No. 138: "Girls Night Out."

Last year I wrote the definitive guide for every guy's night out, I called it: "Bro's Evening Not In." Being from the male persuasion, I was able to denote every fundamental aspect of a perfect night out with the boys. Well, I felt the need to indulge my female readers with a blog of their own (Also, I couldn't think of a new idea for a blog this week so I thought I might as well spin-off a previous post). We've all seen a group of girls having a night out on the town. Whether you're that creepy old dude peering at them from afar as you cunningly masturbate next to the jukebox or the suave bartender that will inevitably lay to bed one of the more "swallow-friendly" gals in the group. I will list a few axiomatic steps needed for a perfect girls night out.

Pick A Theme:
This is a vital element to a successful girls night out. Without a theme, your friends might end up getting confused and lose the party after talking on their cells phones outside. How else could they recognize their friends who they have known since middle school without ridiculously extravagant matching outfits to identify from a distance? You can go in any direction with the theme. Whether it's retro 80's or posh black and white. Just make sure the theme and outfits accommodate your fat friend Denise.

Denise has an amazing personality.

Take Forever To Get Ready:
This is one of the few things women are more accomplished at (other than giving birth and making sandwiches). If you've ever lived with a girl, you know that unless she begins preparations before the street lights go on, you're not making it to the bar 'til midnight. Find an outfit that says: "I'm fun and sexy, but I probably won't blow you unless you have coke." Use this three-hour period to text your girlfriends about how "EXCITEDDD YOU AREEEE!!! :) :)" While out at dinner, order a small salad and share it with a friend. Or, take the escape clause route and scarf down all the succulent fried shrimp you can handle since you'll be returning it in the bar restroom after that shot of tequila.

Be Fucking Loud:
You won't need much catechizing with this one; since you bitches can't shut the fuck up. Start the night off right by ordering a round of shots consisting solely of food coloring and sugar. Wait until all of your friends have finished texting and death-staring other girls before raising up your glasses and puncturing the rest of the bar patrons' ear drums with indistinguishable screams. It is also important to yell incoherently for no reason other than the fact that you're wasted after two appletinis. "Woo!," "Oh Mah Gawd!," and "Seriously? No, seriously?" are a few good starters. But, the most imperative time to be fucking loud is when "your song" comes on. Corral all of your girlfriends and explain how the popular song coming through the speakers is in fact "your song." Do this with every third song.

Talk Shit About Friend That Didn't Show Up:
Routinely, there will be one member of your clique that is unable to make it out for the night's events. This could have to do with their job schedule that requires more than fifteen hours per week or because they are pregnant again and the abortion isn't scheduled until next week*. Since they are not with the group, take this opportunity to discuss her flaws, douche bag boyfriend and other shallow topics de jour. But, remember to never say any of this to her face (unless you're black). Take a moment to wonder what everyone was saying about you last week when you did not partake in the last girls night out and then have another shot to forget about it.

Start Crying For No Reason:
Towards the end of the night it is mandatory for at least one girl from the group to start sobbing unprovoked. This could be triggered from a boyfriend who did not immediately text her back at 1:45 AM or a bartender that was mean to her. To help her in this dire situation, hurl compliments at her and help clean her smeared mascara. Label all men as "jerks" or "pigs" and then proceed to dance away the tears. This would not work for men, though. If one of my buddies began crying I would launch emasculating insults at him, punch him in the kidney and tell him to "man up" before buying him a shot and giving him a bro-hug.

"Why won't he text me back!?"

Abandon Friends:
After you are finished dealing with Sobbing Samantha, one of your friends will inexplicably go missing. Gather your mod squad of heeled hoochies and form a search party. Start yelling her name down the street and calling her phone that she left in your purse. Someone obviously kidnapped her, so call the police and file a Missing Persons Report. Make sure to allude to the obvious by yelling "She was right here!" every ten minutes. Eventually, you all will come to the realization that she went home with some random guy to contract a newly developed form of gonorrhea. Exchange disparaging remarks about her promiscuity and bid each other adieu.

Well, there you go ladies. I tried to write this post in the most mature and progressive manner possible. We really aren't that different, women and men. Men get obliterated and openly mock each other while you quietly hold hate forums for your absentee friends. Men watch other, more athletic men compete in athletic events while you text minutia to people you secretly hate. And men leave no stone unturned attempting to lay pipe while you thwart all attempts at conversation from seemingly nice males before leaving with "that one black guy" at the end of the night. I hope this post will encourage you to organize your own girls night out to escape from your busy and demanding life chock full of salon appointments and shiatsu massages. If you see me, say hi. I'll be the guy by the jukebox.



*That one even offended me. Sorry.

No. 137: "Places I Shant Go."

I try to stay open minded when it comes to most things. I have almost four black friends, listen to both parties' stances on political issues and pretend to tolerate children when around attractive females. But, there are a few places that I refuse to go to based on my predetermined perception of them. Call it ignorance or premonition, but I stand unwavering on this issue. So, here is a list of a couple places you will never find me at. (Although, if I am ever falsely accused of a crime, I will most definitely hide out in one of these subsequent venues).

Religious Goods Store:
I'm not even sure what all they could possibly sell that I couldn't find at a tourist trap in Rocky Point. There's only so many ways you can bedazzle a cross and embroider Mother Mary. I fear that an alarm would go off as soon as I entered the store and I would be kindly escorted to hell by a very nice old lady. I know they have a "wide" selection of books at these stores; ranging from: How To Turn Your Gay Son Straight With Jesus to Properly Baptizing Your Golden Retriever. I think it would be fun to walk into the store with a backpack full of hardcore porn and slyly place it between some of the selected religious readings. Hell, I welcome thee.

Food City:
For those not familiar with Food City, I will briefly explain their layout. Basically, Food City is a supermarket if it was based in Mexico. The floors are made of dirt, the produce has gone south weeks ago, and they do not have air conditioning. It is where you shop if the Dollar Store is out of your price range. Food City is a perfect place to witness an 8th grader give birth or contract hepatitis. Instead of a friendly courtesy clerk willing to help you with your shopping needs, they have angry chollos staring you down as their home boys jack your ride. They have a fine selection of meats as well. Whether you prefer house pet or donkey sack, the selection is almost limitless. It makes Wal-Mart looks like Neiman-Marcus. I'll take off my white hood now.

Food City's fine selection of produce.

Luby's Cafeteria:
I find it interesting how if a business abridges the "-teria" in their name they instantly become quaint and appropriate for people who own dress shoes. Whenever I hear the word "cafeteria" I am instantly relegated to my formative years as an elementary school kid eating gruel for lunch daily; but I've already gone over that. I'm not fond of any restaurant that serves food on trays, unless it's a Vegas buffet and I'm blackout drunk. I can't imagine anyone taking a potential mate on a first date to Luby's Cafeteria. Unless, they were trying to win a reality show where the goal was to see how little time it would take before your date "had to go because her friend needed her."

Boot Repair Store:
You'll see these in many tourist-friendly shopping centers throughout the southwest. I have never owned a pair of boots, since I live in the 21st century and drive a car to work, not a horse. The only time I will even think about wearing a pair of boots is if I am attending a western-themed party and need to complete my shit-kicker outfit. Even then, I'll still probably rock a pair of Converse. Another thought: How are these businesses profitable? Are boots being damaged this frequently? I have a feeling they're just fronts for backdoor meth labs.

Guitar Store:
First of all, I have absolutely no musical talent (just ask anyone who has seen me drunkenly perform "Don't Stop Believing" on karaoke night). So, I have no need to go into a guitar store in the first place. But, I have been to these types of stores before with friends who actually have talent. You'll be welcomed by a burnout in his mid-40's trying his best to ignore your presence. While you walk around and browse their selection of instruments, said burnout will tell you not to touch anything even though there are already five signs saying the exact same thing. When asked a question, the burnout who still thinks his garage band "is gonna make it" will use a supercilious tone to belittle you. You and your buddies will then walk out, exchange disparaging remarks about the burnout's lack of hair and never go back there again. You'll find better customer service at the DMV.

How's it going? I'm a dick.

Claire's:
Unless I'm trying to pick up twelve year-old whores in training I have no need to be within fifty feet of a Claire's (also, it is court ordered). When I look from afar into these "tween goods stores" all I see is useless shit that I will be forced to buy any of my three daughters and effeminate son down the road (payback from the man upstairs for being a blatant misogynist, I suppose). I'm certain that as soon as you walk through the door, a thick coating of fruity body spray and glitter is laid upon you as a later-day form of tar-and-feathering. Personally, I would have a better chance finding something I could use for myself at a blind German bookstore.

Indian Jewelry:
You'll see these in travel-through towns on your way to cities with running water and women with a full set of teeth. I'd rather my home be blanketed in baby poop green than have even a square inch of my humble abode be tainted with turquoise. Dream catchers, wooden sculptures and wool blankets covered in smallpox are not on my list of must-need items. Thanks, but no thanks, Running Bear. I guess I don't have the aesthetic eye for this segment of the art world. When I'm on the road, only two things will get me to pull over: a cop and beef jerky.

Christopher Columbus was not a fan of Indian Jewelry.

Vegan Restaurants:
Why would you want a delicious, filling meal when you could have diarrhea for two weeks? I can deal with vegetarians for the most part; as long as they aren't talking. But, vegans are the Westboro Baptist Church of the dietary practices. I do not consider anything a meal unless it has meat in it. That includes dessert. I'm not even sure what would be on the menu. All I know is that whatever they put in their food makes their customers immediately menstruate to a super-flow level. I think it would be fun to walk into one of these restaurants with an adorable bunny rabbit. I would hold a gun to the rabbit and force one of the patrons to eat a hamburger. After much crying and yelling, they would finally succumb to my threat and take a bite. I would then shoot the rabbit and quietly let myself out. Lesson learned.

Those are just a few businesses I refuse to go to. I'm sure there's people out there that are in great need of repair to their worn-out boots covered in buffalo stool or enjoy eating food that will cause a riot in their colon; but not me. I'd much rather eat a steak at a nice restaurant, shop at a supermarket that doesn't accept pesos and buy a metric ton of beef jerky from a man with a wooden leg. What are some places that you will never go to?

No. 136 "Living At Home."

A few weeks ago, my friend Bre inspired me to write a blog about living at home after she went on what could only be described as the funniest fucking rant my ears have ever had the pleasure to hear. So I will give credit where credit is due.

Many recent (and not-so-recent) college grads have had the misfortune of moving back in with their parents after completing their degree. Blame it on the shitty economy, the growing number of college educated young people, or the government; it's hard to find a career in your field nowadays. Personally, I blame it on the economy. I also use the economy as an excuse for just about everything else in my life. I get pulled over for speeding: economy. I forget to visit my grandparents: economy. I still act like a 19-year-old: economy. It's a catch-all excuse that I will exercise until that well has run dry.

Anyway, I thought it would be appropriate to write a post about something that many people my age (myself included) are currently having to undergo: living at home. Moving back in with the parents after being away at college for several years is a bit acculturating. Instead of calling your folks once a week to tell them that you are still alive, constant contact is unavoidable. You may no longer live by "your rules" and thus are reverted back to your teenage years instead of making the customary transition to mature adult. Per usual, I have highlighted a couple themes that make living at home after college a bit of a drag.

Waking Up:
Not having a 9-5 job means that many college grads will procure jobs in the restaurant or hospitality industry. Which equals not having to wake up until noon some days. As nice as it is to be able to sleep in, this is rendered impossible due to restless mothers. A peaceful slumber is almost always halted by our lovely birth givers. I'm not exactly sure if my mom is intentionally trying to be loud, but every morning I am awoken to banging pots and pans, even if she isn't cooking. Sometimes she changes it up and vacuums while mowing the lawn synchronously to create a cataclysm of noise to assure I can never go back to sleep. If somehow I am able to fend off her gallant efforts to wake me, I am treated to a SWAT team-esque door kick down. I do not remember my mom taking kickboxing lessons, but eventually my door became so scared of her dropkick wrath that it would unhinge itself and fall down on it's own intimidation after a few weeks.

Pots and pans make great instruments of torture.

Job Hunting:
Our doting mothers' hearts are in the right place, but they have not entirely accepted the internet as a vital resource in finding a career. Instead, many of us are treated to archaic advice that may have worked in the 1950's, but now is best labeled under: No, mom. That will not work. The "best" advice I received from my mom was to "just drive down to the corporate office and ask for the CEO. Tell him that you learn fast and will try your darnedest and I'm sure you will get the job." If I were to take her advice and actually go down to a business I was attempting to acquire a job at, it would not play out the way she saw it in her disconnected head. I would spend thirty minutes driving in traffic, demand to speak to the CEO of said Fortune 500 company, be told that he lives in New York, then hand my resume to the receptionist. In that two hour span I could have emailed my resume and cover letter to the hiring department and spent the next hour and fifty five minutes watching a Sandra Bullock rom-com UFC fights. Maybe my mom is just trying to be helpful, but "pounding the pavement" is ineffective in the 21st century; although it will help me land a job in the fast food industry; which would be a great way to use my bachelor's degree.

Cleaning:
Somehow, we all revert back to our formative years as soon as we move back home. It is customary to be yelled at for leaving a plate in the sink; a problem that did not exist in college as you would be looked at as a raging dickhead if you told your roommate to clean up anything that did not involve their bodily fluids from the previous evening. I find it interesting how my mom will exaggerate messes that I had left. A single cup in the sink = "the entire kitchen is a disaster." Not making my bed = "your room is a pig pen." And so on. I half-expect to be grounded; which would work if I didn't have the ability to kick my dad's ass.

I see no problem here.

Bringing Over A Girl/Guy:
This task is impossible unless you are an unabashed individual who can casually deal with repressed embarrassment from said party and an awkward breakfast wherein your mom not-so-slyly hints at whether or not you used contraception and then requests your presence at the next Sunday mass service. As far as self-administered sexual activities go, all moms have caught onto the "door closed means open very, very slowly and ask if we're 'changing'." Everyone's sex life has been dramatically truncated due to their "home field" being occupied by their wellspring. It makes you want to finance a vacation for your parents so you can get a handy from a fat chick without stainless steel cookware hindering your che.

Meals:
Although your diet has been ameliorated from your college days filled with microwavable concoctions and 3 AM burritos, the selection of your parents' newly healthy-option fridge is less than appealing. Soy milk, sugar-free ice cream and Boca burgers are a bit of a culture shock for most recent college grads. When one tries to prepare a midnight snack, it's hard to accommodate your needs for a PB&J out of cardboard gluten-free flatbread, organic almond butter and free-range jelly. An intermediate omnibus of food and drink would make the step to healthy living a bit more reasonable and taste less like bark. And the worst part: your dad now drinks Bud Select 55, so even his beer selection has been pussified.

Why drink beer when you can drink disgusting water that doesn't get you drunk?

Late Night Activities:
Every twentysomething has moved past the idea of inviting friends over for a social gathering and firmly planted their flag into the bar scene as the destination of choice. But, for some reason unbeknownst to me, mothers across America will still ask why "you don't have some friends over instead of going to bars all the time." Although this is probably a precursor for her not wanting you to drive around the city drunk, it is still annoying. They must still see us as 15-year old kids and expect a night with friends to resemble a couple games of Uno over Sunny D instead of a reenactment of The Hangover. I would have no problem throwing a party with a bunch of my friends, but it's not my house, or as Snoop Dogg would call it: Hizzouse. I would rather not replace your lladro collection that will certainly be destroyed by an impromptu whiskey-induced wrestling match. Also, I am fairly certain you and dad are not die-hard fans of dub step blaring until 5 am. We're really just looking out for you, moms.

Those are just a few experiences every recent diploma wielding individual will be forced to endure as they use their parent's home as a launching pad into their own fateful ascension descent to adulthood. Some other issues may arise when living in the same domicile as your forebearers. This may include but is not limited to:
-DVR recording priority
-Helping set-up and break-down bunko night events
-Having your arm broken for attempting to adjust the air conditioning
-Cleaning up dog poop
-Inability to take the lord's name in vain
-Feigning interest in your dad's newly acquired mid-life crisis hobbies
-Using a land line phone
-Sleeping on a futon when your aunt is in town
-Being made fun of by your successful friends

No. 135 "Back To School List."

It's that time of the year again, back to school season. Before the summer comes to a consecrated close remember to frantically work out for three days to attain that six pack you told everyone you would attain, break up with that clingy girlfriend who you met at Applebees and to sign up for the remaining available classes at the last minute (Women's Studies? Sounds like a great way to meet hostile lesbians chicks!) But, before you pack up and head back to College Town, USA, you must purchase back to school items. Here are a few ingredients to assure a great new semester:

Credit Card:
Otherwise known as free money. So what if your mom cancelled her card that you would "accidentally" borrow whenever you made a trip back home? It's about time you grow up and obtain a credit card of your own. 39% interest rate? What a deal! Having a credit card allows you to buy necessary items every college student requires; like slip-and-slides and remote control helicopters.

Condoms:
Useful for making sex less pleasurable and preventing babies from coming out of your long term girlfriend that fat girl you banged in your Prius. For those not good at sex; just scatter a handful of these jizz balloons across your desk to hoodwink guests into believing you're a Casanova.

Duct Tape:
You can use duct tape to fix just about everything, as long as you want it to look like shit. When not repairing broken lamps or limbs, you can use it to wrap your passed out roommate to his bed before you leave for the weekend.

Hunting Knife:
You don't have to live in the wild or attend Montana University (like Montana has a University, ha!) to brandish a hunting knife. Carrying a knife on you will establish a "tough guy" demeanor and persuade your professor into giving you an extension on your term paper. Also, to "kill" time between classes, you can stab hobos.

Expensive Electronics:
Use that newly minted credit card to treat yourself to some fancy integrated circuitry. These are perfect to show off to your friends until they are broken or stolen a week later.

I bet you can't wait to throw your remote control into me!

Books:
It can get quite cold in many apartments and dorms during the fall, so being able to curl up, find your most comfortable chair and use your many leather bound books to fuel a bonfire will prove very propitious come November. Until then, you can display your "nerd magazines" on your DVD rack to impress girls with glasses.

A Bunch Of Shit From IKEA:
Those user-friendly directions will be useful when you decide to put together your coffee table while knee deep in a plastic bottle of vodka. Also, your peers will think you are stylish and utopian since you decided not to adorn your living room with "gently used" furniture from The Salvation Army this year.

Posters:
Attempt originality and buy posters that will make your bare walls stand out. Bob Marley, Salvador Dali, and Victoria's Secret model #762 will assure visitors of your unique and refined tastes.

AXE Body Spray:
This is a multi-tool in a spray bottle. It can be used as: Cologne, Insect Repellant, Deodorant, Burrito Induced Fart Concealer, Mace, or Flamethrower. It's a regular college Swiss Army Knife.

Also works as an attractive woman repellant!

Sharpies:
Draw ironic mustaches on your hand so you can look like a fucking moron in pictures. Also, they can be used to draw dicks on people. Tons and tons of dicks.

Paper:
Not for taking notes or printing out essays. That's what computers and free library access are for. Rather, the majority of paper you use will be for passive aggressive notes to your roommates about missing Hot Pockets and eleventh-hour toilet paper.

Running Shoes:
These will be used during your first week back until you realize that drinking beer and playing Xbox is much more fun than inclined jogging next to hot girls who give you dirty looks for looking at their finely sculpted asses. Instead, spray paint your cross-fit sneakers black and use them as dress shoes for job interviews you'll never go to.

Drugs:
Having Tylenol, Emergen-C and your Valtrex prescription on hand will be vital when all of the stores in your area have closed and you are in dire need. As for illegal drugs: It's college, do whatever you want! Do not smoke, snort or anally inject anything into your body, as it will create irreversible damage to you and disappoint your parents who love you dearly. Live above the influence.

Bike Lock:
Commuting to class can be a hassle with smelly public transportation and near nonexistent parking spots. A bike is an environmentally friendly way to get to and fro class without looking like a tool on a longboard. But, to make sure your $70 Huffy doesn't get jacked by a gang of troubled middle schoolers, a bike lock is necessary. Although in my experience, a bike lock is just an auxiliary strap to hold your your bicycle in place while it is beaten with large rocks.

My bike, Freshman year.

Glassware:
You're another year older, and even though you haven't given up on your binge drinking, you want to take a step in the mature direction and drink out of fine glassware instead of beer pong cups. Have fun stepping on broken glass every week and eventually returning to the unbreakable and indispensable red Dixie plastic cup after all of your pint glasses and champagne flutes have been destroyed.

Now you're ready to get back in the swing of things at your university/community college/trade school. Remember that school comes first, and to always show up for your classes at least five minutes early to have a brief conversation with your professor. If he refuses to let you retake the midterm, show your hunting knife as well as a few well rehearsed stabbing motions. Be creative, and see how many different shapes and sizes you can draw phalli on your fellow students' faces. And, always pay the minimum payment on your credit card.

No. 134 "Everyday Items."

Look around your house, apartment or shanty and you'll find a myriad of items dispersed across your place. Most of these items are used just about every day. But, their uses change when you transition from childhood to adulthood to mid-life crisis. Here are a few examples of such:

Alcohol
Age 8: Daddy's punching juice.
Age 19: Virginity remover.
Age 40: Suicide prevent-er.

Van With No Windows
Age 8: Stranger Danger.
Age 19: Clam-bake mobile.
Age 40: Vehicle to pick up unsuspecting children.

Each 1994 Ford E-250 comes with three pounds of individually wrapped candy.

Tabasco Sauce
Age 8: Tummy ache inducer.
Age 19: Mace.
Age 40: Taken with a Zantac 75.

Woman
Age 8: Cook/Maid/Boo boo healer.
Age 19: Blow job machine.
Age 40: The devil.

Bleach
Age 8: Untimely death.
Age 19: Awesome bedazzled t-shirt destroyer.
Age 40: Dead hooker crime scene cleaning agent.

Shower Head
Age 8: Microphone/light saber.
Age 19: Masturbation aid.
Age 40: Provisional power washer.

Canola Oil
Age 8: Gross Canadian drink.
Age 19: Makeshift sexual lubricant.
Age 40: Flammable liquid used to burn ex-wife's house down.

75% cheaper than Astroglide!

Pillow
Age 8: Slumber party weapon of choice.
Age 19: Remove pillow case to create slapdash suitcase.
Age 40: Mother-in-law smother-er/inheritance subsidizer.

Vacuum Cleaner
Age 8: Pet terrorize-er.
Age 19: Not Applicable.
Age 40: Girlfriend.

Disposable Shaving Razor
Age 8: Mommy's mustache remover.
Age 19: Accidental throat cutter.
Age 40: Hobo beard prevent-er.

Lighter
Age 8: Fun toy.
Age 19: Everyday apparatus/item lost almost daily.
Age 40: Temporary flashlight.

Cardboard Box
Age 8: Spaceship/race car/fort.
Age 19: Porn collection storage unit.
Age 40: Eviction/pink slip container.

This can turn into a spaceship at any age with the use of hallucinogenics.

Flashlight
Age 8: Sword.
Age 19: Drunken baton.
Age 40: Burglar beater.

Scissors
Age 8: Useful tool for shoddy arts and crafts.
Age 19: Pubic hair sculptor.
Age 40: Creepy mustache trimmer.

Sandwich
Age 8: Something a woman makes for you.
Age 19: Something a woman makes for you.
Age 40: Something you make yourself.

No. 133 "The Worst Day (Part 3)."

If the scrolly thing on your mouse is broken or you're just plain lazy, you can find part 1 here, and part 2 here.

So far my day had been a steaming pile of shit topped off with a hearty ladle of "I'm Fucked" au jus. I decided that a few potent potables would be just what the doctor ordered (if my physician was a drunk) and got ready to meet up with Jenny at her boyfriend Joe's house a few miles from my dorm.

Andre Young, M.D. wants your ass to get drunk.

I informed my roommate Jim that I would be back around 1 AM; which would give him a four hour masturbation window. More than enough for the average college-aged male with a broadband connection. I joked that if he had a girl over, to put a tie on the door as a signal of preoccupation. We both laughed at the notion of him even speaking to the opposite sex without going into anaphylaxic shock, and I was on my way.

While driving, I saw my arch-nemesis Gideon riding his fixie bike listening to his iPod. I wished I had a water balloon filled with urine to throw at him, but a conventional middle finger had to suffice. My day was already getting better.

Per usual, I got lost on my way there and had to make several phone calls to figure out if Jenny meant "second left" or "third right, first left past the cemetery, U-turn at dead end and E-brake out of frustration." Perhaps a writing utensil or short-term memory would have proven valuable, but I after a couple increasingly annoyed phone calls I was able to find the place and walked up to the door.

It was a very big house, and as soon as Joe let me inside, it was reminiscent of a Hoarders episode; if the hoarder only collected totally awesome shit that appealed solely to twentysomething college students. The entire house was filled with vintage rock posters and neon beer signs with no sign of cat skeletons. According to Joe, his aunt died recently and left him the house and a bunch of money; which I'm sure she specifically insisted be spent on high quality marijuana and kegerators.

Joe was an amalgam of every stoner/slacker you'd see in teen comedies from the 90's. He even had his own catchphrase. I would compare him to that friend everyone had in elementary school whose parents always got the best toys. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be actual friends with him, but he had a lot of cool shit I wanted to play with.

(Pictured: Joe)

After he gave me the tour of his sanctuary de hesherdom, we all sat down and listened to music on his record player. Joe offered me a beer, which I blissfully accepted. Instead of a Bud Light or Sierra Nevada, I was handed an unlabeled bottle. He informed me that he recently became a home-brewer and just finished a new batch earlier in the week. I figured beer was beer and took a big gulp.

Surprisingly, it tasted just like regular beer (if that beer had been sitting in an abandoned lot for six months). I feigned enjoyment of his gag-worthy concoction, but spit the gelatinous liquid back into the bottle as slyly as I could, like grandma Mema's mutton. As soon as Joe got up to use the bathroom, Jenny and I exchanged disparaging remarks about Joe's fermented fuck up.

Jenny asked how life had been treating me lately. Instead of going off on a self-demoralizing tangent about how my youth was about to abruptly end due to my girlfriend's overzealous uterus; not to mention the fact that I was probably going to fail out of college, I told her it was "alright."

After a few more drinks and harebrained theories from Joe about artificial intelligence, I was ready to call it a night and get six full hours of sleep before my alarm woke me up for a class that I would eventually skip in order to watch The Price Is Right. I made the obligatory female friend chest-to-boob-hug maneuver with Jenny and "nice to meet ya" bro handshake with Joe.

I insinuated that I wanted to be invited back to Joe's fortress of awesome by attempting to exchange phone numbers. This was not to be since he did not own a cell phone because of "the government." I decided that asking questions would only lead to a proselytising tirade and likely Power Point presentation on various conspiracy theories, so I let myself out.

It was just past midnight and I was the only car on the road as I rocked out to some popular song from 2006 that I probably make fun of now. I looked at my speedometer and realized I was only going 25 in a 35 MPH zone. Just as I was about to speed up, a beautiful kaleidoscope of blue and red peered into my rear-view mirror. It was not a discotheque on wheels, but rather a cop ready to bust my ass.

I pulled over into the McDonald's parking lot to get some cheap drive-thru snacks; as cops are associated with taking their damn time, and I was quite famished. I figured I could present the officer with one of my baked apple pies as a peace offering since they're two for a dollar and fucking delicious. I decided that this was probably not a good idea, and instead pulled over into an empty parking spot.

Nothing good ever happens at a McDonald's parking lot after midnight.

As I waited for the officer to walk to my car I realized that I was under 21 and definitively had alcohol in my system. I immediately searched my car for anything that could get me in trouble: illicit drugs, communism propaganda, dead hookers. After realizing that A) I didn't do drugs, B) Communism was so 1967, and C) I had buried that hooker in a shallow grave last week, I began a hurried quest for gum or mints to disguise my breath.

I could find no such winter-fresh savior and instead took a long draw from a Coca Cola bottle sitting at the foot of the passenger side seat. The taste was not that of the refreshing sweetness I had known as Coca Cola, but rather chewing tobacco spit that my buddy had left as some sort of cruel joke. Just as I was about to discharge it all over my front dash, the officer knocked on my window with his criminal beating stick baton. I swallowed the disgusting tobacco spit like an averse 18 year-old girl at a seedy porn audition.

I thought about booking it and leading a car chase, but I really didn't want to add prison time and broken ribs to my worst day ever. So, I did what anyone would in that situation: try not to say or do anything idiotic.

The officer went through the generic questions about how fast I was going and where I was coming from. He then requested my insurance, license and registration. Since I'm an unorganized moron, I only had my license with me. But, I four-flushed my way through Del Taco bags and notes scattered throughout my hobo-ridden vehicle for several minutes until I gave up on the hunt. He took my license and went back to his patrol car.

I'm entirely dubious to what police officers do back at their car while you're tweaking out due to the anxiety. Maybe they're just fucking with you. Perhaps they have some sweet video games built into their on-board computer. Or, it really does take 28 minutes to run a warrant check. Whatever it may be, laying in wait at 12:30 on a Tuesday night while you ponder about whether you will be driving home safely and snuggling in your warm bed or sharing a concrete cell with a pantheon of cockeyed transients is quite a daunting task.

Officer Refusetosmile came back to my car and asked if I had been drinking previously in the evening. This was my moment to shine. Usually, I am a terrible lair with many discernible tells. But, when it comes down to brass tacks, I'm a regular Titus Oates. I cleared my throat in order to use my indomitable deceit timbre and sternly, but calmly, gave him an auricular: "No, officer. I have not." He took a second to stare into my unflinching eyes and delivered a "You better not be lying to me, boy" look before he handed my license over and told me to get my tail light fixed. And just like that, he sped off to a 24-hour doughnut shop or ongoing bank heist or wherever cops go when they're not harassing taxpayers.

As soon as I saw his headlights dim into the night I screamed out an impassioned "FUCK YEAH!" then cautiously drove back to my dorm while bumping the eclectic rhymes of N.W.A. My day had been a roller coaster ride of infelicitous incidents that continued to descend until my dumb Irish luck got me out of a near certain DUI. I was on top of the world, and even though I knew I'd wake up the next morning to realize that my life was presumably fucked; I had won this moment and I was going to savor it.

This "moment" lasted a total of eight minutes, until I opened the door to my dorm and saw Jim raping his hand once again. Oh, well. At least I wasn't getting raped in jail.

Postscript:
Over the next few weeks, I found out that Ly Inghoe was not pregnant, but actually a lying hoe. So I continued my relationship with her for several months since I had no balls dumped that bitch. After a few extra credit assignments and genuine studying, I was able to secure a "C" in my Electronic Media class without the disobliging tutoring of Gideon. And, I never drove drunk again. Instead, I coerced friends into driving or passed out on vomit-stained sofas.

___sidebar.

Happy Friday blog readers! It feels great to be back blogging and I've almost got my sea legs back after that nine month sabbatical. Recently, I bought a new laptop since I decided that my current one was not up to snuff. The former laptop might have been the shittiest computer in use for a variety of reasons.

1) It was pink. I am a man-child, and being seen with a fuchsia colored laptop is not exactly "manly." My current laptop is jet black, like my heart.

2) The fan was shitty. It would overheat after only 30 minutes and use my thigh as it's own personal flesh griddle.

3) The battery sucked. It was basically a desktop computer since the battery would only last for about 20 minutes before it passed out and became an ugly, heavy paperweight.

4) It was missing the letter "A" and the "Enter" key. These are probably the most popular keys used when typing on a computer, so having to hit the same key multiple times like an unruly stepchild became very cumbersome when attempting to write a blog.

5) It was a whore... in a technical sense. Adware, spam, viruses; you name it, it had it. It was used up and spit out. If my computer was a woman it would Courtney Love.

I am very excited to have a new laptop that runs fast and is not fucking pink. This will probably not improve my spelling or grammatical woes, but should make it easier for my to bust out blogs with references to genitalia.

Also, I added Disqus to my blog to make it easier for people to leave comments. This way you don't have to sign up for a Google account or punch in some strange phrase to prove you're not an evil spam robot. This gives you no excuse not to comment. I will be expecting between 100-150 comments on my next post, so do not disappoint.

I should have the final chapter of "The Worst Day" up early next week so keep an eye out.


paddy.

No. 132 "The Worst Day (Part 2)."

If you missed Part 1, check it out here.

When one hears the words "We need to talk" from a girlfriend, there are four possible scenarios:

1) She enjoys mind-fucking you, and only wants advice on which shoes she should buy.

2) She is about to break up with you for banging her sister/mother/truck-stop hooker.

3) She wants to reevaluate your relationship by having endless conversations where she goes off on tirades about how you never listen to her while you stare blankly at her tits.

4) She done be pregnant.

Alright, where were we? Ah, so I had just received a message via MySpace from my girlfriend, (who I'll call Ly Inghoe to maintain her anonymity) explaining that we needed to have a conversation. No context, no clues; just those four frightening words. So, I casually deliriously made my way to the telephone and called her to figure out what was going on. I got her voicemail and left a message trying to sound as cheerful as possible even though my trousers were now saturated in urine.

You ain't cool unless you pee your pants.

A few minutes later I got a text message from Ly, saying that she was late for her period. Relieved, I told her to hurry back to class so she wouldn't get in trouble for being tardy. Much to my chagrin, she was not talking about her English class. She made it decisively clear that she was LATE for her PERIOD. My stomach began to churn as if I had taken a shot of gasoline and chased it with a match. I took a second to let it all sink in and tried to say something reassuring about the situation, but all that came out was: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck." This was not the encouraging statement Ly was looking for, and she decided the current conversation was over. But, before she hung up she made clear that she was "keeping it."

I suppose that saved me from an awkward conversation where I slyly hint the option of a schmabortion before I'm beaten down with a definitive "No" as well as an upholstery hammer. If only she was a Wiccan...

A few minutes later, after unsuccessfully attempting to hang myself with a computer mouse, I received another phone call from my future baby mama/destroyer of dreams. I took this opportunity to inquire as to how she knew she was pregnant. I was not given scientific facts or positive test results; but rather nondescript ramblings labeled under: "woman feelings" and "nonsensical bullshit." This gave me a glimmer of hope, since she had not actually taken a pregnancy test due to fear of being grounded and her lack of a motor vehicle.

I then dialed my sister, who lived in Scottsdale as well, to help with my current situation. After trying to explain the whole ordeal through my jumbled monosyllabic rhetoric, I finally was able to convince her to buy a pregnancy test and drop it off at Ly's place of residence in exchange for three 24-packs of Diet Coke.

Diet Coke: The ultimate bargaining chip when dealing with teenage girls.

I pictured my 17 year-old sister going to the local Walgreens to purchase a pregnancy test. I could see her alluding that the test was "for a friend" while she drew rolled eyes and a chastising stare from the elderly cashier who promised to "pray for her sins." Now, if I had to buy the pregnancy test myself, I would mask my purchase by sandwiching it between beef jersey, a Sports Illustrated magazine and condoms (for celebrating negative results safely). But, I figure that's just me.

Through various back-and-forth phone conversations and surreptitious pregnancy test drop offs, Ly finally obtained her pregnancy test while I awaited the results like a crackhead anticipating his next fix. To kill time, I decided to watch my favorite TV show, Maury Povich. Per usual, this episode dealt with paternity test results involving one hoe and seven men of irrelevant ethnicity. It was simultaneously ironic and cathartic. I found myself rooting for the 28 year-old unemployed loser to win this game of DNA Texas Hold 'Em; and spontaneously break into dance as his not-anymore baby mama ran into the green room to dramatically collapse while Maury feigned empathy and told her it would be alright.

"I call this my 'Not Having To Pay Child Support Dance!'"

(Sidenote: I am fully aware that I am destined for hell. But, I'm from Phoenix and used to dry heat, so the upheaval shouldn't be too dramatic).

After I was finished living vicariously through wannabe rappers on Maury, I thought about how I should have used a condom instead of a Doritos bag. Back in high school, we were required to take a three week course on sexual education. The lectures were less focused on educating youth of the risks involved in unprotected sex and more about showing abhorrent images of infected vaginas and penises on an over-head projector until the room was overflowing with vomit. The school nurse made certain to emphasize the repercussions of STD's, but failed to mention the worst sexually transmitted disease of all: unplanned baby. We have ointments, medications and cocktails for the other, more "celebrated" STD's -- but rubbing a medicated liniment on a baby will not make it go away.

Ly called me back later that day and said she was going to wait until the morning to take the pregnancy test since she wanted me to basque in fear for another twelve hours didn't have to pee. I offered to ship her industrial drums of Gatorade to help her with the urinary process, but my offer was declined. I reluctantly agreed to wait until the morning to determine my fate.

While in my fugue state, I envisioned what the conversation with my parents might be like. I figured it would go something like this:

Me: Hey, mom.

Mom: How is my wonderful and perfect son? Oh, let me put you on speakerphone so your dad can say hi.

Dad: I'm not giving you any more money.

Me: Um, it's not about that. I just wanted to talk to you about something...

Mom: Yes, honey?

Me: Ly is pregnant.

Dad: Nice knowin' you, fucker! (click)

Actually, the conversation would probably be a bit more theatrical; with crying, yelling, and punching converging in this orchestra of disappointment. I feared revealing the unfortunate truth to my parents more than actually becoming a father at the ripe age of twenty. I had to get my mind off this subject before I spontaneously combusted.

Just then, I got a phone call from my friend Jenny who was in town for the night. She was at her boyfriend's place and invited me to catch up and join in on a few adult beverages. It was a Tuesday night and I had a full day of classes in the morning, why the fuck not?


Part 3 coming soon.