What I Learned On My Vegas Vacation

1. My girlfriend has a gambling problem.

After I graduated college, I was out of work for about two years. During this time, I played poker to make a living. I started off as a mediocre player, but I studied the game as much as I could...when I wasn't drinking heavily. Eventually, I made myself into a pretty good online player and an even better live player. I became quite profitable...or profitable enough to sustain my heavy drinking.

I had friends who were living the same life, both locally and across the country. I had other friends who were betting sports for extra income. I had even other friends who were taking sports bets for extra income. We all talked poker, sports, prop bets, and more all day...while drinking heavily.

I know about gambling.

My girlfriend has a serious-ass gambling problem.

I'm not just saying this because she went off for a big number in Vegas. I'm not just saying this because her vices are house games like blackjack. I'm not just saying this because she decides which NFL teams she is going to bet on before she sees the lines. I'm saying this because I know about these things. If you don't believe me, I will give you one indisputable example to prove it.

My girlfriend, or Xmas Girl, as you know her, once placed a bet on how much Beverly Hills Chihuahua would gross opening weekend. AND SHE LOST.

If that isn't a gambling problem, then I don't know what is. I'm waiting for her to bet on the Washington Generals.




2. My future mother-in-law is blogworthy.

Part of this trip to Vegas was planned so that I could meet Xmas Girl's mom. I had heard quite a few stories about this lovely lady, and I was told to brace myself for anything and everything. So with that in mind, XG and I laid odds on what would happen on the first night that we went to her house for dinner. If your girlfriend is going to have a crippling gambling problem, you may as well have fun with it, right?

A. 3/2 -- She burns dinner.
B. 6/1 -- She gives me a kiss hello...on the mouth.
C. 8/1 -- She falls asleep at the dinner table from too much wine.
D. 22/1 -- She cooks a salad bowl in the oven.
E. 1/5 -- She shows a picture of Xmas Girl wearing leather pants.

Amazingly, more than one of these came through. Can you guess which ones? Go ahead guess. Are you done? Ah, fuck it. You didn't guess did you. The answers are A, D, and E. I lost a lot of money on B.

"D" cashed in early when she turned the oven on and after 15 minutes of playing "What's That Smell?" she realized that she had left the salad bowl in there. Why was there a salad bowl in the oven in the first place? I didn't even have time to ask.

"A" followed shortly thereafter when she put the garlic bread in the oven, set it to broil, and left it in there for "about 20 minutes." I'm a guy who can only cook hot dogs and ramen, and even I know that is retarded. She took the black logs out of the oven and tossed them over the balcony.

"E" came up several times, of course. I'm pretty convinced that every picture of XG from 16 - 23 is in leather pants. And they are everywhere. All over her mom's house, all over her friends' houses. It's like they are proud of it. But believe me, I don't even want to know the reasons why. I only have one question. Is it many different pairs or one pair worn over and over again? For some reason, I have a real problem with the former.

I'm still waiting for "B."




3. Never take a shit in a handicapped bathroom.

Is it "handicapped" bathroom or "handicap" bathroom? Either way, I hate them all.

We were walking from the Hard Rock to Mandalay Bay because we felt disgusted by the fact that we played blackjack for twelve hours the day before. I don't know, it made sense to us at the time. On our way there, I find myself overcome with an urgent shitting emergency. I calmly suggest we stop in for a drink at MGM. I sit her down at the bar, order two drinks, and speedwalk to the bathroom.

Inside there's only three stalls, and the two normal ones were taken. I thought I might be able to find another bathroom in the casino, but my stomach made a horrifying noise that informed me otherwise. I darted into the oversized handicapped stall and locked it behind me, making it just in time.

About two minutes later, I hear a loud whirring sound approaching that stopped in front of my stall. I quickly realize that it's a capper coming right for me. He tugs on the door to no avail. I pray that he doesn't choose to wait me out, since considering what I did to my body the night before, he would be looking at about another twenty-five minutes.

Instead, he starts yanking it harder. And then HARDER. It is clear that his arm is not disabled, as he pulls mightily on the handle, rattling the door and my mancage. I'm not sure if he was angry or also mentally retarded, but he was not giving up on this locked door easily.

Finally, after ten seconds of terror, what sounded like yet another handicapped man informed him that there is indeed another bathroom down the hall. He whirred away, and I could only hope that it wasn't some retarded ruse designed by the two men to coax me out of the stall for a beating outside the bathroom. I took the full twenty-five minutes just to be safe.

But just a heads up to the MGM while we're on the subject. If you're going to have a hotel with 20,000 rooms, you may want to have a bathroom with more than two normal stalls. That's pretty fucking retarded.




4. I know of one person who reads this blog.

He is my friend Danny. And I know he reads this blog because he texted me while I was in Vegas that Pacman got into a dust-up with a team bodyguard. This was obviously a ploy to bait me into writing a Pacman's body retread. And of course, it worked. That type of dedication is appreciated. I expect to see more of that from the rest of you.




5. Stand-up comedy is not as hard as it looks.

Obviously, it is. But Xmas Girl's mother's husband works at the Riviera, and he got us tickets to a comedy show there. We figured it would be nice to have a break from all the gambling and drink in a new location.

Well apparently the guy that was headlining was just about 50 years older than the Riviera itself. We had the misfortune of being in the front row as a two hundred year old man read out of a joke book.

It was so uncomfortable that after ten minutes, we waited for him to turn his back and darted out of the room. Then we had to weave in and out of the casino crowd like a couple of ninjas so as not to see the man who got us the tickets and have him be offended.

Best decision I ever made to leave that show.




6. I look like everyone else in the world besides myself.

Some of the older readers will be aware of this phenomenom, but let me catch some of the new people up. Acquaintances and strangers alike seem to have no problem, nay, enjoy walking up to me and blurting out "You know who you look like?" Whether I answer their question or not, they always follow with the name of some C-list celebrity that I do not look like. See for yourself.

This time around it was a drunk guy at a blackjack table saw XG and I walk up and exclaimed, "You look like the kid from High School Musical! You look just like Zac Efron!!"

I.

I have no words.

Make your own jokes.




7. The Hard Rock Casino has dealers, strippers, and stripper-dealers.

In the middle of the casino floor, there is a pit of about 8 blackjack tables that has an island in the middle. This island is an elevated platform with 3 stripper poles on it. As luck would have it, these stripper poles have actual strippers on them Thursday through Sunday night. They wear the least amount of clothing that is legally possible and dance provocatively for rows of men who stop to gawk.

If that wasn't enough, the dealers themselves in this pit are wearing tube tops, napkin shirts, and anything else designed to have their tits pouring out. They flirt and joke, and though widely considered some of the worst technical dealers in the casino, they rake in tips as men line up to give their money away.

The Hard Rock might have figured out a couple things about running a casino.




8. If you're a dealer and you're not going to show your tits, you may as well be racist.

During the day, they put the strippers back in the vault and trot out all their "anti-discrimination act" employees. Now, it's not that I have a problem with fat people. Well, that's a lie. I despise fat people. But, in theory, I could tolerate them.

So if you're hoping to be a tolerable fatty, the least you could do is be nice. That's the least that I'm asking. Seriously, it's not like I'm asking you to eat a salad or take the stairs. Just be nice. Doesn't all that weight make you jolly at all?

Apparently, someone on the Hard Rock day shift never got the memo. As I sat down at her empty blackjack table, she asked for my ID. I kindly obliged and as she looked at my license, she said, "New Jersey? You can't be from New Jersey! Where's your mullet?!"

Now I'm fine with anyone ripping on New Jersey. There are many Jersey jokes to be had, some of them true, most of them lame, but you can have at it if that's how you choose to socialize. But mullets? In Jersey? That's not close to true. That's not even a stereotype. What in the FUCK is your fat ass talking about?

She was also cheering on the Phillies, so I assumed this meant she was from PA, which would explain the Jersey hatred. But no, she explained that she was from New Mexico. Oh! Nary a mullet in New Mexico! I guarantee you that there are ten times as many mullets in New Mexico as there are in New Jersey. You hear me? I'm only saying this in my head, but I know you can hear me you fat fuck.

Chubbsy Ubbsy goes on to say, "Ya know sometimes I tell my dad I have a black boyfriend just to mess with him. He's from the South so it really gets him mad! Hahahaha. Hit or stay."

WHAT. What do you think my reaction to that is going to be? You get a lot of high fives after that story? Is that the anecdote that clinched it on your interview? I'm not a sensitive or politically correct person by a longshot, but seriously, fuck that racist cracker.




9. The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino hosts one giant poser convention.

The downside to #7 is that it brings in droves of doucheclowns and toolboxes. Apparently out West they are trying to start another ill-conceived fashion trend born from their prisons. Half the guys at the Hard Rock were wearing shorts to the knee, floppy tennis shoes, and socks pulled up to mid-calf. They all look like Mexicans in prison...which were impossible to find a picture of, so you'll have to take my word for it.

The other half of the crowd all had bedazzled trucker hats that would make Charles Nelson Reilly blush.

That's right. That's the only rule I have about blogging: shoehorn in a CNR reference whenever possible.




10. You should not take the redeye back from Las Vegas.

Last February I went to Vegas with a few friends. When we booked the trip, we surmised that it was a good idea to take the redeye back to Jersey. "That way we have all day Sunday to keep partying!" For some reason, we didn't seem to put together that we were already going to be in Vegas for six days, and that we would be in no condition to party "all day Sunday."

Well, we soon realized what a grave error in judgment we had made once Sunday came. We packed our bags like zombies and with nowhere else to go, we piled our bodies into a lounge in Planet Hollywood. The four of us sat facing one another, our mullets deflated, tacitly acknowledging that we would not see each other for a month after this trip. After about 8 hours of this, we stood up and went to airport. I haven't talked to them since.

So what did I learn on my Vegas vacation? Nothing, of course. Like the asshole that I am, I did the same thing this time around and booked an 11:45 PM flight home on Sunday night. Obviously, I never learn shit, so who am I to tell Xmas Girl how to gamble. Let's bet the over on the opening weekend of High School Musical 3. I have a feeling I'm gonna be a big hit!

A.J. vs. P.A.C.

Adam Jones' Brain: What did I say..

Adam Jones' Hands: Yo. Aight first off-

Brain: What did I say..

Hands: Yo, I'm sayin'-

Brain: WHAT. DID I. SAY..

Hands: Shiiiit. Aight. You said don't do anything wit'out axin you first.

Brain: Thank you. But did you listen to me? Nooooo. Do you ever listen to me? NOOOOO.

Hands: But yo I'm sayin' it wasn't even my fault!

Brain: Of course it wasn't! It's never your fault! It wasn't your fault when you didn't want to pay the valet so you said, "I'll just hit her." It wasn't your fault when we got pulled over for 75 in a school zone. It wasn't your fault when you wanted to "make it rain" in that strip club in Vegas that coincidentally got shot up after we left. And it certainly wasn't your fault that we got in a drunken fight when we are under a zero tolerance policy from the commissioner of the NFL!

Hands: Exactly. Thank you.

Brain: THEY WERE ALL YOUR FAULT!

Hands: How is the speeding ticket my fault?

Adam Jones' Legs: Don't drag me into this, boy.

Hands: Aight, aight, you wanna blame Hands. Fine. But yo. For real? Shit is going on in the streets, man. Yo niggas is in the grind. Where you be at, man? Niggas be buckin. Why you never buckin? Where you be at, man??

Brain: First of all, I'm a brain, and you are hands. We are a part of the same body. I am always, inherently, in the same place that you are. That's where I "be at." Second of all, if bucking means "shooting a gun," then being that I am a brain, it would be physically impossible for me to shoot a gun. Third of all, those guns are what got us into trouble in the first place. How could you glorify gun violence when that's what essentially cost us our career? Someone almost died behind that!

Legs: Yo, he just stole those lines from a song.

Brain: What?

Legs: Those are lyrics.

Hands: No they aint!

Legs: It's Nas. It's called Destroy and Rebuild.

Brain: Really? What the fuck, Hands. You think this is a joke?

Hands: Nah, man. It's just...I don't know. I don't know what they want from me. It's like the more money we come across, the more problems we see.

Brain: Exactly. That's what I've been saying. All this money and fame can get us into a lot of trouble. Thank you for finally-

Legs: It's another song, Brain.

Hands: Nah, man. I made that up.

Legs: That's BIG man. Everyone know that.

Brain: Seriously? This is what you wanna do all day, Hands?

Hands: Yo. We out there every day and people be throwin' dirt on our name. They be testin' us. They be talkin' shit 'bout Pacman.

Brain: You mean "Adam."

Hands: Nah, fuck that, man! We Pacman! We always been Pacman and we always gon' be Pacman! And when people disrespect Pacman, Hands is on the front line! That big ol' bouncer tried to talk shit and I did what I's 'posed to! I popped that fat bitch in the side of his head!

Legs: Man, you only waited until people were around to separate you.

Brain: Legs, I saw you kicking him too!

Legs: Well, hey, man. You know what they say. Bitches get kick-es.

Brain: That is not an expression.

Hands: Why you so mad, Brain? You act like you surprised.

Brain: I know, I know. I shouldn't be. But it was all going so well. We started out 3-0. Everyone said we were the best team in football. Fans were screaming our name...

Legs: It aint that bad, man.

Brain: ...we led the team in tackles against Green Bay, we recovered a fumble...

Hands: It'll be aight.

Brain: ...it was almost as if everyone forgot. It was all going just as I planned. And now, Jerry Jones is going to kill us.

Legs: Nah, man. JJ loves us.

Brain: That's just for the press! He told me that if we messed up, even once, he would give us a Texas Funeral. And we'd never see it coming.

Legs: You really think he'd do that?

Brain: We were standing at the grave of Frank Cornish when he told me.

Legs: Fuckin shit.

Hands: Nah, man. We good. How he gon' kill family? JJ won't do that. You can't kill family.

Brain: What are you talking about? What is he talking about?

Legs: "Jones."

Brain: Jesus Christ.

Legs: Look, we can't just sit here cryin' all day.

Brain: Well we got four weeks off now. Maybe even more. So what do we do now? What the fuck do we do now?

Adam Jones' Dick: ...Wanna go to the strip club?

Threat Level: Purple

I don't want to alarm anyone, but our country is in grave danger. You may or may not be aware of it, but it stands to threaten each and every person in America. We need to band together in a bipartisan effort to fight this evil before we are all subject to the most dire of consequences.

In case you haven't seen it already, a California Raisin is on NFL Countdown.

If they've already infiltrated ESPN, how much longer before they infiltrate a main network? And then perhaps, our government? What if it becomes mayor? Governor? Or even Vice President? Stranger things have happened.

But maybe that won't be so bad. Who am I to argue with God's plan?

Revenga!

Willie Randolph walks up to an unlit house reading a piece of paper. He knocks on the door.



Willie Randolph: Hello? Umm...I got a letter that said I should come here? Is- is anyone there?

Willie slowly opens the door and the lights go on.

Everyone: SURPRISE!!!

Willie: "Surprise?" But it's not my birthday.

Bill Buckner walks forward.



Bill Buckner: See, guys, I told you "surprise" was stupid. Hey, Willie. Remember me? It's Bill Buckner. And I'm still alive!

Willie: Hey, Bill. 'Course I remember. But what- what is all this?

An old man holding his goat dives out in between Bill and Willie.



Old Man: IT'S THE REVENGE CLUB! YA IN ER AIN'T YE?!

Goat: Whoa, hey. Slow down, Old Man. Give him a chance, huh?

Bill: Willie, he's right. This is a Revenge Club. Everyone here has been wronged by someone or something and we have vowed that we would take our revenge. And we tortured souls rely on each other to make sure our revenge is complete. No matter what it takes. No matter how long it takes.

Goat: But we don't do curses.

Bill: Oh, that's right. We don't do curses.

Goat: Old Man was gonna make a sign, you know, for your first night. "Revenge Club: We Don't Do Curses." But, uh, he got fuckin' piss-drunk out of his mind again and, uh, well, Willie, I'd just like to say welcome.

Old Man: SHUT UP, GOAT, BEFORE I SHOVE MY HICKORY STICK UP YOUR SMELLY GOAT ASS!

Goat: Ahh that's right. Again with the hickory stick. We get it, Old Man.

Willie: I'm sorry, Bill. Who exactly is this Old Man and his Goat?

Bill: Well in 1945-

Old Man: IN 1945 WE GOT KICKED OUT OF WRIGLEY FIELD DURING GAME 4 OF THE WORLD SERIES. I brought ol' Goat here fer good luck. "We got yer Goat" I told Detroit. They didn't seem to appreciate the joke.

Goat: I tried telling him it was a terrible joke.

Old Man bludgeons Goat over the head with his hickory stick.

Old Man: When'and the rain came, the Cubs owner forced me and mah goat out of the stadium. They said we stunk! Since that day I've vowed that the Cubs and their stinkin' fans won't never see another championship ag'in.

Willie: ...Could that possibly be true?

Old Man: YOU CALLIN' ME A LIAR, BOY?!? YOU THINK I'M SOME URBAN LEGEND?! YOU MUST BE READIN' THAT WIKIPEDIA TOO!

Goat: Easy, Old Man, Easy.

Willie: Fine, I believe you. Jeez. So how do you guys get revenge?

Old Man: Every year if they get close, I make'n sure they don't get too close. Heh heh.

Goat: Yeah 'cause we fuckin' rig the games!

Old Man: Shut up, GOAT!

Willie: Oh my god. Did you cause them to lose in 2003?

Old Man: Heh heh. Some of my best work. Ya see, I kidnapped that Steve boy about a month before the playoffs. I had him in my basement tied up right next to the goat, listening to hypnotic mind-control tapes for 24 hours a day! Then when Game 6 came and them Cubs was gittin' too close, I unleashed my Bartman zombie into the game, and planted him real close to the field. He had those tapes playin' his headphones, makin' him listen to mah every word. And when the time was right- BAM!

Willie: Oh my god!!!

Bill: Just like Naked Gun!!

Old Man: NO FOUL BALL FOR YOU MR. ALOU! HAHAHAHA, GAME OVER! CUBS LOSE!!!!!

Willie: That's amazing! You made Steve Bartman interfere with that foul ball through hypnosis?!

Goat: Nah, man, we just paid Alex Gonzalez to tank that ground ball. Mark Prior too. It barely cost anything, man. I almost felt bad doin' it.

Old Man kicks Goat in the ribs.

Old Man: SHUT UP, GOAT! YOU KNOW IT WAS THE BARTMAN ZOMBIE!!

Goat: Fackin SHIT. Ahh, god damn. Okay, okay, fine you're right. It was your zombie with the cassette tapes or whatever.

Willie: What was your revenge Bill?

Bill lowers his head and casts a devilish smile.

Bill: I'm glad you asked, Willie. As you may know, I had this tiny little error in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Some people seem to think I cost Boston the World Series and that I perpetuated some kind of curse. For about the next 18 years after that, I got my house egged every weekend. I'm not sure if it was related to the error, but just to be safe, I joined the Revenge Club.

Willie: Oh god, Bill, I remember. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. It's just that I was with these guys, and they were like, "Hey we have these eggs." And I was like "But I really like Bill." But they were like, "Well, are you cool or aren't you?" And they were my ride home so..

Bill: It's fine, Willie. It's fine. Because I exacted my revenge in most spectacular fashion. Muahahaha.

Willie: What did you do?

Bill: I'll tell you Willie, but you are sworn to secrecy. I saved up every penny I had, and I paid Mariano Rivera to take a dive and blow the 2004 ALCS! Then the Red Sox rolled over the Cardinals with ease and they were champions for the first time since 1918!

Willie: But, um, where is the revenge?

Bill: Don't you see?! By making the Red Sox win I convinced everyone that there is no curse! They wouldn't be mad at me anymore for blowing the '86 Series because they finally won one! Hahaha! Revenge is mine! How sweet it is!

Willie: How exactly does-

Goat: Don't even try, Willie. We've all told him. That plan doesn't make any fucking sense.

Bill: Hey! Shut up, Goat! I didn't criticize your creepy hey-let's-kidnap-a-kid-and-make-him-a-zombie-who-catches-a-routine-foul-ball-alou-will-have-no-shot-at-anyway plan!

Goat: Fuck me. For the hundreth time that was just the Old Man's Jim Beam talking!

Bill taps Willie on the side of his arm over his windbreaker.

Bill: Cmon, Willie. It's a good plan, right? Pretty cool, right??

Willie: Yeahhh, Bill. Cooool. You got 'em good.

Bill: Thanks, pal. So now you know what we are capable of Willie. And that's why we sent you that letter to meet us here. We want you to join our club.

Willie: But why me?

Bill: We saw what happened to you this season. The way they fired you in the middle of the season? On a road trip? Via email? That's just awful.

Willie: Yeah that was pretty rough.

Old Man: YER GOD DAMN RIGHT IT WAS ROUGH! THOSE SONS A BITCHES-

Bill: Alright, Old Man. We got it.

Willie rubs the back of his own neck.

Willie: Well. I. I dunno...

A baby comes up and yanks on Willie's pant leg.



John Moynahan: Are you fuckin' in or not.

Willie: Good god! That baby can talk!

Goat: Really? The talking baby shocks you?

Willie: Who are you?

John: I'm Tom Brady's son. I joined this club 8 months ago. And I'm serious as a fucking heart attack about exacting revenge against my dad.

Willie: Against your own father? But why?

John: Because that motherfucker left Mommy for some tarted-up glassy-eyed Brazilian slut who isn't even that hot.

Everyone: Whoa, whoa, whoa!

John: Okay, look. I'm not saying she's not hot. I'm just saying, not my type.

Goat: Gorgeous Brazilian models with perfect bodies aren't your type?

Old Man: THAT BITCH IS A DIME!!!

John: Fine, she's really hot, alright? I know that. That's obvious. I'm just saying. Overrated, okay?

Bill: I can live with that.

John: My dad just up and left us for some piece of ass. So now, I plan on making him feel the pain that I feel every day. That's why before the Super Bowl I paid the Patriots offensive line to dog their blocking assignments. That's why I paid Peyton Manning to wear Eli's uniform for the Giants. And that's why I paid Bernard Pollard to destroy Dad's knee.

Goat: That's a lot of money to be paying out.

John: Well, that's the one nice thing about being Tom Brady's kid. So. William. I ask you again. You in?

Willie: Gee it's just that-

Old Man: JUST FUCKIN' JOIN OUR CREW OR I'LL SHOVE MY HICKORY STI-

Willie: Alright, alright, with the hickory stick. Boys. I will join the Revenge Club. I'm in!

Bill shakes Willie's hand heartily.

Bill: That's great, Willie! Welcome. Now let's get down to business. We've got a lot of work to do if we're gonna screw those Mets and keep them out of the playoffs!

Willie: What?

Old Man: Tonight we gon' beat those Mets like a red-headed step-goat!

Willie: Are you guys serious? That wasn't you?

Bill: What wasn't?

Willie: You guys didn't pay Schoeneweis to give up that homerun? You didn't have the Marlins steal the signs for Helms? The guy has 68 career homeruns in 9 seasons!

Bill kicks at the carpet beneath him with his hands in his pockets.

Bill: Shoot. We thought the game was tonight.

Goat: I tried telling them, Willie. It's no use once they get an idea in 'em. It's like working with a bunch of animals.

Willie: Wow. So...they did it all themselves.

Bill: Damn they really fucked up!

Goat: Yeah, Bill. Someone should really egg their houses.

John: I guess the Mets really just suck.

Old Man bursts into the middle of the group.

Old Man: HOLD ON! WAIT. HOLD! ON! YOU TELLIN' ME THE PLAYOFFS ALREADY DONE STARTED??

Goat: Yes, Old Man.

Old Man scrambles out of the house.

Old Man: AW FER FUCK'S SAKE! I GOTTA GET MAH BARTMAN ZOMBIE! STEVIE BOY, I'MA COMIN'!

Gotta Work Everyday. Gotta Not Be Cliche.

If all I had to do was write a blog, I could generate original material every day. But that's not the case. I have a shitty job that crushes my soul. I have an hour commute that sucks the life out of me. I have a dog that is not house-trained. I have a girlfriend who wants to watch the Sex and the City movie at a volume of about 96 that makes it hard for me to even follow my own thoughts much less complete this sentence coherently. I have a shitty blog with even shittier readers who insist on keeping this very blog on a check rarely-to-never basis.

That, my friends, means that I don't have any absurd dialogues for you to not appreciate today. You'll just have to settle for a quick recap of my trip to Giants stadium this Sunday. If you're still in dire need of absurd dialogue, I suggest you pick up the Sex and the City movie. I'm almost positive that the writers of this movie are intentionally trying to misinform women about men. That way the show's faulty advice and morals will continually ruin women's relationships in order to keep them coming back for more counsel, enabling them to sell more DVDs.

So about that game. I haven't been to the stadium in five years, and I don't know if I have changed or the tailgating has but HOLY SHIT WHAT A FUCKING ZOO. In college I would start tailgating at 7 AM and drink straight through the day, so the drunkenness isn't shocking to me. I, myself, was quite drunk this Sunday. But the characters at this place were out of their fucking minds. They were screaming nonsensically, randomly assaulting each other, and generally threatening anyone who did or did not step in their path. Did I mention that my girlfriend came with us?

By the way, she's still watching that god awful movie next to me. I have to tell you I think it has lowered my IQ 10 points just from having the inane chatter of those four retarded broads blaring in the background.

As we walked up the many, many steps to our seats, we had several gentlemen attempt to engage us in some form of discourse. While most chose to cat call, others seemed to prefer the wolf whistle. Some of the more clever types chose to look at my girlfriend and come up with an inventive chant. Ordinarily, this would bother me, but I took it in stride on Sunday. Am I really to be concerned that my girlfriend might leave me for a guy in a fireman helmet, shorts above the knee, and work boots like THIS? Hopefully not, but it would make for a funny blog.

Oh, so apparently this entire movie is about the fights that girls have with each other. Didn't you think it was about sex? Wasn't that somewhere in the title? No. The movie is just watching one giant bitch fit.

The game itself ended up being pretty exciting. The Giants defense came through at just the right time to sweep Carrie off her feet. As the game went into overtime, some brunette had a baby on the street with a bald guy. The game was capped off by a field goal from John Carney that won Carrie's heart with a contrived proposal and a lame post-wedding reception at some diner.

Okay, I can't even follow this movie anymore. Are they supposed to be 50 and having sex? And they're proud of the way they act? People pay to see this? Girls emulate these hogs? Thank god my girlfriend is not like that.

Now they just toasted to "the next 50 years" as the movie wraps up. Nice try, ladies. Your show is cancelled. Fuck the next 50 years, I don't have to watch your flapping plastic faces for one more second.

Christ, what was I saying? I don't know, the Giants won or something. It was a good time I think. I don't know. All I can think about is these fucking beasts ruining an entire generation of women. This is why I can't blog. I blame women. In all forms. But I promise I'll try to post more often. I got more in the can. I just need to talk to my girlfriend about setting aside some free time where I can pursue my writing with a little less distraction.

The movie finally ended. My girlfriend just stood up and said, "I can't wait to watch it a million more times!"

With Tim Meadows as Mark Ingram

Mark Ingram is going to prison.


If ever there was a picture that was made for The Sports Hernia.

Have you ever seen one of those old movies where a guy would escape from prison, and a guard in a tower would shine a giant spotlight on him, and he would freeze, and his eyes would fixate like a deer in headlights? Well if you have, Mr. Ingram would love for you to show him that movie, because he is surely going to be trying to escape from prison soon.

From the article:

His sentencing was delayed as he tried to revoke the plea, fired several court-appointed attorneys and made what prosecutors termed “outlandish” legal arguments, including a claim that he was immune from prosecution because he enjoyed diplomatic status as a head of state.

In his most notable game - the 20-19 victory over the Buffalo Bills in the 1991 Super Bowl - Ingram caught five passes, after one of which he fended off tackles and hopped on one leg for a crucial first down.

For Mark's sake, let's hope those skills don't fail him once he's in prison.

Eventually, Mark decided to defend himself. Luckily, I was able to obtain the court transcript:

Judge Denis Hurley: Mark, I want to thank you for finally showing up to my courtroom. I've heard you haven't been feeling too well.

Mark Ingram: That's right, Judge, sir. In fact, I'm still not feeling too well.

Judge: We'll I'm sorry to hear that.

Mark: Ya know, in the ass area... May I go to the "bathroom" please?

Mark makes air quotes with his hands.

Judge: See if you can hold it. Today we will complete this trial once and for all.

Mark: Ya'hona', what we really doin here, hmm? What we doin in this courtroom today? This room of court. This place of justice and truth. Conviction and eviction. Attorneys and prosecutors-

Judge: Mr. Ingram? We know where we are.

Mark: Of course, ya'hona'. Now where was I? Oh yes. The wrongful persecution of Mr. Mark Luther Ingram, Jr. Now, have I done wrong? Of course. I have committed many, many crimes in my lifetime.

Mark Ingram slowly walks down the aisle of the courtroom.

Mark: But I ask you. Are you not just as wrong for accusing me of these crimes? Does not the good book say that man "judge not best, when he be a judge?" And we are to turn to Mr. Judge to tell us what is right and wrong? I think not. I rest my case.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, stop.

Mark: Oh I think I've made my point, Judge.

Judge: I mean stop moving.

A bailiff steps in front of Mark just as he is reaching for the courtroom's exit door. Mr. Ingram turns around smiling.

Mark: Yes, ya'hona'? Are we just about done here? Do you need me to sign something before I leave?

Judge: You're not going anywhere, Mr. Ingram. Bailiff, please show him to his seat. You have elected to represent yourself, Mr. Ingram, so I am obliged to ask you if you have anything else to say before I read your sentence.

Mark: Okay, fine. So what's the big deal with a little marijuana? Who here hasn't smoked some weed in their lives, huh? Who here has never just ever-so-slightly blazed a little of the bubonic chronic?

Mark Ingram smells his fingers, inhaling deeply.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I'm not sure-

Mark: And who among us, has not sold a little of the sticky icky to get by? Just to pay the bills? Or, perhaps, to turn a small profit?

Judge: Mr. Ingram-

Mark: Or a large profit.

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel.

Judge: MR. INGRAM! We are not here for a drug charge.

Mark: Really? I knew you had nothin' on me! I'm free! Oh lord, oh lord, I can't believe I'm free! I'm gonna party tonight!!

Judge: Mr. Ingram, you're being charged with money laundering. It's a federal offense. Kindly proceed with any final statements before I announce your sentence.

Mark: Umm...final statements, final statements. Umm......please?

Judge: Please what?

Mark: Please don't?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I have to sentence you.

Mark: But why?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, clearly you have no remorse, explanation or excuse for your crimes. Seeing as how this is by no means your first offense, I sentence you to ninety-two months in a federal prison.

Mark: Really ya'hona'? Damn. Alright. If that's what it has to be, then that's what it has to be. I'll take the two.

Judge: Excuse me?

Mark: I'll take two months.

Judge: No, Mr. Ingram. You are to serve ninety-two months.

Mark: You said, "Nine to two months." I choose two.

Judge: I most certainly did no-

Mark: You goin back on your word, ya'hona'? Oh so you can change the rules of the game? Who's really on trial here?

Judge: MR. INGRAM. You are to serve 7 years, and 8 months.

Mark: Oh I see. I see how it is.

Judge: Good.

Mark: Now you gonna add years to my sentence just because you got your numbers miscalculated? How you gonna keep increasin shit, Judge?

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel several times.

Judge: Bailiff, get him out of my sight! Take Mr. Ingram to prison!

Mark: Wait, wait, ya'hona' please! I just have one more question.

Judge Hurley sighs.

Judge: Go ahead.

Mark: Thank you.

The bailiff unhands Mark as he straightens his suit and tie.

Mark: Ahem. So ya'hona.' Exactly when does my trial start?

And They Road Off Into The Sunset Together...

Carson Palmer and Carl Pavano talk on the phone while they watch Monday Night Football.



Carl: See, Carson? We could have hurt ourselves if we attempted that high five. A handshake is always your best bet.

Carson: You're right, Carl. You're always right. You're the best...


via Deadspin:



video link

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab

Self-Delusional Sports Rehab: Where Athletes Go to Pretend They Can Become the Athletes They Once Were

Carl Pavano: Hey, Carson! How you been, man? Great to see you.

Carson Palmer enters carrying a large gym bag.



Carson Palmer: Not so good, Carl. What are you doin here?

Carl: Oh, I'm always here, man.

Carson: But didn't the Yankees call you up?

Carl: Ehh. Yes. But I prefer it here. But what's up with you, man. Why so glum?

Carson: Have you seen us this year? Week one we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Week two we got our asses kicked, and I SUCKED. Someone recommended I come here for some rehab assignments. (looks around) What is this place anyway?

Carl: It's just a gym for elite athletes like us, but without the pressures of a normal gym. No crowds. No coaches looking over your shoulder. No teammates calling your desire into question.

Carson: Well, I guess that's good. This place could be just what I need. Man, I'll do anything to get back to the playoffs. I guess it's going to take a lot of hard work. (exhales) Alright, let's get started.

Carl: Whoa, whoa. What's your rush, buddy? You just got here.

Carson: But coach said-

Carl walks behind Carson and sits him on a workout bench.

Carl: Shh, shh.

Carl rubs Carson's shoulders.

Carl: Now, who knows your body better: you or your coach?

Carson: Well, me, but-

Carl: And how does your knee feel?

Carson: My knee? Why does everyone keep asking me that? It feels fine. That was like 3 years ago.

Carl: See? You're fine, pal. Let's just relax a bit so you're nice and fresh for next season.

Carson: Next season?

Carl: Or the year after. Whatever you're comfortable with. But the important thing is not to rush it. Look at me. I could have rushed it to get back to the team, but what if I got hurt again? Who's going to pay my bills then?

Carson: Don't you have 40 million dollars from your contract?

Carl: Exactly! How am I going to live off of 40 million dollars? Thankfully, I'm only 32 years old, and because I didn't rush back and hurt myself, some other team will pay me another 40 million this off-season.

Carson: I never thought of it like that.

Carl: Well you better start. Don't push that knee, Carson. I know it's been 3 years, but better safe than sorry.

Carson: Maybe you're right, Carl.

Carl leans in close to Carson's ear.

Carl: (whispers) And you know what? When you come back? You're going to have the best season EVER.

Carson leans his cheek on Carl's hand.

Carson: Thanks, Carl.

Allan Houston jogs into the room.



Allan Houston: Hey, guys!

Allan jogs in place.

Allan: Who's ready to have their best season ever?!

Carson: Me!

Carl: You guys!

Allan: I'm so pumped!

Allan shadowboxes in the mirror.

Allan: I'm trying out for the Knicks!

Carson: But, Allan, didn't you like, retire...like, three years ago?

Allan continues shadowboxing.

Allan: Yes but now I'm back, and I'm in the best shape of my life!

Carl: That's great, Al.

Allan: Take that, Barkley! In your face, Jordan! What do you think of THIS, Mourning?!

Allan sits down clutching his chest.

Carson: But, Allan, all those guys are retired now.

Carl: Not Alonzo.

Carson: Seriously? How come I don't see him in here?

Carl: He comes on weekends.

Carson: Ah.

Carl: Allan, you okay? Need a drink?

Allan: (gasps) Ohgodyesplease. Toss it.

Carl throws a gatorade; it lands five feet short of Allan.

Allan: Don't worry I got it.

Allan bends over to pick it up.

Carson: BE CAREFUL!!! MY KNEE!!!!!

Allan: Carson. I'm across the room from you.

Carson: But still...

Allan: That's okay. Keep the drink. I think I'm just gonna lay down.

Carson: You really think you can make an NBA roster, Allan?

Allan: It's just the Knicks.

Carl: Listen, we all need to take it easy so we can all make our successful comebacks. And when you're back out there in two or three years, having a huge season and signing a mega contract, you'll look back and see that all the long hours we spent resting were worth it!

They all stand up for a group high-five, but instead just shake hands.

Tom Brady walks in with his head down, reading his blackberry.

Tom Brady: Uhh, coach said I was supposed to report here to work out. (looks up) What the-

Tom looks at Carl, then Carson, then Allan.

Tom: Awwwww, FUCK.

Adam Jones' Innard Monologue

Adam Pacman Jones' organs have a conversation.

Adam Jones' Brain: That was amazing. What a game! I can't believe we went a year without playing football!

Adam Jones' Legs: Hell yeah, man. I'm tired as shit but it was worth it. So much fun gettin back out there.

Adam Jones' Hands: Word, son. I'm gonna have a hun'id innaceptions.

Brain: Okay, okay I'm excited too. But we still have work to do, boys. Their only touchdown was a result of your pass interference penalty, Hands.

Hands: Say what?! Yo that was Legs' fault. All Legs, boy.

Legs: Fuck that, I was in position. You got lazy, Hands.

Brain: No matter, no matter. The most important thing is that the team won. But we still have a lot of work to do. Let's get back in the gym and prepare for the Philadelphia Eagles!

Legs: Nah, man. I'm too tired.

Brain: But what about next week?

Legs: I got nothin in the tank. I need a break. I can barely move.

Hands: Cmon, Brain. We got til Monday. Free day, yo!

Brain: I suppose you're right about that.

Legs: Let's just cool out.

Brain: Okay then. So what do you want to do tonight?

Legs: I dunno dude.

Hands: Whatever's clever.

Adam Jones' Dick: Wanna go to the strip club?

Brain: I'm sorry? Did you say something, Dick?

Dick: I said.....wanna go to the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck?! Are you kidding me, Dick? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!

Hands: Whoa, whoa, easy playboy.

Dick: Why would you talk to me like that?

Brain: Wha...wha...what are you saying. I don't know what you're saying. I didn't hear that.

Dick: Listen-

Brain: No!

Dick: Just hear me out!

Legs: Brain, listen to him, man. We all in this together.

Brain: Ugh. You're right, Legs. Fine. Go ahead, Dick. I apologize for my language.

Dick: Look, all I'm sayin is. We back in the league, right? We 1-0, right? We been good, right? Why can't we just relax in the club?

Brain: I listened. The answer is no.

Dick: It won't be like the old days. I've changed. We've all changed. Have we even gotten in trouble in the past 12 months?

Brain: Yes! Hands punched a stripper in the eye in January!

Hands: ...Why you gotta bring up old shit...

Dick: But! We didn't get arrested.

Brain: Because I paid her off!

Dick: Look we can go back and forth all night. I think we all know that our rightful place is in that strip club. We need that strip club. We make the strip club. We are the strip club.

Brain: What the fuck does that mean?

Legs: I'm in.

Brain: WHAT?! You said you couldn't even move.

Legs: Fuck it.

Brain: Umm, "Fuck it?"

Hands: You heard him, you fuckin nerd. (sings) We goin striiiiip cluuuub. We goin striiiip cluuub.

Brain: Gentlemen, please. Let's just discuss this like civilized-

Dick: What's up, Balls. You in?

Adam Jones' Balls: Ehh, I don't know. I'm partial to Hooters, personally.

Hands: Shiiit we went to Hooters for your ass last time.

Dick: Why would you take Hooters over a strip club?

Balls: I like to have a bit of mystery.

Dick: That is retarded.

Balls: Ya know what? You're a DICK.

Dick: Wow, that's really fresh. Never heard that one. Original.

Legs: Fuck this noise. I'm walkin.

Brain: Legs, stop. Look we don't have to-

Hands: Can I slap a bitch?

Brain: No!

Dick: Yes.

Brain: NO! What the fuck, Dick?!

Dick: We're goin, Brain. You know it and I know it. You may as well come with.

Brain: I will NOT.

Dick: Suit yourself. But you know what happens when you don't come. Things get....unfortunate...

Brain: Fine. Look we'll just go for an hour. JUST AN HOUR. Then we come home.

Hands: (sings) I'ma grab some tittays in da strip cluuuub.

Brain: No, Hands. No grabbing. No drinking. No shooting. Everyone got that?

Dick: Of course, of course. There's just one problem. Jerry Jones ordered all the strip clubs in Dallas to bar Pacman Jones from entering.

Brain: That's why I changed it to Adam last month.

Legs: Wow.

Dick: I am impressed.

Hands: Yo Brain, you's a genius!

Brain: You know it. So should we call Tank?

Adam Jones' Stomach: Nah, fuck that. That fat bitch eat all my wings.

Brain: Good call. Alright let's go. Hands, get the weed.

Calling Out Names

After a three year hiatus, I am returning to blogspot. It seems that in my absence, there have been a lot of pretenders to the throne vying for my spot. I'm sorry that you all had to put up with such worthless posers in my wake, but no longer. I am the Marlo Stanfield of the internet, and I plan on doing some housekeeping around here. I will eliminate all my competition and reclaim my rightful position as the brownest and blackest blogger on the internet. In addition, I will also have a lot of other references to black culture.

Oh, like this one!



Let's get started and go through the perpetrators:

chez pim



I don't know who this Chez Pim is, but I don't like the look of her. Look at that face. You can just tell she's up to something. And when you click on her link, you find out what it is. She's selling shitballs under the title Brown is the New Black.


Flickr

Speaking of shitballs, I have a special message for the baby-loving populace out there: small does not equal cute. Apparently, all of Flickr disagrees.


Townhall

The reason women shouldn't be allowed to vote.



Ann, I know you read my blog and were inspired to do something edgy and provocative, but please, you're just embarrassing yourself. There's a difference between provocative and provocative for the sake of being provocative. Have I made myself clear while saying provocative enough times? Good. Provocative.


bnet

More like Brown is the New BORING. *flick-starts spinning bow tie*


MySpace

You are the reason I hate Myspace. One of the many, many reasons I hate MySpace.


blueoregon

I get it. Attention everyone: IMMIGRANTS ARE BROWN.


Business Week



NERD!


cnewmark

What. IN THE FUCK. Is this?

The Real Paul Jones

Perry Farrell is on board. Nothing weird about that.

Twitter

What. IN THE FUCK. Is Twitter?

The Champagne Diamonds Blog

Wait, hold on. Go back. Did Bill Gates just copy me? God damnit. Why did I use my "NERD!" line already? That would have killed him!

Next time, Bill. I'll do you like you did Netscape. You're all on notice. This is my internet now.

Hurry Up And Die -- McSweeney's

I consider myself a man of principle. A man of integrity. A man of class.

I have a strong sense of right and wrong, and I act accordingly.

I treat people how I would like to be treated.

I am a man of my word. A man of loyalty. A man of standards.

Other people may dime on their co-workers, throw others under the bus, and look out for number one in every circumstance. I, however, refuse to lower my standards and sink to their level.


BUT FUCK THOSE PEOPLE*


Today we will commence a new series called Hurry Up And Die. In Hurry Up And Die I will be dishing out large helpings of comeuppance. I will attack those that I have previously spared out of my good will. I will destroy those who have been violated the tenets of a decency. I will obliterate every douchebag on this planet in the name of all that is good and holy.

And I will curse a lot.

Some of you may be saying to yourselves, "But Brown, you're an asshole all the time. This is in no way a departure from your usual behavior. Fuck, I can even look through the archives where you've been an absolutely horrible person to innocent people. What's with the act?"

To that I simply say -- Shut up. Stop ruining it for the new readers.

Before I proceed with the inaugural edition of Hurry Up And Die, I felt I should let you know that I am looking for a domain name to launch this blog on my own. I know that my current URL is quite catchy and easy to remember, but I have decided to branch out. One of my ideas was to launch my own site as hurryupanddie.com. Unfortunately, GoDaddy informs me that it is already taken, but they offered me some fantastic substitutes:

freehurryupanddie.com

hurryupanddiestore.com

hurryupanddienow.com

And my favorite:

besthurryupanddie.com

As perfect as all of those are, I decided to go in a different direction. You can feel free to use them.

On to today's subject: McSweeney's. McSweeney's is a website that compiles literary works from all over, including amateurs and professionals. The pieces are generally light and comedic in nature. In January, I submitted the first of the Brit's Kids series for publication. (I know that seems really lame and hackneyed now, but at the time it wasn't just topical, it was prophetic.)

I received the following reply from one of the editors:

Hi Bryan -

Yeah, I pretty much consider anything about Brittney, Paris, or Lohan low-hanging fruit. This has a clever angle, but not enough to win me over completely, I’m afraid. Thanks for the look, nonetheless.

Best,
[redacted] [dickhole]
Acting Web Site Editor

I forwarded this email to a friend, and added the following as a preface:

It's not that I'd really argue, but it's kinda hard to take the holier-than-thou air of sophistication from McSweeney's when he spells "Britney" wrong. And I thought I made a preemptive strike against the 'another tired Britney piece' criticism with the title of my email, but I suppose to no avail.

Part of me wants to submit another type of piece and part of me wants to just submit elsewhere, even if not this particular bit. I mean I get that Britney isn't the freshest subject, but I guess I just figured good writing is good writing. The cleverness, hopefully, wasn't just the angle but the repartee. I think I'd take my stuff up against 90% of that site, but maybe I'm biased.

Are sour grapes a low-hanging fruit?

At first I wanted to post his email for public opinion, but I thought it may be unprofessional. But now it's Hurry Up And Die day, so he can fucking suck a dick.

So fuck your fag mag and all you homos that run it. You are all the same pathetic pussies from the high school drama club that wore capes and carried lunchboxes. I could easily take every one of your girlfriends, and I would, if fucking a dog wasn't illegal. You have never done anything novel or original. You are fucking worthless to me. I COULD BUY AND SELL YOU.

Okay, I couldn't buy you. But you're still gay.

And what the fuck is this "acting web site editor" bullshit? What are you a fucking intern? Do you even really work there? I guess it's all the same since you don't get paid. And YOUR writing, sir, is terrible.

First of all you start a sentence with "yeah." I would never do that.

Secondly, it's "Britney." I know, I'm not much of a starfucker either. But she's only about the second most famous person on the planet, you should probably know how to spell her name. You know the most famous is Bush, right? I'm hoping you know how to spell that one, but something tells me you're not too familiar with it.

Third...low-hanging fruit? Seriously? What the fuck do you write, Tolstoy? You working on the great American novel over there at McSweeney's? I'd love to have a read one time, if you aren't too busy "acting" like a website editor.

Fourthly, the angle wasn't really the most clever part, it was the banter. Of course it's debatable exactly just how funny the dialogue is, but something tells me you saw Brittney Britney in type and scrambled to get up on your soap box and write a dismissive patronizing email. And I assume you literally have to get on a box to use your computer because only a short person would write in such non-committal pussified language.

Finally, you close your email with "best." "Best?" Don't be that guy, [redacted] [dickhole]. Don't be that guy.

In summation, you wouldn't know a good writer if it took a dump on your chest, WHICH IT JUST DID.

Hurry up and die, McSweeney's.



*Sorry, that was a typo. I'm missing a "T" there.

24 Hour Vacation -- The Family Night

The titles haven't made sense to this point. Why start now?

The dinner and subsequent night out weren't as eventful. I think we were definitely on the backside of the mountain. I'm pretty sure we peaked when John rolled in the house with coke and pizza, yet no soda. I'm still thinking about that guy, actually. He was like this Dickensian character, if they did mountains of blow. Did I mention this guy does drugs?

We leave the hotel and get back in the car to pick up Grandma. She walks out of the house with John on her arm, shuffling slowly towards the car. It appears that Gram has decided to sport an outrageous old lady hat, complete with a scarf tied around it that hangs to the side. John, on the other hand is a more simple man. He decided to wear an oversized long white shirt--no shoes, no socks, presumably no underwear. Ever a contrast in styles, they approach the car together as he lovingly hands off his treasured little elf to us. He then stands at the top of the driveway waving goodbye to us as we pray that it is not a windy night.

Then we drive over to Aunt Lynn's to meet up with the rest of the group, and they come filing into the second car. Aunt Lynn is first out, and she looks like she has more left to say. I can't wait to hear it. Lauren's earrings state her Staten Island heritage proudly. Oh, look, Ralph is up. Glad to see he woke up for the occasion. And of course he carries the little old man baby with him, who looks like he could be Ed Koch's father. Okay everyone is in the car, but it looks like they forgot that someone has to drive. Cmon, dummies, one of you get in the front seat now.

Out walks a man with a cocksure first step. A man who is distinctly out of place in South Carolina. A man who has never doubted himself. A man whose only weakness in life is a spaghetti strap tank top that allows his musk to flow freely from his masculine pits to your undeserving nose.

Uncle Joey saunters out of the garage and into the car.

Grandma watches keenly as he gets into the driver's seat. She was only going on the condition that he would not go, since Lynn deemed that neither John nor Joey would go, lest there be a very old yet very juvenile fight. Grandma groans and then speaks slowly, gravely, and deliberately. Like Clint Eastwood.

"I thought he wasn't coming. I don't like liars..."

Jesus Christ, that was the most menacing thing I've ever heard. Just how deep does this family beef go? Is one of us going to get shot?

The adults decide on a seemingly harmless steakhouse to go to. The baby makes a face as if to say, "Why aren't we going to Olive Garden? Just kiddin, they don't make gravy like my ma!" Shut up, baby. You want Grandma to shoot you?

The drink order starts with me, and I commit a social faux paus by ordering a pitcher, when no one else at the table was drinking beer. Little do they know, I wasn't planning on sharing. Grandma quickly takes the attention off of me by ordering a daquiri with a scoop of ice cream...in it. Who is this woman?

As soon as the drink order is in, the baby starts yelping. Now listen closely, this baby was not crying, but actually squealing and YELPING every two seconds.. Imagine the most high-pitch "AYP! ACHP! AAGT!" sounds over and over again, and you will know what it's like to want to murder a child. I can only assume it was food he wanted, and not a gold chain or a track suit, but no one seemed to do anything about it. It continues while the parents carry on their conversation about that commune. ...Holy fuck it's still going. If you're reading this and you have kids, how the fuck do you deal with that noise? Oh my god, I'm actually going to stab a baby. SOMEONE GIVE ED KOCH A FUCKING KNISH.

The dinner passes with relatively few incidents, and we say goodnight to our hosts. The four of us with Lauren and Ralph hit a bar in town to have a few drinks. Everyone in the bar was wearing a white visor with a short sleeve button down from Old Navy. It was clear that we had time-traveled back to 1998. I was very surprised I didn't see a South Carolina "COCKS" hat in the crowd.

After a few fun hours of darts and drinks, Zolak drives Ally, Xmas Girl, and myself back to the hotel. As we drive past the large expanse of shopping centers, we notice a similarity in the buildings. They are all named quite literally, and we realize that they have to be to accomodate these simple folk.

Shoe Store

GUNS

Food Store

MEXICANS

The Room Store

CVS

CVS? You think these backwoods retards are going to understand what a CVS is? Yeah, good luck with that store name down here. I guarantee they have a hundred people a day walk in and ask for covers.

We all enjoy a good laugh at the poor hicks of South Carolina, and I slump back in my seat in the car and exhale. At that moment I think we all realized that the worst was behind us. We weathered John's drug temptations, a baby's absolute screeching, and Uncle Joey's overbearing body odor. We stuck it out together, and it was clear that we developed a bond from it. Though it may have been hard, we could be sure that some young man would make a mediocre blog out of the whole thing, and that going forward the best was yet to come.

Then a crazy Asian psychopath tried to drive 100 miles per hour into the back of our car.

He took one attempt, which shook us all up, but we all figured he had just lost control. Then he backed up and floored it again towards the back of our car, flashing his brights. We tried to slow down, he slowed down in front of us and tried to box us in. We tried to speed up, and Cho accelerated and made it even more dangerous. What the fuck was this guy's problem? Did he hear the "backwoods retard" comment? Then I'm sorry! Myrtle Beach isn't backwoods at all!

Quickly Zolak realized that we needed help, and Ally called 911. We tried to give landmarks to the operator, but ironically, no plainly named stores surrounded us. Where was The Room Store when you need it? Fuck that. Where was GUNS?!

Zolak channelled the spirit of the South and got his Gordon on by flying through a red light and whipping the car around to the other side of the road. We all thought the kamikaze would continue to follow us, but he just proceeded past us on his way as if it never happened. We breathed a sigh of relief and were thankful that Zolak didn't get his Earnhardt on.

A minute too late, we found a cop at the next light. Zolak pulled up next to him and explained the incident.

"Sir! Sir, thank god you're here. We were just getting chased by some maniac. I think he was Asian. He was gunning it towards us and flashing his lights, driving wildly like an Asian. I heard him yelling at us in another language. It sounded Asian. It was a blue pontiac, maybe a grand prix, and his face looks Asian. I'd say he was definitely Asian. Or Mexican."

The cop nodded, then looked forward towards the light. He couldn't have given a fuck, and at that point, neither did I. I just wanted to go home.

The next day we got to the airport and suffered delay after delay as the backwoods retards highly competent southerners attempted to efficiently run an airport. XG and I went to Friday's to pass the time, and one drink turned into ten. Our flight was so delayed that we actually saw Ally and Zolak again, even though their flight was three hours later than ours. They sat with us at our table, until our flight abruptly called for final boarding. We hurriedly grabbed our bags and went to dart for the plane. But what about the check?

"Don't worry about the check," Zolak said. "We got it. Don't miss your flight."

I ran away before he even said "check." My plan was complete. A 24 hour trip to South Carolina all for a free meal and drinks. It was so worth it!

Haha, so long suckers! I'm never paying you back! Ever! What are you gonna do about it? Sue me!

Oh.

You know my name?

You know where I live?

And you're both lawyers?

Fuck.

Okay, look. I have about eighty dollars worth of cold cuts, that should cover it.

I just have to make a quick stop to Myrtle Beach first.

24 Hour Vacation -- The Family Day

If you haven't read Travel Day, go back and read it.

I know what you're thinking. "Brown, if it's a 24 Hour Vacation, how is one day a Travel Day?" Well the answer is that since the vacation was so short, it was like we were basically traveling the entire time, thus making it a "travel day."

The real answer is that I'm an idiot and I fucked up. Are you happy now? I shit the bed, okay? Jesus what is the matter with you? You think this blog is up for a Pulitzer? Does it make you feel like a big man to brow-beat a poor young man just trying to get by on a simple blogger's wages? Do you know how much a blogger makes? Nothing! Since 2005 the total compensation I've gotten for this blog amounts to a wooden nickel, three buttons and used dental floss. So guess what. You get what you pay for, fucker.

Ahem.

So there we were, in the car on the way to Aunt Lynn's house. The conversation went like this:


Brown: So what do I need to know before I meet everyone?

Ally: Well, Aunt Lynn is really nice.

Xmas Girl: Nicest woman you'll ever meet.

Zolak: She's cool; you'll like her.

Brown: Aww that's cool. I love meeting the family. I can't wait!

Xmas Girl: Grandma is the best. She is only about 5'1", maybe 4'11", but she's a straight shooter.

Ally: She doesn't pull punches.

Zolak: It's funny to hear such awful language coming out of someone who's only 4'7".

Brown: Heh, that's fine. My family is rough-and-tumble. We all go at each other. I can handle it.

Ally: And then there's our cousin Lauren. She is very, very Staten Island.

Brown: Uhhh, coooolll...

Zolak: And her husband Ralph is even worse.

Brown: God, really?

Xmas Girl: And then there's the baby. He may be the most Italian one.

Brown: How is a baby that Italian already? He's a fucking baby!

Ally: Uncle Joey hates John.

Brown: Why?

Zolak: John is a cokehead.

Brown: Who is John??

Xmas Girl: Grandma's husband.

Brown: Jesus Christ! How is a grandfather a cokehead? What is he 80 years old? Does coke make old people move at normal speed? Where does an 80 year old even find blow? Does he page a 17 year old and then blow rails off a poster of the Rat Pack? Hold on, my head is spinning.

Ally: Well there was an issue of money, and cars, and stealing...you know, coke stuff.

Brown: Stealing off your four foot grandma??

Xmas Girl: Oh and also? Everyone is pretty much racist.

Brown: Right. Can we pull over? I'm gonna throw up.


I guess they thought I was kidding because they did not pull over. We did, however, take several U-turns due to Uncle Joey's explicit directions. "Once you pass the billboard with the sign for the Magic Show on the back, then you know you've passed it."

WHAT.

I guess Uncle Joey doesn't read the blog, because if he did, he'd know that "then you know you've past it" is never a part of directions. And have you ever tried to look at the back of a billboard while driving? That shit is fucking impossible. But thanks Uncle Joey. You turned a ten minute drive into just a shade under an hour. Well done. I haven't even met you and I like you already.

We get to the house and Uncle Joey is sitting in the garage on a stool, which I found an odd place to wait for someone, since it was 107 degrees out. But he did have a tank top with gaping arm holes, so I guess he was good to go. We make small talk as we walk in the house when Aunt Lynn pops up with a giant "SHHH!"

We whisper, "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Is the baby sleeping?"

"No. Ralph is."

Ralph? The baby's father? An adult? Great. Since when do I have to tiptoe around a grown man sleeping? He's not my father. I'm pretty sure I'll talk in normal tones and if he wakes up, then I guess he'll just have to deal with a short nap today. Poor baby adult male parent.

I sit down on the couch and nervously pick up one of the baby's toys to occupy myself, when what looks like a one foot tall Italian stereotype enters the room. This baby gangster turns the corner like he's going to shoot me for touching his toy, or more accurately, like he's going to posture that he will shoot me for touching his toy, then go home and watch his Sopranos DVD box set. Either way, I quickly dropped his oily rattle as I was approached by the ugliest baby ever.

Now when I say that this baby is the ugliest baby ever, I am exaggerating. This baby was merely the ugliest baby I've ever seen. I'm sure there are some uglier babies in Uganda or something, but this was definitely the ugliest baby in America. This baby is First World ugly. Luckily, XG and the gang quickly get us out and on our way to Grandma's, who lives half a block away. Aunt Lynn calls Grandma a "bitch" then insists that she is coming with us. I see no way that this can end badly.

As the door to the house opens, I am greeted by Grandma, who stands at just about 3'5". She is a bit banged up from a recent fall and walks around gingerly, but you can tell her mind is sharp by her impressive array of curses. We sit down on the couch and go through the usual small talk until Aunt Lynn interrupts the conversation to announce her disgust with a loud "UGH." It appears John has arrived.

John is a large, jovial, red-faced old man. I know what you're thinking, and you are absolutely correct. John is exactly like Santa Claus...except John is jovial because he is coked up, red-faced because he's drunk, and looks about two days older than Saint Nick. Also, John smokes a cigar and is racist. Besides that they are exactly alike. But hey, they both love to play with elves.

In talking to John I see that he is a very charming and sociable man. He clearly loves their Grandma and he takes care of her constantly. This doesn't mean much to Aunt Lynn, however, who is treating everyone to an icy stare and silence combo. Apparently, she prefers to focus on the fact that he does copious amounts of blow, has lost and/or stolen the car, and engages in unholy acts with other women.

Now I can't attest to the validity of these claims. I do not know how an 80 year old man gets coke, but I certainly saw him in some sort of altered state. I do not know the car situation, though the grandkids confirm there are police records to prove it. And hey, maybe that makes him a bad husband, I don't know. But one thing is for sure: this guy is absolutely NOT out crushing the singles scene getting pussy thrown to him like frisbees.

He has a giant coke problem. He froths at the mouth. You can't understand him. He is older than dirt. If this guy is out getting ass, then I'm going to kill myself. Because my single sexual life consisted of...well, it was horrible. I don't feel like talking about it. Read the archives. So I'm sure Johnny Boy is out getting fucked up. I'm sure he's even leering at other women, or whatever old men do. But trust me, Lynn, this guy is not getting laid.

We tapdance around the elephant in the room for about an hour or five, until he would be ignored no more. John lights the fuse by asking us if we all want some pizza, that fucking dick. Aunt Lynn flips out, yelling through her teeth at Grandma. "I bought eighty dollars worth of cold cuts, and you're gonna get pizza? Fine, get your fuckin pizza, waste eighty dollars. But you know what, next time tell me you're gonna get pizza so I don't waste eighty dollars on fucking cold cuts!" Hey Aunt Lynn, how much were the cold cuts?

We politely agree to some pizza, and John obliges to pick it up. Aunt Lynn thinks an appropriate reaction is to dart out of the house and storm down the block. Ally sends Zolak to go talk to her. FUCK. That is going to be me in two years, walking with a frantically pacing relative, talking about expensive lunch meats.

Zolak calms her down with a pro bono therapy session, and she returns to exchange a fake pleasantry and goodbye. We wait another hour until John returns with the pizza, considerably more red in the face. The girls surmise that he went out to bang out a few quick shots/rails/hookers before he got the pizza. I don't know why they're so skeptical, I think he just really wanted the best pizza he could find. And his face was red from all that Myrtle Beach heat! No? Are those no good? See. This is why I couldn't be a player like John. I have no game.

Now we are forced to fake smile and eat fake pizza. As I'm looking around for cues, I see XG motion me to keep eating more pizza. Being a skinny guy, you can never make the mistake of not eating a lot around family friends anyone. If I eat anything less than a five-course meal, I always get the requisite, "Pff, no wonder you're so skinny!" When do I get to play the No Wonder You're So Fat game? Huh? When is that gonna happen, God? Still waiting on that one.

So I eat slice after slice of this cardboard until XG tells me it's time to go. Finally, we can leave! Finally, we can go to the hotel! Finally, I can change out of the clothes I wore through the flight!

What? No? I didn't quite catch that. I thought you said we weren't going back to the hotel. Oh. We aren't. Umm, why not? Because we're going BACK TO AUNT LYNN'S??? WHY IN THE FUCK WOULD WE DO THAT?!? WE HAVE TO EAT MORE FOOD NOW??? THEN WHY WOULD YOU MAKE ME EAT ALL THAT PIZZA?!!? IS THIS SOME SORT OF BIZARRE FAMILY GAUNTLET I HAVE TO RUN WHERE I MEET AND GREET FIGHTING RELATIVES AND EAT MY WAY THROUGH CHALLENGES?? HOW LONG CAN ONE FUCKING DAY BE??????

As I walk back into Aunt Lynn's, I see Uncle Joey at his usual post-up in the garage, and he offers me a greeting in his usual candor.

"Hey. So how's Dickface?"

I don't know, Fart Pants. Is that an actual question? You were here, by yourself, for hours and the best you could come up with was "Dickface?" Are you sure you don't want to just leave that on his MySpace page? I don't care if you guys hate each other, but can you please not turn this into an episode of Saved By The Bell where I'm playing Mr. Belding?

At Aunt Lynn's we are presented with a mountain of meat. I try to make a giant sandwich to appease the family, and end up choking down a horrendous meal. I stare at a spot on the wall as Aunt Lynn bombards me with questions that frankly, I don't think anyone has the answer to. "It's okay if he wants to get coked up and lose the car, but it's also okay for him to call me a fat fuck?" Umm, Lynn, my dear? I really don't know what to tell you about that.

After about 67 hours of family time, we retreat to the hotel for the first time. I stare at the pool from the window, but I don't even feel like moving an inch to go down there. Plus, a lot of the people down there look fat. Instead I lay on the bed and try to regulate my breathing.

It's only 5 PM.

You still have to go to dinner.

And everyone is going to be there...

24 Hour Vacation -- The Travel Day

The Good News I Don't Have Arm Cancer series is on hold until further notice.

That notice is now.

It is no longer on hold. It is permanently discontinued.

I have to bump those entries because this past weekend needs addressing. I went down to Myrtle Beach, SC to meet Xmas Girl's grandma and some extended family. Obviously this went off without a hitch, and there's virtually nothing to write about. But I told some people that I would TRY to find something to say about it, so I will make good on that promise.

Oh but if you really care about my arm, here's a quick recap: Day 2 -- repacking. Day 3 -- repacking. Day 4 -- self-surgery to remove packing. Day 5 -- wounds close. Day 6 -- abscess returns. Day 7 -- I ignore it. The circle of life.

On to South Carolina we go.

Our trip begins 15 minutes into our ride to the airport, where Xmas Girl turns to me and says, "Oh my god, I forgot to pack any underwear or bathing suits." WHAT. "Well I don't wear underwear so I forgot to pack them." Oh! Lovely. She says, "We'll just go shopping when I get there." Great. We are there for 24 hours and already 3 of it is going to be spent shopping. This is quickly turning into the most expensive trip to Wal-Mart ever.

At the airport I'm walking through the metal detector, when my belt sets it off. I walk back to quickly toss it in a bin, and some other fat fuck walks past me and through the detector. What are you a fucking diplomat? You think you can just cut the line? Then his frog-faced wife does the same thing! Now suddenly I'm way back in line holding my pants up like a mope as these idiots bumble through security causing massive delays.

I finally come through to the other side and see that we were held up because the wife's bag was flagged by security. I dress myself and look on as a guard opens her bag. She blurts out, "I put all of it right on top so you don't have to go through my bag." He unzips and a couple of tiny bottles sit on top of the clothes. "See? That's it, all under 3 ounces." The guard reaches under the clothes and pulls out a couple huge bottles of lotion, holding them up proudly like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Aaahhh, what do we have here? 'It's all right on top,' huh?" She throws her hands up in a tizzy.


"Awww come on! Don't throw it out, at least let someone use it. It's good stuff!!"

"What do you want me to do with women's lotion?"

"But it cost 80 dollars!!"

"Well you can check your bag if you want."

"...No, I can't do that."

"Then go to hell, terrorist."


Well, no, he didn't say that last part, but he did throw out the lotion. That's right. Right in your frog face. You thought you were above the law, what with your line-cutting and all, taking advantage of a poor simple boy trying to get home to grandma. Then you got served with instant karma. I finished getting dressed, XG and I high-fived, and then we proceeded to our gate. That actually happened. We must have been auditioning for that Say Anything remake.

We flew "Spirit Airlines." I put that in quotation marks because I am not sure it's a real airline. You may remember them from their wildly unpopular advertising campaign, "Spirit Air: Now with less leg room!" As we got on the plane, a chipper flight attendant greets us. I point out the kneecap-destroying lack of leg room, to which he tap dances,


Flight Attendant Guy: Well hey, what we lack in leg room, we make up in HEAD room! No more pesky overhead bins!

The New Black: How is that an asset?

FAG: And you hear that sound? What you're not hearing is the nasty blaring of a jet engine. Mmmm, the sounds of silence. That's right, who needs two noisy jet engines on the wing when one will do!

TNB: I hardly think that's sa-

FAG: We here at Spirit also provide free travel to all babies. Any babies at all! No need to even have a parent on board, just toss on a crying baby and we'll ship 'em across the country in our other passengers' laps!

TNB: Now you're just getting ri-

FAG: Boy, oh boy. All this conversation is making me thirsty. I think I'm going to help myself to one of our courtesy bottles of water.

TNB: Well, alright. That's more like-

FAG: Only three dollars each!

TNB: ...Do you really even work here?

FAG: Yes! But we haven't been paid in 6 weeks!


So somehow Spirit and their volunteer pilot-of-the-day navigate the skies down to Myrtle Beach and we land safely where we are picked up by Xmas Girl's sister and her husband. Now Xmas Girl has that moniker because I seriously had no idea what her name was when I met her. In retrospect, I wish I would have thought of something more clever, but here we are. Now I have the chance for vindication by bestowing two awesomely perfect nicknames to the sister and brother-in-law.

Drumroll please.


And here we go....

.......

.......

.............

..............................................................................


Fuck. I got nothin.

He had requested the name "Myrtle Waves" and she requested "Burro Loco," to both of which I respectfully decline. Both are funny in their own right, but Myrtle sounds like an old woman and Burro Loco, well, for some reason that only reminds me of this mess. For the sake of simplicity, he will be known as Zolak, after the greatest Patriots quarterback of all-time. And she will be known as Pink Hat Hannakuh Girl Ally, after everyone's favorite plucky female Boston-based lawyer.

That's it. Those are your names. Congratulations.

You don't like it? Suck it. Welcome to the blog.

Good News: I Don't Have Arm Cancer - Day One

I never go to hospitals. I don't know if it's a male thing or I'm just scared to find out what all these curious ailments and disconcerting pains are, but I never go. But recently I forgot to bring deodorant to Xmas Girl's place, so I borrowed her Lady SpeedStick. I'd be lying if I said this was the first time I've worn women's deodorant, so I didn't really think it would be a problem. After a week or so, though, I developed some redness under my arm. That redness then turned into a bump. That bump grew to the size of a baby's fist. So yeah. You're caught up.

Day 1 - Friday - 4:30 AM

I woke up at XG's early in the morning and felt fairly nauseous. I rolled out of bed to check myself out in the bathroom mirror. Hair? Greasy. Face? Busted. Body? None. Everything is in place so far. I check under my arm and see a bleeding red mountain. Suddenly my stomach flips, and I swallow it back like the usual warm tequila routine. It feels powerful, though, and I bow to the porcelain god, ready to bestow my sacrifice.

The vomiting is lengthy and loud. I'm sure XG appreciated it. I stand up and try to rinse the grit from my teeth before I remember something. Hmm. Perhaps when I showered Thursday and it started oozing puss and blood, that should have been a concern. Perhaps blood and puss should always mean medical attention. Perhaps if this all started on Thursday then I should have started this blog on Thursday. Too late!

Day 1 - Friday - 5:50 AM

After much debate, surrounding the fact that I don't know what my medical insurance is, we decide to go to the hospital. I meander aimlessly around the corridors of this hospital until Xmas Girl finds the registration. We sit in a sparsely populated waiting room as we wait for a doctor. The tv blares a Mexican talk show. At least I think it's a talk show. Who can understand what in the hell those Mexicans are so excited about? A dark-skinned matronly lady sits staring at the television. I presume she can relate to this program.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:20 AM

My name is called and I excitedly hop up. Aww, it's just Triage. Whatever that is. I thought I was cured. I sit in a small room with what looks like a med school student as she asks me common questions. I'm guessing they are "common." This is all a bit new to me. I thought height and weight was a bit personal.

We sit back in the waiting room and wait to get called again. A cute young blonde and a skinny guy walk in gingerly and sit down to wait. Hey, your girlfriend is near-blind too? We should start a club, dude! A look up at the television shows that this talk show has apparently turned into a full-on Carnivale. The white couple looks over; we exchange glances and roll our eyes. Facial gesture racism. Cool.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:40 AM

"Brown." Huh? Yes? What? Me? That's a bit of a common name to be calling out to a waiting room. A nurse walks us to a room where she hands me a robe to put on. She leaves and I panically yell to XG, "What do I do??" She says just put it on, Stoop. I start taking my shoes off. "What are you doing?" she says. I don't know! I thought I had to get naked and have my butt hanging out like those cartoons from the 40's. That's the only part of this visit I was looking forward to.

XG hasn't seen this monstrosity since it's onset, so she finally asks to see it. I warn her and then lift my arm. She gasps, screeches out loud, and then faints to the floor. Okay, okay that's not true. She didn't faint.

Day 1 - Friday - 6:55 AM

The Asian doctor comes in with a male Mexican nurse and a loving grandma nurse. They ask me why I took my shoes off. The doctor takes a look under my arm. His face looks grim. Grandma's looks pained. Mexican's looks at XG. For a moment I wondered if I had arm cancer, but the doctor said that the swelling was all due to an abscess. He plainly states that he will have to open and drain it.

"Open" makes it sound easy right? Like a twist-off. Like a Coke! Coke is delicious! But, unfortunately, in this case "open" is short for "cut open." Something tells me if I had to surgically open a fleshy top to get to a Coke, I'd be drinking Jack on the rocks. I ask him if it is going to hurt. He responds by telling me what he is going to do to it, which doesn't really answer my question. So I try to rephrase, "Okay, but what kinda pain are we talking here." XG laughs in the background. Aww she loves me. I lean up and see she is sitting in a chair facing the wall. Aww she really loves me.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:05 AM

I lay back with my arm swung open and my hand behind my head. First comes the numbing agent. He says I will feel a pinch and then some burning. Yep, pinch. ....Yyyyep burninggg. Hmm, fuck. Okay well points for accuracy. His answer to the pain follow-up question was "This area is really hard to get numb." That's a big fuck me. After a few minutes I see him get in close and focus like a billiards player, he stops and gets upright to tell Grandma Nurse not to stand by my foot. Shit, is this going to spray six feet across the room? Are my legs going to involuntarily kick? Am I going out like Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest? I KNEW I SHOULDN'T GO TO THE HOSPITAL GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

He starts cutting and it feels like someone taking a knife and cutting it over a very senstive, bulbous, infected part of your body. How's that for an analogy? The cuts drag across the abcess. It hurts like a bitch. I try to remain stoic and still as I grip the railing of the bed and focus on the ceiling. Up, he turned it up a notch. I think he's finding his groove because these fucking HURT. I breathe it out and clutch the bedside rail, squinting my eyes at the fluorescent ceiling. There is a short reprieve as he tinkers with his tools and they ask if I'm okay. "Mm-hmm." He leans back in, and he cuts at a new place. Holy horse balls that is much more sensitive. Fuck me hard why are you doing this. This sadist makes my denist Dr. Knuckle Hair look like a massage therapist. Thank god I am earning some good painkillers.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:30 AM

I give a few strong exhales as he arranges items on his tray. I have a good feeling that the cutting is done. It was bad, but I'm cool. XG yells over her shoulder to see if I need anything. I do not, but that is sweet. The doctor now tells me that he has to do the packing. What the fuck is packing? I'm guessing he means packing, like, my wound in ice? He says this is to soak up the infection. Huh? He draws a long shoelace-like material from a jar, accompanied with a long metal pokey dealie. The nurses grimace. Fuck. FUCK. That is going in my arm holes?? Aww fuck guy, well does it hurt because-OH MY GOD THAT IS SIGNIFICANTLY WORSE THAN THE CUTTING. YOU ARE STRAIGHT UP STABBING MY OPEN WOUND WITH A BLADE. HOLY SHIT YOU KEEP DOING IT. AND DEEPER. AND HARDER. JESUS BUTTFUCKING CHRIST ON THE CROSS. THAT IS WORTHY OF BLASPHEMY.

But I keep silent, resorting to closing my eyes. I try to apply others' brave moments to my life, and conjure images of Fight Club where Ed Norton tries to meditate away the chemical burn. This does not work for a few reasons: 1) I do not know how to meditate, 2) This is nowhere near as bad as a chemical burn, 3) Brad Pitt's calming eyes are not here to coax me through the ordeal. Instead, I try to take the pain, reasoning that many have endured more. Whether this makes me a man or a masochist, I do not know. They remind me to breathe as my hand grows to be a part of the railing.

Day 1 - Friday - 7:45 AM

They seem to be done with the fuck-you portion of the procedure, and I finally look down. The rag was on the business end of a Jackson Pollock style smattering of blood and puss. Judging by the frantic cutting, I wouldn't be surprised if it was him. I look in my armpit and see two shoelaces sticking out of open holes in my arm. Great. I'm a babywipe dispenser.

I exhale through my nose a few times and lower my heartrate as XG approaches the bed with eyes full of pride. She attempts to hold my hand, but it may be permanently wrenched to the railing. The Mexi-nurse bandages me up and we ask him how this might have happened. He replies, "It happens to black people a lot." ...Wh-....Is he implying that I'm black? "They get it a lot in their butt." ....(!) "It's their pores they have a lot of problems with it, I mean they get it a lot." Okay, so the reason I got it is because you have an unhealthy obsession with black people's assholes? Informative. Thank you.

Day 1 - Friday - 8:00 AM

I read over the discharge papers eagerly. Keep it dry yeah, yeah. Come back in 24 hours right, right. Take Augmentin for an antibiotic aaaaannnnd....Aleve for pain.

...You motherfuckers. Oh I'll be back tomorrow. This isn't over.