Showing posts with label idiot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label idiot. Show all posts

Who I Am Not: Club Rat

Posted by Phildo | Labels: , , , ,

So I'm packing for my trip to Miami this weekend. One of my best friends is getting married and this is his bachelor party. I've realized a few things:

  • I own approximately ZERO outfits that could qualify as what a cursory Google search identifies as "clubbing" clothes. I don't go to clubs, I go to dive bars. When I was a suit, I'd go to a dive bar after work, in my suit. Since I've been unemployed, I go to dive bars in various models and makes of sweatpant/jean combinations. 
I don't even remotely know how to start to look like this.
  • Who the Christ buys a shiny ass shirt? Or even worse, those shirts with like a crazy ass dragon all up and down one side of it with just the claw arching over the back or whatever. Ugh.
  • I never understood the concept of just going up and being like "I'm grinding on you." I guess I'm too old fashioned. I prefer a lengthy courtship with letters hand-written with a quill pin and lots of pining in an orchard. And I hate that about myself.
Wouldst thou care to dance to this most distinguished Lady Gaga remix?
  • My physical fitness is missing.
  • My favorite pair of flip flops broke today.
  • I am broke today.
  • Did I mention I have like, no money? 
  • We're going to a casino one night, and I'm in charge of finding an idiot savant to come along with us. I have completely failed in this regard.
If I end up being Zack Galifinakis in this movie just because I have a beard, I'll be pissed.
  • I'm dicking around writing a blog post when I need to be finishing packing. 
See you in Miami, bitches!


How Being An Asshole Is Like Being Cupid

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Gather round children, it's time for a story; or, as I like to call it: story time. Unlike most of Uncle Phildo's stories though, this one is actually true. This is the story of how Uncle Phildo being a total asshole led to two people finding each other and eventually getting married. Because that's what Uncle Phildo does. He's an asshole. And then people get married. And he stays unhappy. Don't grow up, kids.

"And then Somali pirates took over the ark and held all the animals hostage until a UN peacekeeping force brutally murdered the pirates using bullets and ballistic knives."
Harken back, if you will, to February 4th, 2007. There was a crisp breeze meandering through the city streets and a football game was scheduled. Not just any football game though. That's right Timmy! The Super Bowl!

Pictures really do say more than words...
Uncle Phildo was at his favorite grown-up drink spot with one of his friends. They got there well before the game started to make sure they could grab a good spot and then they started drinking "no no juice" in vast quantities. So...oh look, your parents are here. Thank God this storytelling thing was annoying as hell.

So anyway my friend and I are at the bar, probably looking mildly homeless, downing pitcher after pitcher after pitcher after pitcher after pitcher of beer. Earlier in the evening, apparently right before we had arrived, some attractive representatives of the Miller Lite brand were there passing out Miller Lite branded memorabilia like hats, frisbees and those little things that you put under your eyes to reduce glare if you happen to be athletic and want to have that "Native American" look going for you. Sadly we missed most of the swag being doled out. In a state of drunken despair we asked the bartender if he was sure that the Miller Lite girls were gone and he said he was pretty sure they were. Not to be deterred, we ordered another pitcher of beer.

Shortly thereafter, two girls decked out head-to-toe in Miller Lite gear came over and asked if they could join us for a beer. Baffled, my friend and I agreed. Were these the mysterious Miller Lite promo girls? After several pitchers of beer had been consumed, we basically thought we were being hit on by these women:

Of course we missed this.
Later Facebook stalking combined with a bit of sobriety under our belts showed us it was maybe closer to this:

Copyright for this photo belongs to my ex-wife.
However, since we were feeling like we were on top of the world and being hit on some pretty gorgeous babes, we went with the flow. We didn't outright ask them if they worked for Miller; we felt like we didn't have to because hey, they gave us a frisbee! DUH they work for Miller AND are in love with us! After sharing a beer with us they said they had to go back to their group of friends but invited us to come and join them. Always one to play it cool, I probably said something like "Maybe after I go cut down a tree and build a fucking house and kill a bear." My friend and I looked at each other in disbelief. It was like something out of a movie...first and foremost, attractive women don't come to this bar. Second, women in general don't come to this bar. It's a dive bar at it's very finest. On its best day you really only see the hardened alcoholics of the area, so for us to be in this situation was the equivalent of walking onto your back porch and finding a magical hot tub waiting for you. 

We needed a strategy. Because we were drunk. Because clearly women love being lied to I proposed that we tell them we're actually employees of Budweiser (see what I did there?) and operate off the craaaaazy coincidence that they're Miller Lite girls and we're....Budweiser........Boys...........

My friend immediately vetoes this idea. It is the dumbest thing he's ever heard, he hates me, he takes my man card and rips it in half. He unleashes a volley of insults that leave me in the emotional equivalent of the fetal position. He says "Nah man, let's just be who we are, that's what's important." I steeled myself and we ambled over to their table, where they were seated with a small group of friends. They greeted us in that special "We're drunk and we saw you a minute ago!" kind of way and we returned a similar greeting. Before I can even open my mouth to say something awkward my friend plops down at the table and says:

"So you won't believe this...I actually work for Budweiser!"


Really? Are you fucking kidding me? You spent the better part of a glass of beer lambasting me for suggesting that we tell them that we are Budweiser employees and then you waltz over to their table and not only bogart my idea, but don't even include me in it? He has the whole table captivated as he makes up stories of how he travels with Budweiser doing promotional events and what not. Everything I try to say is completely passed over by the group. Defeated, I started ordering shots like a champ and entered what I like to call "Super Surly Pissed Off Mega Drunk Mode." The one "Miller Lite" girl that I had affections for was hanging on my friend's every word and I decided that the best course of action would be for me to be a total dick. Because everyone loves an asshole. 

While I'm a bit hazy on the specifics, something I said to one of the young ladies caused the table to go completely silent, and even garnered the attention of a nearby table of young men, one of whom decided to come over to the table and say something like "Hey asshole, why don't you take a hike?" As if I had been waiting for an excuse to go brood elsewhere in the bar, I took this as my cue and went to go drink alone while my friend and Mr. Stands-Up-For-Someone-When-Really-He-Should-Be-Standing-Up-For-Me-Because-My-Friend-Torpedoed-Me-And-Made-Me-Look-Like-An-Asshat (or Mr. SUFSWRHSBSUFMBMFTMAMMLLAA for short) stay and have a wonderful time in the company of the young ladies.

Years pass by, my friend and I often look back on this story and laugh at what a complete and total dick he was. Instead of saying rude things to people I just generally don't say anything to people anymore, which helps. Well lo and behold, I'm telling the story to a friend I work with (back when I had a job) and midway through, her eyes wide with disbelief, she asks "That was you?"

You see, it turns out the Miller Lite girl that had gotten offended at what a brutish asshole I was, she's a good friend of my work friend. And Remember Mr. SUFSWRHSBSUFMBMFTMAMMLLAA? Apparently Miller Lite girl was so moved by his chivalrous act of telling me that I was a d-bag that she gave him her phone number. And then they went on a date. And another date. And then they were dating. And probably having sex, too. And then they were engaged. And NOW THEY'RE MARRIED. 

This started out as a kid's story, so I suppose I should wrap this up with a little moral or something to take away from this...I guess the point is, if I'm an asshole to you, you'll probably find the love of your life because of it. And I'll just go on drinking alone


Dear Subway, It's Not Me, It's You (With Guest Illustrator! And Calcium!)

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Dear Subway,

We've had some good times together, haven't we? Who could forget the time when we first met? I asked you for turkey, you smiled, laughed and asked "Toasted?" Blushing, I accepted your offer. I ignored the warning signs, that things were moving a little too fast. I mean...toasting? On our first date? I couldn't help myself, it just felt so right. You asked me "What else?" and oh, sweet sweet Subway, you showed me a bevy of bell peppers, spinach, lettuce, pickles, tomatoes and oh so much more. I thought This could be the one. I watched as you seductively squirted mayonaise and mustard onto the goopey, melty cheese that was the symbol of our love. You're a lady, Subway, and you didn't want to give it all up on our first didn't give me all the lettuce I wanted, but I understood.

Over the years, things started getting more serious. You knew that you had to keep things interesting or I'd get bored so you introduced things like new breads and those little breakfastey things that I never ate because you know I'm not a morning person. I knew I could count on you and you knew you could count on me.

But we've had our bad times, too. I know it's been years and you swear it meant nothing to you, but what you did with's hard to regain trust after something like that. Still, we tried. We went to couples therapy, we even took a break to see other people. I know it must've hurt to see me with Quizno's all those times...I know it must've hurt because when I came back there you were. With Jared. I'll never forget that night outside your apartment when I stood there in the rain watching you and Jared's silhouettes in the sweet embrace of sandwiching.

Against my better judgement, against everything in my head that told me Just walk away, Phildo. Walk away before it's too late and you're damaged forever...we decided to give it one last go.

To show me you were willing to make the effort, you said you'd only charge me $5 for a foot-long sandwich. You knew exactly what buttons to push to get me back. At the time it seemed too good to be true. I mean, five dollars? You didn't even do that for Jared. You moved in down the street; I mean we weren't really sure if we were ready to move in together after our break, and I'd come over most nights. Things were really turning around.

Then...with no explanation, you changed. No more five dollar foot long turkey sandwiches? I asked you why, you were cold and distant. You started trying to make me buy weird combinations of things like pepperoni and meatballs; the Subway I fell in love with and worked so hard to stay with for all these years just wasn't the same.

Today when I came over, though, you did something I never expected you to told me I could only have 16 pickles. What's worse, it wasn't even you who told me. You had your friend tell me. Shocked, I didn't know what to say. I asked if you were around but Pita told me you didn't want to talk about it. Sixteen pickles. All these years together and in the end it came down to sixteen miserable little pickles.

You really woke me up today Subway. Breaking up is never easy but this isn't exactly the first time we've done this dance, is it? I mean you can't even have the decency to tell me face-to-face that you don't want me to have your pickles anymore? I'd say this was a tough decision to make, but you kind of made it for me. I know the lease is up on your place soon so I'd appreciate it if you didn't renew it. I think it'll be best if we just never see each other again. I'll always have fond memories of our time together; the early days that is. Meanwhile, go to hell you miserable bitch.

With regret,

P.S. - I debated as to whether or not to tell you something so...intimate...but I'm going to do it because I want you to hurt like I do. Quizno's? Oh yeah, Quizno's and me are getting back together. Because she has a full pickle bar. All. You. Can. Eat.

This post was guest illustrated by The 21st Century Mrs. Be sure and click her name to check out her hilarious musings and secret dance parties. 


There's An OC Shaped Hole In My Heart (Video + Sarcasm)

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So I was watching this SNL Digital Short that a quick Google Search tells me is deadpanning the end of season two of The OC. I'll go ahead and get this out of the way, when the OC came out I thought "That's kind of quick-witted and boy, don't I wish I could have a rich daddy with fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows?" But I quickly lost interest as I was living in Southern California at the time and became disenfranchised as no rich families wanted to take me on as a financial responsibility and give me the chance I never had as a troubled teen.

"Dad? Will you rub your eyebrows on mine until I fall asleep?" "Son, you''re not my son. And you're 23. No." "I love you daddy."

So when I realized what they were making fun of, I became completely overwhelmed with joy. Here's the short:

Hope you enjoyed watching Shiah Lapoof get shot as much as I did. But watching this got me to thinking I should watch the clip they're referencing. So I can get it.

My house and heart flooded with shame as I remembered how I was like "Man that Adam Brody sure does have an adorable mop of hair that I'm going to try and emulate." Those were confusing times. My hair looked totally cooler than his though. It made me realize though, I had stopped watching the show somewhere near the end of the first season and NEVER looked back. If you know me at all, you know that once I need to know something...once that seed is planted, I have to know. So I immediately searched for a synopsis on how the series ended, which reminded me of how Mischa Barton is just...all kinds of unfortunate to me. These sentences are becoming run-ons, aren't they? They always have been? Fuck off.

I landed over at this website because Wikipedia was too lazy to have a plot summary for me. The author of this post summarized the episode with...quite a bit of emotion. Not very professional journalism, in this professional journalist's editorial opinion. I was utterly shocked to come across this conclusion drawn in the last paragraph:

In the end, Ryan achieved his dream. A college graduate who became an architect. It's fitting that the series ended on the same note that it started. Someone lending a troubled kid a hand. The whole thing is cyclical, as Sandy said earlier in the episode. What goes around comes around. Unfortunately, I don't think we'll see another show as well crafted and culturally meaningful as The OC come around again any time soon.

Are you fucking kidding me? Let me single this out for you.

Unfortunately, I don't think we'll see another show as well crafted and culturally meaningful as The OC come around again any time soon.

Are you still having trouble? Hold on.

as well crafted and culturally meaningful

Let me narrow this down for you.

culturally meaningful

As CULTURALLY MEANINGFUL as the OC, you say? The show that defined a generation? The show that ended apartheid and elected the first black President?  The show that single-handedly changed the way we view underprivileged white kids? The show that settled the NFL labor disputes and, in hindsight, predicted the earthquake and tsunami in Japan and tried to warn us with kitschy whore-mother scenes and Rachel Bilson whimpering her way through a script? Yes, I suppose you're right...the void left by the culturally significant program that is as ubiquitous in the collective hearts of America as the day Kennedy was shot and 9/11 has still yet to be filled. Woe. Woe are we.

What shocked me most, however, was that this wasn't written by a menopausal woman in her late-50's, Twilight hadn't been invented when this was written, and what's worse? A fucking man wrote this. I mean, we say "man," because his name is Jonathon Toomey, so I presume he has the anatomical equipment and chromosomal makeup necessary to be considered a man. But as far as being a man? As far as going into the fucking woods and chopping down trees and killing bears and having a grizzly beard and knowing how to field strip a gun and unclasp a bra with one hand while eating bacon with the other? Jonathan Toomey, if you're out there, find your nearest hardware store, purchase some sturdy rope, and hang yourself from the nearest tree/lamppost/erection-of-your-likely-gay-lover.

But right now? I'm hungry and this is more focus than I've put into anything I've done in at least a I'm feeling a little woozy. I think it's off to Subway for a five dollar sandwich that really costs seven dollars* so I can try and recuperate from the freshly reopened wound caused by remember the loss of The OC.

*Watch the entire series of The OC on DVD while I eat Ben & Jerry's ice cream and weep.


Why You Should Never Help the Helpless: A Cautionary Tale

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So there's this ex-con guy I know. Like...not a slicked-back hair wearing used car salesman who did a 3 year stint for touching his seventeen year old niece-in-law...we're talking a hardened criminal who did ten years for soliciting prostitution, dealing hard drugs and fucking shooting someone.

Why my office decides to keep him on staff continues to perplex me (I've come to the conclusion that he's part Native American or something and we have to keep him on staff to meet diversity requirements) because he's so vastly unprofessional that it's just astonishing...but I digress.

I loaned him twenty dollars two weeks ago. Y'know because I'm a white guy and any time someone insinuates that we're not giving or generous we go out and give everyone a bunch of fucking money and smallpox blankets and AIDS and shit. Well so I let him borrow twenty bucks for "bus fare" which is apparently what the so-stupid-that-you-have-a-full-time-job-and-you're-still-almost-homeless are calling "Four Loko money nigggggaaaaaaaz!" these days. He promised he'd pay me back January 5th, 2011 AD.

That day came and went. We are now onto January 8th...and I politely ask him,

"Where's my money?"

He replies, "Oh I'm 'on have to get that to you on the next one."

"The next what?"

"The next paycheck."

"What happened to this paycheck?"

"I um...I been taking the bus a lot lately."

Really? You're going to commit to this? You spent your whole fucking paycheck on bus fare? Where the fuck are you taking the bus to every day? Do you commute from fucking Oregon?

"Yeah. So that's bullshit. Don't bullshit me."

"Um...yeah but we cool, right?"

"No we not cool."

"Well it's just I...y'know I went out and partied a little hard."

I'm a white dude who grew up largely in a major metropolitan suburb and I don't even seriously say the phrase "partied a little hard." Bridging the ethnic divide we are not.

"OK so you're telling me now that not only do you not have the money that you promised me, but that you also don't have it because you made partying a higher priority than keeping your word? AND you're telling me that you lied to me about the purpose of the money in the first place? No. No we are not cool."


"Have my money by tonight or so help me God I will spray you with pepper spray until your dead little eyes pop out of your skull."

I'm such a fuckhuggable delight.


SOOO emo.

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It makes me happy to search my gmail with the operator "my lady" and have this come up...

Gay, right?


Navy Pilots Playing "Dunk the Helicopter In Lake Tahoe" (Video)

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Where the fuck is John Galt?

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Hello internet.

It's been awhile.

And boy...I, uh, don't know how to say this...but you've put on some weight.

Let's see. What's been going on? Where the fuck have I been? And honestly, who and where the fuck is John Galt?

I've been doing a bit of couch surfing as of late, resulting from the fact that none of you guys will give me any money. I've been dabbling in a bit of web development, spending time with my octogenarian grandmother and learning about...farming. What? That's like all she ever did. Who am I to get in the way of nostalgia?

So I've been feeling a little blocked up lately - part of it is because some relatively heavy shit has gone down, and the other part of it is that I haven't had internet for a little over a month (except for times like now, when I'm at a coffee shop). Also I've been eating a lot of cheese. So here it is, some of the verbal diarrhea that's been stored up inside me since my last post. I'll save the actual diarrhea for my porcelain throne.

Things I've Been Annoyed By:

  • The distance between Arkansas and Georgia
  • Delta Air Lines
  • This guy with shoulder length, wet looking hair that just walked into the coffee shop in an all white linen jumpsuit. 
Backstreet Boys Reunion?
  • Herman Cain
  • Hearing people talk about politics
  • Lisps
  • Hipsters (but that's really nothing new)
  • Neurotic tendencies , especially mine
Things I've Been Digging On:
  • This woman.
  • Any non-clothing articles made of leather. I figure the more leather I buy, the more hot female celebrities I can get to do PETA ads with their clothes off. Win/win, right? Sweet briefcase AND naked celebs?
  • The fact that Mel Gibson is an absolute fucking train wreck. I mean it sucks, but he seems hell bent on doing it right out in front of us.
  • The new Kings of Leon CD, "Come Around Sundown" (yes I realize the obvious link between that and hipsters).
  • The new business that myself and the aforementioned object of my affection are starting (details to come, as will I).
  • Positivity
  • The dude in the white jumpsuit from above. Who am I kidding? The fact that he actually exists practically proves the existence of God. A twisted, bizarre and latently homosexual God, but a God nonetheless.
Ah, I've missed being wildly inappropriate with you all. Ha. You all. Hi Phildo! Look! I'm on the internet! Yeah, dumbass. You're the one writing and reading this. Thanks for raining on my fucking parade, chump. 

I promise not to be such a stranger. And by that I don't mean that I'm going to stop hanging out at elementary school playgrounds and public parks in a van, I mean I'll post more. If you'll read more. Of me. Not of some other about shit. Yup.

Hugs! Ew. Stop. I have personal space issues. 


Street Magic

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Despite the fact that I've shown this to tons of people, it is sort of indicative of my night last night.



iPhone 4 vs. HTC Evo

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This is NSFW language-wise, but SO worth the watch.


Things I'm Pissed At

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Okay. It's Tuesday. It's hot out. This old dude across from me at the coffee shop has been blathering on and on about his stupid dead wife. She got hit by a bus. I know, right? Also pretty sure I'm suffering from withdrawal (meth, it's tough to kick, y'know). So, here's a list of things that are currently chapping my chappie.


Get a Hare Cut

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A friend recently recommended a blog or two to me. 

Wait. Fuck. Let me start over.

Hi. I haven’t posted in awhile. I recently rediscovered this thing called…um…shit…oh! LIFE. Yeah I’d had one on back order for awhile and it finally showed up at the door a few weeks ago. It’s been nice to leave my self-imposed exile, to step out into the bright, wide world and remember what Vitamin D feels like (it feels like the sun, FYI. But not like, burning hot plasma and gas, it feels like the sun on your skin…fuck it, you know what I’m talking about.) and in general, have been living a much more fulfilling life. Hell, I’ve even found it difficult to be as sarcastic as I so desperately enjoy being. 

Those of you who follow me on Twitter (if you don’t, you really should, it’s like…constant orgasms. And a lot of ellipses.) probably noticed things like “camping” and “not on computer” and “sex with forest creatures” show up in my Tweets. You may have even noticed that I haven’t been nearly as sardonic as normal, and this is something I haven’t taken to without noticing. For a long time I have been, in my opinion, defined by two things:

1) My overarching love of commas, parenthetical asides and ellipses.

2) Being a sarcastic man-bitch.

Imagine, if you will, an Adonis-like man standing proudly above the plebeians, bronzed chest glistening with sweat and diet coke…now imagine me. It’s pretty similar, no? Yes. Muscularity notwithstanding, I have had a hard time being less sarcastic and being generally agreeable and positive. Actually, that’s not true. It’s been really easy. Which has been emotionally hard for me. Despite all the challenges I’ve faced as a direct result of my recent possession of the faculties to enjoy my life outside the realm of mocking the internets, I was, on this day, as I write, here in this chair, with commas aplenty, dragged back down into the depths of loathing and abhor-ration.

 Since you're A.D.D. like I am, check this out:

You're welcome.

What could possibly end such a great run of happiness? Why, what else? 

There. Their. They’re.

Let’s be clear here. “They’re going to get their guitars from over there.” There. Get it? It’s not “Their about to take they’re pants off and put them over their.” 

Annnd we’re back. A friend recently recommended a blog or two to me. Generally, I take any type of recommendation whatsoever with a salt shaker’s worth of salt. As in, it took my dentist eleven years to convince me that it was a good idea to brush my teeth. And let me tell you, was he right! I made out with SO many more lady-types post-brushing. I’m also sort of warming up to this whole “showering” concept. It needs not be said that I’m a tough sell when it comes to getting me to see things your way (people who know me will surely disagree, praising me as the most agreeable person they kn…I’m sorry I just can’t finish that without suing myself for libel), especially when it comes to the topic of so and so being oh-so-funny and having just the funniest opinions and onions and what not. Fourteen worldwide studies from the top scientists around the globe have effectively confirmed that I am the chief master of all things hilarious and have final say as to what is and is not funny. David Cross in person? Not funny. David Cross on stage? Funny. Kramer? Funny. Kramer’s actor-person-counterpart? Not funny. See how good at this I am?

I reluctantly ventured over to blog number one, The Bloggess. Funny. Sure. A few chuckles emitted from my gullet, as they are wont to do. The eponymous Bloggess has a speak-first-ask-questions-later policy that I admire. So, blog number one, congrats. You’ve got another reader. I may even click on your AdWords if you make me chuckle enough and show a little cleavage.

 Related: she did end up showing cleavage.

Blog number two. The reason why I simultaneously love and hate the internet. Every Tom, Dick and Harry with a computer can have a “voice” on the internet. As I take liberty to subject you to my ranting and raving and generally bloviate about whatever soap box I happen to have washed with that day I cannot be judgemental without being hypocritical. So, label me a hypocrite (it won’t bother me) and let’s move on. This second blog, this…this internet monstrosity. Let’s be honest here, there (or they’re, or their) are barely a handful of intelligent people on the internet. Just look at any YouTube video’s comments section and you’ll see what kind of intellect the internet is populated by.

A "gagalogist's" opinion.

This is part of why I approach internet people with a grain of salt (times 1.8 million grains). I take a quick tour through the generic Wordpress blog (don’t even get me started on how complicated Wordpress is to use versus how the final product ends up looking) and click on a post that contains the word “Poop.” Sounds like a winner! Poop is my favorite palindrome, and delights me even when it is used by a 5 year old to tell me what is lurking in his drawers. 

Hey! He goes to a bar! So do I! He lives within walking distance! I wish I did! He likes bourbon! So do I! We’re practically the SAME EXACT PERSON! And then comes a story straight out of the annals of the “‘How I Met Your Mother’ Scriptwriting Playbook,” in which we are enlightened as to why you should never sleep with the bartender at your favorite bar. Never mind that we don’t have Neil Patrick Harris here to soften the blow of this awfully overplayed idea (no pun intended) and never mind that it’s not even HIS STORY. I’m still tolerating it. 

While I’m handing out sanctimonious platitudes, let me clarify that I have always been one to support free-flow writing and even intentional misspellings. However, Strunk & White exist for a reason.

Midway through the fourth or fifth paragraph comes the following quote: 

“…have come to the conclusion their are hookers out there just waiting to be saved by a mild-mannered accountant…” 

Can you spot which word doesn’t belong? A cookie for the winner! It’s in my van…c’mon! I have puppies!


And just like that, I’m back. Sarcastic, hating most of the population (particularly anyone who is overly passionate about…pretty much anything) and just generally looking for deplorability and debauchery to slide into. A big whopping thanks goes out to the moron over they’re who has dragged me painfully to the depths from which I came. Speaking of coming, well, insert a sex joke here (hear). 

What’s the moral here, kids? If you don’t want to look like an idiot, spell words correctly and use proper grammar. Know your homophones and avoid homophobes. Take your vitamins and avoid hormones. And Social Distortion is never, ever, ever good music.

Welcome back, me.