Dig Me!

1) I am a sailor.

2) The Wile-E.-vs-the-catapult sequence in “To Beep Or Not To Beep” is indescribably wonderful.

3) I drink dark rum, when it’s for fun.

4) I give people nicknames, a habit I got from my father.

5) I am more relaxed in casinos than I am anywhere else. I think they give my brain enough to do.

6) I hate my job more than I let on, and for different reasons.

7) I vacillate between wanting a dog and missing the Old Man too badly to have one.

8) I am willing to pay a great deal for tickets when Jimmy Buffett plays Wrigley Field.

9) I expect to be a millionaire by thirty-seven.

10) Life is too short to fear any fun.

11) I have three more tattoos in mind.

12) I like being underestimated.

13) I don’t hate cold, but I hate grey.

14) I cannot resist catching snowflakes on my tongue.

15) I have never initiated the end of a romantic relationship.

16) More than twice as many people have visited B&T this February than did last February. I am proud and grateful.

17) I got this idea from Honey, who got it from Becks.

18) Loyalty is more important than any other quality. We ride together, we die together.

19) Turn-on’s: Aggressive sexuality, verbal engagement, big eyes, nontraditional haircolors.

20) I enjoy playing golf far, far more than I thought I would.

21) I drink frozen vodka, when it’s medicinal.

22) Manhattan is, visually, the most beautiful movie I’ve ever seen.

23) Politics and media are not separate entities, but divisions of the fear industry.

24) I have not seen a single Oscar-nominated movie this year.

25) I follow many sports, but I live and die with the Chicago Bears.

26) I wish people would take things less seriously.

27) Few things make me laugh as reliably as does Daffy Duck saying “I demand that you shoot me now!”

28) I am on friendly terms with each and every one of my ex-girlfriends.

29) Multiplayer Perfect Dark is still king of the hill, video-game-wise.

30) I am thirty right now, and I can’t decide if I’m upset at how young I feel, or how old.

31) But for rented wedding garb, I have not worn a necktie in more than five years.

32) I think being an uncle will help me decide whether or not I want to be a father.

33) I love Las Vegas, and I could live there very happily, but it would be a bad idea.

34) Turnoffs: Flattery, passivity, jealousy, and affectation

35) I have three books roughly plotted in my head.

36) I am no longer irrationally terrified of airplane travel or of having blood drawn. I worked hard on those.

37) I will get an earring once I move down-island.

38) The crackdown on steroids is reawakening my interest in baseball.

39) I am capable of much, much more.

40) I cannot resist singing along with Frank Sinatra, especially on “It Had To Be You” and “Summer Wind”.

41) I probably drink too much, but only in the winter.

42) I make world-class garlic bread and spaghetti sauce.

43) I don’t know why I hate talking on the phone.

44) I tend to give things much longer to succeed than I should.

45) I have a weak spot for self-aware/self-referential comedy.

46) I need to lose about 35 more pounds.

47) Having religious faith would make life a lot easier, but I think you have to be born with it.

48) I would rather give slightly more money to someone who wanted my business than slightly less to someone who doesn’t care.

49) If I could dunk a basketball, I would never, ever get tired of doing so.

50) Operation Alligator is presently twenty-two days ahead of schedule.

First Call

Now, I know it’s exceptionally trendy to reject Paris Hilton and all her works, and no one likes to be “with it” like I do, but, I’m sorry, sending smutty self-pics to an object of your affection?

That’s hot.


An e-mail conversation I had with Becks and Bruuuuuuuce! regarding my child-monitoring skills reminded me of one of my very favorite jokes:

A child returns from a day out with her Uncle George. “Mommy, Mommy!” she cries, “We had a great day!”

Mommy says “Really? What did you and Uncle George do?”

“We went to lunch and then we went to the zoo!”

“Really?” Mommy says. “What did you have for lunch?”

The girl says, “We went to Wendy’s and I had a frosty and a LARGE fries!”

Mommy smiles – she never allows both – and says “How was the zoo?”

“Oh, we had the best time at the zoo! It was a beautiful day, and there were lots of cute animals, and – oh! oh! – in the sixth one of the animals went off at nine to one and paid $42.40 on a five-dollar win ticket!”


Depending on my answer to a question on which I cannot make up my mind, I am either:

Dorothy Parker
Dorothy Parker writes you, you wonderfully urbane, witty boozehound.

or

Ernest Hemingway
Ernest Hemingway penned your novel. Go, you studly man, you.

Which Author’s Fiction are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

(Thanks, Tony, for the link.)

Mahalo

Moby-Dick, The Old Man and the Sea, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas have occupied the top three spots in my literary pantheon for some years now, and Monday, as I was pondering what it says about me that two of my three favorites were written by guys who ate guns, I got a handful of condolence mails on the death of Dr. Thompson. While the thought was kindness itself — it would never in a hundred years occur to me to send a note to someone who’d lost a favored performer — it was surprising to me, because I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t depressed. I wasn’t even upset. The worst side effect of the Doc’s suicide, for me, is that the amount of careful phrasing I’ve had to do here to avoid sounding like I’m just paraphrasing “My Way” has led to me humming that song for three straight days. The good Doctor went out the way all of us knew he would — when he was God damn ready.

I don’t use the word “respect” lightly. Actually, I rarely use it at all, because it one of those words I reserve in the interest of not watering it down. I think most people are unworthy of respect. I don’t mean respectful behavior, now, I mean respect. Don’t confuse polite indifference and good manners with actual esteem and admiration. So.

Hunter Thompson: A man of unusual and unusually voracious appetites, who, rather than distancing himself from those appetites or quashing them internally, embraced them, fed ravenously, shared generously, and, when the time came, picked up the check and excused himself from the table – all on his own terms. Res ipsa loquitur.

Respect.

Hooter Brown Lives!

Once again, lady and gentleman, it’s time for me to fill up a day on the calendar by rooting through the B&T search terms! That’s right, actual search terms that inexplicably led defenseless — but clearly not innocent — users to this pointless little site.

  • al bundy restaurant spain
    I am guessing this is someone who misheard “El Bulli”, and he is going to be very, very surprised when he gets to Spain.

  • boink boston
    I approve of the sentiment, though I usually phrase that less Flandersishly.

  • gay bulldog
    “Hi, Julian and I are looking for a puppy. We only have two requirements…”

  • prophet david terrell
    The prophesy in unchanged, DT — you are SO fired.

  • chuck woolery philadelphia girls
    This seems a fetish, like plushies, that I was happier not knowing about.

  • big bellied lesbians
    Ibid

  • is blood lost in masturbating
    Either you’re doing it wrong, friend, or you’re cheaping on the Jergens.

  • slavegirl planet
    Cartoons must be much, much better than they used to be.

  • vegan peyote indians
    “Excuse me, High Mesa — could you ask the medicine man if there’s any animal products in this? None at all? It’s important to me not to overstep the trust of our sacred bond between the creatures of the earth and myself. You really shouldn’t be eating pemmican, by the way. Don’t get me started on the buffalo robes. Say, what are you going to do with that tomaha

  • www show me your butt
    I’ll graciously allow you to withdraw that request, for the good of all.

  • smokey the bear choking on a camper song
    I was with you until “song”. The anecdote behind this deserves a nonmusical hearing.

  • utah jazz tits
    Hey now! Karl Malone may be old, but he’s still in pretty good shape. Don’t hate.

  • pimped cement truck
    Rollin’ down the street, smokin’ indo, workin’ for Streets & San?

  • jagermeister medicinal purposes
    “I like to keep a bottle of stimulant handy in case I see a snake. I also keep a snake handy.” – W.C. Fields

  • march birthdays eyeball cancer
    Happy birthday to you,
    Happy birthday to you,
    Happy birthday, dear Uncle Pa-atch,
    Happy birthday to you!

  • ant balls
    One is moved to wonder if an ant has six.

  • cascade skiing masturbate
    “Keep your knees bent – bent! Good! Now, push off with your poles. Lean your weight to the right, just a little – feel how you turn? Let’s try that again, but on the left. Excellent! Now, head for the top of that run. Yeah, over by that black diamond shape. Ready? Okay. Now. As you pass that first set of moguls, stuff your left hand down your snowsuit and see if you can’t rub one out before you hit the drop.”

  • booty over atlanta
    This could be — I am 100% serious — the cornerstone of the greatest municipal marketing campaign in the history of the United States of America.
  • Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

    I am, as many of you know, due to be a first-time uncle come the end of March. The baby’s been moving enthusiastically for some time now, and I have been repeatedly encouraged to feel this movement. I have always declined, believing that feeling a tiny person frolicking about while entirely encased inside another person would be breathtakingly creepy; a belief that, it turns out, was 100% true.

    I decided that I should give this a shot, that everyone else was so pro-baby-groping that it must be radically different than I expected it to be; that is, that is must be absolutely nothing like feeling John Hurt’s chest in the last fifteen seconds of Crewman Kane’s life, which is exactly what it did feel like. My niece — whom everyone talks about as though she’s already here, which I find enormously charming — must have been aware that I had braced myself for her to poke or kick, and did a weird full-body shimmy-squirm that felt like the black oil from the X-Files looked.

    Now, prior to the actual touching of the tummy, I had made significant mental preparations to ensure that, upon feeling the baby move, I could avoid yanking my hand away and screeching like a little girl, all of which were totally insufficient. My repulsion amused everyone else, which I guess beats having them be mortally insulted. It was the weirdest thing I have ever felt, supplanting even my stem-to-stern processing of a half-pint of barium, wherein for 24 hours I could pinpoint the exact place in my torso containing four cubic inches of minty milk-chalk.

    I will be an excellent uncle, once the principessa has been liberated. (Truth be told, it’ll probably take about eight months — I find soft spots and floppy heads creepy.) While she’s still swimming on the inside, though, I can spend all my time musing on how fucked up it is that the explanation that keeps coming to mind when I try to describe why the gestation process makes me vaguely ill is “It seems so unnatural.”

    Tonto Rules

    If I had a boat
    I’d go out on the ocean
    And if I had a pony
    I’d ride him on my boat
    And we could all together
    Go out on the ocean
    Me upon my pony on my boat

    If I were Roy Rogers
    I’d sure enough be single
    I couldn’t bring myself to marrying old Dale
    It’d just be me and trigger
    We’d go riding through them movies
    Then we’d buy a boat and on the sea we’d sail

    (chorus)

    The mystery masked man was smart
    He got himself a Tonto
    ‘Cause Tonto did the dirty work for free
    But Tonto he was smarter
    And one day said: “Kemo sabe,
    Kiss my ass I bought a boat
    I’m going out to sea.”

    (chorus)

    And if I were like lightning
    I wouldn’t need no sneakers
    I’d come and go wherever I would please
    And I’d scare ’em by the shade tree
    And I’d scare ’em by the light pole
    But I would not scare my pony on my boat out on the sea

    (chorus)

    – Lyle Lovett, “If I Had A Boat”

    (Tomorrow: Worst. Feeling. Ever.)

    The Last Worthless Season

    A much-missed former coworker of mine used to have an annual tradition of which I was fond: As soon as we were into February, he’d spend a good percentage of every day in which the temperature reached at least the mid-forties loudly declaring that we had “broken the back of winter”.

    It’s the kind of bit that grows on you, and you get to look forward to it, even though you know it’s mostly just puffery and false-bravado in the face of the seven-month Chicago winter. It didn’t matter what the forecast was for that evening, or if there was still snow on the ground — he’d still put full triumphant voice to statements like “It’s 3:42pm and 44 degrees outside — we’ve broken the back of winter!” or “47 and sunny right now — we’ve broken the back of winter!” Even as sarcasm, it was filled with joy and hope.

    I thought of that phrase yesterday, for the first time in a long time, when I walked out of the building at 5:03pm and it wasn’t dark yet.

    Something Wondrous



    Awards to date:

    Second-Runner Up: I am disproportionately entertained by seeing my place of work’s website listing “Traffic an’ Weatha”.


    First Runner-Up:

    1 (18.25 ounce) package lemon cakes mix
    1 (3.4 ounce) package instant lemon pudd’n mix
    3/4 cup vegetable oil
    Fo’ eggs
    1 cup lemon-lime flavored carbonated beverage

    Preheat oven ta 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). Greaze n flour a 10 inch Bundt pan.

    In a large B-to-tha-izzowl, combine cakes mix n spendin’ mizzy then stizzay in tha oil. Bizzy in tha eggs, one at a time, tizzle stir in tha lemon-lime soda.

    Pour batta into prepared pan cuz I put gangsta rap on tha map. Bakes in tha preheated oven fo’ 35 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into tha centa of tha cakes comes out clean. Allow ta cool . Keep’n it gangsta dogg.


    Current Champion:

    (Matthew) 2:1 Jesus was bizzle in Bethlehem of Judaea in tha days of Herod tha king, behold, there came wise men friznom tha east ta Jerusizzles
    2:2 Trippin’ Where is he that is bizzay King of tha Jews? fo’ we have seen his star in tha east, n is come ta worship him.
    2:3 W-H-to-tha-izzen Herod tha king had heard [these th’n], he was troubled, n all Jerusizzles wit him.
    2:4 And whizzen he had gathered all tha chief priests n scribes of tha thugz togetha, he demanded of thizzay where Christ should be bizzy.
    2:5 And they said unto hizzim, In Bethlehem of Judaea, Hollaz to the East Side: fo’ thus it is written by tha prophet,
    2:6 And thou Bethlehem, [iznin] tha land of Juda, art not tha least among tha princes of Juda . Death row 187 4 life: fo’ out of thee
    shiznall come a Governor, that shall rule mah thugz Israel.
    2:7 Then Herod, W-H-to-tha-izzen he had privily called tha wise mizzle inquired of them diligently W-H-to-tha-izzat time tha S-T-to-thizzar appeared.
    2:8 And he sent them ta Bethlehem, n said, Go n search diligently fo’ tha young child; n wizzle ye hizzy found [him], bring me word again, that I may come n worship him also in all flavas.
    2:9 When they had heard tha king, they departed; and, lo, tha star, which they saw in tha east, went before them, tizzle it came n stood playa where tha young child was.
    2:10 Wizzle they saw tha star, they rejoiced wit exceed’n bootylicious joy.

    clinkclinkclinkclink

    Honey has beaten me to recap of my weekend by posting a superb version of her own, which you should read before proceeding.

    Done? Excellent. A few additional items of specific interest to me:

  • There are critical long-term implications to my Lesbian Wedding-Super Bowl Party Weekend discovery that the trick of getting girls to make out by clinking a butter knife against my wineglass worked equally well at both events. (But then, both times I was just giving the participants an excuse to do what they had in mind anyway.)
  • I am not normally a nitpicky person, but folks, please, make a mental note: Next year’s party will not be held during Super Bowl XXXX, but Super Bowl XL. Yeesh.
  • Update to my amazing ability to bestow success or failure on teams with which I am peripherally involved: I reluctantly opted not to get tickets for the Toronto Raptors game Friday night. The result, which I am neither making up nor exaggerating, was that the Raptors erased a twenty-two point deficit and staged the greatest comeback in team history.
  • The second flight, the one home from Toronto, was the first fear-free flight I’ve taken since I spent 72 hours in immersion coverage of 9/11. Great personal triumph. Perseverance occasionally pays off.
  • Much as I hate to admire him, Terrell Owens was dead right on his postgame comments and admirably ballsy in making them. The guy rushed back from a major injury to play with his teammates in the Super Bowl, and for it he has been repeatedly denounced as a self-centered bastard who just wants to hog the spotlight. If Brett Farve did it, the sports press would declare him a living god and line up to fellate him just for the honor of it. I still think Jeff Garcia is entitled to shoot Owens on sight, but I have to respect what he did.
  • In the US, adult stores are hard to find but liquor stores are present in abundance. In Canada, adult stores are present in abundance but liquor stores are hard to find. All I’m asking for is a DMZ. The Greater North American Co-Prosperity Sphere. Rum and smut, hand in hand, side by side, somewhere. Who do I have to vote for to get this?
  • The radical Watch The Game Too insurgency finally reached critical mass this weekend. After ten years of trying, the game part of the Super Bowl was at last made safe from the Commercials Uber Alles movement through the glory of Mutual Assured Destruction. Peace is a goal, not a strategy.
  • I already regret not buying a durian from the fruit stand next to the Zoidberg restaurant in Toronto’s Chinatown. Please God let me find them smuggled into our Chinatown, too.
  • Surreal Life

    My weekend schedule:

    Friday: Fly to Toronto. Exchange normal money for duck dollars. Obtain dress pants. Amuse self, Canadian-style. Sleep in lavish, casinoless hotel.

    Saturday: Sleep late. Explore lavish, casinoless hotel. Groom self. Deploy new pants. Attend Mardi Gras-themed lesbian wedding in actual castle. Misbehave.

    Sunday: Take aspirin. Fly back to Chicago. Drive to Schaumburg. Bring two cubic feet of chili to eating temperature. Watch Super Bowl. Eat self silly. Monitor elaborate wagers.