Sousing it up after a long week of work sometimes isn’t enough to get you by (I’ll let you compose yourself after such a bombshell. Better?). If my 20′s have taught me anything, it’s that the best way to blow off steam is to just do something really stupid and reckless: rob a liquor store, set fire to a day care center, date a Kardashian (my condolences to Lamar Odom, we hardly knew ye).

Bad news: I was out of firearms, incendiary devices and lies to tell Kim.

Good news: my bosses invited me out to Atlantic City, which I’ve learned will do in a pinch.

As this was my first time to AC, I decided to keep a running diary of it. Before you ask “Isn’t this like a bunch of Sports Guy’s columns on Vegas, namely one he wrote just three weeks ago?”, let me differentiate: He has a huge fan base that digs his writing, thoroughly enjoys casinos on a regular basis, and most importantly is a seasoned pro writer/gambler. I, on the other hand, will be lucky if this post is accidentally clicked on at 3am by a furry on the other side of the world looking for “Concentrated Opossum: Where furries go to yiff”. If you don’t know what a furry is, please don’t look it up. It’ll only make you sad.

For those not looking for said twisted porn, prepare to gamble with 15 minutes of your life you’ll never get back.

12:00pm – Woo! AC here we come! I’ve got my fanny pack full of fruit rollups and I’m ready to cut loose!

12:01 – My fanny pack is immediately thrown out the window by my boss. Lucky I brought a spare Fruit by the Foot in my back pocket. Start contemplating if a Canadian “Vegetable by the Meter” could work.

12:37 – A chill runs up my spine. A cold wind blows through the car. Somewhere in the distance, a small child’s cries go unanswered. I look up. “Welcome to New Jersey!”. Can I hold my nose for 12+ hours?

1:30 – I’ve made my sixth rest stop since starting the trip. My highly developed urinary system goes underappreciated.

2:15 – We pull through an adjacent town…Abysmal? Abscess? Absecon, right, right. I’m pretty sure I just saw a dog looking for a place to die, stopping at a nearby Best Western, and shaking its head as it continued on.

Gimme an S! Gimme an L! Gimme a U! Gimme a T!

2:45 – We pull up to the casino, immediately spot a car window sticker stating “Cougar Cheerleadering”. Clearly, this can mean be only one of two things: older women who dress up like cheerleaders at singles bars OR cheerleaders who rally you on to seek out said older women. Both options are strangely appealing.

3:30 – I sit down at a Texas Hold ‘em table. Everyone immediately stares me down and starts laughing. People are so friendly here! I’ve got $100 to spend on this table for a while, I think I’ll do well.

3:33 – Start humming Lady Gaga. I soon regret this faux pas when the dealer cracks me over the head with a stool and continues to deal. Must be more of a Britney fan.

3:38 – I’ve got $75 left. It’s still good! It’s still good!

3:43 – $40 left. It’s still still good! It’s still good!

3:50 – $10 left. It’s still good!

3:55 – And like that, I’m done. Planned to lose no more than $200 all night and I’m down half of it within 25 minutes of gambling. Fantastic start.

5:01 – I’ve circled the casino 20 times in the last hour in a nervous attempt to find my bearings. If I skitter any faster I might turn back time in the casino a la Superman.

5:15 – We regroup, settle down for cheesesteaks. This will be the best use of my money all night. I still feel sick afterward, but at least my shame is mostly internalized.

5:45 – Coworkers return to their tables. Either the dread of losing more money or the gallon of cheese whiz I consumed is turning my stomach so much I can’t handle any more cards. I decide to play nature show host to the creatures that inhabit the casino and people watch for a while. “People” is loosely defined here.
(more…)

The recent Cash for Clunkers program has really taken off over the last few weeks, so much so that the program has already run out of funding and is looking for a second round from Congress. Now when people say to you “Why are you still riding that old pile of crap?” you’ll know they only mean your wife.

Then again, why limit ourselves to only removing old cars off the road? Hell, I think there are some folks out there that could use a similar trade in deal. I’m not saying we need to hire a hit squad (that’s what Obama’s death panels are for). I’m just saying that there are a few celebs we could wean out of the spotlight to give room to some new models (figuratively and literally).

1) Lou Dobbs – A rusted out Buick Skylark on cinder blocks
Yeah, I’m sure he was great back in the day (the mesozoic era), but he’s turned into the dilapidated car across the street from you. Plea all you want to your neighbors (CNN), it will fall on deaf ears despite his disservice to both sight and sound for some time now. He does have a good grasp on the fossil fuel crisis, as he’s been around since said fossils were walking the earth.

2) John Madden – A Chevy Oldsmobile
Your dad loved it and growing up, so did you. Like a part of the family, well into your teen years when you don’t know how you made it through a Sunday without it. Nowadays, you wonder why you put up with something so gassy and noisy, whose wide trunk can barely make it through a tunnel without bumping into a few walls. Not to mention, you’re never quite sure when the next “BAM!” will be his last.

3) Jack Nicholson – A Cadillac
Pure classic, the Nicholson has never let you down. There’s a reason he’s never gone out of style. The kind of ride you see on the street and always has 2 or 3 ladies hanging off of it, and with good reason. Lately, the finish is a bit more dinged up and he certainly doesn’t get around as well as he used to. You can try to update it with newer models (Christian Slater) but let’s not ruin the memory any further.

4) Pamela Anderson – A Pink Ferrari
The hot ride you remember from your early pubescence, wondering how other guys manage to pull this. Once you hop in one, though, it’s louder than you realized and less fun when you’re actually driving it around. Nowadays, you just know she’s had one too many dudes pulling her top down and opening it up on the road. Plus, in any kind of serious accident you’re just as likely to get killed by the airbags.

5) Mike Tyson – A flaming Ford Pinto careening off a cliff
You wonder why anyone would stick around with him for any extended period of time, as you never know when he’s likely to explode. Punching it usually involves a couple lost teeth and a trip to the emergency room. If you lose only a bit of your ear lobe, be thankful.

6) Ice Cube – A Minivan with spinners
Here’s a man who’s gone from starting NWA to driving off in an SUV. Losing your edge is one thing, but the man has done more than his fair share of family flicks, having come “Straight Outta Compton” and parked himself directly in your living room. You have to wonder if his drive by’s these days are more for playing soccer mom.

7) Sylvester Stallone – A Dodge Charger
The epitome of a muscle car when he first came out, he won’t have the same get up and go as he used to, except at 3am to take a pee. He’s been trying to rebuild himself for years, usually pulling the same stunts he had in the 70s, though “fuel injecting” himself with steroids has since left with fewer working “parts” these days.

8) William Shatner – A DeLorean
Never the most reliable, as he’ll start sputter and stop at seemingly random intervals. Shatner’s become the aging geek mainstay that is most likely much cooler in our imaginations that in real life. Sure, it’d be cool to pull up along side Shatner, but other than referencing old school Sci-Fi, he has little other use.

At work, we’ve got our annual game of kickball coming up in a week. Now, I don’t want to say that the Blue team (my team, of course) is the greatest thing since sliced bread…because we invented sliced bread on a coffee breaks one Tuesday, but whatever, no biggie. I just want to make sure we all know who is vastly superior, and so that all those in attendance may know which team to properly root for. Here now, a helpful guide to better know your kickball teams:

The White team originally gave Biff the Sports Almanac for the last 50 years so that he could make his fortune. The Blue team was able to undo this, as each of us is capable of running 88mph and generating 1.21 gigawatts of power.

The White team will intentionally yell out the wrong answer during “Blue’s Clues” just to spite us.

I can’t promise I won’t bring a giant broadsword to the game

Twenty-five years ago, the White team, through a series of dark rituals involving the Keymaster and the Gatekeeper, summoned Gozer the Gozerian. Fortunately, the Blue team knows how to destroy 50 ft. Marshmallow men and isn’t afraid to cross the streams. Fun fact: The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man is white. Coincidence?

The White team killed Dumbledore, are collectively Luke’s father, and stole the idol from Indiana Jones without giving him back his whip. The Blue team, on the other hand, founded The Order of the Phoenix, made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, and knows the location of the Ark of the Convenant.

The Blue team taught Michael Jackson the Moonwalk. The White team popularized The Macarena.

The White team steals one white sock from every load of laundry as their “duly appointed tuppence for rights to the use of monochromatic fibers”.

The Blue team wrote the Creative Commons license and freely encourages fair use. The White Team belongs to the RIAA and sued your grandmother for downloading “Ain’t nuttin’ but a G-Thang”.

The Blue team taught Chuck Norris how to roundhouse kick. The White team tried to steal his beard “in order to learn his secrets”.

The Blue team is a baaaad mutha (Shut yo’ mouth!) But I’m talking about Blue! (Then we can dig it). The White team doesn’t get this “Shaft” reference.

At least one member of the Blue Team is “Concentrated Awesome”. Members of the White team wish to create “Diluted Awesome” because they don’t believe you’re cool enough to handle it in any condensed form.

The Blue team would give me a raise after reading this if they could. My direct boss is on White and will most likely fire me promptly afterward.

Sometimes I really love getting the ads at the top of my Gmail account because they can just be so ridiculous. I think today brings me my new favorite: “Don’t Get Conned. Learn the facts behind cruel Donkey Basketball!”, brought to you by none other than your friends at PETA and certainly on the forefront of any concerned individual’s mind. Japanese whaling, puppy mills/dog fights, even possibly carnivorous diets could warrant a Google ad, but oh no, they take it to the hoop, as it were.

The “conned” part might be the key, as this of course brings up several questions: Is there a secret coalition whose sole mission is to brainwash people into riding donkeys for sport (a burro-cracy of evil?), or merely carnival barker types, complete with candy cane striped shirt, prop cane and snidely whiplash mustaches ever-twirling? Perhaps they mean Donkey Basketball is a bastardization of a more proud and noble sport like Donkey Soccer, and to be tricked into forcing such creatures to abandon their traditions besmirches its purity. Donkey Pele would not be pleased.

That said, maybe we can change PETA’s mind, if we could only make this some kind of sport you couldn’t help but love (I know, Donkey Basketball is a great start, but these people also love plague rats, so who the hell knows). Anyway, here’s my take on some mules rules for the sport:

I tried searching for an image with Donkeys and Midgets, but it would have been a very different post

• You think basketball players on donkeys and think “Man, Shaq would crush them”. So you don’t go bigger, you go smaller. Not Lebron, Lil’bron. Better still, you could probably fit a small team of little people on each donkey, perhaps 2 or 3 per animal, like a viking fleet. Helmets required, but they must also be horned.
• So you’ve got your midgets, but what’s better than 3 midgets riding a donkey? 3 drunk ones! Boozed up athletes, midgets ones mind you, are the best kind. Performance enhancing drugs? Who needs ‘em. I could watch a midget passing out off a donkey for hours nonstop.
• Taking it just a little further, at least one athlete on the court at all times must be high, so if he falls off we can all laugh and say “That midget is stoned off his ass”.
• While I don’t condone violence to animals (see that PETA?) I do believe people hurting each other is fucking funny. What I envision is some sort of Thunderdome-like Blaster Master situation, where the donkeys are the big huge dude and the riders clad in armor atop. Jousting Midgets? Yes. Possibly even small nerf cannons, but only for the Western Conference, as the Eastern will have no projectiles.
• For the half-time show, why not include a chorus of spider monkeys, perhaps clad in cheerleader outfits, doing a little routine, pooping along with the donkeys. Or hurting everyone there. Which they almost certainly would.
• The referees will be washed up American Idol contestants, scraping to get by on what charm they have left, mostly musical “talent” who can then be denigrated further by singing along to said monkeys show. What I wouldn’t give to see Clay Aiken serenading some chimps…
• Foul shots will be completely eliminated. Instead, after each infraction, an athlete will attempt to bounce off a trampoline and dunk his/herself through the hoop, with style points attributed to form, grace and any sweet moves they can pull off en route.
• Finally, because this is a) getting out of hand and b) almost too bitchin’, my last suggestion would be team names. Fuck the Minnesota Timberwolves, I want to see the Teen Wolves (barring legal recourse from Michael J. Fox and to a lesser extent Jason Bateman) along side the Miami Evil Dead, the Detroit Robocops (it’s not like they’re making cars anymore) and the San Jose Enhanced Interrogators. Expansion teams soon to follow.

Recently, registrars are pushing for .me domains, and I thought I’d get a little wacky and buy up concentratedaweso.me, because 1) we’re way too awesome just for a .net domain and 2) I’ve been drinking (and you thought drunk dialing was bad).

One thing we’re especially proud of (and our parents especially ashamed) is our constantly updating taglines for the site, because what good is our obnoxious ranting into the black hole of blog-o-tubes than without our own special brand of flipping you off on top of it? While Marc is certainly the CEO (Chief Egregious Offender) of said one-liners, I try to do my part every once in a while to add my own Long Island “up yours” to the Jersey “kiss my ass” that is Marc. Here now, our other “what could have been” websites:

WheresYourCarDu.de – Where it’s always time for a break dancing stripper emergency (shibby)

Superfluo.us – Like most people, the internet doesn’t need 2 assholes, but this site’s still got ‘em.

SuperN.es – Sega can go fuck themselves.

BlueHedgeho.gs – Neck and neck in the race of crappy posts vs. crappy sonic games

SuperMar.io – Because Italian stereotypes tripping balls on shrooms is always fun.

Cromule.nt – Embiggening the web, one post at a time.

WelcomeToTheThunderdo.me – 2 Bloggers enter, one blogger leaves.

Dirty.com.my – Where it’s Obama-central 24/7!

SonOfABit.ch – Cursing? Here? Fuck no!

TheWayShitFlo.ws – Downhill, much like our careers on the web.

BloggingZombi.es – Picking our brains, Nibbling on yours.

DrunkAndSur.ly – The web’s version of your abusive stepfather. Now, go cut us a switch.

NomNomN.om – Unlike the meme, we were never all that funny, though we do look super cute in captioned pictures.

Got some of your own? Take a look at the domain registry and leave some in our comments.

In every group of dudes, you’ve got a general collective of well-wishers, ne’ever-do-wells, chums, bums, partners in crime and accomplices to what-have-you in tomfoolery. Usually you can break these hooligans down into some familiar classifications:

1) Wall Street friend – Smooth talking friend who goads you into doing stupid stuff, on rare occasion for your own benefit. Also manages to know cool places to hit and brings in groups of girls you might never be around. Downside: will wear pink shirts and/or suits. Takes his pants off in the bar. Yells out “FREEBIRD!” after every song at concerts. Upside: somehow this works on hot girls and will strike up conversations with chicks way outside your league.
Trademarks: tribal tattoo, popped collar, backwards upside sunglasses on at night. Orders 11 shots at a time, one for him and 10 for the “table of lovely ladies who look way too thirsty”. May end up covered in 9 of those shots (there’s always one drunk girl who won’t turn it down)

2) Drunken daredevil – after 4 or 5 drinks, takes bets on bar stunts. Starts off small like racing to finish Irish car bombs first, but progresses to “I bet I could steal the bouncer’s wallet” or “I’m going to spin kick that old lady in the head”. Should come with bail money. Handy in a fight.
Trademarks: torn shirt and black eye the next day. Knows the officers at the local precinct on a first name basis. Usually scares away other drunks at bars (or keeps occupied) but may scare away ladies along with. Fights hallucinatory leprechauns who want their gold back.

‘Cause everyone group needs
a group bitch

3) The group bitch – useful for ripping on/throwing whiskey bottles at when bored, tends to sit back and smile. Will get pissed off every 3-6 months, then realize he has nothing better to do so comes back. The “Milhouse” of the group.
Trademarks: The face of a man whose soul is shattered from years of fetching beers, losing his favorite seat, and having to “bite the bullet” by taking the ugly friend of a group of otherwise hot girls. On the plus side, often designated driver, parents usually own a summer house, will do as told, is happy to have some attention from ugly friend.

4) The straight man – usually the one who sits back and watches as the circus of the drunken evening falls, somewhat like how the Highlanders (wall street, drunken daredevils) may clash in epic battles, he fills the role of Watchers. Good for an occasional smart ass remark. Bad for doing anything exciting or interacting with women, but lots of beer helps.
Trademarks: quietly sips beer while hot girls say “aren’t you sweet” and then throw up on his lap. Hence, rarely gets laid. Has the card for a good lawyer in his wallet when daredevil friend turns into “that guy just looked at me wrong” friend

5) Shotgun friend – Called the shotgun friend because he will hit on everyone single lady you see, no matter height, weight, number of teeth or STDs. Also known as the spray and pray friend. At the highest of highs, will nail girls you didn’t think was possible. At the lowest of lows, will nail girls you didn’t think was possible. Fueled by booze and testosterone. Awesome stories. Horrific stories. Also knows the best places to pick up ladies and the closest alley to do it in.
Trademarks: Will sell you out for a piece of tail faster than you can say “what’s this stain on the back seat of my car?”.

6) The Depressant – Everything in life has come to a halt after the sudden break up of his girlfriend…a year and a half ago. This friend could trip on a million dollar lottery ticket and curse his luck for stubbing his toe. Won’t steal your hot girlfriend, but likely depress you all the same.
Trademark: Almost guaranteed to have a livejournal of emo poetry. Will carry a picture of his old girlfriend, make drunken calls to her at 2am. May turn into angry drunken friend after.

Have you ever read a shitty blog post…on WEED?

7) Stoner friend – Everything is better when stoned. Like Jon Stewart in Half Baked, if you can’t do it stoned, it shouldn’t be done. Lazy as all fuck, but usually knows some good music and is good for chilling on a post-hangover Sunday afternoon. Will surprise you at random knowledge he knows and baffle you with basic human understanding he doesn’t.
Trademarks: Incoherent sentences at 10am. Oddly coherent at 1am. Will never do anything useful on purpose. Fairly distinct from the group bitch.

8) Hipster friend – Unmistakable in clothes picked up from the Salvation army (sometimes Urban Outfitters, if they’re hipster posers). Knows the latest indie bands, will hate them 10 minutes later when heard on the jukebox of your favorite bar. Whatever beer is on tap is piss water compared to the import served at his bar in the East Village doing 3 weeks after the fall equinox.
Trademark: A bowler hat and tie must be worn at all times. Jeans your 12 year old sister couldn’t fit in. The sneer of a man who knows more than you about music. Probably does, but fuck him anyway.

Newspapers have been taking a nosedive for while now, particularly last year, right around the time we kicked off this blog. Some will say that’s coincidence, but it’s pretty obvious to us. Clearly, we’ve become so huge that we’re killing print media. We’d like to formally apologize for this and, while we’re at it, we’d like to get a few more things off our chests we hold ourselves responsible for:

President Grimace will eat your children

• Landing Isiah Thomas a job with the Knicks. We talked it over with Knicks management and thought it would be hilarious. We’re not good drunks after our 7th malibu bay breeze
• For a brief period in the summer of ’76, stealing the funk from James Brown. We also chipped it after misinterpreting “dropping a funky beat”. We also made it too hot in the hot tub
• The following asinine words: staycation, television event, blogosphere, Ann Coulter
• Staten Island. We thought Manhattan needed an inbred cousin, but it turned into THAT cousin’s inbred cousin
• Every Duke win ever. We lost a bet with Satan. Who knew Bea Arthur could fit THAT many ping pong balls…ahem
• The previous imagery of Bea Arthur and ping pong balls
• Giving the Trix rabbit a bowl of trix and sending him into a suicidal spiral after the realization they did not live up to his expectations. Tony the Tiger did give a moving eulogy, though. Wish Captain Crunch hadn’t gotten so drunk half way through and took his pants off. Moving on.
• The confusion over the verbial form of Twitter. It’s not tweeting, twittering, or twitting, but actually flooergenhoerfen. It’s Swedish.
• Sleeping with Mary Kate when we were dating Ashley Olsen. Ok, we’re not sorry about that, it was totally sweet.
• Installing the puppet regime of Mayor McCheese over McDonald land. Grimace had actually won the popular vote, but his radical, socialist thinking could only lead to more fry kids dropping out of school and Birdie selling it on the streets.
• Attempts at world domination from: alien ant overlords, body snatchers, pod people, lizard men, mole men, and the Rand corporation in conjunction with the saucer people under the supervision of reverse vampires
• Rewriting the laws of physics so your toast always lands butter side down
• Another blog post consisting of an obscure, nonsensical and bizarre list

You may have noticed (probably not) that I didn’t post last week. Well, last Monday I moved into a fancy new apartment. Unfortunately, I was also cut off from Internet access for a week due to renovations in the apartment (and either the Freemasons, the Illuminati or Commie Nazis). I kept a quick running diary of events throughout the last week and a half.

Day 1
3:00pm – Whew, finally all my stuff is in! I’ll probably be too busy to care about the lack of net access. Would like to see what’s going on with Twitter or check my email. Oh well. This could be great, like a retreat or a health spa “cleansing”. Without the colonic, of course.

7:00pm – Set up the essentials (read: computer, video game consoles). This isn’t so bad, I’ve got some Rock Band and a ton of games I’ve meant to finish. Haven’t had my sexuality questioned or any racial epithets tossed my way in a while, which feels strange.

9:00pm – At this point I would usually throw down on some Left 4 Dead zombies online, yell at a few people for being “complete fucktards” just for using a health pack a little early. Good times. Starting to get antsy, don’t know what to do before bed.

Day 2
1:00pm – My right arm feels a little itchy. Can’t stop scratching. Starting to lose the “ass groove” in my computer chair. Computer looks a little lonely. Sorry old friend, it’s only another 6 days!

5:00pm – Fully unpacked, cleaned the apartment floor to ceiling. Made a different dinner each night for the next week. Realized how much more I could get done without the Internet distracting me. Distraught.

5:10pm – Realized that I haven’t seen a monkey pee into its own mouth in a few days. Inconsolable.

8:00pm – Fuck, when did days get this long!? Looked over at my bookshelf. Nope, not quite that bored yet.

Day 3
11:00am – Itchiness has turned into a numbness throughout my arm. Am I dying!?

1:00pm – Went music shopping, bought 7 cd’s. Fuck, I guess the RIAA was right.

4:00pm – Dear God, what do people without computers do all day!? Willing to shove that tube up my ass now if it meant I could check my email. Thought about the sexual innuendo behind that. Debated whether it was worth it.

6:00pm – Got a call from Time Warner while walking down the street saying I could check the status of my appointment online. Sat down and cried. Homeless guy patted me on the head, gave me a buck.

8:30pm – Called up a friend to describe the Google homepage for me. “Uh, it’s white and has Google at the top in lots of different colors.” Ohh yeah, that’s the stuff. Was told never to call back again.

Day 4
10:00am – Realized the less time I’m conscious, the less time I realize I’m away from the net. Cracking open a bottle of vodka.

Noon – I wondr hwo much of tihs I can driank until I…

3:00pm – Woke up. Dreamed I was nuzzling up to Richard Stallman. He’s like a big teddy bear, and that beard isn’t nearly as itchy as you’d think.

5:30pm – Wanted to find a liquor store so I could keep getting bombed. Walked around NYC trying to find one without citysearch.com. Felt like I was an explorer, searching out new lands. Take that Ponce de Leon! Wonder if I could get people to call me “The Conquistador.”

7:30pm – Caught myself several times instinctively clicking on the Firefox icon, only to yell “For fuck’s sake, load you stupid bastard!” before realizing my mistake. Might need to find a substitute for this. I hear crackheads don’t spend much time on the web.

8:00pm – No idea how to find a crack dealer without google. So much for that idea. Switching to rubbing alcohol. Hmm, goes down easy.

8:30pm – If I had to find an emergency room without resorting to the web…shit, I better stop drinking this.

8:35pm – Eh, one more for the road.

9:30pm – Slight tick in my left eye. With the numbness in my right side, I now look like an extra from the video for “Thriller.”

Day 5
12:30pm – Fashioned a crude means of transmitting data via tying notes of 1′s and 0′s to pigeons outside my window. Got an image back with the text “LoLca..” underneath, no idea what it means.

3:30pm – Knocked on a few neighbors’ doors asking to use their internet connection, didn’t work. Fun fact, their reaction was very similar to the look of disgust on a woman’s face when asking to buy her a drink at a bar. Some confusion, a little pity, then just pure disdain.

6:30pm – Stood outside a Starbucks for half an hour oggling a 47 year old man with a Macbook surfing the web. Asked if I could get some of that. Punched in the face. That helped the nervous tick a bit.

Day 6
10:30am – Took apart my Xbox 360 in an attempt to fashion some sort of wireless device. Would’ve worked too had it not red ringed on me.

1:30pm – My computer is whispering to me. Apparently the other appliances were jealous of the time I was spending with it before D-Day. Worry they’re next to be cannibalized for net access. Threw my microwave out the window as a warning to the others.

2:30pm – The blender and the toaster are conspiring. It’s us versus them now, computer.

4:30pm – Refuse to enter my kitchen. “The Others” are to be feared.

9:00pm – Moved my computer into the bedroom. He gets the bed. It’s my turn to watch the door, he’ll take the second shift.

2:30am – He’s been through enough. I’ll let him sleep. Mustn’t let The Others get in.

4:30am – Suddenly smell burnt toast. It’s only a matter of time..

Day 7
8:00am – Didn’t sleep. That’s when they strike.

11:30am – All work and no internet makes Will a dull boy. Hehe, was watching The Shining to kill some time, man that’s a great movie. Still, much to be learned from it. Wish I had a hedge maze. Put an axe through my fridge to be sure it knows its place.

2:30pm – Soliciting my body on the street for a couple minutes of web access. No takers. Apparently no one liked the idea that “The computer likes to watch…”. He wasn’t going to join in or anything. Prudes.

7:00pm – Tomorrow. That’s when it comes. Salvation. God I just want to tweet once more!

Day 8
10:00am – Cable guy should be showing up any time between 10-2. Any minute now. Sat by the door for the last hour like a puppy waiting for its owner, but with far more slobbering. I may dry hump his leg afterwards.

10:01am – Where is this fucker already!?

10:02am – Called Time Warner Cable 3 times. Cursed out in 4 different languages. Gotta love overseas phone support.

12:00pm – I’m going to kill this cable man and wear his skin. Then I’ll control the internet!

1:00pm – Finally arrived. Tried to warn him about the fridge. Seemed unnerved, can’t blame him. The revolution will not be televised (because I won’t have cable access, obviously).

1:15pm – Went back to his truck for more supplies, didn’t return. I’d cry, but I don’t want to show weakness in front of the foreman grill. He’s the ringleader.

2:00pm – Called up Time Warner Cable again, promised them my firstborn son. They’re not the Devil, even he wouldn’t stoop to this level.

3:00pm – Another cable guy came back! Finally have internet access again! That was a scary couple of days. Apologized to the kitchen appliances, we’ve all come to terms.

3:05pm – Checking my mail. Message 1 reads “If you need to hop online, stop by my place.” Signed, my brother. Wish I’d thought of that.

Dear 14 year old me,

You poor dumb bastard. You have no idea what you have in store for you, do you? Full of hope and youthful vigor, you’re raring to go, ready to get out there and take on the world. Meet a ton of cute girls, make a million dollars, grow past 5′. Well, only one of those came true, and you’re going to have to wait ’til you’re 16 for that one.

For starters, high school. You know all those douches you see around you? Yeah, they’re not hard to spot. I got news for you: they’re not going anywhere. Sure, they’ll have different names, but you’re still going to find smug pricks everywhere you go. 95% of what you’re busting your ass learning will be useful during jeopardy and perhaps trivial pursuit. Those zits? You’ve got another 6-8 years with them. Just as they start to fade away into manageability, your hairline will start sliding back as well. Think crypt keeper. Now, work him over with a 2×4 and then push him down some stairs. That’s a start.

Just cause you leave an all-guys high school when you’re 17 won’t mean you’re meeting ladies left and right, either. Ahh, yes, forced celibacy. Enjoy that little gem for a while. College? Don’t hold your breath. You’re not getting laid in college. It’s just not happening. The one plus side is that you’ll realize that fact very early on and compensate by playing a fuck load of video games. What’s that? You think you’re bound to find one girl at college who digs that? Right, moving on.

So now you’re 21 and you’re living in NYC. Let’s just sum up some other fun you can look forward to from here on out:

• Chasing a girl for way too long and turning into a giant bitch. You’ll embarrass yourself more times than you thought possible. Your vertical leap does benefit from years of jumping on command.
• The Simpsons going completely downhill. I didn’t believe it could happen either, but avoid any rooftops or cliffs until at least season 14, as you may have the uncontrollable urge to throw yourself off
• Almost every song you listen to now and for the next 7 years will suck, at which point only about half of the songs you listen to suck. Good Charlotte, really? I wish I could punch you in the head from here
• Every TV show you loved during your childhood will be raped by Hollywood. Invest early in Michael Bay effigies.
• Ignoring baseball during the 2004 season wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Neither would firebombing Fenway, but I’d rather not be in jail right now.
• You go mad from attempting to prove you really can believe it’s not butter, Apple Jacks really do taste like apples, and trying to find where the beef is, consequently spending 6 months in an asylum. Just kidding…or am I?

I better finish this off. I haven’t mentioned boobies in a while and you’re probably trailing off thinking about them. Keep that imagination active, you’re going to need it.

With a pat on the back and a kick in the ass,
Your 26 year old self

P.S.: Probably goes without saying, but when you get to be this age, you tend to act like a dick to teenagers. That’s actually a plus, as it’s a lot of fun, so you have at least one thing to look forward to.

Ok, so I haven’t had the most extensive love life in the world. In fact, most people would call it borderline vow-of-chastity monk-in-the-antarctic crushed-my-testicles-in-a-horrible-work-related-accident kind of never getting some. But I have discovered in my travels that while some terms of endearment, like sex kitten, can be cute and playful, not all creatures in the animal kingdom work the same way.

Here’s a quick rundown of my experimentation with such:

“So we doin’ this or what?”

sex kitten – affectionate nuzzling
sex lolcat – I can haz booty?
sex puppy – doggystyle
sex goblin – only for D&D chicks, +2 to doin’ it
sex camel – more humps than sex llama
sex chipmunk – stares at you dramatically
sex raptor – will immediately leave to attack randall monroe
sex t-rex – will engage in witty observations, look for sexy makeouts
sex zebra – black and white and sexy all over
sex platypus – lots of confusion, you don’t know what the hell you’re fucking
sex seal – if she’s a loose seal, she’ll bite your hand off
sex porpoise – no reason for it (pun!)
sex fail whale – no one’s following your tweet after that
sex cougar – only works with older chicks
sex weasel – offers to “return the favor”, then leaves while you’re in the shower
sex panther – 60% of the time, works every time (other 40%, hosed down by Hazmat)