Second Effort

Just when you thought, or maybe it’s just me, that it was safe to start feeling joyous again, this guy comes along and tells you that Jan. 24th is the most depressing day of the year.

Read all About it here.

The model is:

[W + (D-d)] x TQ

M x NA

The equation is broken down into seven variables: (W) weather, (D) debt, (d) monthly salary, (T) time since Christmas, (Q) time since failed quit attempt, (M) low motivational levels and (NA) the need to take action.

Dr. Arnall found that, while days technically get longer after Dec. 21, cyclonic weather systems take hold in January, bringing low, dark clouds to Britain. Meanwhile, the majority of people break their healthy resolutions six to seven days into the new year, and even the hangers-on have fallen off the wagon, torn off the nicotine patches and eaten the fridge empty by the third week. Any residual dregs of holiday cheer and family fun have kicked the bucket by Jan. 24.

I’m telling you, I should have fucking known better than to tamper with a good mood on a Monday in January. No sooner did I start writing this post than I got a call from Sara that her dog is being put to sleep today. I was all set to say that I never believed in math anyway, but given the circumstances, I think this guy might be onto something.

So do me a favor, readers, last week when I really needed it you weren’t there for me. This week I make a plea for Sara. Tell us why your own day sucks balls or just leave a sympathy note. Anyone who has had a pet for 10+ years and had to say goodbye knows that this loss makes for a pretty goddamn nasty day/week/month. So, you heartless bastards, chip something in to the blog, I know who reads the damn thing, I can see your computers connect to it three times a day. That’s right, Big Bother is watching. That’s not a typo.

It’s been a long and more than slightly depressing week in my neck of the woods, but rather than dwell on that, let’s go back in time to Saturday when I got thoroughly wasted and had boobs thrust into my face.

Do that Wayne’s World doodily-do thing with your fingers and travel with me to Saturday morning at about 9 o’clock in the morning when my Dad and uncle showed up for a 1:30 basketball game. Basketball in Iowa isn’t exactly a tailgating kind of sport, but we were headed to Micky’s for breakfast and bloody mary’s. Breano and Cummings were supposed to be joining us, their tickets already charged to my Dad’s card, but the excuses started to roll in.

I don’t know if I’ve ever explained this, but I hate to be late for anything, ever. No matter how bad the hangover or other circumstance. Therefore, I hate people who are late, which is a problem considering most of my friends are completely inconsiderate when it comes to such issues. Not only are they unapologetic, but they give me shit for giving them shit for being late.

I have to let Brean off the hook on this one. He sent me a text message at six in the morning to let me know things were not well.

“Cunt make chow time. Been puking out my mouth and ass for the last hour. Damn Chicken. I will be at your place by noon.”

Of course he wasn’t. Whatever oral and anal affliction that was troubling him sidelined him for the day and left us giving away a $26 ticket to some dude who said he knew a hot girl that was coming late that might need a seat. She never showed, shockingly.

Mike on the other hand, just hours before, round about midnight, said the following to me over the phone: “I’ll be at your place at 9:30, you can count on me.”

I called him at 9:45 after our first bloody mary. No answer. On the third or fourth call I finally got him, driving home from a law-school friend’s house where he had consumed a liter bottle of, I assume, very cheap wine, passed out and just awakened to my incessant phone calls. I told him we were going to Micky’s; go home, clean your ass up and meet us there. Then I hung up, Mike has grown used to this kind of treatment when he disappoints me.

Between some outstanding Irish eggs benedict and whatever the other chumps ordered, plus a healthy dose of morning spirits, we racked up an impressive bill, a better buzz and headed for Carver.

I really wish I could say the game was a pleasure, but the Hucking Fawkeyes won, and the Hawk fans surrounding us did not take kindly to mine and my father’s catcalls of “rapist,” and “pretty-boy cocksucker.” We made the best of it anyway.

From there we fled the wraith of angered fans to the safe haven that is Joe’s Place and commenced getting loaded. Dad and Brian only stuck around for about 4 pitchers before realizing they needed to commit to spending the night or drive back to La Porte.

Time passage for the remainder of the day is something of a mystery to me at this point. Because the game started at 1:30, I’m guessing we arrived at Joe’s about 4:30 or so. And by the size of the crowd at the titty bar when we got there, I’m guessing it was somewhere in the vicinity of 8-9:30. You know, it was me, Mike, two truckers and three of the ugliest skanks in the metropolitan area.

I sat back and did what I always do, tried to avoid eye contact, skin contact, or contact of any kind. Mike went on his usual spending spree, hitting me up for money all of 12 minutes and three lapdances later. Mike, I have discovered, is very fond of skanks.

He can probably attest to this, though he will more likely lie and try in incriminate me, but I really did my very best to avoid anything but looking at the occasional passing hooters. This became a problem as I left I cigarettes sitting on the table and soon enough had a girl with teeth far worse that Jewel’s and not even remotely as good looking start harping on me for a smoke. Even then, I only had two left so I said no. Mike obliged her, however, and she started to give me shit about my pink lighter. That’s an important detail.

Again, time passage is completely arbitrary at this point, but when bad teeth girl started climbing on me and I couldn’t lift my hands to push her off, I know it was time to go. She started talking more smack about my pink lighter and I said, “I’m secure in my masculinity, how bout you?” She did not look happy and responded only with “What?”

I know that look, I’ve seen that look , and I knew it was time to run. I pulled Mike off his latest ho-bag and started for the door. Lucky for me I have a handy card in my wallet with the numbers of all area taxi dispatches. They gave them to us when I worked at Geico, I think they knew that their employees were almost guaranteed to be heavy drinkers.

So we stood outside for a half an hour, chatted with our very hippie cabby and I picked up the tab as Mike had spent his last change on a 53 cent dance. You don’t want to know what that entails.

All of this, and I’m fairly sure I puked and was asleep by midnight. Since that point, life has kind of sucked shit. But, I shall press on and be triumphant! Words of encouragement in the comments would be encouraging and are hereby encouraged.

If it means a bunch of dudes are going to drop their guns and start grabbing their cocks, I am totally getting behind chemical warfare.

Here’s and excerpt fot those of you not smart enough to click the link:

THE Pentagon considered developing a host of non-lethal chemical weapons that would disrupt discipline and morale among enemy troops, newly declassified documents reveal.

Most bizarre among the plans was one for the development of an “aphrodisiac” chemical weapon that would make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. Provoking widespread homosexual behaviour among troops would cause a “distasteful but completely non-lethal” blow to morale, the proposal says.

Now, rumor has it Rich found this story before me, so I will begrudgingly give him props, but I had to dig it out on my own because he wasn’t decent enough to let me know about it. He did, however, save me from driving home last Friday night after a rousing drinkfest at Joe’s Place, so I guess I owe him some credit for that. Robert seems to think I owe him for that little saving grace, saying that he “started to convince me in the bathroom.” Thankfully I have no recollection of that little encounter, and will instead lean toward Rich’s story, Especially considering Robert would not take no for an answer while trying to convince us to take him to the titty bar for his first visit. I mean, he was getting downright abusive.

Instead Rich drove us to Village Inn where I ate copious amounts of food, hit on the waitress and proceeded to throw it all up as soon as I got home. It was just like old days.

This isn’t an original idea, the Grey Album has already been done, but it’s at least moderately interesting and easy to check out. I recommend “I feel fine right now” and “Mad World Forever.”

Meet the Beastles.

Grey Album Tracks can be downloaded here. If you’re interested in that kind of thing.

OK, I hate to steal the thunder from the post just below this one, but this is EASILY the funniest story I have read in weeks. Please don’t let it keep you form the fun in my much longer and more socially important blog below.

Last time I did this I gave up after I finally started hemorrhaging from the head. It isn’t that bad yet, but I might as well be.

First off, I should make it clear that I did not wake up this morning. I am still up from yesterday morning after spending the night iced in at the Tipton sports desk. See, because of the nature of a weekly paper, the sports guy gets fucked in the ass most weeks and is the only one really expected to have everything in his section be timely. News stories, for instance, collect dust most months and get plugged in when we need to fill space between the Rick’s Farm Implements ad and the three page arrest log for OWI’s that week. Honestly, no one in Tipton can possibly be driving with a license at this point.

I, on the other hand, have to have the most up to date smack of the week in the paper because as we all know, the sports section is the only thing most people really care about. And cutting their name out of the arrest log.

So last night, the icy goodness that is Iowa in January had me sealed up in my office for the long haul. While browsing some interesting pictures of Anna Kournikova, I received an e-mail. Now, for those of you who also know the person I am about to blog shamelessly about, I want to alert you that right now this is just rumor. And one I find very hard to believe, I might add. Here’s an excerpt

“I am not sure if you know this or not but thought you might get a kick out of this piece of information.

Guess who is pregnant (and it is not me).

It is the other girl you stated would be standing up for you at your wedding while we were all still in high school. Let me know if you don’t have a clue. I was totally floored!!!”

This little teaser came from one G-net Riggs, one of my many former lovers from high school, a raving beauty with sandy blonde hair and eyes I can’t remember the color of but think may very well be poop-brown. Wait, I have a picture…yes, poop brown like the day after a big steak dinner. With corn. I tease, but I would like to both thank G-net for sending along this e-mail and also point out that she, like Chad Fisher, is one of my two true high school friends from my graduating class that I can go months without seeing and still reconnect the next time we speak. I only really had three friends at that point with whom I was seriously tight. Chad, G-net, and the mommy in question here. Chad and G-net are the two I still care to hear from on a semi-regular basis.

So yeah, those that know me well or knew me then know who we are talking about here. G-net’s e-mail was hardly a riddle to me, she knew I would pick up on it right away, and so here’s an excerpt from my reply:

“Are you fucking kidding? Where did you come up with that little tid-bit?

Honestly, I haven’t heard from or about her in more than two years. I don’t know anyone who has.

You’ll have to fill me in on the details, like if she knows who the father is, for instance…”

We’ll stop there before it gets really obnoxious. Anyway, I’m fairly sure some doctor-patient confidentiality laws were broken for this news to reach me, let alone G-net, but the word on the street from somebody who heard it from somebody who heard it from somebody’s dentist that Kate Mitchell is preggers. For some background on Kate, you can read this. I don’t really think I’m up to telling the whole Kate saga today, maybe sometime when we all have a few hours to sit down and bust out the crack pipe. Ok, I just had trouble spelling the word ‘maybe,’ it’s time for my nap. I’ll be back to finish this monster of a blog up later.

Tony Sleeps for about 17 hours at this point

And I’m back, refreshed and ready to rock. There are some beautiful headlines out there today and I have nothing to do at work, so lets wrap this story up and move on.

The reason a Kate pregnancy is blogworthy is multi-fold. First, I think Kate was voted most like to succeed or some shit like that, maybe most likely to be a star, but she may as well have been voted least likely to ever squirt out a baby. In fact, back when she was taunting me with her female witchcraft, I knew that any relationship we ever had could never go the distance because she wasn’t willing to give in and poop out a tb4.

As far as anyone knows, Kate is in Chicago right now and has been for several years trying to make a name in the theatre. Honestly, while I don’t care too much what she does with herself these days because she has not shown any interest in staying in touch, I figure that a great thing for her to be doing. As jaded as I have sounded in the preceding, she is amazingly talented and was voted most likely to b a star for a reason.

It’s just been a little sad to watch a person that I used to think was one of the most intelligent and gifted people I had ever met kind of waste all that was handed to her on a platter. Never had to pay a dime for school, hung out with the worst kind of losers and got so regularly fucked up that even I was judgmental of her lifestyle. And people, I really liked getting fucked up back then.

So we will have to wait and see if the rumor mill is a bunch of shit or not, but if it is, you can pile this little happening on the list with the tsunami, the rain in Caly-fornia and the Vikings win over the Pack last week as signs that the apocalypse is upon us.

Speaking of such strange happenings, I will be attending yet another Iowa Hawkeye men’s basketball game this weekend. I don’t know how much I’ve ripped on Steve Alford and his Hawkeyes in the blog, but rest assured, I’m not going to be rooting for the home team, and I’m NOT paying for the tickets.

My uncle Brian will be down from Minnesota this weekend and Dad called, gave me his credit card number and told me to order up some tix. By the way, for $49.95 a crack I’m selling that CC # until he cancels it, so get in touch with me. I bet the limit is huge.

So I will be at Carver with Dad, Brian, the Infamous Breano and Spumanji on Saturday, cheering with all my heart for the Golden Goophers. I’ve explained this somewhere before, but I do this because I am a Hawkeye fan, not because I’m not. Until Steve Alford is gone, I simply can’t cheer for this team because his presence just soils the reputation of the team, University, my current home city and I’ll go as far as to say the state the Hawks represent.

I can’t believe it took me this long to find this and read the whole thing being the spiteful Alford critic that I am, but after listening to The Score 670 last week, I was prompted to dig up the actual facts. Sports talk radio hosts that usually just aggravate the hell out of me actually had some good points while ripping on Alford, and I didn’t know about all of it. Here is a link to the official University report on the matter of Pierre Pierce and his anal rape of another student. And Here is a pull quote for you that I think illustrates yet another reason for believing that Steave Alford is a smarmy motherfucker:

Over the next few weeks, the female student consulted with a number of University offices as to how she might best proceed in this matter. She was considering the wisdom and desirability of proceeding with a criminal proceeding or with University discipline or both. It is our understanding that the student was not necessarily committed to criminal prosecution at this point, but sought advice as to her alternatives. At a minimum, her goal was to proceed with her studies and other activities without the possibility of encountering Pierce…some contacts with the female student were initiated by persons who were not University employees, but who have an informal University relationship. In particular, individuals affiliated with Athletes in Action, a religious organization, contacted the victim to seek an informal resolution of the matter by asking the victim to meet informally for prayer with the perpetrator. One of those individuals had a longstanding relationship with the basketball program and its coach, which included traveling with the basketball team and conducting voluntary chapel and Bible study activities for the team and staff.

The female student’s reaction to this contact was concern that the University was improperly involving itself in trying to resolve the matter. For her, this confirmed her fears that the University would act to protect its athlete and would not effectively pursue her interests in a disciplinary matter. Her response was to pursue criminal charges against the student athlete.

Do you believe me yet? He went and got his bible thumping buddies to go after this girl and ask her to have a sit-down prayer session with Pierce while her ass was still sore. Just makes me fucking sick, that’s all. So yeah, “Fire Steve Alford” will be my chant on Saturday.

Attendance of this game will most likely prevent me from attending a party up in Cedar Falls in honor of my buddy Garrett Gingrich’s engagement. He called me on Monday night to tell me he had popped the question. My response: “To Who?”

See, if there has ever been a true pimp to come out of Union High School, it’s Garrett. Sadly, he’s one of the nicest guys I know, but his looks have always been a curse. We all knew that the best thing for him was to settle down with one woman, but HE knew he could got a bar any night of the week and take home the best looking girl in there. So he did, and I don’t blame him. But apparently he has either gotten fat since I last saw him or found a girl that could tame him. Or he knocked her up. Either way, good for him.

When I called him back yesterday morning to get the full details on the situation, he also broke the news that they have already set a date: October 1, one week before ours. Now I have Garrett and Amber(?) on the first, me and Sara on the 8th, Jeff and Steff on the 29th, and Randy and Jenn on Nov. 5th. I really wouldn’t have a problem with Garrett scheduling his one week before ours except for two things: 1. I hope he doesn’t expect us to be there because we will be busy as hell. And 2. I KNOW all of our mutual friends are going to want to bail on one or the other because I KNOW I don’t want to go to four fucking weddings in one month, why would they?

Plus, talking to Mike Loveless about this surprising news from Garrett he told me about the conversation they had on the dates:

Mike: Geez Garrett, that’s one week before Tony’s and just a couple before Randy’s.

Garrett: So.

Mike: Well, I have to work three Saturdays a month, getting all that time off is going to be tough.

Garrett: Well, I don’t care, as long as you get time off for mine.

Now, to be fair, I know Garrett was half joking when he said that. But, he has likely asked Mike to be in his wedding party, I don’t know that, but they have been best friends for a long time, so I think it’s safe to assume. So obviously Mike is pretty much obligated to be there. And I have not asked Mike to be in my wedding, my party includes my dad, two uncles, Brean and Chad. And we aren’t having ushers, like I talked about in this Say Anything post, so despite being one of my best friends over the years, he may not make it to our blessed day. Which would suck, especially since we were engaged for a year before Garrett and Amber, had our date set for at least 9 months before they were engaged, and everyone has known about if for roughly that long. But I can’t very well blame Mike for having adult responsibilities. Instead I get to blame Garrett. At least I have a scapegoat.

OK, I’ve finally reached the end of this blog and I can go back to wasting time at work. Wrestling has already been cancelled for the night, so I’m off the hook and will have nothing to fill my pages with again next week. Back to Anna Kournikova, I guess.