Second Effort

Please read the actual news story linked in the following instant messenger conversation. This could turn into a grassy knoll-esque conspiracy.

Scott @work, Clients @home says:

dude

TB3 says:

better appologize before I get fired for being a cry baby sports writer

Scott @work, Clients @home says:

this tsunami thing is beyond belief

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

consider yourself fired

TB3 says:

no shit, this knocking the world off it’s axis thing even scares me a little

TB3 says:

I mean, what if we float into the sun

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

isn’t it odd that nobody has a picture of the waves

TB3 says:

or Uranus

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

the klingons will save us

TB3 says:

yeah, that is strange

TB3 says:

here’s another fucked up story for you

TB3 says:

http://www.cnn.com/2004/US/12/27/rumsfeld.flt93/index.html

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

whoa

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

and whoa

TB3 says:

yeah

TB3 says:

that one has had me shaking my head all morning

TB3 says:

I guess I wouldn’t be that surprised, and I really wouldn’t be that upset…if it weren’t for the fact that they could have told us UP FRONT AND NOT LIED FOR THREE YEARS

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

exactly

Scott  @work, Clients @home says:

for once you are saying something intelligent

TB3 says:

for once

Let’s Roll.

JESUS —

He came not to throne,

but to a manger.

He lived not as a king,

but as a servant.

He chose not an earthly

kingdom, but a cross.

He gave not just a little, but everything.

-Holly Gerth

Whoever the fuck that is.

May the Lord’s Great Love Bless you this Christmas.

Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us…” Ephesians 5:2 NIV

The above quotes came from a lovely card that was waiting for me this morning upon my arrival at the Conservative office. It was so good intentioned that I almost feel a little guilty being cynical. Then I turn it over and see this just above the price:

“May the Lord use this card to lift your spirit, encourage your heart, build your faith, and brighten your Christmas Season.”

Right above the price, I remind you. I shouldn’t mock, though, the mother who sent it to me really was being gracious, I guess to me and to the G.O.D. Which not only makes me happy that she appreciates my work, but gives me a little chuckle. May the Lord use this blog to do the same for you.

Last night we continued what is fast becoming a Christmas extravaganza with the Sara’s office party, which included the staffs of two other newspapers that our bosses own as partners.

I suppose it started out harmless enough. I however, am a little under the weather right now with a cold, and having not eaten all day at work yesterday I got home and proceeded to slam two hot dogs and a large glass of OJ. When will I learn? Crap food plus empty stomach means instant and emergency trip to the bathroom.

Thankfully, the party’s setting was a country club which had a secluded little get-away for me to plunder 5 minutes after walking in the door.

We sat and chatted uncomfortably for a few minutes and settled in for the long haul. Jake, Sara’s boss, had us go around the room and introduce ourselves, the beer and wine began to flow, and Sara ate her weight in coconut shrimp.

Unlike my Christmas party where the bar just ran a tab, Jake had a devious little scheme cooked up by which he would pass out drink tickets like dog biscuits. I, of course, was willing to stand, sit, shake, beg and even speak to get my hands on more, but he was sparing. That was about the only thing better about the Conservative party.

First of all, there were people within a millenia of our age. Sara’s co-worker Lindsay and her 21 year-old husband were there and probably the most fun. By in large it was a good group and we had fun. Just a couple of highlights worth mention in this space:

• One member of the rather snooty staff of the MV paper made an ass out of himself while we played ‘Catchphrase.’ For those that don’t know, the game is similar to the “popular” daytime gameshow hosted by icon Donny Osmond, you describe a word or phrase for your team until they guess what it is you’re hinting at. This guy’s turn comes up and whilst sitting next to his boss give the clue “We all smoked this in college.” After some denial laced glances, his team responded with the obvious pot, marijuana, and the like. The word in question? Grass. After failing to get the term across to his team the buzzer sounded and Jake, the boss, looked at him in all seriousness and said, “That was the first thing you thought of for grass?” Don’t forget, people, the party was on a goddamn golf course. Genius.
• A later game, apparently known as “The Name Game” also featured some fun. Each participant submits 6 famous people or characters on slips of paper. The first round you can say anything, the second round you only get two words, and in the third you use charades to get your team to guess the person. My entries included Theo Huxtable, Burt Reynolds and Barry White. Sara’s were of course more scholarly, Georgia O’Keefe included, and she took great rpid in telling everyone, “That’s Mine!” One woman from the snot staff topped her with a journalist that none of we journalists had ever heard of. She went to great lengths to tell us how ashamed we should be in ourselves for not knowing “the most famous journalist ever.” I told Sara when we were leaving she should have seized the opportunity and said “I get my Masters degree in journalism tomorrow and I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”

Speaking of that, I’m out of writing time, have to get back to the IC for said grad ceremony. I would, however, like it to be known far and wide that as of this morning, I have give Sara 19 diamonds in the past calendar year. 19! A record not soon to be broken, I can assure you.

Ah, my first ever office Christmas party. Real office Christmas party, that is. Back in the day we used to exchange gifts at the Northern Iowan, or go out and get plowed, or both. But this was with actual people from my actual semi-professional landscape.

Median age of attendees: 142.

It was less than enthralling, to say the least, but I think we made the best of it. Here are the highlights.

• First, I got unnecessarily pissed at Sara for making us late to what was supposed to be a 6 o’clock ‘social hour’ start time. And I mean really pissed. We drive in silence for ten minutes until I realize I forgot the stupid ass 5-dollar limit gift exchange things at home. We make up in short order as I feel like a complete jackass, and she is big enough not to rub it in.
• We arrive an hour late to find the boss-man isn’t eve there yet, and I feel even more jackassy. We help ourselves to a free Bud Light (in the can) from the VFW bar.
• I finish my Bud Light two minutes later, and grab cans for the boss-man and his wife on my second trip, annoying the fuck out of the bartender woman because it’s only been two minutes and she is still on the same cigarette. I’m quite sure she could kick my ass and does have a gun somewhere in close proximity.
• We all chat briefly and are told by the women in the VFW kitchen that if we don’t sit down and eat our salad now, our meat will be cold. I go get another beer for dinner. Sara is ok with her first.
• Lettuce salad with ranch dressing is fantastic. Seating arrangement has Sara and I directly across from boss-man and his wife. Sadly, this is probably where I am most comfortable given the other table is entirely populated by people at least three times my age. Buzz sets in, I stop referring to the beer as beer and start calling it ‘free booze.’ I also stop asking everyone else if they are empty every time I make a trip the bar.
• Dinner is served, overcooked prime rib sliced three inches too thin, a baked potato and some very sad, gray, green beans. Not gray-green, mind you. Green beans that happen to be gray. I heavily coat my plate in butter, sour cream, salt, pepper and horseradish sauce from a squirt bottle. My dinner and current beer are gone four minutes later, plate wiped clean with a roll. I watch everyone else eat around the fat. Pussies.
• Rainbow Sherbet dessert with little cookies is served. Sara eats hers in 3.2 seconds. I resort to gin.
• I take shit from the one other employee in my age group when returning with my first gin and tonic. “How many have you had?!,” she says loud enough for my boss to pay close attention. I respond in kind: “This from the lush doublefisting screwdrivers all night?” Things are looking up.
• Gift exchange time. I hit the jackpot with a gift box that includes two Oreo cookie mugs with cutesy cartoon cows and bag of mini-Oreos. Sara gets a glass ornament, also a jackpot. It is painfully evident everyone exceeds the 5 dollar limit but me and one cheap bitch who buys ornaments at Hy-Vee and lauds them proudly as art. “It’s painted on the inside,” she says.
• People stand around uncomfortably. I resort to more gin and smoke my first cigarette of the night.
• I honestly have no idea how this came up in conversation, but as Sara and I are standing around chatting with my boss, the words “You just peed on yourself a couple weeks ago” cross Sara’s lips. Thankfully the boss does not hear and I do not have to make what would have quite possibly been the most uncomfortable explanation of my life. Sara does not escape the nasty look I shoot her direction, but we both laugh it off.
• One more drink. My boss announces that this will be his final beer as the elderly begin to file out. I am not yet drunk enough to ignore this subtle sign that he is cutting me off.
• The boss’s daughter, who works for the paper part time and full time in a local sporting good store until she figures out what the hell to do with a degree in psychology, gives me a gift certificate for half off shoes at skechers.com. This in reaction to my pointing out that my brown dress shoes look like footballs. She agrees, and one-ups Sara’s pee remark. When my boss asks why she would give that to me and not to him she says, “Because he needs new shoes, and because you don’t pay him enough to buy them.” I laugh, because it is a good burn, but then realize the implications, particularly five days before I have scheduled a meeting to ask for a raise. “Uh, I don’t know about that,” I say. Most uncomfortable silence of the night follows.
• Free booze is officially gone. I decide that means I should be too. Sara and I leave, she drives having never finished that first Bud Light. ‘How does she manage,’ I wonder.
• We arrive at home. Sara retires to bed. I pour myself a patented mudslide mix over ice cubes and have another smoke to reflect.

I thought the thing went as well as I could have hoped, until I just now wrote it down. I should go work on my résumé.

Damn, it has been a long time, huh? Sorry about that, but some lovely readers out there have once again made me feel desirable. Honestly, there have been all kinds of crazy ass things going on and I’ve gone as far as taking notes in some circumstances because I knew it was good blog fodder. But I just have had the inspiration. I’m not saying the posts will be coming fast and furious, work will be as busy as ever, but unlike the sad and pathetic efforts of mattbot, despite my hectic schedule I will press on with you, the readers, in mind.

So let’s see, I left off with the drunken phone call to Matt in which I nailed the entirety of Prince’s “Seven.” I’m working on a rendition of “When Doves Cry.” but before my album drops, I just thought I’d reflect for you on some of the more prominent memories from the past couple weeks.

There was a homecoming party for Trent, back from Afghanland for two weeks of leave and we honored him fittingly with one night of complete drunkenness. Once again my vocal skillz came into play as I karaoked Live’s Lightning Crashes. Only because he didn’t have any good Pearl Jam or Led Zeppelin for his machine. Have I mentioned that I can EXACTLY replicate Robert Plant? Really, it’s uncanny. Live, however, was a different story, Chad Fisher and I murdered that song. Also worthy of note from that night, while other far more married friends were playing with some drunken girl’s nipple rings, I didn’t even look! First of all, I think that means that I’m pretty goddamned disciplined, second of all, what the hell is wrong with me?

I passed out on the way home at four in the morning and apparently wasn’t to easy to wake when we pulled up. I awoke to hear Sara talking about how I was going to fall out of Chad’s supersized Ford and Chad, whose drunken ass I had been taking care of earlier in the night saying, “Ah, just leave him there.” Nice.

The next morning Brean, Dad and Drake were on their way into town for the final home game, which left no time for sobriety. Gin and juice was the breakfast of choice and ten minutes into the tailgating I was back to christmas tree status. Lit up, that is. I accidentally pissed myself on the way to the bar that day trying to do the Gatorade bottle trick in the Buick. And I wasn’t even driving! I know, I was disappointed in myself too. Have I ever told the ‘bag of piss on a frat boy’ story on this blog? If anyone is interested, just ask, it really is a classic. Quote of the weekend: Brean looks at me in complete seriousness as we prepare for a day of drinking and says this: “Oh, we’re getting’ a band together.” Yeah, not many will see the same level of humor in this as me, but he has no musical talent ability or knowledge whatsoever. Doesn’t play an instrument, doesn’t sing half as well as me and Robert Plant, and he’s getting a band together. Yeah.

There was also a homecoming party of sorts for Matt and Maggie, which by in large was a complete disaster. But there were fried mushrooms, which probably made it worthwhile. Sara drove Robert’s car home that night and we relived a favorite moment from our own past when we had to pull over on 380 so he could puke. Sara had to do that a few years ago on her birthday, but she never had quite the kind of humor about it as old Bob. As he climbed back into the back seat while I was leaving another drunken message for Matt, Robert said only “Take that, Mile Marker 65.” Well done.

At Thanksgiving there was food and family. My Aunt Cathy and Uncle Drake hosted this year, and a portion of Cathy’s family joined up with us for the festivities. She has a brother in law who is a vegetarian, and I would think that in itself excluded you from celebrating turkey day, but he did eat and then he paid for his satanic vegetarian ways. I was watching football with Dana’s boyfriend Scott when I heard what I thought was someone else watching the game at a different TV. I really thought someone was yelling at a football game Owski-style, but no, this guy was upstairs doing the most violent hurling I have ever had the privilege of hearing. And, dear readers, that is saying something. Between my own exploits, those of one Uncle Brian, Trent Reedy and hundreds of others, I have been around a helluva lot of puking. This guy wasn’t just praying to the porcelain god, he was praying for death. It was brutal, and I laughed my ass off. Goddamn vegetarian.

Last weekend I worked the whole goddamn time, but I was courtside of an Iowa Women’s bball game and then matside later that day for the Iowa vs. Iowa State wrestling meet. That pretty much kicked ass, and I got to watch my boy Matt Fields beat the hell out of the 7th ranked heavyweight in the country. I do, however, have to share one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen in my life that happened during the women’s game.

After the first half, I had more than enough pictures of the two area girls that play for the Hawks. I found a spot in the stands to sit back and watch when who should appear but Pierre Pierce, the most famous rapist basketball player (from Iowa) to get off scott free. As soon as Pierre sat down to watch hi prospective victims on the court, and this is no exaggeration, 20 teen to pre-teenage girls surrounded him looking for autographs. It was sickening, I mean, who are these kids parents?

That little incident gave me even more reason to cheer against the Hawks on Tuesday night when the Panthers came to town. Iowa won the game, sadly, but not before I could ruffle a few Hawkeye feathers. Thanks go out to Adam Smallio for inviting me to use his other free ticket. Despite the Panther loss, it was a good time.

This weekend is the big office christmas party, which should make for at least some kind of post. My boss is actually encouraging me to get drunk, so I’ll keep you posted on that one. In the mean time, I understand Playboy is looking for Iowa hotties.

I just want to encourage you corn-fed beauties to get out there and carpe diem. the centerfolds have really sucked lately, and Iowa is a surefire answer to that problem. Plus, it will make it far easier for me to stalk a playmate that lives right here.

Some skank on KCRG just reported 5,000 dollars worth of damage was done to The Deadwood

last night when a fire broke out. Just yesterday I was walking by the Wood with my mom and telling her it was one of the dirtiest bars in Iowa City, and therefore, one of my favorite places to hang out. It is also home to Berry, the bartendress with dreadlocks that has law student Mike Cummings drooling in his beer on a regular basis. Yes, her name really is Berry, I call her Berry Swirl. For those that don’t know, the Deadwood in reknowned in small circles for the level of stankification it imparts on regulars. You know that feeling you have whe you wake up the morning after a bender at the bar, you skin and hair smell like toasted crotch cheese on a tricuit? Well, after a night at the Deadwood, you actually have to bathe in gasoline and light yourself up monk-style to get the funk to go away. That being said, many discussions have been had about just how disgusting Berry Swirl’s two-foot dreads must smells as she spends five nights a week or so in there. Cummings, being an avid Marlboro Light man, and very sick, is just further turned on by the prospect of a woman who can fulfill his nic fits just by shaking her head.

I hope the Leinie’s pint glasses weren’t damaged, I have yet to steal the entire collection.