You're middle aged and not cool, gramps.

If there's one vehicular companion I could do without it is most definitely bikers. Emphatically too.

I said it. What's going to happen? Nothing. You wanna know why?

Because it's too nice of a day for them to get off their bikes and not have the wind blowing through their hair. That's why.

I don't want this to sound like I'm complaining about motorcyclists or bikers. I just want to point out some discrepancies within the subculture we've pandered to for the latter part of this decade.

I'm done pandering.

First off, I don't get the whole hand waving thing they do. Have you seen this? When they're riding, if they see another guy on a motorcycle coming up (and it doesn't matter what kind of bike, so long as its on two wheels with a motor), they're inclined to wave. The other guy, or gal, depending on how you look at it, waves back.

This is really funny to me because one time within the last two weeks (our last sunny day, probably), a guy continuously waved at dudes. Then he got two in a row by surprise. He successfully waved at one then put his hand down, only to see one more. He threw the hand out again, but lost balance of the bike and ended up swerving. After that he'd get waves, but he wouldn't wave back. It was great and almost the greatest moment of my life.

I get chuckles wondering what I'd be like trying to help the man after he did that. I hope to god I'd be able to control my laughter and excitement to be able to help him out.

I'm not a prick (for the most part) and I'd like to think I'd understand the situation, but being polite is one thing and this hand-waving thing is something I have yet to understand. If those two people were walking down Main Street, Woonsocket, neither would have the friendliness to give a wave. They're more likely to not even look at each other than throw a wave.

The other part of this is that when I wave to motorcyclists, they won't wave back. Well, what the hell is wrong with my Honda? Don't we have something in common too? Human? Low mileage? Both have faces?

Another thing, and this may be nitpicking, but let's say perhaps you're on a dumpy ass wanna-be chopper with a couple buddies and you see a yard sale. You're not interested, but your nagging-ass wife grasping for dear life really wants to see what this crappy-ass yard sale has to offer.

Now, there are several things to point out in this highly probably event.

1. You're not hardcore if your wife is on your chopper with you.
2. The two guys you ride with are going to be pissed off you're making them wait because of a yard sale.
3. The table your manly wife has picked out can't be thrown anywhere on your bike, and when you come back in two hours, the table will be gone.
4. In two years, you'll figure out your wife is seeing the friends you ride with.

Here's a list of other things you can't do with a motorcycle:
1. Stuff the trunk with bodies.
2. Have a hot coffee between your legs.
3. Make sweet, sweet love to woman in the backseat.
4. Have demolition derbies.
5. Rent.
6. See an actual deer give the classic deer-in-the-headlights look. They're simply not scared of your two wheels.

The last thing I want to point out is that because you ride a bike, you're not suddenly a really hot shot, gun slinging, huge cock sporting, living-on-the-edge Hell's Angel.

I understand you have something to prove, to somebody. That's okay. You're not automatically Chuck Norris or the really jacked Asian dude from Blood Sport. You have to earn some respect. I see guys all the time acting tough, then I'll see them bringing the communion plate up for mass.

Maybe when it comes down to it, you're more adventurous than me and my Civic, but I prefer two extra wheels to get me where I need to go. I can listen to music, roll the windows down and still get that wind going through my hair.


Other thoughts I probably wish I hadn't thought of:
1. Nobody is more glad to see my four-week intensive obsession with chicken pot pie go more than me.
2. Most advertisements undoubtedly work on me simply because I can't stop making fun of them.
3. That's twenty straight posts with the word "undoubtedly" in it.
4. The asian dude from Iron Chef America is the wildest character on television going. The way he says the secret ingredient and "alla cuisine" is completely comical. They even added whip-like sounds for when he turns his head. You can't make that show any better.
5. I don't have a timetable for the next time I post, but I am for sure taking a much needed siesta. 7 in 7 was successful and at times a chore, but I pulled it off. There were a lot of naysayers, and I have to say, I surprised myself. I think I achieved my goal in showing you that I don't prepare anything I write on here and that I'll literally write about anything at any time.
6. For the second time in a week, I've sat down on the toilet without the lid on. It was so cold.
7. The other day I walked, talked and did everything with my boxers on backwards, only to find out way late at night.

Jacko Lives

Michael Jackson lives.

He's in the Caribbean with Tupac and Biggie, being hand-fed grapes by Jacko's former chimp Bubbles. They're doing body shots off Anna Nichole's limp, drug-induced body. Ed McMahon is announcing the event with a microphone that isn't plugged in. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Jacko!

Steve McNair is there too. Well, his fat head anyway. He's actually dead. You can't survive four bullets. That's real.

Cardiac arrest? Please, way too easy to fake that. He fakes being white for how long? He faked being interested in women for how long?

The way I see it, he's finally getting some color on that skull he's been wearing the past couple years. Face it, he wouldn't be merely as creepy a public figure if he didn't dye his skin white and get over 1,000 cosmetic surgeries. Perhaps aspiring to be the living version of Skeletor wasn't the best idea.

Now, he's at peace. Not in a coffin, but climbing palm trees and playing dominos with Tupac's baby. They've created the most elaborate recording studio, which they're using to write the highest anticipated album of all time, set to drop Spring of 2023.

Of course, I say all of this because me and Jacko were tight and you should believe everything I say. At least, I'm reputable, not like those other dudes on television, dropping notes and tidbits that TMZ is picking up and flushing out like a bad burrito.

Suffice to say, I was lying about the whole living on the island thing. I don't really know that. It's possible, though, considering the kind of life he actually did live. He did have a pet monkey, kids sleeping in his bed, change his skin color, and write Thriller.

That's why I let the perpetual media overload on MJ cool off before writing a blog; it's alway tough to see how far and to what extent people will go to get a story about somebody that's dead, surpassing respect along the way. At no point did any medium stop and ask questions of how credible people were. I saw some guy claiming he was MJ's friend talk about his drug use. That's a pretty incriminating piece of information that he's finally very willing to let people know over national television. Some friend? No, probably a dude that never knew Michael that well.

The worst part of Michael Jackson dying was that we had to see his ugly, creepy face on television non-stop. I don't have fond, heart-wrenching memories of the iconic pop star. I don't care enough about musicians or actors to be moved when they die. Unless I know you, I probably won't. I don't need to be spoon fed information about why I should care.

My favorite Michael Jackson moment wasn't even something he did, instead, it was South Park. If those guys died tomorrow, I'd probably cry. MJ, though? Nah.


Breakdown on All-Muslim Wedding:
1. Wedding last night was exceptionally interesting and fun and filling. We never stopped eating it seemed and the event became more of an eating challenge than an actual wedding.
2. Besides seeing my friend tie the knot, my top 2 moments of the night: (A) Friend Jon walks up to us at a window, looking down onto the ground floor, some 300 feet below, and sees a farm with animals. His remark? Yep, "So are we going to be sacrificing any animals tonight?" (B) Me and friend, Jay, get awesome sun burns on face riding a BMW convertable down to NYC. We joke about how we'll look like we've eaten Volcano tacos. We get to the place and while we're waiting a dude comes over and asks if we ate any Volcano tacos. We laugh.
3. There is a Chinatown in Queens and it far surpasses the one in Manhatten in both dinginess, safety and size. They also have Flushing Mall, which is more like a flea market than a mall. They have a place where you can get harp lessons. Haven't you always wondered where people learn the harp?
4. I've never been less disappointed by not seeing a crepe station. The dessert room was out of control... Waffle Bar + Ice Cream Bar + Fondue = homemade pleated pants.
5. Spanish people love when you try and talk spanish to them. The dude at this little bodega in queens was pumped when I dropped a buenos dias on his face.
6. I created a social experiment on the highway. I tried to see which demographic of truck drivers responded to my "honk the horn" motions and which didn't. The whites were terrible and barely responded, while spanish people didn't comprende what I was doing (maybe flipping them off? I don't know.). African Americans were emphatically awesome at honking the horn and for reasons I don't know. All I know is it made my day and I'm pretty sure it made their days too. They seemed like they were having such a good time.

My Friend's Big Fat Muslim Wedding

My friend Andrew is getting married today and there's a protocol to everything and none of his friends really know what's going to happen.

I'll explain.

Who knows how long ago, maybe eight years, he met his fiance and soon to be wife, Hina. She's Muslim. Years later, in the middle of the night, Andrew converted. I respect his decision, in fact, I don't believe it was a decision as much a life choice. Whether or not others respect that is another story, and that's the reason for this blog.

You see, this is an all-Muslim type of wedding (whatever that means) and we don't really know how to act or behave. There's no dancing, no drinking, but there is a dessert room with crepe station.

Yes, crepe station.

This is how I see my trip to NYC and wedding going down:

8:34 - Hitting the road to pick up friends
9:05 - Leave for NYC
9:10 - First spat with diarrhea stems
9:11 - Pull over and walk into woods with socks on, walk out without socks off
10: 40 - Somebody makes first Muslim joke of the day
10:40:20 - Somebody makes first Catholic fondling joke of the day
11:34 - I say for the first time, "I hope they sacrifice an animal."
1: 20 - We arrive in NYC an hour early and can't check in. We go to Brooklyn and have drinks. For the second time today I mention sacrificing a lamb and drinking the blood would be exceptional.
2:15 - We miss check in by about four shots of Jim Beam.
2:35 - First member of friends goes missing, only to be found puking incessantly in the hotel lobby.
3:14 - While changing for the wedding we find cockroaches in our bathroom. One of us tries to catch it, bangs head on corner of bureau.
3:45 - Leave for pictures with friend.
4:11 - Friend wonders why we're late and notices puke on one of our shoes, getting noticeably more nervous about that than actual ceremony.
4:30 - Pictures are over, we attempt to revive one member of friends with hot coffee.
7:30 - Ceremony starts
7:31 - Ceremony ends. That's right, one minute, the way it should be.
7:35 - I meet some laid back, chill Indian dude and shoot the shit. We talk about baseball and I promptly end the conversation with a question about sacrificing animals and drinking blood.
8: 14 - Really drunk member of friends makes off-color remark about Muslims with group of Muslims present. The band stops playing weird music and everyone looks at friend.
9:20 - Supper is served. 10 minutes early, just like the program promised.
10:00 - Nobody is dancing and awkward conversations are held between various members of my friend Andrew's family and her family. One elder on Andrew's side asks, "Where's Jesus fit into this again?"
11:42 - Dessert rooms are opened. I hallucinate and picture Peter opening the gates of heaven. Crepes are devoured by the dozen. I have a full body erection. A feeling of euphoria overcomes my nether-region like blood rushing to your finger after you nail it with a hammer.
1:30 - Midway through fortieth crepe I quit.
1:56 - My lactose intolerance kicks up and firewater begins to flow.
2:01 - They sacrifice a lamb.
2:14 - I return to the room to cheers and blood dripping from all my friends' faces. I missed it.
5:38 - I try for the eleventh time to go to bed, only to find myself back in the bathroom, reading the miniature shampoo bottle, memorizing the spanish version.
5:55 - I tell myself I'll never eat another crepe every again. I realize I've gotten drunk on crepes.

Your Weather Sucks, not mine.

Let's not kid ourselves, it's been a rainy couple months of summer here in New England.

It's been wry, it's been raw, it's been more wet than Anna Nicole on the phone with a new pharmacist.

There are some things I'd like to talk about, a few talking points, as they say in radio.

First is this: you don't need to talk about the weather. Now, I realize this is somewhat of a hypocritical curveball, but I'm not going to go into how much it sucks to be kept from those beautiful Rhode Island beaches during the summer months (... and for those of you that can't comprehend sarcasm, I'll interpret: RI beaches aren't anything special. They have seaweed, screaming kids kicking sand in your bag of Lays and water so cold the guys from Deadliest Catch would have trouble getting into).

The main point here is that nobody cares what you have to say about the weather, ever. You can't change the way the weather works, unless you pump more CFC's into the ozone. Nothing you say will even remotely contribute to any conversation about the weather.

You what I do? I act like I care about the weather. I'll repeat words that others use. If I hear somebody say, "Yuck! Is it raw out there!" I say the exact phrase continuously until that person understands. I'll also use various terminology lamen folk don't understand. Words like "barametric pressure", "cumulonimbus", or "heat index". If I'm in a jam, the Ghiorse factor is always a hot button to push. There's a number some dude on local television made up to make himself feel like he was creating some new way to look at weather.

This technique I call bullshitting is something I also use with anyone when talking about cars, watching Nascar, or writing papers in college.

My second point of contention is that if we are going to be talking about the weather to at least be using accurate terminology.

Raining or pouring buckets is not correct. Can you imagine somebody dumping a bucket on your head continuously for hours? That's a lot of water.

Another one is "showers". When somebody says showers, you think what? There's not that much rain coming down, right? Imagine taking a shower and not that much water coming out. You'd be pissed. So, you should be pissed when there's rain showers in the area, too.

My last talking point is that when the sun finally pokes its head out, don't say, "Great! Now, the sun's in my eyes." Choose a side. Do you want to be a vampire or a solar panel?


The area you wish you hadn't stepped in:
1. On Day 2 of 7 I was already tired of saying this was a bad idea.
2. It's day four and I've successfully covered two very terribly boring topics: the weather and dogs vs. cats. What next?
3. In the past couple days I've come across two people that resemble males, but could've been females. My tip to everyone: check for bra straps. If they're wearing a black shirt, check the package. It's the only way you can be sure. By all means, don't make eye contact.
4. Me and my roommate have a Wednesday night ritual of watching Top Chef, Real World and then Conan. After that we tea bag each other and drink Merlot at room temperature.
5. Put hershey pies from Burger King on the list of Things That Make the Toilet Paper Run Out.
6. Whenever I see somebody out in public with a Naughty America shirt I laugh uncontrollably.
7. Shopping for groceries has been reduced to a simple list and my roommate has figured it out: one frozen pizza, milk, eggs, juice of some sort or gatorade, cereal, and some sort of snack. The snack lasts one day, the milk goes bad, the pizza is cooked within a day, the cereal goes stale, I forget which eggs are mine and assume they're bad.

Not Missing the Point

For anyone that's ever dabbled with Craigslist, you know about a little section called "Missed Connections" and if you don't then you should.

Because people are awesome and they do even more awesomer stuff. That's right, more awesomer. What do you do when something is way more awesome? Write more awesomer.

Here's what you have to do. First, X out the various porn sites (plural because I know my audience is a bunch of perverts) you've been traveling. Open a new, clean browser. Perhaps clean your monitor. Go to craigslist.com and find the personals section and a little bit further is a little thing I consider to be the savior of American literacy. If we gave kids craigslist missed connections everyday in school, they're undoubtedly continue reading.

Essentially the site is there for people that believe in love at first sight, but not having the CNBs to say anything. This combination is a perfect match for the internet, where you can seemingly say anything you want and never have to think of it again (eerily just like this blog...).

As you'll see, this Dating Game-gone-wrong website is particularly lewd at times, and almost always hilarious. Some say sad, I say hilarious. Synomous, really.

Here's a really good example titled "APPLE STORE":

"I talked you into buying the next level of computer. You were with your friend and have a pierced lip. We had a good convo. If you want to get together tell me what color hat I was wearing."

Next level of computer? Very solid. I took a shot on the one called Apple Store, but essentially it turned out better than I expected, which turns out to be the case 98 percent of the time.

See "NK Walmart Stacked":
"You were the incredibly stacked brunette with a phenomenal body, wearing a green tank and shorts with shoes laced up to your calves. What body soap did you decide on?"

Incredibly stacked. What kind of soap? This guy sure has the moves. Missed connections tip: Whenever "stacked" is in the title, you got a winner.

I mention this because I almost lost my baby not to long ago. For those around me during the craigslist killer debacle, you know what I'm talking about. I was agitated. "Are they going to get rid of the personals?" I asked sometimes in the lonesome and outloud. I'd slam books whenever Wolf Blitzer spoke, even though he never talked about this topic.

"What else will grab my attention like missed connections did so long ago?"

That brought me back to the time I was first introduced to missed connections. I'd like to illustrate that experience in the same way they do on Missed Connections, in a piece titled "Love at first Connection":

"We were strangers living in a large world: mine, the RIC Student Union; your's, a vast technological superhighway known as the Internet. My fair skinned Jewish friend, Matt, talked about you in a way much like certain scenes from The Notebook. You were perfect. In an feebish attempt, somebody on your site met eyes with another beauty at a funeral. Hearts fluttered. 'Of course,' he thought. 'She'll be on Missed Connections, looking for me, too. I better post something rediculous.' The words couldn't be written better by Walt Whitman. They were beautiful, comical and downright pathetic. Everything I love in a good writer."

There is even a psychological thing going on too. I know I'm not hitting the ball out of the park, but I do know that I'm not on Missed Connections. At least not yet. Until then, the site will continue to be a place of downright slapstick, knee slapping fun.

The part your brain should be allergic to:
1. You are perverts. Don't disagree. I read my counter at the bottom of the page before the whole jerkoff record story two days ago and that was read more than any other story. I caught you.
2. Watching the guy from the basement operate outside this morning was much like when I used to watch the stray cat we called Garbage living in our parking lot.
3. I wonder if when people use my phone they think of how I watch youtube videos on the can with it.
4. The other day I threw a bunch of pennies out the window at some friends and yelled, "For last night!" That just shows you how obsolete the penny has become, when I'm willing to make an ill-fated bad joke at its expense.
5. At work there's two people teaching me the bad words in French, but neither of them are on the same page. Manville isn't big enough to have two different dialects of French is it?
6. I've eaten so many bagels in the past two months I should be either fat or Jewish or both.
7. Does being gay make you better at being organized? Because I'll be gay for one day and not tell anyone just so get shit done.

Dog eat Dog

Look, I like dogs. Don't believe the rumor that I don't. Because I do.

I'm a dog man.

I don't care for cats. Cats are assholes. They don't understand the plight of the man. They don't comprehend our lazy Sunday's, where we rely on our dogs to get the paper.

There hasn't been a famous cat since Garfield and even he was a douchebag. No shocker, right? All cats in the history of television and life have been douches.

The Chesire Cat, Heathcliff, Sylvester, Felix, Hobbes. All jerks. Think of all the different types of dangerous cats, too. Panthers, Tigers, Bobcats, Lions, Cougars, Leopards. All dangerous. None of those will bring in a newspaper.

When people eat something terrible they say, "This tastes like cat food." That's how much cats suck. We give them the crappiest stuff to eat.

The only cats that were ever cool were the Thundercats.

How about famous dogs?

Lassie anyone? Dude saved Billy in the well. He could communicate with humans in a supernatural way. He could tell time. He scored higher than me on the SAT. Cats are out doing their nails and chasing mice. Perhaps Lassie is the reason I like dogs so much, in some subconscious way. I feel like I can talk to them and they'd understand me, really understand me.

Turner and Hooch? Awesome. Beethoven? The British Bulldog? Give me a break. I'd have a drink out of the toilet bowl with all of them.

I like hot dogs.

So where does the confusion come in?

Well, I may yell certain obscenities while being chased by dogs every now and again. I may have been found guilty of carrying snowballs on several runs while in high school. I maaaay have been found guilty of parking my car last week and telling a dog barking at me, "Fuck You." Maybe I did that. I don't really know. And there's no truth that whenever a dog is around I give it the evil eye.

I assume all dogs bite and attack on a whim, no matter how big or how small. I'm allergic to them. I can't pet them and I don't like how they eat everything in sight.

AND still, after all these faults, both my own and the dogs, I'm still a dog guy. Just imagine now how much I don't like cats. Go ahead.


The kittylitter:
1. A day isn't complete until you see a 1992 Subaru POS protected by the club with a window busted in. I saw mine at 8 a.m. today. I'm in cruise control.
2. Paying seven bucks for corn bread mix isn't right.
3. If you sneeze consistently for six hours, your brain will slowly begin oozing out your nose.
4. I like to think of my house as the evolution chain. The primitive in the basement is clearly retarded. One floor up is a guy that we believe to deep fry skunks. On the second floor are friends, and they're intelligent, but essentially they're in love and that shit isn't smart. We're on the fourth floor and neither of us are taken, deep fry rodents, or are retarded.
5. Funny, educated heckling is my thing and I raked it at the Red Sox game last night, just eight rows from Nomah's crotch and the Oakland dugout.
6. I totally guessed that Oakland first basemen Jason Giambi and third base coach Gary Gallego were lovers. Giambi eventually got on third base and put his arm around Gallego and stared into his eyes. Minutes later the two were scissoring on the infield grass in front of 38,000 fans.
7. Independence Day will never sound like the right thing to say after Will Smith and that terrible script ruined the phrase forever. Fourth of July is still there, though, until they need a name for another crappy summer blockbuster action movie.

TMI: Too Much Information

There are records and then there are records.

To this date, my mind has probably registered a little over 10,000 records with 9,500 of those coming from watching Sportscenter. All sorts of stats and meaningless information I call banal minutiae. Nobody cares about the records but the people that hold them. Does the home run record really effect you enough to throw batteries at Barry Bonds? Does it put your kids in college? Does it help you make kids? If you answer yes to either of those, you are, in fact, a kid.

What gets me more are these people trying to get into Guiness Books of World Records for something, training for months to perfect one simple task as stupid as balancing a book on their head for three days straight, then failing, or perhaps worse, achieving then getting handed a piece of paper that resembles the old honor roll certificates in elementary school.

The reason I start my blog with this isn't because of Roger Federer and his 15th and record-breaking major championship, but it was impressive. Not important in my life, but impressive. The reason for this isn't even that Joey Chestnut eating 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Impressive, but not important.

What is more impressive is a record I have recently come across as an historic day: the day (name shall remain anonymous) manually achieved climax 14 times.

That's an round-about way of saying jerked off. Seeing that I just explained what I meant, there was no reason to actually say it in a round-about fashion.

This record is actually significant to me.

For one, it makes my personal record very, very small. Almost to the point where I feel I should be manually achieving climaxation more, that I'm insufficiently producing in the lonesome.

It makes me feel less like a pervert, which feels pretty good.

The number, I must say, is a little daunting for any regular in the self-pud-pounding committee. 14! That's one more than a baker's dozen.

Now, I know somebody out there has done more, but this number alone makes me ask so many questions. Perhaps more startling is that when I asked around a couple more people said they had gotten above 10 times! I can't believe that. That's like multiple people breaking the color barrier in major league baseball. Jackie Who?

Don't get me wrong, I've been around the bases in my day. Never have I gone above three times. That was a lonely ass day. Nothing going on. Nobody was around. Still, STILL, only got to three. I think if I went further into the game my arm would've needed Tommy John.

The endurance shown on such a day is shear athleticism, like seeing somebody hit for the cycle twice in one game.

How does one have enough time for that kind of feat? After every time you need a nap or a cold shower to process the shame. And forget about the actual state of your johnson afterwards. I can't even imagine holding it to take a piss after 14 times. I'd have a better time climbing Mount Everest with snakes biting me and diarrhea.


Other notable moments of TMI:
1. On boxers: if the dickhole points to the right, my c-n-b's flap out, but if it points to the left, they won't.
2. Ask me to pose for a picture and I will give you what I call "The Senior Portrait".
3. I felt more American because I ate four hamburgers on the Fourth.
4. Job Lot doesn't sell obnoxiously ugly Patriotic shirts so don't try. Where do these people find them?!
5. I also felt more American when somebody complained about the fireworks on Spring Lake when they were essentially put on and funded by residents on the Lake. Kind of brought things into perspective a little bit, ya know?
6. The best investment I made in the past three months has been this little Lasko fan that blows directly into my face, no more than 15 inches away from me.
7. I'll likely never golf at 6 a.m. ever again.
8. There's a lady that comes into Beef Barn with Parkinsins and if I don't register that she's got the disease right away, when she looks up at me, I think, "What the hell's her problem?"