Zapping Zombies at the Machine

Fellas and fellettes, I've seen the gates of heaven in all its majesty and not many people are in there these days.

In other words, I've been to the Dartmouth Mall recently and saw this ------>>>>

Was it possible? A childhood kingdom of yesterday's majestic Lincoln Mall arcade hast moveth away to behest the unfaithful proprietors in Land of Dartmouth? Where's the Duke of Dartmouth? We need to chat.

And, No! Saint Peter didn't have a roll of quarters. No! There wasn't a line. There wasn't anyone really. All the games, all for one.

Just like heaven, only no line and lots of judging.

All the eyes from the stuffed animals were watching me play Dance Dance Revolution, stumbling over my own feet to the highly energetic music. The 17-year old behind the counter was steering me down, ready to put the fake handcuffs on me for trespassing her adolescent haven.

Across the hall, at Asia Palace or whatever they called it, people dropped their chop sticks to watch a grown man shooting zombies.

I didn't care. I was reliving a childhood memory at an inflation rate of 50 cents per game, some a dollar.

Just as I was polishing off my zombie-killing pink handgun, a sudden glimpse of reality dawned on me. That while I was in there, all this economic hoopla, finger pointing and all, had subsided. In some small way, my reliving of childish memories of zapping rats at the 'cade had made my quasi-shitty economic state non-existent and meaningless; it made me feel like I was shooting the bad bankers and greedy CEO's that got us into this mess and could care less about what they've done.

Then, I got some penny candy with the tickets I made from skeeball and went to a meaningless high school basketball game.


Moment of the day when time stopped:
This was when I watched a stray cat in my driveway for around five minutes.

The junk draw in my brain:
1. The Coors Light life-size that previously welcomed me at the top of my stairs startles me now that the light is burned out. It's time for a breakup. It's nobody's fault.
2. Chicago's rampant time and key changes mixed with an uncompromising horn section are what makes me a fan.
3. The second step coming into my apartment looks like it'll collapse any minute, but the third one is vastly underrated. That thing is hanging by less than a nail. And, yes, I talk about my steps like athletes in the NBA draft.
4. Anyone over 60, or anyone with gray hair, wearing a backpack will undoubtedly make me think of Benjamin Button.
5. I like my coffee like I like my women... 1. ... by the pound. 2. ... under three dollars. 3. ... strung out on black tar herion.
6. I should go to a different GNC everyday and ask where they keep all the good stuff baseball players are using these days.
7. If a drink has a Caution! section, you probably shouldn't even bother trying it.

Is Communion Gluten and Guilt Free?

We don't need to lie about this: I'm a sinner, you're a sinner, we're all sinners, right? My frequency might be a little more or less (probably more), so it goes without saying that when I say I went to church for the first time in around six or seven years, you know I'm having a tough time.

I sweat profusely in the front row, like Patrick Ewing in opening game warm-ups. I should have brought a sweat rag for my face. The candles were just burning. It was like a eulog on a summer day.

And that music?! How come Chris Brown isn't getting violent on these dudes? Why's he gangbanging the hotties with good voices? Take down the choir directors for christ sakes. How am I supposed to focus on when to sit, kneel and stand if you're putting me to sleep with this non-top 40 elevator music? I got an attention you're supposed to keep.

Oh, and I liked when they got to the hymn with a weird rhythm, seemingly too many words to fit in a four-measure bar, the director just stopped singing and left his choir under the bus like Keanu Reeves did in the movie Speed.

I was nervous. I felt a pain in Da-Chest like Chris Farley in Da-Bears sketch with John Goodman.

I was behind enemy lines. I felt every set of eyes on the back of my head, which is why when I saw a total milf walk by me, I hesitantly followed her to her seat even though she sat all the way in the back. Hey, I'm heartless, not dickless.

I felt like John-Wilkes Booth caught in a southern barn, surrounded by a hundred gun-toting infantry.

I prevailed, though, and my wallet was still in my pants. Apparently, if you don't want to give money you don't have, you just don't give it. What a misconception.


Thing I did while bored today:
Watched Peter Gammons continuously slur words when talking about the Toronto Blue Jay's bullpen depth.


Random, yet, unsinful things I learned today:
1. The man/woman ratio at Christmas Tree Shop is around 1:14. I also discovered the ratio of happy men/happy women is around 0:14. It seems men don't really enjoy being lugged around by their spouses while they shop for fake decorative fruit or the perfect scented candle.
2. A line forms at Guitar Center on Sundays.
3. There's no way to test a guitar's sound when jerk--white-kid-with-the-backwards-Dodgers-hat is ripping solos from And Justice For All.
4. Hearing emo-punks from behind the counter at Newbury Comics sing oldies is actually heartwarming.
5. People shouldn't be biking in freezing rain.
6. It's tough to tell somebody you don't want to help with community service because you have an addiction to playing Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare on Xbox Live.
7. I can find a way to make a pun with "a broad" (as in skank) with "abroad" (overseas).

As the Red Coats would say, "Who would wear those bloody pants?"

I wear red sweatpants. Often. Unabashed.

Seriously red, seriously ugly, and seriously comfortable. They're like Uggs, only affordable.

Let me break down for you. These aren't just any old sweatpants, these pants have a story. One Halloween I said to myself, what's the grossest, easiest costume I can come up with that people won't understand if I'm dressed up or really taking matching to another level.

So, I decided I would be a used tampon. Screw it, we're all adults. Looking back, probably not the tasteful costume I ever came up with, but I wasn't trick-or-treating with my nephews ("Your kids are so cute, but what are you dressed up as??" Oh, I'm a grown-up used tampon. I fit in the largest of vaginas.)

Finding a red sweatshirt wasn't a problem, I got one that I keep locked away that I wear once a year on Christmas. The hard part of this costume was finding the same red sweatpants I love and adore today. I went to all sorts of sporting goods places to no avail. "What kind of self-respecting sporting good store doesn't carry red sweatpants?!" I yelled. Turns out, every one actually has respect for themselves and doesn't carry the most noticable of sweatpants.

Finally, I said to myself, "Who wears red sweatpants?" Santa Clause, homeless people, the pope. Then, I ask, "Where do homeless people shop?" Trashcans, Wal-Mart, any place that has condiments on the counter that they can steal.

I went to Wal-Mart and I see the pants in the corner of my eye glaring through a sea of trash: some kid is crying, some old man looking at bra's and panties in the women's section, some really old guy is trying to put a smiley sticker on me. I walk over and there they were in all their majesty. A white string and everything.

Suddenly, the terrible idea of going through with this stupid, stupid, tasteless costume, subsided. The stars aligned. "All this awesome and still only three bucks?" I said. I bought them immediately. The best thing is that the cashier didn't give me the awkward "you're-buying-this?" look because she's so accustomed of ugly things going over her little scanner.

I wore them and only two people found the costume funny. The others, didn't want to know me. I wasn't the same god-fearing Justin Townsend they remembered from high school. I changed. (Picture: notice the x-mas sweater, then the white string to tighten my red pants.)

Nowadays, I wear these Santa-pants everywhere. They sufficiently succeed in making me look like one of two people I scarily admire: gym teachers and homeless people (which are a whistle away from being the same person, if you think about it).

Oh, and the classic, person-that-just-rolled-out-of-bed-with-a-hangover-trying-to-get-to-work.

Personality trait that failed me once again:
Being caught picking my nose. We all do it, not as many do it as anti-covertly as me.

Random stuff I learned that you didn't:
1. Nothing quite makes me laugh like infomercials for Snuggies and Hip Hop Abs. If you ever catch me watching these or asking to, just consider it like any other friend asking to watch George Carlin or that no talent ass-clown Dane Cook.
2. Why Dunkin Donuts puts jimmies on absolutely everything is beyond me. Do they think its easy driving, texting, and trying to keep these virtually tasteless yet colorful irritants from getting into every tiny crevise in my car?
3. I don't love my car that much. I just needed something stupid to write about the otehr day.
4. Spelling mistakes don't bother me, but when a person doesn't know the first president of the greatest nation I get ripping mad and ashamed.
5. Turns out I'm not the only one confused by your stupid shoes. MSN.com is apparently asking the same questions.