Losing My Car

My dear 5-year-old sweet Silver Bullet, will you ever forgive me?

I may have named you after a trashy beer, but I never expected you to get hit by somebody that looked like she had a few.

It was icy. I understand and you don't deserve what you're going through. You should have your owner by your side.

You see, you didn't do anything wrong and you get punished. It's not like you came out and hit that moving car. You were parked and that's what makes me so upset. You could be perfectly happy right now; enjoying my loud music, hot coffee spills and being used as my dirty clothes hamper, but, no, you're locked up in an unheated garage in West Warwick, of all places.

West Warwick. What a shithole.

I know you miss your owner, and I miss you too.

I've had my share of shit stacked high too. I have to deal with these customer service people, two insurance companies, a rental car company. Did you know how many times I was asked to hold? A thousand.

"Your street, sir?"
Cottage.
"Ok. Please hold."
two seconds later.
"Your city, sir?"
Woonsocket.
"Okay. Pleeeeeease hold."
two seconds later.
"Zip code?"
"02895"
"Ok. Can you hold for me?"

That's not fun. Nor is cheating on you with another car. Sure, the Dodge Avenger has a much better name than Civic, and may have a V6, and satellite radio built in, and a more stylish look to it, but it's not you, Silver Bullet. I may be driving some more beautiful than you, but I'm not replacing you. You know you do things to me that no other car can replicate. Plus, we all know it's not cheating if you're in a different zip code.

I miss you and I can't wait to have you back. That's a fact.

But before I have you back, though, I'm going to need to hold. Can you hold?

While I was bored:
Played a new 3-on-3 NHL game for the Xbox 360. Very fun. swoosh.

Supplemental shit that doesn't earn me supplemental CASH:
1. My barber pats my hair, on an average, 79 times. He also takes a 45-minutes to cut it.
2. When I was going to Grove St. Elementary, the spiked haircut was the shit. Nothing was better. Now, Grove St. Elementary is luxary apartments and every tenant sports a fauxhawk. Whats-the-world-coming-too Moment No. 200! Dynasty.
3. Triple chocolate chip muffins continue to baffle me, but I will continue my investigation. I hope that by 2012 - or type-2 diabetes - I can close the case of the triple-chocolate chip muffin.
4. With a slight rip of Chappelle's Show's skit "The Mad Real World", where one white dude is thrown in with a house-full of black people, I'd like to make another version, using the current as my backdrop. It'd be a house-full of transvestites and just one very straight, homophobic dude.
5. Karaoke can't be fun unless the crazy people sing. So stop shaking your head.
6. Not many Xbox 360's work for too long.
7. I'll say it: Rihanna shouldn't have opened her mouth. I don't care. Jay Z doesn't read my blog.

Wrestling is still real in my eyes.

If there's one thing I'm wrong about in this whole blog thing, it'll probably be in this one specific blog. All the others are factual and if you contest it, I'll dropkick you.

Because tonight. I watched. Wrestling.

Thee Royale de Rumble, to be specific. With my Dad and Mem and Pep. Three Generations of family, 30 wrestlers, and it was good.

There's a lot to say about this.

The first person I want to eliminate and throw over the top rope is my brother.

Russ, you wanted a shout out on my blog? You got it, like Undertaker cold-cocking The Big Show with twenty straight haymakers to the jugular. He was alright, though, because, you know wrestling is real and stuff.

All I'm saying is, at least The Big Show showed up. And he knew an ass kicking was coming his way. The entire ride to the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit he sat in his car, trying to get his mind off being triple-teamed by a bunch of sweaty dudes.

What's wrong with you, dude? How do you miss the Royal Rumble? Nonetheless, I don't care if you got some weird bubonic plague-like rash on your face that even House can't figure out. You can't miss the Royal Rumble. Better men have climbed mountains to get a chance at earning first-contender rights at Wrestlemania.

Way to ruin Christmas. That's all I'm saying.

(please note: said writer of said blog recognizes the outward hypocracy in missing Super Shitty Bowl next week due to a basketball game that will most likely be forfeited, yet still berating big brother about wrestling.)

The second person I want to close-line over the top rope, and while he's hanging for dear life is me.

How did I sit through that and not drop 30-40 F-bombs? I can't believe I refrained from calling anyone a cocksucker at least once. And you know I hate that cocksucker Shawn Michaels with all my heart. Maybe if my Mem and Pep dropped a "jerkoff"or an "asshole", I would've.

Whatever, there's always Wrestlemania.

Lastly, I want to throw every fan in Joe Louis over the ropes. But only because that'd be an incredibly large Royal Rumble concept.

Things I've learned while reliving my adolescent passion for fake competitions:
1. Hacksaw Jim Duggan is still alive, and willing to risk his life at 69 years old to revive his career, only to be throw out of the ring in a little over one minute.
2. Bras no longer get ripped off during the women's matches. Apparently, they're legitimate now or something.
3. Shawn Michaels still looks 25 and I still can't believe he double-crossed Martie Genetie.
4. Gimmicks are a thing of the past. Everybody uses stage names like, Randy Orton and shit like that. No more Dunk the Clown or Papa Shongo. Just two guys with the last name Hardy that are gay for each other. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
5. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights fighting each other = really awesome. Watching guys with their shirts off in tights dancing = Chippendales.
6. Wrestling is real.
7. Cowboy hats are very fashionable.
8. I couldn't refuse thinking of Mickey Rourke's performance in "The Wrestler" the entire time.

Only you can prevent people from wearing stupid-looking boots

Today is the day I warn the general public about a serious epidemic spreading across the greater Northeast: UGGly boots.

I don't care if you wear them, this isn't for you; your brain failed you the moment you saw these over-priced, unfashionable footwear and thought you could be more popular with them. I can't reason with you. You're already a lost cause.

What I can reason with, however, is the on-the-fence-of-a-ridiculous-purchase-people. I'm here for you. We can get through this.

Yes. We. Can.

This is an epidemic and it is seriously sweeping away mine and your best friends, family members and the Olsen twins. They're lining up at salad bars and the 12-items or less line at the supermarket. They're in your bathroom and in your pantry. They're in your dreams kicking snow and sledding down Dead Man's Hill.

Don't go down Dead Man's Hill with them!

You see, you wouldn't put a brown paper bag over your feet would you? I wouldn't. You wouldn't. Now, what if I said that brown paper bag might be legitimately warm, unquestionably ugly, and coming in at a whopping $250 cash.

That's drug money. You don't have drug money do you? I know I don't and if I did I wouldn't drop a portion of it for a brown paper bag.

I'd also like to point out something else. Look outside. Take a good look. In your front yard is there a sled with, let's say, 16 Alaskan huskies? Is there, perhaps, over two feet of snow?

No? Oh, that's probably because you don't live in the Yukon or are participating in the Iditarod. Hey! Seeing that you don't live there, you probably shouldn't dress like you do. The Yukon isn't that cool. On Planet Earth there was nothing about people in the Yukon sipping on mocha lattes and asking Bret Bretterson to the prom. They don't even know who Barack Obama is. How can you be cool and not know Barack?

And I'm not even going to get into the folks that wear these furry, calf-high boots with skirts. That's another story for another time.

So, folks who are on the fringe of minor mental retardation, don't waste your cash to look like an extra in Willow.

And by all means if you have a friend questioning whether or not they'll look ridiculous in a pair of unfashionable boots, help them out. Friends don't let friends look stupid. It's a law.

While bored:
Looked at my laundry pile up.

Feeble attempts at humor:
1. I frequently call friend's babies/nephews/kids, "it" instead of he or she/him or her. When I do call them him or her, I choose the opposite sex. The parents don't really enjoy that.
2. Dick's sporting goods store never has your size shoe.
3. Tall people should be working really hard to not look goofy. You stick out more than us short people. Work on being a little coordinated, else be smacked in the head with a snowball. By all means, don't dance.
4. Writing checks don't necessarily make you an adult. Oddly enough, bouncing checks does.
5. It wouldn't be Cambridge if a student-made indie film wasn't being shown on a projector in a bar at 11:00pm.
6. Obama should've been given a better welcoming to the White House than Michael Jordan used to in Chicago.

Almost old enough to say, "I told you so."

Am I getting old or what?

Here I am, just two days away from being veinte-seis, and I can't think of getting head-over-heals smashed. I'm losing it, man. I'm friggan losing it.

Let's take it from the top, alright?

Last night, I stayed up, and had people over, to watch Top Chef. I have inside jokes with friends about Top Chef and firmly believe that watching Top Chef and having inside jokes about Top Scallop are true signs of growing old.

You need more proof, right? How about if I told you that during Top Scallop, there was a commercial for The Real Wives of the OC and I wanted to see the episode?

What if I told you that I won't shave unless I absolutely have to?

How about if I told you I'm learning French one word at a time from a retired French teacher at the high school?

What if I told you that when the really old jerks (what? they're too afraid of technology to have a computer) come into Beef Barn and talk about cribbage night, I actually flirt with the idea of joining them. Flirt.

Do you need more proof?

I don't think so.

So, If you ever feel like hanging out with an old geezer like me, I'll be down at the VFW playing bocce or something. Waiting in line to die with everyone else.

Thing I did while bored today:
Looked up words that end with the letter "Z". Yes, I'm playing Scrabble online again folks. Just another sign of old age.

Random stuff I learned while slipping on ice:
1. Cumulus clouds are the best for picturing boobs in. Stratus, the larger ones that bring 8-10 inches of snow, are best for cursing at the top of your lungs.
2. After years, I've finally realized there is no reason why I should write "L7" instead of "L8" when ending a conversation online. At first, it was cheeky, but only because I really didn't know what L8 was referring too. I learned that night what it was, but I never changed my habit.
3. I had a dream Rocco and his Dad made people pay money to talk to them about his coming to the Red Sox.
4. You can't precede anything with "I had a dream" without sounding like Martin Luther King Jr. Even if it's something as rediculous as what I just wrote.
5. Jack Bauer is a pretty bad man.
6. American Idol now has four judges. Three more than it needs. Hang them I say!
7. A modern-day, made-for-tv movie about The Crucible would be great. Imagine Mark McGwire wearing the same clothes Winona Ryder wore as Abigaile Williams.

You're just mad its not Playgirl in my bathroom.

(Townie enters room, slams door shut, one measly source of light comes from the corner of the room, silhouetting his body)

That's it! I've had it! (throws a mass of objects from his desk onto the floor to be scary. note: not very scary)

Time to dispel the idea that men only look at Playboy, not read it. I'm tired of the rolling of the eyes every time somebody goes to the bathroom in my apartment and sees the smut. I'm tired of it.

"I bet some of the pages are stuck together!" Hahahahah. You're so funny! How bout you read some of the terrible party-jokes to help your bad sense of humor?

There's a lot of content in there. I'll admit, too, that I was never a Playboy fan before. I never knew why my barber had it "accidentally" hanging around all the time. But I think I do now.

For instance, did you know you can get really good, yet really cheap wine at accidentalwine.com?

How about Richard Brandson's business model for his newly developed Virgin American Airline?

Did you know one of the easiest ways to get in the Guinness Book is by throwing bricks, beer kegs, other people, and cars on your head and balancing them for abnormal amounts of time?

How 'bout the new Rolls-Royce, which if you have $400,000 to throw around, can come in 44,000 different colors and is hand polished for five hours? Oh, and you can't drive this three-ton beast off the lot, you have to wait four months for it to come Fed-Ex, barring your filthy asshole neighbors don't put their section-8 hands all over it first like they did with my Chicago popcorn! Thanks anyway, Pete.

Would you know all this? Huh? No. You wouldn't. Don't pretend to either.

Sure there's naked women. Really exquisite, hot naked women. But do you know what kind of content is on those pages besides a few pictures? Nothing. There's nothing to read or pick up for conversation besides, "You see Carol Alt? I'd like to (fill in the blank with chauvinistic remark). Most of them are dumb as rocks too. What's your biggest turnoff? Let's see, what every other playmate has ever said. "Smelling. Cockiness. Smart."

So, next time you drop deuce in my bathroom, use my soap, use my toilet paper, puke in my sink, etc. Don't comment on our Playboy. It's there for you too. Read it, learn a few things. Experience life.

(Light goes on, Townie opens the door, his monstrous silhouette becomes the same ol' 5-foot, 9-inch person you knew before, and he let's you on your way).

Thing I did while bored today:
Watched old episodes from the first season of SNL on DVD.

Other banal details of my day you shouldn't be interested in, but are:
1. Massachusetts license plate no. 22292 in the Ford pickup needs to find the gas pedal.
2. People need to chill out on Kohl's. I've been in finally and its not that great.
3. I go to Taco Bell 90 percent of the time I go to New Bedford. One of the only reasons I go is to throw my car's trash into the drive-through receptacle without getting out.
4. Taco Bell has no medium hot sauce. It's mild, hot, scorching hot. I don't know if there's semantical people down at corporate, but they need to fix that. I don't want hot, I don't want mild. I want something in the middle. Medium.
5. Hazel Mae is now on MLB Network with Harold Reynolds. MLB Network knows what got Reynolds in trouble at ESPN, right? I give him two months with her before he's grabbing ass.
6. Whenever I need confidence I look over at my 2007 Fantasy Football league-champion bobblehead. His constant bobbling says, "Yes You Can!"