that will detract from the loveliness of my oh so important Saturday afternoon.  

I just got the word that he will, in fact, be there.  Just like on the way to the court, on the way to the bar I will do my affirmations: "I can do this.  Be nice to him.  He really isn't that bad . . ."

-----------------------------------------------------------

Anybody have friends like the first one?  How about the second one?  Any tips on how to handle the second one because I'm about out of ideas.  

Do you all have a Costco in your area?  If you don't know what it is, it's one of those giant stores where you need a membership to go in there, and then you buy things in huge bulk amounts so that it takes you months to finish it.  That way you get things like 30 cents off, but your pantry fills up and there are boxes all over your living room.  It's great!

While shopping there last night, I stopped into the washroom to take a pee, and a guy in a Costco uniform asked if I didn't mind peeing in a giant jar.  I thought it a little strange, but I do enjoy peeing in strange places.  So I saddled up to a jar that must have been a foot and a half wide and two and a half feet tall.  The guy in the uniform was sealing some off and stacking jars onto giant pallets.  I asked what they were going to do with all of the huge jars of urine.  He said that he can't say much about it due to the secrecy, but the bottom line is that they like things in big containers in Costco.  He said it would all make perfect sense some day and that I should just keep peeing.

Don't believe me?  Follow this link for more information.

Words of the Day Are Fun When They're Swears!

Today's word of the day is muthafucka.  I realize you may be thinking a few things.

1. I spelled it wrong.  That's intentional.  If you say motherfucker, those two "R" sounds are all wrong for how this word should be used in this sense.

2. Also, today's word of the day is to be used to start a sentence.

For example:

"Muthafucka, I already told you that shit!"

or how about . . .

"Muthafucka, where the damn milk at?"

I just asked Mrs. Noisewater to start a sentence with the word of the day.  I said, "Quick, say a sentence that starts with muthafucka.  Her first attempt was this:

"Muthafucka bitch?"

I let her know that her sentence made no sense and would need a verb.  Her next attempt was excellent, though.

"Muthafucka tried to rob me!"

I rather like that.  It tells a story.  He tried to rob her, which implies that he failed and she likely fucked that muthafucka up!

Try a sentence with the word of the day in the comments section, readers.  I'm confident you will find it to be a good deal of fun.  Also, try the word of the day on a friend and let me know how they react.

Oderus

I got a text the other morning while getting ready for work that said "Oderus is dead?"  I rushed to my computer to see if it were so, and sure enough, Dave Brockie, who portrays Oderus Urungus in Gwar, was pronounced dead at the age of 50.  I always give my lady a kiss goodbye before heading off to work, and on this day when I told her that Oderus was dead, she said in a sad tone "Oh, I'm sorry."  I was really touched by her saying it like that because his music is silly, his costume with the giant dick dangling down is disgusting, but she knows that I think he was one of the funniest and quick-witted rockers ever.

In case you don't know, Gwar is a band that dresses up in elaborate costumes and claim to be from another planet, trapped here on earth where they view humans as inferior morons that they like to murder on stage.  I saw them kill Snookie and her aborted fetus at a show a couple of years ago.  I saw one video where they kill the pope.  Anyone offended by this has to be a complete idiot because it's all done very tongue and cheek.

Hey, here they are appearing on Joan Rivers back when they used vague European accents.



And here is Oderus on the Fox News show "Red Eye" where he did regular appearances as an interplanetary correspondent.



My first experience with Gwar was watching the "Live from Antarctica" at a buddy's house, and I still remember the incomparable Oderus saying this:

You humans aren't a bad lot.  So long as you know your place.  And that place is face down in the dirt, digging your own grave with the bridge of your nose, with my dick up your butt.  Thank you very much.  

It's sad to see him go, especially because there really isn't a Gwar without him.  It's like the Jimmy Hendrix Experience without Jimmy Hendrix, and no - that's not an exaggeration.  

I had a few too many and ended up at the Burrito place that I went to when I had too many so long ago.  The same guy was working the counter.  I said to him, "Wow, you're still here.  You were here like 7 or 8 years ago, and you look the same!"  He said he had been there 14 years.

Good lord.  I have been living and drinking in the city that long.

I had one of those days at work yesterday where I wasn't feeling well, and I was being pulled in a thousand directions and never felt like I could get each task done right before getting yanked into the next more urgent thing.  The whole time I knew the day would be capped off with the wake of my friend's mom who just died.

And wakes are not fun.  So I'm mingling through the wake, and I'm not a strong mingler to begin with, but put a dead person in the room and I'm twice as bad.  It's really hard because you see someone you haven't seen in a while, and you blurt out how good it is to see them and you got a big smile, but then you catch yourself looking too happy, so you dial it back down with a frown and smooth it over with something like "I just wish it wasn't under these circumstances."  I could maybe blame it on being sick, but it's probably more about the crippling fear of me and everyone I care about getting older and dying. I left thinking what a terrible performance I put on in there.  I know I'm as sad as just about anyone in there, but while I'm in there I can't get over my own shit to just act normal.  So I cried in the parking lot a little.  

Driving back to the city from the burbs at around 8 at night, I find myself dozing off.  I switched over to the naughty station on my Sirius radio thinking that sex stuff will keep me awake, and there is a porno actress giving relationship advice to callers who want advice from porno actresses.  The one guy says that his relationship with his girlfriend is not going well and he has a couple of "side chicks" going.  Porno actress host says that the right thing to do would be to end things with the girlfriend because it's not fair to carry on these other relationships with her around.  Now there is proof that women in the "industry" are not without morals, right?  Then the caller says that his girlfriend is crazy for a variety of reasons, and porno actress does a total 180 and says "Oh yeah.  She's crazy.  I guess just keep it going with those side chicks."  What the heck?  How quickly she changed her tune!  Now, I realize these women are not without their foibles, but stand by your convictions, woman!

Anyway, to sum up, or if you just skimmed to the end:

Paragraph One: Dr. Ken bitches about having a bad day at work and feeling sick, as if that doesn't happen to everyone.

Paragraph Two: Dr. Ken's dear mother of his good friend died, and she was the sweetest woman you could ever know and baked the world's best chocolate chip cookies that the whole block tried in vane to duplicate.  She left us far too early and she will be missed.  And nobody knows how to act at a wake.

Paragraph Three: As you may have already suspected, porno ladies are not the best place to seek relationship advice.

Fun Size Lent!

Before I go any further here, let me just say that I don't hate Christianity or any other religion.  There are just some things about a few of the beliefs and practices that I think are silly, and I think we all think that to some degree, don't we?  I guess it's like anything else where it's not the the religion itself that sucks, it's the people who act a certain way that suck.  Kind of like how we don't hate the Yankees nearly as much as we hate their fans, or whatever sports team we choose to hate.

For one thing, Lent bothers me.

I'm a pretty big athiest/agnostic.  And I'm not happy about it or smug about it, rubbing it in people's faces and calling them dumb for believing in stuff.  Believe me when I say that I envy them for having belief in a higher power.  How can I not be a little jealous when all I really believe is that we can have a few fun moments in life but eventually we die and rot, and that's about it.  Dying and rotting.

But if I did believe that there was a Heaven and a Hell, and if living a good life and following all the rules sent me to heaven, and living a crappy one meant going to hell, I'm pretty sure I would be the best Christian the world has ever saw.

"Who let Scar up here?"

So heaven would have to be so awesome that we couldn't even possibly imagine it.  I suppose you would wake up at around 12PM every day, the weather would be about like San Diego, you are nailing a different super model every day before getting out of bed (maybe you scroll through a list and pick one out of on your heaven phone), you have an appointment to play some two-on-two beach volleyball with Malcolm X (and it turns out he is a very cool guy), then you go to the best barbecue ever where you roast a unicorn like a pig roast, and it's the best unicorn you ever ate that whole year.  Then you sit around a campfire with some more great dead people, John Lennon is there with a guitar, and everyone has a sing-a-long while drinking craft beers from the finest of Heaven microbreweries.  And you probably meet another super model there and have more insane sex that you never tried, perhaps in zero gravity or something.  Then the next day makes that whole bookended with super models day look completely shitty.



Now, if I'm a Christian and that is awaiting me if I just follow some simple rules, however strange they may sound, I have to believe I'm following them to a T because Hell doesn't sound to good.

Your standard day in Hell starts with being woken up by the bullhorn demon (who has a giant bullhorn for a face) at 5:30AM after sleeping for 25 minutes.  And you slept standing up.  You're immediately ushered with into the line at the DMV where you will be pushed and shoved trying to avoid the fires in the middle of the office, because there are annoying fucking fires everywhere in fucking Hell.  When you finally get to the front of the line, the fat crabby demon working the counter tells you that you don't have right document you need for your Hell driver's license, so you will have to be tortured for the remainder of the day and get up the next day to get in line again.  And torture has got to be pretty bad if hell itself is constantly totally awful.  I'm thinking that you are tied up in a room somewhere, naked, and there are demons with hot pokers, like how people brand cows, and they're playing a movie of the shitty life you led, laughing at each of the mistakes you made, and poking you at those moments, like some kind of demented and painful drinking game.  And today's clips are exclusively from your miserable high school experience.  With close ups of your acne and lots of rewinding for particularly horrible moments.

So if that's what heaven is like and that's what hell is like, I got to believe I'm making some sort of major sacrifice during Lent.  I would have nine or ten things to give up - some things that would make the big dogs upstairs quite pleased with me.  Something that would bump me ahead of a few people.  Maybe I would give up hitting the snooze button, masturbation, sugar, alcohol, skipping work outs, and just about anything else that is bad for me.  And you know what?  While I'm at it, maybe I'll do whatever else it says I should do in the bible all year round if it means I can go to heaven to play beach volleyball with Malcolm X and avoid going to that DMV line in hell.

"Look! How fun!"

I'll tell you what I would NOT do during Lent if I believed in Christianity: Give up Snickers bar.  Not giving up chocolate bars, chocolate in general, or sweets in general.  Nope.  Too hard.  This guy just gave up one specific brand of candy bar.  And this asshole will eat Baby Ruth's, Mounds, and Watchamacallits all month long.  And you know what?  If someone offered him a fun size Snickers, he would probably just say "fuck it" and eat the thing and make an excuse like, "Well, it's just a fun size, after all.  Jesus will understand that what I really gave up was the full size one.  Sure, he was nailed to a cross after dragging the damn thing 200 yards while being whipped, and I gave up my full size Snickers.  He will be quite pleased with my sacrifice."


So there you have it.  I don't believe in much of anything, but I like to think that if I were a Christian, I would be a better one than the Snickers bar guy.  That's all I'm saying.

These Are the Top 10 Awful People At the Bar. The People That You Meet Each Friday.

10. The Jukebox Saboteur.  Some jerk played In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida three consecutive times, but no one there will fess up to it.  More than likely he keyed that up and left to another bar just to stick us with 19 minutes of crappy drum and organ solos.

9. The Jaeger Bomber.  You have already told this guy that you don't want to do any shots because you have to go into work the next morning, but every time you turn around there is a tray of shots coming your way, and usually something disgusting like Wild Turkey.  You see, the Jaeger Bomber is not happy until we're all slobbering drunk and peeing on ourselves.  Like him.

8. The Barfly Loner.  He sits there alone every single night, knows all the staff members by name, and he is sipping his drinks and slowly killing himself.  And that's totally fine, so long as he doesn't talk to us.  It's when he chimes into everyone else's conversations that he becomes a problem.  We know, you have it all figured out and know the answers to all the world's problems.  But why haven't you found out how to avoid spending all your time and money perched at the end of this dark and dirty bar and dying a lonely death?

7. No Game and No Quit.   Sometimes the ladies just want to go out and have a few drinks, maybe dance a little, and yes, meeting some cute guys is a bonus.  However, you have got to know when your very presence has begun to ruin their night.  There are some guys out there who just don't know when to cut bait and move on.  Some men will tell you that all women are bitches, but the truth is they have to resort to being a monster bitch just to get guys like this to go away.

6. The Ping Pong Ball: This guy just doesn't seem happy with any bar you've gone to all night long.  The minute you walk in, he has immediately surveyed the scene and decided that there aren't enough women in there, the TV's aren't in high def, the bartenders aren't good looking enough men's room attendant has shitty mints, and the hardwood floors need to be refinished.  So he keeps convincing the group to bounce to another bar, which will be another one he will hate.  It seems the Ping Pong Ball is content spending more money and time on taxis than in bars.

5. The Stumbler.  He is blind drunk, falling over, making no sense, throwing up and falling asleep, but he won't leave!  If the bouncers won't do the right thing, sometimes someone in his group of friends needs to physically grab his pickled ass and show him to a cab, and usually tell the cab driver where he lives and maybe pay him (as it doesn't seem as if he is capable of doing anything on his own at this point).  Once everyone has had a good laugh and stored up enough stories to thoroughly embarrass him the next time you all get together, it will be well worth it to send this man home and absolve yourselves of babysitting duties.

4. The Inescapable Bad Conversation Guy: He has honed on you.  Yes, he has chosen you to share his wisdom of a particularly boring topic, be it to which route to take to shave 3 minutes off your commute, who to draft in fantasy football, or how to totally own the chumps in your condo association.  You have tried going to the bar to get a drink and going to take a pee, and you really didn't have to do either one - you just wanted to get away.  But he will keep finding you because he has you pegged as someone too nice to tell him to please put more beer in his mouth and make less boring words come out of it.

3. The Crop Duster.  The drinks are flowing, the music sounds good, everyone is looking beautiful, but suddenly there is the foul smell of rotten eggs blasting out of someones diseased intestines, and everyone is pulling their shirts over their noses, clearing out an entire section of the bar as fast as possible.  And the worst thing about the Crop Duster is that he never owns up to it, so you could be talking to someone and will have to convince him/her that it wasn't your own putrid ass that just unleashed hell.

2. Fishhooks in the Pockets/Alligator Arms.  You're out with all your friends, and every time it's this guy's turn to buy, he is sneaking outside for a smoke, to the men's room, or anywhere he and his wallet won't have to get involved.  Or better yet, he wants $12 craft beers all night, but when it's his turn, it's Bud in cans all around for his men.  What a swell guy!  

1. Dude Thinks It's Roadhouse.  Some guys out there don't feel their night is complete unless they have gotten into a fight, and it doesn't matter what it's about.  Sometimes it's insane jealousy, others it's about who's sports team is better, but It could be an argument about something as stupid as Mac VS PC, Star Trek VS Star Wars, or "Little Mermaid" or "Lion King."  What matters is that they are finally going to get to punch someone in the face and possibly get arrested, where they could very well land in the same cell as the guy they fought and kick back up that "Little Mermaid" debate and ring the bell for round two.  Listen, pal, you'll never be as cool as Dalton in "Roadhouse," you'll never rip out a throat, but you will either land in jail, get beat up by four bouncers, and have to explain your shiner at work on Monday.  So just relax and drink your beer, maybe try some yoga or something, and put away your dukes.

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A) All this being said, I think I have been, I have been 7 out of 10 of these fellas, and sometimes more than one in a night.  But at least I'm conscious of which bar behaviors are bad, and that is half the battle.  How about you?

B) Honorable mention goes the Overzealous Drinking Game Guy.  He wants everyone to play his drinking games, but we just want to have good conversation.  Is it possible he has nothing worthwhile to say, and that's why he insists on these stupid games?  And what's more, I don't need rules to tell me when to pour gallons of booze down my gullet.  I do just fine without being forced, so shut up, right?  Should this guy crack the top 10, and if so, who should get bumped out?

C) Any other additions that you would like to submit?

7 Quick Things About Lap Dances for Babies

Get a load of this.

Post by Chicago Memes.

Yup.  That appears to be a baby getting a lap dance.  

7 things I got to thinking about after seeing this . . . 

1. Is this something this woman does all the time, or was this an impromptu drunken activity?

2. Because the woman in the background seems less than thrilled about the whole thing, checking her phone and practically falling asleep, it seems as if maybe she has seen this song and dance before.  

3. The baby's wide eyed face is outstanding at the end of this clip.  It's funny because that's the exact look a man 20 years plus his senior gets in a similar situation.  

4. Is it morally wrong to give a baby a lap dance?  I suppose it's a little worse if this is his mother in the video.  Even if it isn't his mom, she would need permission from the boy's mother to twerk for him, right?  But should she give consent for such a thing?

5. There are two schools of thought about lap dances for babies.  1) A baby gaining that experience so young makes him a boss.  He's already ahead of the pimpin' game before he can even walk.  2) Getting a lap dance before you can walk is kind of like getting a BMW on your 16th birthday.  We want to give our children the best things in life, but shouldn't one earn such luxuries?

6. Now, okay, so you're going to shake your butt in a baby's face, but do you have to get your privates so close to the boy?  I mean the kid can practically smell it.  My reaction was like, "Oh, that is just wrong."  But then when she kneels down and her but is inside the baby device with the kid, that's when it gets over-the-top creepy.

7. I need the song from this clip on my iPod.  She shakes her butt exactly to the "oh! oh!" part, and the baby's eyes get wide right on cue for each "oh" as well.  Even if the morals and methods of passing time used by the people in this video are suspect and maybe criminal, the music they use to accompany their weird lifestyles is nothing short of awesome.  

What do you think, folks?  Leave me a comment if you are pro, anti, or undecided about baby lap dances.  

Is It Nice Out?

Doing laundry isn't so bad when you have access to weapons-of-mass-time-wasting like kindles, iPods, and smart phones.  With my laundry machines around the corner of my building in my complex of apartments, it's really not worth going all the way back up to my place through the snow, so I just hunker down there and get it all done at once.  And it's pretty enjoyable when I can listen to retro rock guys from Germany with big beards, text three or four friends, stalk 6 or seven others on Facebook, and read a book about a messed up Italian family in the Bronx on my Kindle.  All at once!  Plus the sound of the machines running (at least what I could hear over the amped up and distorted guitars) can be really relaxing.  

I was certainly feeling at ease sitting down there doing all those activities, but I was also a little cold, and oddly just in one area.  My penal area.  So acutely cold in fact that I had to look down to see why, and that's when I saw my dingus dangling out of the fly of my "Dark Side of the Moon" pajamas and flopped onto my lap.  I tucked that sucker in as quickly as I could, but would if someone came down there before I could do put it away?  My neighborhood is by a big University in Chicago, and let's say a young coed came down there to see that?  I could never explain that it must have just slipped out when I crossed my legs, which I'm guessing is what went down (or what came out).  No one would believe that defense.  

And what would be the nail in the coffin of my indecent exposure conviction and potential death sentence and/or loss of all wiener privileges was the that fact that I was wearing a Purple Mountain Unicorn shirt.  Let me explain.  We had a Zubaz party one night where there were like 50 people in awful Zubaz pants and jackets like the one seen below.  My good friend, Oates, found that when you search for Zubaz on Amazon.com, for whatever reason the Purple Mountain Unicorn shirt is on like the second page of the search.  Try It!  Oates decided this would be a good accent, or perhaps more his centerpiece.  Southie and I thought it would be hilarious if he walked into the place to find us two wearing the same awful shirt, and here we are with our faces blurred out to protect our identities (read dignities).  

If I ever could explain why I was lurking in the corner with my pilly-packers flapped over my jammies, after anyone got a good look at this shirt, there is no way in hell anyone would believe the donger out was a mere coincidence.  Only a real deranged pervert would wear this in public.  

Behold.  Three guys in bad shirts.