I don’t know what gets into her sometimes. Maybe “Merry Christmas” isn’t politically correct anymore.

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#1GF!: You have hummus on your nose.
Me: [thinking she's joking] No, I don’t
#1GF!: Yes, you do.
Me: No I don’t. [looks in mirror] I do not.
#1GF!: You do.
Me: [goes into bathroom and turns on the light]
#1GF!: [calls from other room] See?
Me: Uh, I would say that’s more like in my nose.

I have no idea how these things happen.

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If people who don’t know you regularly saw you walking down the street, what nickname would they use to describe you?

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Me: Hey, there’s a picture of Star Trek on that wall.
#1GF!: [turns] Yes, I agree.
Me: And there’s a Yoda head there, too.
#1GF!: [turns and turns back]
Me: You don’t know who Yoda is.
#1GF!: Uh… E.T.?
Me: [thumps head on table]

#1GF!: [laughing] Are you going to leave me now?
Me: [whips out notebook to transcribe conversation for internet]
#1GF!: OH COME ON.
Me: [puts notebook away] I’m making you watch Star Wars when we get home.
#1GF!: You made me watch Star Track.
Me: Please tell me you said that on purpose.
#1GF!: Maybe, but you made me watch it.
Me: No, I never did.
#1GF!: You did. There was a ship and it was going to crash into the mothership.
Me: [amused that #1GF! used the word "mothership"] Never.
#1GF!: You made me.
Me: Wait. Are you talking about Lord of the Rings?
#1GF!: No, I slept through that. This was a whole series.
Me: ?
#1GF!: [as if my testicles were suddenly beamed off the planet] There was a love interest…
Me: [staring]
#1GF!: [staring]
Me: Wait, you’re not talking about Battlestar Galactica…
#1GF!: You’re right. I am.
Me: [whips out notebook again]
#1GF!: You might as well keep that thing out because it’s not going to get any better.

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Note: A sand wall must be three feet tall and three feet wide to temporarily stop an encroaching and irreverent Nantasket tide. This guideline applies to both regular and shadow people.

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When I was young, I put a rubber band around the spray attachment on my parents’ kitchen sink and got a good laugh when my unsuspecting father ruined a good tie when he turned on the water. In the 20 years since then, I’ve pulled that trick out every few years on April Fools’.

This year, #1GF! busted out my trick, so when I emerged from the computer cave at lunch time and turned on the water, a stream of water shot past me and soaked the other side of the kitchen. Rather than take the rubber band off, I left it in place in hopes that #1GF! would forget about it and inadvertently soak herself with her own prank when she got home.

When #1GF! got home, I had forgotten that I was trying to prank the prankster, and I absent- mindedly turned on the water while standing in front of the sink. Not only did my double cross fail in epic proportions, but #1GF! got the bonus of seeing her prank in action.

You can thank her for serving me a cold plate of justice.

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I love that you inexplicably prefer sundae spoons to regular ones.

I love that you have a really girly side.

I love the way you yell at the contestants on Ninja Warrior like they can hear you.

I love that even though you hate my beard, you don’t make me miserable about it.

I love that you make days of doing nothing seem perfect as long as we’re together.

I love that you still think I’m funny even when I know I’m not.

I love that even though you can troubleshoot PC’s and networks, I still have to explain basic geek culture references to you.

I love your height, your width, your strengths and your flaws.

I love that half smile you get when I’m jumping around trying to make you laugh.

I love that your heart is too big for your body.

I love that we both have an odd left/right handed mix.

I love that you fight to do things for me before I can do them for you.

I love that you have faith in me and make me feel like I could actually do something great someday.

I love that after six years you still look at me like it’s puppy love.

I love that we bend our dreams so that they weave themselves together.

I love that you don’t try to change or erase the parts of me that you don’t understand.

I love that I have more fingers on my left hand than the number of times that we’ve fought.

I love how people react to us as a pair.

I love that you give me leeway and choice.

I love that my parents would jokingly question what would motivate you to stick with me.

I love that you ask and remind way past the point when I should be told and harassed.

I love that you kick my ass at web games and card games, yet you are hysterically uncoordinated with video games.

I love that you say strange things like “I love you, bitch”.

I love that the best part of going places is driving there with you.

I love that you would rather kiss me with a booger on my nose than ruin the moment (I have proof).

I love that you found a way for me to enjoy my birthday.

I love that you think other women think I’m as good looking as you do (they really don’t, but…).

I love how you will sit through geeky movies with me without pointing out how stupid the capes or lasers are.

I love that we had a mysteriously secret relationship for years.

I love that my life before you seems remote and impossible and that I can’t imagine my life without you in it.

I really do miss you when you’re gone.

When I’m with you, I feel more like myself than I ever have.
When I’m with you, I feel like I’m more than I really am.
When I’m with you, it seems like a perfect summer day, no matter what the weather.

You make me feel stronger.
You make me feel lucky.
You make me feel alive.

I wish that I could give you more and I always want to impress you.

All my heart are belong to you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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“So?”

“So, what should I write my book about?”

“Well, what would you say you know the most about?”

[pauses] “loneliness.”

“Oh, man.”

“Yea, I know. Should we just watch another movie?”

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By staying home and buying from my store and associate links this holiday season, you will not only avoid the shame of getting your ass kicked by elderly last minute shoppers, but you’ll be helping to keep this site going.

I write because I love to and I’m not asking you to buy anything you don’t need, but because this site is my only source of income, your purchases allow me to show #1GF! that writing for a living isn’t a pipe dream.

Hey, even if you don’t buy anything, give it a look and let me know what you think.

Thanks for your continued support!

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3 Year Old: Oh noooo!
Me: What’s the matter, honey?
3 Year Old: The ants are eating the cracker!
Me: That’s ok. It’s on the ground anyway.
3 Year Old: They’re taking little pieces!
Me: Yup. They’re taking it home.
3 Year Old: Those are probably the mommy ants taking the food back to the babies.
Me: Sure, Ok.
3 Year Old: And there’s ones on the side not doing anything.
Me: Yup.
3 Year Old: Those must be the Daddy ants…

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To say that #1GF! is not a fan of death metal is a major understatement. She is a fan of me, though, and because I make her laugh and explain Star Wars/Trek references on TV, she puts up with short bursts of musical terror.

“I’m ridiculous,” I said under my breath.

“What?” asked #1GF!, quietly doing her best to ignore the auditory onslaught that is Six Feet Under.

“I’m ridiculous. I’m not listening to this on headphones, so I know you’re hearing it too. Therefore, I’m hearing it through your ears instead of my own. I can hear you silently wondering how I can possibly like music that sounds so much like someone burping over explosions. I like it, though. And it’s ridiculous.”

“Aw. How about a hug?”

[Music: GR..ooooOOOOOOWWWWWWWGGGGGHHHH!!]

“Ok. I think this one’s a love song, anyway.”

(The truly ridiculous part of the story is that not 20 minutes before this post was written, I was playing “Jesse’s Girl” (song|video) on the guitar. Yea, don’t ask. For some reason it randomly popped into my head and it’s been stuck in there for two days and counting. No amount of death metal has been able to vanquish it. Send help.)

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“Hey I just called to tell you that we had fun last night, and I wanted to let you know that we were talking about it and we think that Jon is probably one of the funniest people we know. We’re actually still laughing about it. And my husband told me that he thought you looked like you had lost some weight, not that you need to or anything.”

Even if she was just being nice, #1GF! and I agree that flattery will get you everywhere.

(It should be noted that now that these statements have been printed on the interwebs, said statements will henceforth and irrevocably be accepted as fact, due to the complete and truthful nature of all statements that appear on said interwebs, hitherto, wheretofor.)

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(sappily generated with the Candy Heart Maker)

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When it was finally revealed that the whole amounted to nothing but a bunch of advertisements that would, with any luck, be the least threatening thing gracing some lucky college kid’s dorm room, our embarrassed mayor had the people who put up the signs up for Turner arrested and charged with distributing “hoax devices”, under a statute used to prevent people from distributing fake bombs to cause a panic. He also claimed that he had his lawyers working on a case to sue and possibly level criminal charges against Turner Broadcasting. The mayor claimed a $500,000 damage figure, which had to be repeated several times because I don’t think that the microphone was positioned close enough to his asshole to hear.

When I talked about this, I was surprised to hear that a lot of the people actually agreed with the Mayor. In their minds, these guys should have known that lite-brites hung up around a city would be construed as a bomb threat in a post 9/11 world. Advertising should have a permit. There is no room for jokes. Anything could be a bomb and should be regarded with suspicion and treated with overreaction.

Yet, on one of the news reports, they talked to a guy at Fenway Park who had known about the signs for weeks and thought they were just a funny prank. In Seattle, a police Sergent was quoted as saying, “At this point we wouldn’t even begin an investigation, because there’s no reason to believe a crime has occurred.”

Frankly, I agree. Let’s be honest. These things don’t remotely resemble bombs. They look like Lite-brites. At worst they might be a choking hazard for children under three and possibly the mayor of Boston.

To continually call them “devices” on the news instead of “signs” incites unnecessary concern. To charge these two guys with trying to panic the public is nothing but an idiot Mayor looking for a scapegoat to make him look like less of an idiot. To passively accept these overreactions makes Massholes look like a panicky bunch of pussies who don’t deserve the tattered scraps of freedom that are gradually being pulled through our fingers.

When what is funny makes you afraid, and when the smallest actions get massive overreactions, how can a citizen remain free?

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As far as I’m concerned these days, if your body decides that you have to throw up, I think it should be for two, or maybe three reasons: 1.) To teach the body’s owner that debauchery has a price, 2.) To make the person disgusting enough when passed out that no one wants to put their balls on them and take pictures, or 3.) Possibly to punish the person for spinning around and around in circles one too many times. That’s it. Vomiting should not come on randomly like it did to me this week.

It all started when we went to visit #1GF!’s sister this weekend. Because I was heavily involved with the semi-annual maintenance on their family PC, my inquisitive brain parts were busy forming questions starting with “How the fuck…”, while my fix-it brain parts were spending a fair amount of energy pushing the inquisitive parts out of the way, so it could get the PC fixed. With all the pushing and shoving in there, I failed to take better stock of the fact that #1GF!’s normally energetic sister had suddenly climbed under a mountain of blankets and was not the least bit interested in dinner. Although I am a wiz at diagnosing PC issues, I admit to being less than skilled when it comes to humans.

Let’s fast forward 24 hours or so when I started getting nauseous. Because I get migraines all the time, nausea creeps up on me enough that I don’t take much stock in it. I grab a coke and something bready and wait for it to pass. What I didn’t seem to notice this time was the lack of headache that one would normally expect to accompany a migraine. Like a child that can’t seem to get the attention of a dismissive parent, my body changed tactics and replaced the nausea with a very large temperature drop.

The fact that I was dressed in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and under two blankets and a quilt did not alarm me at all, probably because, as I said, I am merely a human who troubleshoots computers. If I were a human that could troubleshoot other humans, I may have reacted differently, but I was so relieved by the repeal of the nausea that I simply amused myself by jolting #1GF! with my ice cold feet until she fell asleep.

After spending hours trying to distract myself from the minor waves of nausea and the lack of heat within my thermal cocoon, I finally started drifting off to sleep after a Valium-like dose of a late-night PBS special on the topic of the construction of the Alaskan pipeline. Because I had never been so cold inside the house without running out of heating oil, some small part of my brain must’ve finally started to worry. Just as I was drifting off, I was jarred awake by the thought, “If you fall asleep, you might die.”

“I’m fine,” I thought. “I’m just cold and nauseous.”

Then, I started churning, “I’ve never been this cold. What if I got bitten by a spider when I was cleaning out the PC yesterday? What if this is some sort of reaction? I could drift off and never wake up.”

“This is irrational,” I thought, and started drifting off again. Just as I touched sleep, I was again jarred awake by a skull on a black background in the center of my vision. And there I was, awake, irrationally nervous, nauseus, and freezing in the dark. I figured that even if I was being irrational, it couldn’t be good that I was still so cold. The only way that I could think of to get warmer was to hop in a hot shower. I snuck out of bed and made my way through the black hallway to the bathroom.

When I closed the door and flicked the light switch, the sudden burst of bright light burned my eyes, as waves of nausea washed over me. I turned the shower handle as hot as it would go, and while waiting for it to warm up, I weighed the pros and cons of throwing up in every single receptacle in the room, just in case I was presented with an opportunity to choose. As soon as I reached into the shower and my fingers touched the falling water, my choice was made for me.

I dropped to my knees and heaved. My body stiffened, and the force only made it to my chest. “Fuck,” I groaned, “Fuck.” And then I tightened again as if every cell was trying to pry itself away from me.

And I threw up like I hadn’t done in years. By then, #1GF! was at the door and trying to get in, and I was waving her off. Whatever was in me, it wanted it out, and I wasn’t going to let anything distract me from letting it go.

And I threw up again. And again. And then, for a minute, it all stopped.

Despite being baptized with an icy sweat, it was the best I had felt all day.

After I collected myself a little, I showered, changed clothes, and tried to go back to bed. My temperature started to normalize, and I thought relief was on the way. Unfortunately, by now we all know my record on human diagnostics. As soon as I warmed up, the nausea came back. The warmer I got, the worse I felt. I would eventually have to wait for #1GF! to fall asleep before returning to the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom where, using my sweatshirt as a pillow, I would see only flurries of sleep. My subconscious would only wake me up once wondering whether I was having a heart attack because one of my arms had gotten caught under me and gone numb.

There was a time that sleeping on the bathroom floor was common, but that was a long, long time ago. And even though I can see the holes of mortality have worn through the invincible armor of my youth, I can’t say that I’d trade a moment of where I am now to mend them.

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One: MABeGroMo

I failed to mention the start of MaBeGroMo on December 1. I started on November 7th to beat the holiday rush. Like women synching their menstrual cycles, Team Beardo at work started around the same time without discussion or provocation. My beard is now two months old. How’s yours?

Two: Macafuckingrena

I read an e-mail from a guy whose signature not only bestowed upon himself the title of “Guru”, but included a quote from someone named “Evil Overlord”. Although I can’t recall the quote exactly, it was of the “I’m so fucking smart and everyone else is an idiot” nature. Now, I might be wrong, but didn’t adding little quotes to your personal e-mail signature go out of style around the same time people stopped thinking the Macarena was cool and CCMail was hot? If you answered “no”, do yourself a favor and delete your quote because no one thinks it’s clever except you. If you’re that guy who wrote that e-mail, I already know that you’re going to add a second clever and scathing quote to your signature just to prove me wrong. That is assuming that you can climb into your lucky quote-searching Underoos and clean the ho-hos from your fingers before getting distracted by some sort of Japanese cartoon porn and falling asleep on your big, guru pillow.

Three: Levi and the Magic Cards

My sister gave me a Christmas card that she bought from a nine year old in Portland who makes and sells his own greeting cards. I wish the card was available at his website, alienswithafros.com, but it’s not.

Above the hand-drawn picture of a Mr. T. with a Santa hat on, it simply reads, “I Pity the fool that Doesn’t Believe in Santa.”

Four: Ultimate Battle Prep

My sister also gave me a single Hulk Hand that she squirreled away when she found it at work. Despite the plethora of paired hulk hands available six months ago for dirt cheap, I find myself unable to find a reasonably priced pair to send to her. I’m thinking that I’d much rather locate a set of Thing Hands and Thing Feet to send along for the ultimate battle. If I could only find them… HULK SMASH!

Five: Corey Hart

#1GF! and I traveled into Boston on New Year’s Eve Day to see the paltry four ice sculptures and four crappy, weirdo plastic wrap sculptures that the city splurged on. I haven’t been in to town in a couple of years, and couldn’t remember how to get from the Public Garden to Copley Place. I refused to ask for directions under the pretense that I’ve been in there a million fucking times and to ask where it was to admit a full and unconditional suburban surrender.

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After Christmas, we tore into all of the new card and board games, and when we all weren’t trying to figure out the obscure rules to games like Munchkin and Killer Bunnies, my sister and I took stole a couple of hours to play co-op and head-to-head games of Guitar Hero II. There is a picture of the event floating around a memory card somewhere that perfectly expresses how we both felt at the time. I was seated and relaxed, my feet up and a pillow behind my back like an musician who needs a stool on stage. My sister, on the other hand, stood in a certified rock stance, with the pained and horrified expression of someone who was playing against the devil for their very soul. To even the playing field, I played expert to her medium, but I have to say that she solidly whooped me a couple of times.

After the first week, the Christmas festivities came to a close and my sister returned to her coast, leaving #1GF! and I with nothing to do but slow down and unplug. The average day would start by waking up naturally at 8 AM without nightmarish earworms being jammed into my brain by the one FM station that actually comes in on our clock radio. On the off chance that I chose to shower, the natural mental quiet would make the shower feel like a real shower, rather than the damp, looping, musical Chinese water torture that I face on most normal work days.

In the interest of conserving nature’s resources, I would usually skip the shower and transfer myself directly to the big, purple couch to enjoy breakfast and an episode of Jerry Springer. Afterward, a portion of the day would be spent on emptying the DVR, watching shows from Peekvid, or chipping away at six seasons of Trailer Park Boys.

My sister gave me three of the six seasons of the Canadian comedy on DVD for Christmas, and once we chewed through that hysterical shit blizzard, we watched the remaining three seasons by searching for them on Daily Motion (Shows are marked with season and episode numbers such like S01E01 for “Season 1 Episode 1″ so that you can watch them all in order.)

To tell you the truth, I may have overdosed on the show, because at one point while playing a web-based game, I told #1GF! that I sucked at the game because I could figure it “oot”. She stared at me and cautiously asked “Did you just…”
“I did,” I said, ” but I didn’t mean it.”

Somewhere around 2 PM, I would eat lunch, start talking like Bubbles from the show, and maybe remember to brush my teeth. Then, I would return to the couch until I got back into bed at 11 PM.

I didn’t think about work.
I didn’t check e-mail.
I didn’t blog.
I didn’t even turn on my PC.

And, now I have returned to the connected world once again. Welcome me back, bitches.

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What do you get when you combine a wireless mouse, a PC that’s hooked up to the TV, and a bunch of flash based games? In my house, you end up with a stinky, bleary-eyed couple who skips showering and orders out for food because they are so focussed on beating each others scores. Good times. Gooooooood times.

Sunday

After washing off a days worth of gaming stink, we raided Michael’s and Home Depot, gathering ideas for all sorts of new and useless projects to eat spare brain cycles. Although we did not go so far as to buy a soap making kit, we bought plenty of stuff that will probably end up being pulled from the back of a closet in a couple of years with a quizzical, “Now, what the hell did we buy this for?”

Monday

We did a small amount of shopping at Ikea to find more junk for our projects, ate baked potato soup in a bread bowl, and watched a movie. I also think we drank tea. I spent the tail end of the day staring at the parts to my project as if my brain could force them to assemble themselves. Despite a lot of advanced raised eyebrow staring, this did not happen. In the meantime, #1GF! secretly continued gaming, to ensure victory lest she be challenged again.

Today

So, this wasn’t a part of the long weekend, because we went to work, but I had to include it for contrast, and to suggest that there is balance in the world.

My morning commute choices were limited to driving behind a school bus, a city bus, a dump truck, or cars filled with morons who couldn’t grasp the purpose of the strange white dashes on the road. Whenever a lane choice presented itself, I inevitably chose incorrectly, adding another 20 minutes to my commute.

After finally making it to work, the hallway containing mailbox that would take the 8 letters off my hands was suddenly under construction, leaving me to stare at the construction like an ant who suddenly has snot wiped across his trail.

I walked back to my desk, picked up my cup to get some water only to find out that not one, but both water machines were dead. I managed to get a trickle out of one, which I foolishly drank.

The water led to an upset stomach and eventual migraine, which I tried to ignore on my lunch hour while raiding Home Depot for more items to take apart and strew all over #1GF!’s clean counter and floor.

Upon arriving at Home Depot, I parked waaaaay in the back of the parking lot, in a spot that was far away from any carriages and only open to company on one side. I even parked far enough from the truck in the next spot that I would’ve had to have left my passenger door open in order for him to hit my car. Feeling satisfactorily safe, I went into the Depot in search of more project related stuff to disassemble.

When I returned, I found that despite my efforts, the driver of the truck next to me managed to use my generously donated extra space to put a dent in the side of my car with what looks like the corner of a piece of sheet rock. The white smear on the side of my black car wasn’t something you could miss, but the fucker tucked his tail between his legs and drove off before I could get back. I exclaimed, “Fuckin’ Douchebags” loud and to no one in particular before shaking my head and returning to work for the next 4 hours before getting in my car and heading home.

And just when I figured that I was in the clear, some jackhole in a barge who couldn’t get his stupid ass to the dock in one of the twenty other non-rush hour hours, forced the Fore River Bridge open, leaving me stranded in a parking lot of rush hour traffic.

Some days, it just doesn’t pay to shower up and shut off the games.

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Day 0: Notar Hero

After last week, all I wanted to do on Friday night was escape into a few hours of Guitar Hero II. I put on my free GHII winter hat, applied the free sunburst sticker to the guitar controller, and waited for the PS2 to warm up. Unfortunately for me, the awesomeness that is Guitar Hero proved to be too much for my crotchety old PS2, and it revolted with a series of growls and grinds that made game play impossible.

After a little investigation, I found that I had to do a more advanced version of my last PS2 dismemberment, this time not only removing the laser, the laser guides and the snake motor screw, but I actually had to melt and bend a plastic clip to give the laser a better ride up and down the screw (meow). Needless to say, now that the PS2 is at the tail end of its life cycle, I am finally well versed at repairing it and have ithumming along better than when it was new.

Note to self: In a pinch, a hair dryer will not miraculously act like a heat gun no matter how MacGuyver the idea seemed at the time.

Day 1: Raked/ran errands

I went raking at #1GF!’s family’s house. On the ride down, we listened to Howard Stern on her brother’s satellite radio, and I found that even though I throw around more f-bombs than an angry trucker with sore nuts, I got really tired of hearing swears on the radio. I guess there is just something about DJ’s having to dance around swears that seems more fun than the swears themselves.

Within a few hours of our arrival, the gutters were cleaned, the yard was raked, and we were on our way back home. On the way back, #1GF! was beyond delighted that her brother had a remote control to the truck radio, and sat in the back seat flicking through the channels in her own impromptu version of “Name that Tune“.

the day ended with us running some errands and picking up some delicious chicken cutlets, which I ate while jamming through the easy and medium levels of GH2.

Day 2: Attended a wake for a good friend’s grandmother

It’s a strange to admit, but when people in my family die, I sometimes dream about them the night they pass away. It has happened for a few of my family members, and although it doesn’t happen all the time, I get nervous when people that I know are the only other people in my dream.

On Thursday night, I had a dream that I heard a noise in my living room. When I went to investigate, I found a friend that I’ve known for 26 years standing there looking confused. When I asked him what he was doing in my living room, he just sort of stared at me and said he had no idea. When I woke up, I spent a few hours convincing myself that my dream had nothing to do with my superstitions, and it only happened for family.

Two days later, my friend called to let me know that he had been with his grandmother when she died on Thursday night. I didn’t mention this to him, and I’m not claiming anything other than it’s weird. If I was superstitious, I might say that “family” is not always about blood.

Day 3: Broke up with IPOWERWEB & found out my aunt died

I talked about the ipowerweb fiasco yesterday, but that was relatively minor compared to the news of my aunt passing away.

About a year ago, my aunt had been diagnosed with three to six months to live. She had beaten her diagnosis by a long shot, and was actually doing relatively well, when she took a sudden downturn and within 48 hours had passed away.

My aunt had a raspy laugh that came from her toes, which was hard to resist joining in with, and like all of my Mom’s siblings, she had been blessed with a quick wit and a great sense of humor.

For only the second time in my life, I will be a pall bearer. And even though I can’t do anything to repay her for all the laughs she gave me over the years, I have to say that I’m honored to have been asked to do this for her.

Day 4: Waited…

Wakes and funerals are difficult by nature, but waiting for them to arrive can be tough, too. I couldn’t really relax yesterday because my aunt’s wake and funeral are coming up. It’s not that I think that wakes and funerals are grueling affairs, but waiting for them brings out those feelings of being a little helpless, a little distracted, and a lot like you’ll never know the right thing to say to those people who feel worse than you do. I wasted time and ran errands until I went to dinner with my parents, yesterday, but if I were smart, I might’ve spent the day living.

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Months later, when the house hadn’t sold, the guy partnered with a broker to try for $700k, which was just about as ridiculous as asking a million. When I made an appointment to actually see the inside of the house during that period, I found the guy arguing with my broker in the street when I drove up. Because my broker is a sweetheart, it was at that point that I realized that the guy wasn’t crazy. This guy was of the classification “Assholis Majoris”.

As we went through, our suspicions of the asking price being overly inflated for a three bedroom, one bath bungalow were confirmed. We politely held back our chuckles and shared wide-eyed expressions as the seller walked us through pointing out the “features” of the house. When we saw that the seller had pretty much torn apart the kitchen in a failed renovation attempt, he actually told us, very matter-of-factly, “The price is $700 now. You want me to fix all this, the price is going up.”

We did all we could to be polite, but all three of us actually all burst out laughing.

Since then, the house has been sitting on the market and slowly dropping in price. We hadn’t seen it months, and because it was under a new broker, we figured we’d drop in and refresh our memory. When we pulled up, we saw the seller standing on the front porch. It was then that we realized that the guy had merely partnered with a broker and was still trying to sell the house himself. I can tell you that I had to actually spend time convincing #1GF! that going into the house would be worth dealing with its biggest flaw again. She agreed on the condition that we wait for another couple to walk in and distract the seller.

Shortly, another couple caught the seller’s attention, leaving us free to look at the house unmolested. We actually entered the house, looked at the whole thing, and left without the guy even knowing that we were there. Like suburban ninjas, we would just listen for his fat, blathering mouth and quietly move opposite it. And like every good ninja, #1GF! even left a mysterious calling card by taking the time to sign the guest book as “Debbie Doobey” before we made our exit.

While our tactics made what would’ve been a potentially bad experience a little more fun, I did find it a little amazing that a couple of non-criminal types could enter and exit a small house in the middle of the day unseen. When I consider that we weren’t trying all that hard to be stealthy, yet three other people roaming the house had no idea that we were there, I’m seriously considering giving up my technology lifestyle in favor of an investment in smoke bombs and black suits, because how hard could being a ninja be?

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“If a researcher puts out an article that claims that something (keyboard, cell phone, etc.) is dirtier than a toilet seat, they should be forced to lick either a toilet seat or the item they claim is dirtier. If they lick the toilet seat, the article gets published. If not, they are told to go back into the lab, suck down a tall beaker of shut the fuck up, and do some real research for a change.”

While doing the daily puzzle…

Co-worker 1: I need a Seven letter word for Satan.
Co-worker 2: J-o-n-D-y-e-r

While Walking down the beach…

Old man: [to woman] Alcohol is like an aphrodisiac to me. Oh, it makes me so Hoahny”

While talking to a 21 yr. old…

34 YO: Yea. All that emo stuff? I can’t get into it. I grew up on SSD, Minor Threat, The Misfits, and Slayer. The whining usually just ends up pissing me off.
21 YO: You know skaters don’t even wear big shorts anymore?
34 YO: What?
21 YO: Yea, they all wear tight pants and have bad haircuts like Emo kids.
34 YO: WHAT?
21 YO: Yup.
34 YO: How do they do tricks in tight pants?
21 YO: I don’t know.
34 YO: Oh, that’s just wrong.

While getting ready for work…

#1GF!: How do you like the new Slayer?
Me: Awesome.
#1GF!: That stuff seems like it’d be easy to play.
Me: (The comment caught me so off guard that all I could do was give a confused, “No,” pretend to play air guitar, and say “fast.”)

While trying to get some work done…

Person 1: Hey, what do those guys say before they die?
Person 2: What are you talking about?
Person 1: Akabaka?
Person 2: [Thinks for a minute] Oh my god. You need to retake diversity training.
Person 1: What?! Nobody knows it!
Person 2: It’s Allahu Akbar. And you need to get to diversity training now.
Person 1: What is it again? Abakaba?
Person 2: Oh man. Allahu Akbar.

While listening to music…

Co-worker 1: I was just listening to a nice death metal song, and the singer ruins it by screaming, “IIIII. IIIIII Flushhh my soooouuul down the draaaiiiin.”
Co-worker 2: Did you say “nice death metal?”
Co-worker 1: Yea. It was going good, too. When I listen to a song, I want enough screaming that I can’t possibly decipher how retarded the lyrics are.
Co-worker 2: I hear that.
Co-worker 1: That line just made me picture some guy in black clothes trying to clean his bathroom with Evil.
Co-worker 2: If he was really evil, he would’ve crapped his soul right on the floor for someone else to clean up.

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Confused, we both stood for a minute listening for any sign of life.

Hearing nothing louder than our own breaths, I gave the “raised eyebrow point at the men’s room” gesture, which is listed in most military manuals as “You want me to check the men’s room for some sort of creepy barefoot naked guy?”

Of course, I got the nod from the commander, and in I went.

There was no one in there.

After shrugging the “all clear” sign, I motioned for #1GF! to follow me into the workout room. Once the door was shut behind us, I actually said the following:

“I know you probably want to check the ladies room, but if there’s a big, bloody suicide in there, it’s going to ruin any chance of a workout. There’s obviously no noise coming from in there, so if there is a body in there, it’s not going anywhere in the next 30 minutes. So, do you mind if we check after we work out?”

Considering that the owner of the lonely shoes was never found, was my statement an indication of a deep character flaw or merely good time management?

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It’s not all the kids’ fault, though. Part of the tired is because you have been going to the gym every day for the past 40 days in a row. You have absolutely no reason for this behavior. You’re not training for anything, you’re not stressed about anything, and you really don’t give a flying fuck about six pack abs. I am betting you don’t make 10 more days because the fat kid in here really wants a cookie.

Even though you’re not really enjoying the gym, you did enjoy the second annual Hull outdoor car show this weekend. They picked the perfect weather to close off the main strip and line it with hot rods. Because the event was free, you were surprised by the number and variety of cars. You saw ZZ-Top style ‘33 Fords, Big Daddy Roth style T-buckets, a dragster with a parachute, and a ‘74 Dodge Swinger with a 6 barrel carb that nearly made your dinky move. You saw some Ferraris, a Lamborghini Murcielago, 2 Lotus Esprits, 2 Lotus Elises, some 50’s Chevys, and a tricked-out El Camino with an assload of hydraulics.

When #1GF! saw the El Camino, she looked at you and proclaimed very matter-of-factly that it was Krunkin’. You told her that she had no idea what she was talking about, to which she proclaimed that she did. She went further to tell you that it was still krunkin’, despite any protest you could make. You didn’t think that this was right, but you had no idea what the fuck krunkin’ even meant, so you were not on very good ground to debate. Plus, she had already walked away grinning to look at a chopped down Ford.

While standing there alone listening to all the gearhead chatter, you realized what it must be like for a person who knows a little about computers to listen to you talk. You figured you must make people pretty tired.

You saw a lot of really professional show cars, but you also saw a bunch of cars that looked like they could’ve been parked on the street from the night before and people just assumed that they were in the show. You noticed that one of them even had crumbled Cheezits in the door handle, which prompted you to consider paying the $12 to bring your EVO down without so much as washing it. You were also going to make claims that it had extensive “megatronics” and ran on a mixture of “rice and Jesus.” Any questions about the collection of swimming trophies in front of it were to be answered with a simple “Fuckin’ A.”

(Un)Fortunately, you did none of this because you were too damned tired from the gym.

(Remind yourself to read this next year to get the KrunkMobile ready for the 3rd annual car show.)

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“Repeat this to #1GF!”
“Ok”
“Why”
“Why…”
“Are you still with him.”
“…are you still… Hey.”

With Iron Maiden’s #1Fan…

“Man, do I have an ear worm.
“Uh oh.”
“No, don’t worry. I can’t really infect anyone else with this one.”
“Huh?”
“It’s by G. G. Allin.”
“Oh boy.”
“It’s called ‘I wanna fuck myself‘”
[LOL]
“Really. It’s unbelievably catchy.”

While Catching Up With an Old Friend…

“I love the whole #1GF! thing. It’s so Japanese Anime. #1GF! [chops the air].

With #1GF!…

“Hey did you see Darryl’s comment?”
“Yea, even on paper he does a better Popeye than you.”
“He was doing David Lee Roth!”
“Whatever. It was still better.”

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It ended up being the worst Popeye impression that I have ever heard, so I tried again and failed miserably a second time. And then a third. Not accepting that my attempts were becoming progressively and exponentially worse, I found myself sitting there making attempt after attempt while #1GF! stared at me.

“Are you ok?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I’m trying to do Popeye, and I can’t.”
“Popeye? Popeye? Oh my god. I thought something was wrong.”
“I know. It’s awful. I just can’t do it.”
“Do you even know what Popeye sounds like?”
“Sure I do.”
“I really don’t think you do.”
“I do.”
“I’m going to buy you some Popeye thingys there. Videos or something.”
“Skoodly diddly?”
“Just stop.”
“Skibbidy bibbidy?”
“Stop.”

Since then, my Popeye imitation has devolved into me just wandering around saying Skibbidy bibbidy bobbidy in my own voice and maybe following it up with gug gug gug. Not only does it lack any hint of effort, but Popeye never even said Skibbidy bibbidy bobbidy.

Don’t bother asking me to do it for you, because it just won’t happen. You’ll save time and get the same comedic value out of saying “Skoodly Doodly” in your own voice. The best you can hope for is that you’ll catch me unconsciously mumbling skibbidy bobbidy at my desk.

*His name is Dave Coulier.

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