There's a nice cool breeze blowing out the remains of a perfect Seattle day.
Friday night (in between drunk blogging): Kyle had a dorkfest over here. These are the kind of dorks I like though. They drink beer and when I say things like "I hope South Carolina kicks ass tomorrow!" they nod their heads and pretend to care.
We have discovered another thing that I do great with a few beers in me ... Soul Caliber 2. It's this game that Kyle bought a few days ago and these dorks were going ape shit over on Friday. After an hour or so of feeble attempts to get them to wrestle me ("C'mon I'm the DorkKrusher, Bring it On!") I decided to give their game a whirl. I kicked their ass so hard and began to realize that I had played the first game in between drinking and class when I was a sophomore ("C'mon, professor, I'm the ProfKrusher, Bring It On!"). That was fun and then I passed out.
Saturday morning I woke up late and in a non-showered sweaty hurry to find a present for Great Cousin because the Lovely Couple was throwing a b-day party for her that afternoon. Kyle had come down with my cold and since I was hungover on top of that we bickered through every store that we were in.
"Dammit, dude, she doesn't read comic books!"
"Dude, I'm going to smack you. Shut up and get the hell away from the video games. We're on a mission!"
"No, Mom loves ME more. She told me so ... wait, what about balloons?"
So, we ended up getting a lovely arrangement of balloons. In the center of the arrangement was a Harry Potter balloon b/c Great Cousin loves Harry Potter.
Here's how Kyle fucked that up.
After getting together with Ramone's Girl (yes, this would be the day she would meet the family beyond the dorky blonde version of me) we decided to head over to the Lovely Couples for some par-taying.
"Dude, are you sure you want to take the balloons in a convertible?"
"Brent, look, it's only a 3 block drive. Nothings going to happen to them."
"Allright, but I'm following behind you to make sure."
"Whatever, Brent, you know, sometimes ...."
"Blow me."
End of conversation. So, me and R. Girl are following behind King Dork when not 30 seconds into the drive (but they were a fun 30 seconds of watching the balloons hit his face repeatedly) the fucking balloons fly out the back of his car and almost hit my truck. They land behind me and in the center of the road. The people behind us are verring and swerving to avoid the balloon baracade. After a few minutes of pure Stoogian comedy we get the balloons back from a car full of girls who I'm sure Kyle hit on in the process. "So, you hang out on the side of this busy road often?"
To cut the story short 30 more seconds into the ride the Harry Potter balloon sails off behind the car and was never heard from again.
The party was great. The Lovely Couple knows so many interesting people and it's always fun to sit around and have conversation time with them. Ten minutes after being there I had forgotten that I was missing College Football kick-off Day. Later on in the day we played a couple rounds of Bocce Ball. It was boys v. girls (finally score 1-1). R. Girl turned out to be a natural ass kicker at Bocce and became the ringer for the girls side. I, on the other hand, was quickly labeled as the not-good player for the guys. You know you're not doing good when your own team laughs when the other team says "Oh, too bad you suck, Brent".
A great day nonetheless, and everyone liked Ramones Sweety. I was nervous about the whole meeting, to be honest. I don't know why, I guess I'm just used to friends and family saying things about other girls I've known like, "Umm, does she abuse cocaine?" "Oh, yeah, she seems nice ... for a retard" or "Brent, that's obviously a man." And, you know what, deep down I knew Suzzie-Carl was a man.
It was an early night for all. I decided to pass up on earlier promises to "Get ripped and kick a little ass". R. Girl started having girl problems and the night was kept quiet and full of "Your cute" and "Do you want me to rub your back?".
Today I slept in until noon and skipped showering. I love being a man on Labor Day weekend.
After meeting R. Girl's parents and aunt in a rushed attempt to get medicine for girl problems, we went downtown. We wanted to find a couple of statues.
The first was the one of the dog with the face of the man that had sold us firewood last week. We found it, but the mystery of whether it was the guy is still afoot.
The next was a quick stop off at the Troll under the Fremont Bridge. This thing is a huge concrete fuckbeast of an artpiece. http://www.roadsideamerica.com/attract/WASEAtroll.html Check it out here. It can descibe better and with more sober brevity than I.
That was about it, you perverts.
I'm tired of writing now. It feels like work and this is my labor day weekend. I'm going to get ripped and watch "Road Warrior" and "Animal House".
You are all so fucking cute, ya dorks.


Do I dare it? A drunk blog?
Kyle took his socks off today and asked me to look at the tan lines on his feet. Here were my responses:
-Holy fuck, did Mom fuck a sasquatch?
-What the hell? Did God slap on some fallen trunks to the ends of your legs?
- A family of 3 could feed for a year off of one of those goddamned things!
- Are those fuckers registered?
These feet are too huge. Imagine a clown with huge red clown shoes. Stop! Now take away the shoes and there are my brothers feet. It's like watching evolution forgotten. "We will create a race of men with huge feet and they will ... what? An Adam's Apple? Yeah, that sounds kind of interesting. Let's go with that."
So, I've spent the night sipping Labatt Blue and calling people in Columbia I haven't talked to since I've left. Actually, it's mostly been people I forgot to tell I was leaving. So, most of my night has gone like this ...
B: Hello, someone I once knew
Columbia People: B-Man! Holy shit! I'm so drunk right now, where are you? Are you still in Seattle?
B: Yep. I think I'll be here for a while. Things are pretty good out here.
Columbia People: I'm so glad for you! Some random girl you used to know just passed out on my arm .... talk to her!
Random girl: Brent?
B: Yea, Hi, It's Brent.
Random Girl: Where are you? When are you coming back?
B: Seattle. You know what, this is getting boring put the other person on the phone.

Aww, I miss those guys. Nowhere else have I found that you can walk around completely shitfaced and yelling "Lube her up, I'm not drunk yet!". Oh, Five Points, one of the last vistages where a P.B.R. chugging fratboy past his prime can find bliss. For those of you that have never been there, imagine all that you know about the Old South with it's Hoop Skirts and Gone With the Wind's suddenly ripped down the seam, and replaced by Abercrombie and Bud Light. (Upon later drunken editing I've decided it's best to start playing Grand Funk Railroad's "I'm Your Captain" at this point). Here you find the diehard and less political drunks out there sipping on $2 Beam and Cokes, but they stumble in between hoards of hair-spiked, "Abercrombie's Ice Shed" t-shirt wearing, paying $4 for a Sam Adams trying-to-be-yuppies-in-the-middle-of-the-deadest-economy-in-the-country- boys who are somewhere between their sophmore and senior year.
Late at night, in the colder wind-whip of 5 Points, the pretty frat boys would run for cover and give us true alcohol soaked boys of the dark a chance to shine. "Oh, that's right, you said your mom was dead". "You know what, this shot would look better if we were making out". "Look, I'm not going to remember your name; where the fuck did I park?"
And in the morning it was O.K. It happened in 5 Points, somewhere between Columbia and a college sophmore's Heaven.
I need to shower.

I forgot, dorkbabies.
If you want to contact me, whether I know you or not, my email address is capt_zeppelin@hotmail.com
This is kind of an experiment. I've always thought about starting up a web business where I promise to respond to people's e-mails within 24 hours. You know, help them the best I can with a problem, or be a buddy they can write to when they meet a girl or hit a double play during intramurals. It'd be kind of like being in a frat; you know, paying for friends. Booyeah, take that you fratboy pieces of .... oh yeah.
So, anyways, write me and I promise you that one of our staff will respond to your comment or concern within one B-business day, which is a 24 hour party day, baby!
If I was 8 years old today would be one of those days where I'd convince my mom that I was still a little too sick to go back to school. Then after everyone went to work it'd be M.C. Hammer and "The Fall Guy" 'til after 5, baby!
I would tell you about the ape women and how work tested me and how I bested it like Conan the Fuckbarian; but, I don't think so ... Because it's 3-day weekend time, baby! Party over here! Party over there! Throw your hands in the air like you's a true playa! All the ladies say "Heeey"!
Today I've been in the mood for music from my high school days. So, it's been The Beastie Boys' "License to Ill" and Ice Cube's "Death Certificate".
Went out to eat downtown last night with R. Girl. I treated her to a lil' spaghetti dinner (the worst I've ever had, my meat sauce was PINK!) b/c for some reason we have to reward people for getting a new car. It still makes more sense than tipping your hairdresser, I guess ("Here's a tip, throw in a rubdown and we'll talk about cash. Got it, sweets?"). We went to a popular restaurant down by the place where they filmed "The Real World: Seattle". While we waited for a table we looked for "party boat" and watched dolphins swimming in the exact spot where Stephen slapped Irene! And for you Seattle-ites, you know where I ate. Yes, I sold out, but the convenience factor was so convenient.
The table next to us was this hyper-nuclear family with 5 little kids. Three of them were singing this song that had only one line, but that was stuck in my head for the rest of the night.
"I love my Chi--nese food".
One little girl would only say "I hate my Chi--nese food". I agreed, but mine was spaghetti.
The other kid was this dark-haired ugly fatty in the midst of these blonde haired Heidi clones. Damn, it has to suck not to look like the rest of your family AND be the ugly one ... Kyle?
I had awesome dreams last night! The one I clearly remember was being at a restaurant eating with some random people I know when all of a sudden a younger Ronald Reagan comes up and says "B-Man why don't you look me up when you're in Chicago next week so we can catch up".
"Cool, Reagan," I said, "Why don't you call up General Patton and we'll all go grab a beer."
"Sounds good, I gotta run," said Ronny.
I felt like the diplomatic shit.
An overheard story from today:
"Do you like my purse? My house cleaner brought it back for me from Uraguay. She's such a wonderful woman. She's so sweet and tries so hard to get ahead. I do what I can to help her out, because she has a hand in my home ... I mean my heart." I thought the first one was much more honest. Fuck yeah, take care of the people who have hands in your home. Otherwise, you might wake up missing a Playstation2 one day.
Well, I think it's time for me to get this party started B-styley. I'll holla at a dork. Damn, I feel hip hop. Where's my Kangol hat?


I'm feeling better today, thanks for asking.
I have that post-cold crummy feeling. I'm randomly breaking out into cold sweats and cigarettes taste like burnt glue.
I've made plans for frisbee golf with R. Girl, but I think I'll have to cancel. I don't think the body is up for 18, or even 3, holes of whipping discs and walking. Instead I think we should go on a little jaunt about the city in her new car. I love new car days. They are very rare, and I feel we should take full advantage of this one. You know, riding around going "This is nice" and "How fast will it go?".
I really don't have much news because all I've done is slept and worked in the past 48 hours. I did have some random dreams. In one I returned to Columbia to say hello to everybody. Everything had changed and nothing was in the right place. Walking the streets made me very nervous and I kept slipping on wet floors and icy sidewalks. Everyone I knew was in a very large park for what seemed to be a "Welcome Home B" party. Instead, it was just a huge conincidence. I was drunk and people kept saying to me "You shouldn't have done that" and I kept saying "I don't care what I should have done; I did it". I quickly ran back to Seattle.
When I got back here, in my dream, I was in a huge field looking up on a large 200 foot tall snowy cliff. There were about 50-or-so snowboarders jumping off of it. They were falling about 100 feet each and then landing in a large snow pile. I kept thinking "Are these kids cool?" I decided they weren't and kept wondering if they were hurting themselves. They weren't getting up from the snow drift and more kept jumping on them. Weird and vivid shit.
I really smell like cigarettes. I've been trying to catch up on my blood to nicotine ratio and now I smell like my grandpa pre-cancer. I need to wash up and drown in some Listerine. I'll have more to say, dorkbabies, once I actually get out of here and enjoy this fucking beautiful Seattle day.


Two things learned from this cold.
1.) They use Sudafed-type products to make crystal meth, or crank if you like. When you buy it at stores, old women look at you like you're a fiend. If I had known earlier I would have twitched and asked where the best place to boost was.
2.) Blowing in someones ear and coughing in it produce two different affects. I don't recommend the later.
I left work after only one hour today. Right when I showed up with my head Sudafeded out (I was tweaking!), my nose running and N.I.D. Girl screaming "Clyde, I think bagels are good", I knew it was going to have to be a sick day. What clenched it though was N.I.D. Girl turning to me and saying "This day has been from Poopityville". I agree, freak; I'm out.
I slept and I had those fun halucanegenic (I don't care if I misspelt that, the dictionary is too heavy to pick up right now) dreams that come with a cold and crank. I dreamt about dinosaurs and laser tag and for some reason it was fucking important for me to get to the grocery store. Last night I dreamt that I had stolen a car and moved out to a Pacific Northrwest island to oversee a paper mill. Anybody with one of them dream analyzing books want to take a stab at those?
Today I'm going to avoid sunlight, eat soup and try to ignore the nicotine addiction that is telling me to "Fuck the chest; light up". I know he'll win eventually, just like my thirst for Sudafed will call me out into the Seattle streets looking for meth dealers and drag bars. I like pretending that I'm skirting the edges of hard drugs by taking these little white pills. This might be why I eat poppy seed muffins and drink Coke.
Last night I watched "The Burbs" with the comedic brilliance of Younger Tom Hanks. The movie dragged more than I remember from watching it as a kid, but I blame that on Jerry Bruckheimer. A great flick for stuffy nights. Best parts: "This is Walter!" "AHHHHHHHH" and Tommy boy coming out of the ruins of the neighbors house.
All right, I need to go watch T.V. or do laundry or eat. I don't think I have the energy for all three. Maybe an addiction to speed would come in handy.


The cold I was dodging and drowning in Budweiser last week finally caught up with me. I feel stuffed up and cold. This damned thing came on fast too. I was sitting around watching "Dude where's my Car?" after playing Bocce ball with the lovely couple when I became instantly sick. No build up, I went from not sick to sick and now I'm cold fever chest cough sick. I don't feel like writing and I don't have anything much more to say except it is hard to write.
I'll try and write later, but I don't think you want to know about runny nose updates. So, it's time for soup and cough drops, thanks to the lovely advice of a very special girl named Liz. Thanks, slut, and goodnight, dorks.


So much to tell you about, sweet things. I've had such a great and busy past few days. But first I want to tell you what happened to my brother on Friday.
Kyle is the blonder and more sober version of me. He kind of floats through life with, as far as I can tell, the mindset of a 12-year-old suddenly thrown into a 21-year-old's body. Anyways, this is what happens when my little brother goes boating.
Kyle and his work buddies were out on a boat (I'm guessing in the Puget Sound) and everyone is enjoying the scenery. Well, except for Kyle; Kyle becomes obsessed with a duck that is floating near the boat. His buddies challenge him to catch the duck and Kyle hops in the water to get it. The duck gets away but this just pisses Kyle off. After getting back on the boat Kyle goes "We're catching that fucking duck". My words coming out of an aryan body.
So this boatload of dweebs goes tearing ass around for half an hour after this damned duck. I can only imagine what the thing was thinking. "Quack. Why? Quack." They can't catch the duck and Kyle gets to his breaking point.
"Pull up along side the duck at full speed. I'm going to jump out and grab him and punch him and break his fucking neck, then I'm going to stuff the fucker and put him in my office." Good idea, dork.
So Kyle jumps off the side of the boat as they pass the duck going shitfuck fast. Only he doesn't tell the guy driving the boat that he's about to jump. Here's what happens when this scenario is set up.
While Kyle is in the air and before he hits the water, the boat turns sharply so that Kyle is now face to face with the front of the boat. As Kyle hits the water, the boat hits Kyle. Kyle's friends say they looked over the side and saw his legs "going really fast" in the opposite direction of the boats path. Kyle is shot underwater by the force of the boat for about 10 yards and suddenly pops up way the fuck away from it. He was O.K. but he didn't get the duck.
This is my new favorite Kyle story. Mom just called and asked how everyone was. "Kyle got hit by a boat" "What, what, what?" "Yeah, you should probably call him."
Onto the B news.
Work was work. A goateed man ignored elevator rules again today. This shit is getting weird.
Camping was super fucking great. After a late start (thanks to two late night Mickey's 40 oz.s) we got down to the state park in Ocean Shores. When we get there there is a huge sign that says "Camp Full". "This doesn't apply to us," I say, and I proceed to go find me a park ranger.
"Is the camp full?" I said.
"You know it's full; you saw that big brown sign," said the park ranger. And you can't sweet talk a park ranger, friends. They've heard it all. "C'mon, sweet stuff, I'll let you see what I got for some kindling".
So, we went on to the next camping site. This place was like that scene in National Lampoon's Vacation, you know the one after the one where the two girls get high. Here's another conversation I had.
"Are you full?"
"Only tent spots we got are next to that table out there." Next to the table also meant next to the road, a thorny bush and this guys office. And this guy meant swatting flys and drool, he was all about that shit.
"You don't have any of those wooded areas?"
"What? No! Those are all gone, I just said that!"
"Yeah, I know."
So, we went to the next camping site. This place was like a yuppies wet dream. For 10 bucks you got a picnic table, a fire pit and your own personal log to sit on and tell ghost stories. We pitched our tent ... oh wait, about our tent. This thing is fucking precious. It became our common child. It's a two person trail tent from Coleman. It's one of those ones you'd see Boy Scouts from the 1950s using. It's this tiny red triangle thing with a yellow tarp bottom. It was so cute that I wanted to makeout with it.
After setting "Tenty" up, we headed out for the ocean. But this wasn't as easy as going to Myrtle Beach and falling in the Ocean, you lucky East Coast fuckers. We had to trudge through underbrush and then cross this treacherous log bridge across an inlet, which we let some teenagers cross before us. "What are you just going to watch us to see if it's safe?" "Fuck yeah I am." After that we had to trudge through sand that would sink about 6 inches with every step. After about 200 yards of this we finally reached the ocean, which was foamy brown and cold as a Minnesota handjob. (Great fucking simile, B).
It was gorgeous though. The waves were choppy and harsh. The wind made nipples hard in beach fashion but for different reasons. I needed a sweatshirt and boots instead of my t-shirt and flip flops.
Standing there on Danger Beach I realized that it would never be corrupted by dance clubs or cokehead bikini skanks. Never would this beach hear "Daddy, take me to the arcade" or "Hoooeee". It was perfect, and I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio having gotten there.
We walked along the beach looking for full sand dollars. I've never found an unfucked one. Maybe that is my lot in life. After a good while of looking we headed back. R. Girl fell into the inlet when the log bridge gave out under her. "Sucks for you," I said and decided to strap on a pair and just wade the fucker. I did, and I have the cock to prove it.
I showed baby doll how to play frisbee golf back at the camp. I ran barefoot through a patch of briars and got about a hundred stuck to the bottom of my feet. "Sucks for you," she said. Actually she said I looked cute pulling them out with the blood on my fingertips. Weird shit is cute to some people, man.
We then went and bought firewood from a very crazy old man on the side of the road. He told us he was the mayor of a Seattle subarb and that his face was on a statue of a very well hung dog. I don't understand either, dorks. He took me over to his truck and showed me how to judge the quality of firewood. By his standards, I have to say, he did have some fucking great firewood. He liked me and told me to "stay here" he wanted to give me something. "What could it be?" I thought as he started walking deep into the woods. Gold? A treasure map? A hatchet to my jugular? Nope, just more wood. But special wood he said to make our fire warmer.
Side note: This whole situation made me very nervous. However, R. Girl was having a fucking ball with this guy. After reading that "The name Brent means you suck" thing (posted below) the other night I have become worried that I will end up bitter and with a fucked up solar plexis. I have started taking cues from other people on how to handle situations that make me nervous, like crazy old men telling me they want to show me something. Normally I'd say "Not today, rapist" and run away. Instead I followed R. Girl's lead and laughed along.
We shook crazy fuck's hand and drove off. He can be found somewhere on the "what do they call it ... the intro-net?", but he couldn't remember where. Great guy.
I made fire. I am all that is beast and ape. I took wood and I built the blaze of blazes which cooked the meat of dead animals for me and my woman. I am a primal sweatshirted God.
We had an early night, doing nothing with Ramones Girl is a very full day. The less we do the more fun we have. It's perfect for being a cheap anxiety-ridden ass.
The tent started dripping condensation at some point in the night and when we woke up everything was wet. And not in the good way, dorks. I was up at 4 and had a fire going by the time the sun started to come up. We decided to skip the camping breakfast since we were both damp and grumpy and find us a Denny's.
All in all the camping trip was the shizzy and I think I could really like Ramone's Girl if things keep up the way they are. But, that's personal, so back off you tabloid fucks.
Other things to discuss:
-The Twins are 1.5 games back, baby fucks! They survived interleague play and can smell the spoils of the Fall Classic.
"My baby does the Homer Hanky!" Eh? Eh?
-No Inner Dialogue girl was suprisingly quiet today. "My stapler smells like toothpaste," was the extent of her observations. Although she did stab at me with her pen when I walked by her desk. We've never even talked and she's trying to stab me. There goes my solar plexus.
-Eva Moore is super cool. Check our her fun adventures in linguistics and sexy alternativeness at www.clevertitle.150m.com
-I downloaded some stuff from www.suicidegirls.com from Kazaa Lite. I was expecting buck naked goth girls going at it with Barbie Dolls and whips. Instead I find out it's like some kissing, a couple tit shots and mostly just chicks telling stories like "I like punk music" or "One time I had to walk down a hill". What a gip. I'm starting my own porn site. It's going to be www.chickswhorocknextdoortoyourwhileyouarewatchingseinfeld.com Coming soon.
I grow weary of writing now. I'm going to go play frisbee golf. I love you.

Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you, dorks. It's a perfect early fall day here. I require plaid and football. I'll tell you all of my dirty little camping stories later. Outs.


Holy Christ, dorks! I just got a call from Ramones Girl that woke me up; I'm two hours late for picking her up for camping. The way she said "Do you not want to go anymore" made me want to buy her roses.
Damned malt liqour and late hours.
The name Brent gives you a strongly independent and highly creative nature, with drive and ambition to have experiences and accomplish things out of the ordinary. You can work intently at whatever is new and holds your interest at the moment, but your interest wanes quickly when drudgery and monotony set in. Obstacles to your progress or restrictions on your freedom to act create a sense of frustration which may cause you to feel resentful and even rebellious. You can then become intolerant of others, and caustic and belittling in your expression, thereby imposing stress on your personal relationships. Although you have a clever, quick, capable mind, your progress in life is restricted by instability in your affairs and misunderstandings with people. Your impulsive nature can lead to actions which you later regret taking, or to accidents. Relaxation is elusive, and depletion due to nervous tension can develop to the point where you become subject to moods of depression and morbid thoughts. Nervous tension centres in the solar plexus, with nervous indigestion and stomach ulcers a possible result.

Dorks, is this true? I wish to think this is one of those all-encompasing generalities. Dammit, my life can't be summed up by a random website, can it? I'd rather be shot by a Terminator than figured out by www.whoyouare.com



I need to find out how to buy the rights to the Harlem Globetrotters theme song.
I downloaded it earlier this afternoon and I'm hooked! I've been playing it while I clean up, while I make a sandwich and while I take a little nap; it makes everything a little more whacky!
Watch out Mr. Sandwich, that's not a jar of mustard; it's a jar of confetti mean ol' Slippery Kinkade gonna throw on you! Uh-oh, Mr. Nextdoor Neighbor, ol' Slippery gonna pull your shorts down and then dunk while you look silly! Hey there, Lamp, Slippery ain't pregnant; the ball is up his shirt!
If my life was a movie and I had to have a theme song play whenever I did something cool, got into a fight or had rough sex it'd be this song!
I didn't write in this thing yesterday. I hope everybody didn't get shot.
As you might be able to tell from my backwards hillbilly speaking, I'm tired. I had a lot of work to do today as Roy2D2. One of the swing shift fellas totally forgot to fill out the HMDA forms and that set my closing process back a good 2 hours! Can you believe it?
Here's what happened to me in the past 48 hrs.
-A man with a goatee stepped on an elevator before I got off of it. I was too shocked to say "Hey".
-I rented "Marathon Man" and "Rear Window", excuse me "Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window". I wanted to redeem myself after watching "Phone Booth" the other night. Forrest Whitaker? Hmph. And Colin Ferrel? This guy is supposed to be Hollywood's "bad boy"? He's about as badass as a pair of Reeboks. OOOO, take that you aussie or whatever fuck. And Keifer Sutherland, listen up, I only want you making movies with someone related to or with the last name of "Estivez" from now on.
-I got dragged downtown to go to a karaoke party. By party these people meant a room with a computer that plays songs. I was instructed to sneak beer in. No. I was told to have fun. No. I was already a little drunk when we got there, which allowed for one of my prouder moments in life. I was in this "room" box thing for about a minute listening to the opening rifts of "Superman" by 3 Dicks Up My Face when a penguin came on the screen. I yelled, "And now there's a fucking penguin?!?! That's it, I'm out". And I was.
-Kyle and I drove around downtown last night. I had one of those surreal/ perfect life moments when we were stopped at a red light next to Seahawks Stadium around midnight with the top down on his cute lil' car and The Sex Pistols' "Holiday in the Sun" rocking everyone in ear shot. It was a Visa commercial. We were young and rocking; we were American Eagle.
-I spent some quality time with Ramones Girl. She told me that I woke up during the middle of the night on Wednesday laughing my ass off. She asked me what was so funny and I sat upright in bed staring at the wall and started saying "Does anybody have any questions? Anybody? Anybody?". Over the past couple of weeks I have, in my sleep, asked her "Where are the buildings?" and "When is the great race of 80 days on? You don't know of the great race?". Most girls would bolt, but she says it's entertaining to have a psychotic in bed with her. I'm her R.E.M. cycle H.B.O. That should say something about her.
We have started to make plans for camping this weekend. We are talking about going ot the Pacific Ocean (not the Caspian Sea) and camping on the beach. That would be swell; I've seen the sunrise over an ocean but not set behind one. I'm as squirrely as a prom night whore thinking about it.
That's about it. I have felt like I'm coming down with a cold all week. I've been low on energy and kind of grumpy. I'm going to go take a nap.
I hope all of you kids starting school are having a good time. This is the first time in almost 20 years that I haven't been in some form of school during the fall.
HMDA. Can you believe those stooges on swing shift?


You know, for someone that spent 4 and half years studying journalism I sure make a lot of editorial errors.
I like being the new Roy. People even refer to me as "The new Roy". Roy's job is so simple and keeps me busy enough to not notice the time; although it does allow for plenty of day dreaming. Today I reenacted the scene from "Desperado" where Antonio Banderas is hiding behind a counter and has to silently check his pistol for bullets so the bad guys don't hear him. I held my pen up to my ear and slowly clicked the button on top while I ducked behind a file cabinet. It let out a little click (just like in the movie!) and I made that "oooo" face. Such a hottie. Antonio? No, me. I haven't really checked to see if the other people in the office have a clear view of me. "The new Roy is making laser noises."
There's a new annoying woman at work. She doesn't scream about guacomole or look like a rat like Screeching Woman of yore. That chick looked like Minney Mouse came to life and then got shot in the face. This one has no inner-dialogue. "I have to tinkle" "I was just at the little girls room" "I bought new shoes because my feet stink" "My phone is black" "I like pizza" "Eye blinking, breath, eye blinking, breath". She sits right behind me. Sometimes I go in the bathroom just to escape her. And then I hear from the other side of the wall, "The urine is coming out of my urethra. Leno was good last night" What's worse, she's the type of girl that makes a different voice for every occasion. (British) "Hello, sir, how are we today" (Ghetto) "I gave you that file, boy" (LOUD) "I told her I like pizza. PHONE BLACK".
I wonder if she gets hit at home; which, would raise the age old question, "Which came first, the hitting or the self-focused ego-building lack of confidence babble fest?". I don't condone hitting. But sometimes it's o.k. to shoot a dog.
Enough about work. That's not what defines me as a B.
I think the neighborhood kids are at the door. I'm not going to go find out. They keep asking me to come out and help fight some unruly teenagers who apparently are throwing rocks at the poor kids. I never see these kids and I don't want to start a fight. Teenagers are mean man and I might end up punching of them. "Local man beats up kids with rocks".
Right now I'm talking to some girl I used to bang; she is boring. I don't even know what she is saying. Something about boiling water and noodles. God, I've slept with some dumb girls. My brain keeps playing the "Harlem Globetrotters" theme song. She keeps asking me if I've met anyone new and I don't want to even have that conversation so I just keep saying "No". She asks if I still smoke and I don't want a lecture so I say "No". Now she's asking about my mom. Has she even met my mom? Ahhh, this is boring. More boring the that horrible movie, "Phone Booth". I need an out. Quick brain, focus.
"Brent, you are hungry."
YES! I am hungry! I need food or I will die. You don't want me to die. No, I haven't cut my hair. No, I don't remember the dinner with the birds overhead. I haven't been up to anything. I live in a box. I have no friends. I'm sorry, but I have to go. I'll call you next week. No, I'm not still a liar.
Freedom. The whole point of me moving to Seattle was to de-barnacle myself. Just keep humming the Globetrotters and keep your head down when the "tentacles" (wink) of the past come up from the deeps. "Whore, she blows, c'apn" "'Tis the great white skank".
I just bitched through this entire blog. I think I'm going to go get some deli meat and make me a fatty sandwich and drink some coke. Because that's what I like to do. Let's end this on a pos note, B.
When I was a little kid I went to the zoo with my mom, my brother, my godparents and their kids. I was sitting on a wall surrounding the prairie dog pits. I was having so much fun. Until I fell in. I hit my face and all the little prairie dogs ran to their holes. As the people I was with scrambled to get the zoo workers the prairie dogs stuck their heads out, one by one. I had gained their trust by not yelling and laying completely still.
I got to go with my godfather to the world famous Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. He was an anestheologist there. I got checked out by a really pretty nurse and was giving a clean bill of health. My godfather then showed me what doctors do during a day. I got to see the operating rooms and he even gave me my very own pair of very baggy medical scrubs. I wish I still had those. And I wonder if the prairie dogs still talk about "The Day That Kid Fell In". Have a good night, dorks.


Dammit. That story I asked to be read didn't really take place in the South. That ruined my trifecta that I thought I had with the piece. Who the hell cares about South Windsor, Connecticut skanks? I don't. They're just leftovers from the plethora of Kennedy skank bangings over the past few decades. "Would you say I have a plethora of skank bangings?" "Si, John, I would say you have a plethora" "Ted, do you know what a plethora is?"
I don't want blue blood hoochies, I require my trash pure Southern. PBR blooded. Read the story if you want, but it's ruined for me because I can't imagine her screaming "Daddy paid for this dress; you ain't my Daddy" no more. Dammit. She even jumped on the hood of a car and everything.
I'm all alone. Not figuratively, literally. I'm alone and sober. This can't last long. A sober B and an entire night alone don't mix well. Like oil and vodka. Mmmm, oil and vodka. I think we have some olive oil in the pantry and the liquor store doesn't close until 9. Boredom and sobriety problem solved, people. Nothing more to say.
Please read this story!
http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/southflorida/sfl-819maritalbliss,1,7307132.story?coll=sfla-home-headlines (oops, it doesn't create a link; I guess it's copy and paste time, dorkfaces)

Thank god for the South, alcohol and young tattooed skanks. Without the first there'd be no "COPS" for me to watch, without the next no reason for me to run this silly web dealy, and if there were none of the later there'd be no porn. God bless us, everyone.


Not a good day. I would say that it's because it's Monday, but that's for dorks. Read the title, dorks.
I'm sorry, Brent didn't mean to yell at you. He'll buy you some ice cream.
First off, this little kid with way too much hair keeps knocking on my front door while I'm writing this asking me if he can play video games. Usually I'd say yes. They're good kids; but, it's adult time. That means movies with cussing and Marlboro Reds.
Second, I just got back from a horrible game of disc golf. I started out strong by paring the first hole, which I had never done. On the second hole I got caught up behind a 4some and decided to repeat the hole after a double bogey. My chance for redemption, right? No, my time to throw a jackass hook that landed me right in the middle of a blackberry patch the size of my truck. Scratched up and soar I decided to go onto the third. Redemption song time? No, again. I hook again and go over a fence and land in someone's back yard. After retrieval I attempted teeing off again. The damned thing goes shorter than the first time I ever played. That's it, I'm done. I packed up the discs and sped home. My C.D. player was on the skids in the truck so I had to listen to the 80's station and a recount of the Butterbean/Larry Holmes pugalist spectacular on talk radio instead. Man, that sounded like one lame fight. A 50-year-old plus man beats the crap out of a super fat 30 something pop icon. It's like Rocky 3 without the soundtrack.
Before that I got a lovely letter from the Devil's cell phone company telling me that I had to pay a very large sum of money because Robocop now had my address and had been ordered to "Fuck the prime directives". Curses, I knew this day would come. So long cool new tennis shoes and premium whiskey and hello adulthood.
And before that I had a very long and sleepy day at work. Actually, work was all right, comparitively. It was a slow day but I managed to stay very busy in spite of others mulling about the coffee machine chanting "There's nothing to do".
The salmon rocked last night. Here's the recipe:

1/4 cup pineapple juice
2 TBS fresh lemon juice
4 (6 oz) salmon fillets

2 TBS brown sugar
4 tsp chili powder
2 tsp grated lemon rind
3/4 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp cinnamon

Cooking spray
Lemon wedges (optional)

Combine first 3 ingredients in a ziploc plastic bag, seal and marinate in refrigerator 1 hour, turning occasionally.

Preheat oven to 400°F. Remove fish from bag; discard marinade. Combine sugar and next 5 ingredients in a bowl. Rub over fish. Place in an 11x7" baking dish coated with cooking spray. Bake at 400°F for 12 minutes or until fish flakes easily when tested with a fork. Serve with lemon, if desired. Serves 4

After dinner I walked around with my redheaded sweetheart looking for the moon to try and spot Mars. We couldn't find it. But, isn't pointless wandering with a newfound someone always the best? I think we reached a definite mile marker in the relationship. She broke the Terms of Endearment barrier yesterday.
"Wait, how do we get to Seattle?" I asked.
"Honey, we're in Seattle," she replied.
This B is someone's honey. Actually, I feel a little better now. Fuck the promise of ice cream, reader person, I'm going to go make a phone call.


Just got back from my Seattle date with the Ramone's girl. Here's a quick list of fun and exciting things that happened to me today.
1.) We went down to Lake Washington where little kids were swimming and diving. There was this dorky little lifeguard riding around a boat in 5 FEET DEEP WATER!?!? Best overheard line from a little kid today: "You're going to get nunchucks on the head!"
2.)We then went to a restaurant down by the docks on the Puget Sound where a.) the waiter said this classic line: "Hi, welcome to this restaurant, are you guys from around here? you live here so you know how we do it here, let's get down to business. let's get this train a moving. You probably want me to just be quiet and let you order, don't you. She's thinking "I wish he'd be quiet". I can tell she wants me to be quiet. Do you?" We did. b.)Over excited waiter boy kept calling me "chief" or "boss" ($5 tip for a $10 tab right there), but he kept touching Ramone Girl's arm ($2 tip) then he called me buddy ($5 tip) and then he touched MY arm ($2 tip). b.) we saw "party boat". It's a boat (or type of boat) that goes around with 3 100 foot high streams of water shooting out of it it doesn't go near any of the boats. When a boat comes near it it starts spinning. I'm serious. It is like Looney Tunes in Seattle. What purpose does this boat serve? Who needs a boat that shoots water into the air and then spins? Who said "Dammit, we have it all a needle for the space and a bunch of other stuff; but, we don't have a boat that shoots water, avoids other boats and spins when excited."? c.) a bird flew under our table and started attacking Ramones Girl. A woman passing by said "Ahhh, I hate those things".
3.)After the restaurant and a few minutes of standing on a deck trying to figure party boat out, we decided to head home. I kept seeing a bunch of people wearing necklaces that had a bunch of pot leaves on them. Then I remembered it was Hempfest, I grew curious. This is an actual conversation I had with two stoner girls I saw at a crosswalk.
B:So, where's this thing happening that's on your button? ("Thanks for pot smoking. Seattle HempFest)
Stoner girl #1: What?
B: The HempFest thing, where is it?
Stoner girl #1: You mean the pot thing? What's it called?
B: HempFest
Stoner girl #2: Potfair?
Stoner girl #1: Weedfest. HempFest. Yeah, it's way up there, man. You can take a bus. For a $1.25 they give you a transfer ticket, so you can transfer.
B: That's nice of them. What do they have at the HempFest?
Stoner girl #1: Stuff. Lot's of stuff. If you want pot stuff, go there.
I didn't go there. I have enough stuff.
4.) We went to an arcade where I played that quarter game where you drop the quarters and the machine knocks over quarters, I don't know if it has a name. But with one quarter and one quarter only I won ... 67 MOTHERFUCKING TICKETS! HELL YEAH! I RULE! I didn't want any of the prizes (A Kit-Kat, a South Park sticker, a Spongebob Squarepants mini mug) so we picked out the cutest kid there and gave her the tickets. I am Robin Hood, I take tickets from the machines and give them to the cute.
5.) Soon after that we passed by the greatest street musician ever. I call him that because he made up a song about us. He looked like a beefy Michael Stipe and kept staring at us as if there was no Seattle, only us. The song went something like this.

He plays basketball for Winthrop.
He's the last of the basketball players and he doesn't care.
He likes to play basketball and there's a girl with red hair.
He's a basketball warrior.
He likes to play, but he's the last and he's alone.

He continued to sing as we kept walking; for all I know he's still singing ("He's not here right now, but he's still in love with basketball"). It's the greatest song I've ever heard. And it's all so true.
Today was such a great cure for a hangover. No chance to be depressed, iced tea and vanilla ice cream. I have to go cook Salmon now. Apparently I'm making an ass load for a lot of people. The pressure is on. I know burritos pretty well, but I kind of lied and said I could cook salmon ("Salmon? Fuck yeah, i've got a million receipes for the fishy fuck.") Why did I say I'd cook salmon for all of these people? Sometimes I feel like I'm floating through life randomly grabbing beers and preparing fish. Kyle told someone I'm like a little drunk puppy that keeps wandering around and getting lost. Bark, fuckfaces.
Sunday afternoon. Hangover very much a part of my life. Like a parrot on a pirate's shoulder that punches the brain instead of the squawking. "B-Man want a migraine?"
Yesterday ruled. I woke up in time to pound a couple cups of coffee before the lovely couple picked me up to head out to the amazing Bocce compound party. The drive out there was beautiful. I don't use that word very often; but, that's the only way to describe it. Fucking beautiful is another way, I guess.
We got to the event around noon. This house was amazing. Fucking amazing. It looks like an architectural mastermind was blindfolded and sent about a forest to create. This place was like a less-pointy St. Basils; there was lots of stuff and it didn't seem like it should flow but it did".
We played 3 games of Bocce ball (1-2 for the B) which I surprised myself by being able to pull out some amazing shots. I'm hooked on Bocce. Hamburgers, oriental sandwiches, Jack Daniels and AmberBock. More Jack Daniels. Arrogant B-Man remarks ("My boyfriend is a part-time cop" "Then I guess he's a piglet! Hahahahahaha") More Amber Bock. Some more Bocce. More arrogant remarks ("Well, they did give my idea a movie deal" "They gave 'Ernest Goes to Camp' a movie deal too"). Great conversation. Even though a lot of the conversation was about musicals, it's amazing how much I care about musicals when I'm half lit and in the company of theater buffs. It's my ability to blend in and get drunk in any environment ("Say, bishop, how 'bout a sermon and a Vodka tonic? I tell you, that Christ had one hell of a mother.") The other B and I played a rag-tag game of disc golf through this amazing piece of the Northwest (skins match score 2-5. I can never seem to win anything) which I had to throw from the top of a compost heap at one point. I argued that should give me at least an extra skin for props sake. No luck with that.
Anyways, I was obnoxious but I met lots of interesting people. I just hope I didn't say anything too jackass to embarass the h.c. I guess I'll find out. After all of that I had a good old fashioned sibling ass kicking argument with Kyle. Why? Why not? He's so cute when he clenches his fists and goes "Brent, I'm serious".
There was more that happened but I don't want to think too hard right now. Ramones girl is on her way over and I need to shower. We're going to go down to this dock that we found on Mercer Island. Maybe we'll watch some boats and drink some beer. Maybe we'll just makeout in front of little kids. I'll write more later.


It's getting near the end of the day on Friday and I'm looking for a back door to sneak out of. All of the office women are going crazy. They are like apes in khakis and flower print shirts who know the promised treats of apple martinis and Julia Roberts movies are very close. They are screeching ("I want guacomole!" "Derek doesn't like crowded bars!") and banging on their cages. I feel the same way, but the tail end of a hangover is keeping me slightly more in check.
I just called Kyle at Microsoft. I love calling him there. I always feel important asking the operator to please connect me with Kyle Kinkade ("Last name spelt K-I-N-K-A-D-E"). They always say "Thank you, Sir. I'm connecting you now" and I feel like I've had an agent of the machine do my bidding.
Sidenote:I like it when people call me sir, especially teenagers. I'm not one of those people who get caught up on the youth not finding me hip enough to call me dude anymore. And I'm deffinitely not going to be one of those lame-ass Jimmy Buffet listening people who tell the youngin's to call me "Brent". Hell no, I'm Mr. Kinkade, Snotface, now go mow a yard or play with fire.
Anyways, I called Kyle and he told me he has a top secret project that might keep him away from the apartment until Wednesday. He's like Batman, he can't reveal what he does outside of the home. He's so precious with his little red sports car and big brain. Speaking of which, last night he brought up the excellent point that I know a lot more about computers than I let on. Ever since I've moved to Seattle I act like I'm a hillbilly whenever he and his friends start talking about computers. I even got a shirt made up that says "Don't talk to me about computers" (with a 66 on the back for esoteric appeal) to wear to one of his little socials.
The thing is, I was considered pretty proficient with computers back when I was in college. Is this some self-defeating sibling rivalry of mine? Why do I always pretend to fall asleep when he says "CPU". Does it work the other way? I've haven't seen Kyle read anything since I've been here, but I see books in his room.
I think I got a promotion today. Not any extra money, but extra responsibility. I'm replacing some guy named Roy who left recently. He did other stuff with folders and paper that I bet many have never dreamed could be done. I'm looking forward to my new role and whole new cubicle! Maybe I'll stay on and become a full-time (non temp.) Roy part 2. This Roy fella always dressed kind of sharp and listened to trendy music. Maybe if I do a good job I can make enough money to dress in Gap clothes and say things like "Should we listen to new Radiohead or old Portishead" and "I say, Teeny, is this cabarnet or cabARET?"
I'm ready to go. I want to try to squeeze in some frolfing before I go see Ramones girl tonight. She and her buddies caught some salmon in the ocean last weekend and I want to cook it up tonight (found a simple receipe for bbq salmon that sounds like it will make panties wet). Then it'll be off to a party with people I don't know and more than likely alcohol (which I'm all too familiar with).
Before I go I want to talk about something. I keep thinking about my pops every time I use the copy machine at work. Although, I'm pretty sure my dad has someone who does his copying for him and I can't ever remember dad doing too much Xeroxing in the garage as a kid. This got me thinking about father figures and how they affect us. I've been stuck with this image of Atticus Finch hunched over a copier blankly staring at the words "1 side/2 side" with a look that says "How did I get here?" on his face. Oh, to be the men we want to be, and yet we are the men we are.
Ok, the ape women are getting restless; I better start making a run for it. Late
I've totally forgotten what I was going to say. It was profound I think. Hmmm.
Last night was typical B-Man. I got drunk on cheap beer while other people did sober things and told me how funny I am because of the drinking and smoking and punching and cursing and long sentences with too many conjunctions, or...
I woke up at 8:05 today when I was supposed to be at work at 8:00. I never used to be late for anything. I used to get major anxiety attacks an hour before something was going to happen. "Holy Christ, the Wonder Years is coming on in 25 minutes! Where's my soda! Kevin!" Now I show up late and wearing a ball cap. Fuck 'em, I've been stabbed before. Actually, I haven't: but, Goddamn that's a good line.
So, it sounds like I'll be able to stay on at the space commander desk job after all. I call it that because I spend most of the day pretending that my cubicle is a spaceship and I'm fighting space asteroids and star people. It all started because the ergonomically designed chair that I sit in has these arm rests with buttons and levers on them to control lumbar support and tilt. But in my world they control the lasers and my tracking beam. Sometimes I'm wearing an eyepatch and have a big metallic space warrior suit on in my daydreams. Usually I have my trusty crew with me who gives me advice on how to handle situations. "Captain, don't shoot that asteroid, it's kind of pointless and we only have a million photon rockets!", they say. "Sounds like a challenge," I reply. "Huh?" And then I start my intergallactic genocide. I'm an anti space-monster-ite.
Then I come back to reality.
Casual Fridays rock! That's all that rocks about this place (except the world in my head). I'm dressed like such a frat boy today that I feel like pinching asses and tailgating out in the parking lot. Maybe I'll jeer people as they go into work ('You're office sucks, Washington Mutual has the best defense in the PAC 10! Whoooooo"). Actually, I think I wore this exact outfit to a Clemson/Carolina game when I was a sophomore. That night was crazy! This guy started hitting on my girlfriend at the time (El Diablo) while we were partying on the frat hall. Later on that night I found him on my bed and he did a "come hither" motion to me (this guy is a complete stranger by the way). I said "what the fuck are you doing?" and he said "Working on my paintball skills". He actually tried to convince me that he was laying on my bed drunk working on how to best squeeze the trigger of his paintball gun. I'm not a homophobe (I've actually given thought to banging a dude just to prove that) and I'm not sure if the guy was actually gay or confused or really did like paintball; but, he had to go. The fucker had his shoes on my bed. Try and do me like I haven't been done before, that's cool, I'm honored. Hit on my chick? You can have her, she's too skinny for me. But, shoes on my comfortor? Get out.
That was the same night I put the shaft of a six iron through my right arm, which I still have an amazing scar from. Note to all new found frat boys out there: Cheap vodka is a pretty good anti-bacterial rub.
Say something smart, Brent, you sound like an ass. How do you get exactly 4 gallons by using a 5 gallon and a 3 gallon jug? Fill the five gallon jug and pour it into the 3 gallon jug. This will leave 2 gallons in the 5 gallong jug. Empty the 3 gallon jug and pour in the 2 gallons. Refill the 5 gallon jug and pour one gallon in with the 2 gallons in the 3 gallon jug. This will leave exactly 4 gallons in the 5 gallon jug. "Form follows function" is by far the most challenging architectural design method. If lacking in aesthetic, it is made up for by it's almost alluring decadence in simplicity.
This weekend I'm going with the happy couple to an all-day cross country Bocce ball tournament. I'm looking forward to playing. I keep having memories of playing the game with Kyle in our backyard in N.C. "Lawn bowling" is the lamest term ever invented. I can just see some spectacled fuck in shorts and suspenders in Kentucky who can't say "Bocce" without the "K" sound, just giving up and going "Let's lawn bowl." He'd have a huge grin while all the other corn eating fucks all said "Kurt, you're a riot. Lawn bowling! Funny guy!". Fuck Kurt, it's Bocce ball.
Anything else happen to me? Did laundry, got drunk, stayed up late. Nope, pretty lame night and boring day so far. I think I'm going to go blow up Mars.


Just had my third encounter with goateed-elevator-rule anarchist today. Epidemic?
I have a theroy. Men with goatees don't know elevator manners. Today I saw two men, both with goatees, walk onto an elevator before the people already on the elevator walked off. It's like they forgot the golden rule of elevators, "Don't walk before others as you wouldn't have others step in front of you".
Maybe the goatee is evolution's anit-elevator sign post. Maybe the men were just evil versions of themselves.
On to real news. I have succeeded in losing a job before I even started working at it.
I had landed a well-paying gig at a certain place doing things. It wasn't glamorous, but the benefits would allow for anti-depressants and cooler eyeglasses. Well, I forgot to put on my application that I was arrested when I was a sophomore in college.
Here's the story for the 4 people who don't know it: I was the social chair of my fraternity one year. I was in charge of planning the annual orgy known as Carolina Cup (for those not from S.C., think of it as a Renior painting with Busch Light and less posture). It was the end of the day and the pigs were on the prowl (power to the frat boys!). I got into a fight with these two dudes from another frat about the property rights of a 3 foot sub sandwich. In the end I offered that they take the sandwich ... UP THE ASS! As I went to throw the deli monstrosity at them Dan Marino-style I was tackled from behind by 3 cops. I thought I was getting jumped by the other frat and fought back. So, more cops jumped on me and eventually the battle of Subway was over. It took 6 cops to bring this hoagie fuck down, baby!
Back to present day. I forgot to mention this on my application. So, when they did my background check this old charge came up. They were forced to take back their offer, which made me upset for a while. Now I'm hoping the temp. company I'm with will let me stay on with them. Will Brent be umemployed as of Monday? Stay tuned.
Today I've got that awkward confidence I always put on when I'm unsure of the future. I think I'll go play frisbee golf (game steadily improving. driving is stronger, mid range sweet, putts oh-so-close) after work. Then a sandwich and then Coors Light. Perfect plan.
I have to tell you who I am if you don't know me. I could be ultra-alternative and say I don't believe in "getting to know you" stuff and ask you to judge me based on whatever else I do or don't do depending on what's considered hip by the alternative press. Or, I could tell you I like the color blue and was born in Iowa. Both of those things are for dorks. And we all know now that dorks don't rock. I do.
So, I'll tell you the things I do. Not things that I like to do, just a list of ten things I do throughout the day.
1.)I fantasize about sleeping with roughly 40 percent of the women I see. This gets weird when I'm at hospitals or drag shows.
2.)I chew Wrigley's Doublemint gum because one day I hope I run into my long lost twin and we're both chewing the gum at the same time. I'd call him B2 and we'd laugh forever about the "gum incident".
3.)I drink Pabst Blue Ribbon. Alot.
4.)When I know someone is coming over to visit I pretend to be watching the History Channel. When they walk in they think I'm smart when really I'd rather just watch "COPS".
5.)If I like a girl I always forget her name and have to make up nicknames. "Russian chick", "Gas station girl", "The one that likes the Beatles" are some examples from the past.
6.)I make faces at babies when no one is looking.
7.)I daydream about explosions and super spies.
8.)I play frisbee golf roughly 3 times a week.
9.)I don't eat microwave popcorn because I feel like I'm cheating on movie theater popcorn.
10.) I get disturbed when people drop foreign words into english sentences. Like this one time this guy kept saying "Try some of this champagne (but said it the french way "shom-pawn-ya"). I wanted to say "Why don't you just go-fuck-ya". We all know at least a little bit of a foreign language; so, stop trying to look like a Kennedy, you arrogant fuck. That's why we have the History Channel. period goes here
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