so sad i forgot to cry

Here's the deal with music and dancing:

Rock is good. I like rock. Indie, classic, punk, maybe not so much new, but overall rock is good and it goes well with roll.

But, as far as I'm concerned, there's no dancing to it. Sometimes I see cute indie girls dancing to rock and I think they look hot and all, but I don't get how they're doing it. As far as I can tell, rock is for swaying, air guitaring, and singing alonging.

When it comes to dancing it has to be hip hop or dancehall reggae. You need big sloppy beats that make you want to fuck and make other people want to fuck you.

And now a story about rock, dancing and not fucking:

One time a friend and I went to Club 279 Q107 live to air dance night upstairs from the Hard Rock Cafe for a hardcore irony night. Just telling the cab driver "Yonge and Dundas" with a straight face was a challenge.

So we get to this shit bar and pay our shit cover, and the place is complete lamesville. Like, guys on the dance floor wearing tivas. But I'm all manic on irony and bust out the ridiculous moves to fucking Pearl Jam or whatever. Then this girl comes up and introduces herself and says "I like everything about you" and I, still manic/spastic, somehow come up with the idea that we should trade shoes. So we go off somewhere to trade our shoes, and I'm sitting next to her undoing my ratty fucking stan smiths, and I realize with complete certainty that these things are going to reek. But because I feel too embarrassed to say to her "I can't do this, my feet reek", instead I do that thing where you avoid the 6/10 embarrassing situation you're facing immediately, dooming yourself to a 27/10 embarrassing situation ten seconds in the future. So I take off this stinking stan smith and I hand it to her and the first thing she does is takes it and BRINGS IT UP TO HER FACE FOR A BIG WHIFF! She makes the type of face you'd imagine she'd make, and I say "sorry, I knew I was fucking that up but I panicked and didn't know to do" and she said "that's okay, I'm used to smelly things. I have two cats and two dogs and just yesterday one of my dogs did a big diarrhea on my bed" and I'm think "shit I really like this girl because a) she was really kind about that, b) she's totally hot, and c) that line about 'a big diarrhea' is genius" but then I also think "too bad that when I was in high school she was 3" (literally). Anyway, we dance some more, and then I ask her if she wants a toe ring and after she says sure I pick one up off the dance floor and hand it to her. I ask her if she's going to wear it and she said no but she would put it in her scrapbook, which I also thought was wicked because at the time I was all passionate about scrapbooking. Anyway eventually the night is winding down and this girl wants my number and can't give me hers because she lives at home but she has no paper so rips open a condom wrapper (subtle) and hands me that for me to write on (which only works because it is non-lubricated, which causes me to think "this chick must have a wet pussy!" (have I gone too far? maybe I've now gone too far. sorry. but it was what I thought)).

Anyway, she had to run off to meet someone after that (presumably the dude with his arm around her I saw her walking down the street with half an hour later), and she must have lost the wrapper after fucking him or whatever, because three days later she shows up AT MY WORK and is riding the elevators all morning and describing me to people and goes to all of the offices in the building looking for me (because she doesn't know my last name) and leaves a note at reception which eventually gets to me and kind of freaks me out. Then my boss comes in to talk to me about it and is like "M, you really should call this girl because she obviously really likes you and she's pretty too" and he, at least, doesn't seem weirded out by the fact she's psycho or the fact that she's twelve.

So, that night I call the number she left at reception and it rings four times and then the machine picks up and it's her mom on the message so I'm thinking about what I'm going to say on this message other than "Hi, I'm 31 and I'm calling to fuck your 20 daughter with a boyfriend" but just before the beep someone picks up and it's the brother and I'm "Is L there?" and he does a "hold on... [yelling: maaaaaa! is L home?] ... no I think she's at the Robert Plant show" (this chick wasn't at Q107 night for irony) and I ask if I can leave a message and the guy sounds really bothered by it but finally agrees and I say "Can you tell her that M called?" and he's "M from where?" all intrusively brotherly and I say "M from scrapbooking" except it's even lamer than that because what I actually say is "uhhh, uhhh, it's M from, uhh, uhhh, uhhh, sorry. It's M from, uhh, uhh, scrapbooking" and he says "uh huh?", and I say "yeah, can I leave a number" and the guy's like "I don't have a pen" and I know I've been defeated so I say "I'll call back later." and that's that.

Except a week later my boss tells me I have to call back, so this time I call back and I get the machine again, then the beep goes but then I hear all this clicking and I think someone has picked up the phone and I start saying "hello? hello? hello?" but then I realize that no one has picked up the phone and instead this is the message I'm leaving, and I realize there's no fucking way I'm going to leave my name and number and something about scrapbooking after opening the message with three confused sounding hellos and my boss can just fucking fire me or call her and fuck her himself because I'm never calling back again. So I hang up and that's the story about dancing to rock.

Sorry if these chick I met in a bar stories are kind of obnoxious. But really they're all I've got. Otherwise all I'd have for you are things like "last I night I dreamt I was vacuuming," or "fuck, I really need more coat hangers," or "fuck, I really need a new bookshelf," or "fuck, I'm really glad I got my car detailed," or more bullshit about my neck or whatever.

// posted by Flidge Penkings @ 12:05 PM

When's the last time you heard the word "raggamuffin"?

That is the most 1989 high school word I can think of, except for maybe "nasty".

ATTN WOMEN/GAY MEN:

You know when you're biting into a cherry tomato and you get kind of startled when its guts squirt out in some random direction? Is that kind of what an ejaculating penis feels like? Because when I'm up at night imagining a cock going off in my mouth, that's pretty much what I picture.

My chiropractic receptionist at some point got it in her head that my last name ends in an 's', which it doesn't. Sometimes people think my name ends in an 's' because the third last letter is an 's' and they just don't bother with the last two, which drives me bonkers. But in her case, she just thinks there's an extra 's' on the end of my name, which I think is so great and my fear is that she's going to find out what my real name is. I hope that never happens.

"The Plot Against America" by Philip Roth is a well-written, engaging novel. It presents an alternate history for America that is both terrifying and believable (this latter quality serving to reenforce the fofmer). Having read the first 72 pages, I can state with certainty that it is the greatest book written since Corelli's Mandolin. A good alternate title for this work would be "Jewin' A'int Easy".

8/10

I now have a chiropractor. I've sort of always wanted one. And so far it's great: I have this person who cares about how I am doing and wants to help me feel better. Regular doctors have never really given me that impression. They've also never hugged me until I popped.

Depending upon how you define celebacy, I have been celebate since one of:

- early April 2005
- early December 2005
- mid January 2006
- early May 2006
- late in the evening of June 18th, 2006

But I think by most people's definition, I've been celebate since early April 2005.

I have decided to self-medicate this fucked up back/neck fiasco with shitty stale weed and George Benson. A side-effect has been that it makes me feel a bit more fun and creative than I've been feeling lately. I had a really fun conversation with my dad that I suspect would have been drab and stilted otherwise.

While talking about work with him, my dad said, "You shouldn't get upset because now you have to do a report for Betty Jo." Earlier in a different context he said something like, "Just because Jenny Sue wants this or Billy John wants that..."

He also said that George Benson was remarkable because the guy was an amazing guitar player, an amazing singer, and really good looking. And he's right.

The garbage types finally came and picked up the television that had been sitting in my front yard for a week and a half.

I had that tv for five years. I've stood on that tv. Before that my grandmother had it for at least twenty. I can remember watching Dallas on it as a kid. Also some of Roots. And possibly the 1984 LA Olympics (Mitch Gaylord anyone?). For some reason my grandparents never had a tv stand, but watched while it was on the floor. In retrospect it seems kind of weird, but when you're ten and still doing most of your tv watching from the floor, it's probably pretty good for your neck.

My neck suffered a whiplash injury on Wednesday night and Thursday and Friday were pretty fucked. Yesterday I literally couldn't turn it.

It was a good tv.

do you ever miss yourself?














do i ever miss myself.

"Corelli's Mandolin" by Louis De Bernieres is, without a doubt, the greatest achievement of the English language. Anyone who doesn't agree is illiterate. Sadly, much like the English language, my reading of this novel has come to an end. nbhfbj tufjbgnm ghfjh ghundm iopeigjjd bsjwanshenf nfjhjd hdiffnmd bhdhjnd dhyudk dh djfhd bh vjmn uid sjdkdmnb dhfidm jddud c dhjsdhj fd fdhjfinm sj dufdhgvh hfuhfncmbhjbxj osjasoaujie fhe wsa fwriehaiknv vxbnahf abfnz iow a fz hi fzwh ofvzs i fzw lofhiwih fshb egsgs g edjzbnivzoa

7/10

I had a really vivid dream last night where I was in a bar with a friend and a song came on and my friend asked me, "Is this Heart?" I said I didn't know and then turned to a guy walking past and asked him if it was Heart and he looked at me in disbelief and said "yeah" all incredulously.

But looking back on my dream, I'm pretty sure what was playing in the bar wasn't Heart, and I bet that guy in my dream feels like an idiot now. What an asshole.

None.

I was planning to see what LIF was up to tonight so I decided to shave just in case, but it had been a while and so while I was hacking away with the beard trimmer its battery ran out and I was stuck attacking this pretty full beard directly with a razor that got duller and duller as the tedium progressed. I did the best I could, but my face feels pretty patchy and splotchy and I'm wondering if I should just hide from LIF or ask her out but make her promise not to look at me anywhere from the neck up.

Another thing about LIF: I think her computer thinks it's in eastern europe and whenever she sends me an email from home I have no idea when she sent it because I can't be bothered to subtract 7 hours from its timestamp.

I just went and did the subtraction from the last email she sent me, and it turns out it she wrote it at 7:46am, which only made my brain hurt more.

I was in court yesterday for a speeding ticket, and while the lady before me answered quetions from the judge such as "Do you understand that ..." and "Are you aware that..." with "yes" and "yes", I answered with "I do" and "I am" because I thought it would look better on the transcript.

I also helped some 18 year old kid out when he showed up late and didn't know what the fuck was going on by explaining it to him.

My apologies to any 18 year olds out there who might take offence to being considered kids. I certainly I would have at that age, but now that is just how I see you. Unless you're hot, in which case I consider you a blossoming young woman.

Four years ago or so I went out for dinner with my then eight year old cousin and her parents and she ordered chicken fingers and french fries and I thought that was the ultimate child's order and ever since then whenever I'm with someone and they order chicken fingers and fries I've secretly thought to myself "how childish". But all this secret judging makes one hungry after a while and for quite some time now I've been having a massive craving for chicken fingers. After work tonight a bunch of people from my work went to a pool hall/restaurant in lovely port credit and I fucking went for it and they were probably the best chicken fingers ever had by man.

Please don't judge me.

And about having dinner with my cousin and her parents: when the food comes, even in a restaurant, we all hold hands in a circle and pray. I'm not fucking shitting you. I sometimes wonder how much the hardcore evangelical christian portion of my background has contributed to fucking me up to the extent that I'm fucked up. Probably 4%. The fact that my parents were utterly unchristian but left me completely on my own to deal with the rest of my family trying to christianize me while they didn't even acknowledge it was happening, maybe 9%.

And now my dad goes to church. I have no idea what the fuck that is about. Religion baffles me. But I'm going to Hungary for three weeks in September with two of my uncles to help spread the good word!!! (again, no shitting)

The reason for that post below is that jamaica crush (not to be confused with lady I fancy) just sent me that picture and reminded me of the story. My apologies to those of you who have maybe already heard it once or twice or octice.

Besides that kid I kneed in the balls, I made some other friends in Jamaica. After a couple of days there without talking to hardly anyone, I met a couple from Oakville or Mississauga and went up to their room to smoke a joint. Their names were Mike and Lisa. Mike was in hazardous materials (hazmat), and Lisa in logistics (logistics). We got all high and then they kicked my ass in the ping pong. Later that evening I had a drink with them.

The next day they were off on some day trip, and I went back to my usual routine of playing beach volleyball, eating and reading by myself, and feeling awkward whenever the girl I had a crush on walked by. That night I saw them at one of the bars in the resort and sat with them. It was Mike's birthday, and in celebration he pulled out a big fatty which he shared with the three of us at our table and four forty-something french canadians at the next table. The third time it came to me I made the "I'm done" hand gesture, but Mike c'moned me into another pull. The fourth time I made the gesture again and resisted further c'moning.

So now I was high -- much higher than I wanted to be, and also dehydrated and somewhat sun-stricken. Whatever the conversation at the table had been was now carrying ON without me. We were sitting on barstools at one of those high tables, and I realized I had a pressing need to get lower. About ten feet away were some normal tables and chairs, and I knew with all my soul that that was where I wanted to be. I interupted the conversation, said, "sorry guys, but I think I need to sit somewhere lower," and got off my stool.

This is where the the story diverges depending on who's telling it. From my point of view, the next thing I remember is being on a bus in Toronto. I can't remember where the bus was going, but I do remember that I was quite confident that I was on the right bus. I was standing and holding on to a pole for support. Everything was fine, there was nothing to doubt. Then, quite unexpectedly, the curtains of the sky were pulled apart and behind them was god's face, which looked me in the eye and said, "buddy... you're going to be okay."

Okay is not how this made me feel. Okay was how I felt when I was riding the bus to wherever I was going and everything was fine. Having god rip the sky open and call me buddy seemed not only terrifying, but also somehow unlikely. I ignored him and strengthened my grip on the pole, thinking this cannot be happening.

"Buddy... you're going to be okay," god repeated.

I was scared shitless, and thought to myself this is the exact moment in time when I have become officially insane. My life as it used to be is now over, and all the people who used to know me will ask what the fuck happened to that guy and the answer will be this. This thing that can't possibly be happening but is quite undeniably happening. The thought then occured to me that maybe the buddy part was real, but it was the bus and the pole in my hand and the road and the sky and everything else that I was convinced was normal was what actually wasn't real. And as it all started to come raging back to me I thought "Where am I?" and turned my head and realized I was in Jamaica, face down under the table I'd been sitting at, I'd fainted, and now that guy that I barely knew was telling me everything was going to be okay. My next thought was "please don't let this be a big deal", and I looked behind me and saw a fifty year old dude in shorts and a fanny back looking all concerned and helpless, and behind him a bartender rushing over saying "is he okay, mon?" and realized that this was not going to be a low profile event.

So someone got me a lower chair and helped me sit in it, and one of the french canadian ladies went and got some ice and wrapped it in a towel and started rubbing my head, neck, back and chest. The hotel nurse came with a wheelchair(!), and started asking me a bunch of questions. Mike and Lisa were like "he's okay we'll take care of him" and the french-canadian lady was like "he's okay, I'm used to this", and Mike looked me and said "everything's fine buddy, stick with us", and the nurse asked me some more questions and then the french canadian lady started whispering in my ear "I really like you... you're a beautiful man and I can tell that you're kinky" and while this was going on I looked back Mike he gave me the thumbs up and said "dude, I kinda wish I was you right now" and I looked over at the nurse and she was saying something like "Have you had much to drink? Are you always this pale?" and then I said to the french canadian chick "Pardon?" not because I couldn't hear her, or even because I couldn't believe what I was hearing, more just because having her rub me and say that shit in my ear felt really good, especially when I was so fucking high.

Eventually the nurse left and the french lady left and Mike and Lisa insisted on wheeling me to my room which was just one last shame for me to endure which I eventually I couldn't and I got out and walked but they brought the wheelchair to my room just in case. The wheelchair remained in my room for the rest of the trip. And by the next day I had parlayed this whole event into a way to flirt with the girl I had a crush on and the next night slyly invited her to my room for a wheelchair ride and totally ditched Mike and Lisa for the rest of the trip and hung out with this girl and her friend instead.

So basically this experience which was sort of one of the worst things that has ever happened to me was pretty much the highlight and the turning point of my trip.

This is going to reveal too much about my personality, but fuck it, it's the truth.

I ordered a pizza tonight from a local pizzarhea and noticed that the menu they stapled to the box was new. So, me being me, I removed it from the box, went to my filing cabinet in the other room, pulled their old menu from my "menus" file, and then compared the two menus for changes before filing the new menu and putting the old one in the recycling bin.

If you care:

- price of toppings has increased $.10 each for small, $.15 for medium, and $.20 for large and x-large
- price of desserts up $.50
- chilli side order no longer available
- new menu items: chicken breast sandwich, meatball sandwich
- drawing of pizza being held up by chef in delivery area diagram no longer steaming

In an attempt to make my place more enjoyable for the summer, I've rearranged the furniture and then pulled every single box out from its hiding place so that they can be consolidated and put in even better hiding places. I also took the pile of CD's that were sitting on my kitchen table and put them in the living room where they can be just one more anonymous pile. So basically my new improved living space for the summer will involve me spending all my time in the kitchen because the living room is filled with boxes, and only listening to Fugazi 13 Songs because that is the only CD left in the kitchen.

In one of those boxes I just found a 5.25" diskette, with an immaturely hand-printed label that says "WRITING - MUST NOT BE LOST". I have no idea what's on it, but I bet it would make some people laugh or say "how sweet" but would make me totally cringe. Much to my relief, and to the dismay of my 15 year old self, who the fuck has a 5.25" disk drive any more?!

Another part of the home improvement project is to make my deck more comfortable. It's a fair sized second floor deck, but it's on the front of the house, and the railings are just those shitty metal one-straight/one-twisted things that are fine for certain families that want to interlock their front yard, but aren't really my style, nor do they offer any privacy whatsoever. So I went to ikea, which I hate for several reasons, and bought a curtain named Bojan, and tied it up with string to the railings with string as a proof of concept. It looks okay, and while somewhat sheer, will offer me some token privacy. My deck is so exposed that I felt acutely embarrassed while I was putting it up. Now that the concept has been proven, I will be buying three more Bojans, and some twine to tie that shit up right. Or maybe I should wait for some rain to make sure it doesn't distingrate. Yeah, I think I'll wait for it to rain. Actually, I should wait until the fall, and if it all goes okay I'll do it for real next year. Next summer is going to rule.

I just went and brought that old pile of CD's back into the kitchen, because they all remind me of my kitchen circa spring 2006 and I'm feeling nostalgic.

A joke. And this joke has been polished up. It's much funnier than it was 24 hours ago. Ready?!?!

Q: What did the snail say while he was riding the turtle's back?


Okay, that's the set-up. Don't read the next line until you're sure you're comfortable with the set-up. The next line is the punch line, and once you've read it, you won't be able to ever read it again the same way as you read it the first time. Jokes are all about timing.


A: Whee!


Do you get it? If not, maybe I can explain. The joke is that snails move so slowly that to them a turtle moves excitingly quickly. The humour lies in the difference in perspective between you (presumably a human) and a snail, causing a complete reversal in the perception of an event that beforehand you likely thought would be universally perceived as slow. If you're still not laughing, it may be because you are concerned that you don't know specifically which snail and turtle are being referenced. The use of the definite article 'the' in the set-up may cause one to think that one should already be familiar with these animals, but there is no such expectation with this joke. The definite article is used to avoid an all-encompassing generalization. To ask "What does a snail say when riding on the back of a turtle?" would be overreaching in its attempt to articulate a universal truth about snails. Such an attempt would be inaccurate, and would pull the joke out of the realm of the concrete, which would do it a disservice. Part of the joke's charm is its reference to an imagined but specific incident of a snail riding a turtle.

Good one, eh!??!?!

It's Sunday again but now I've had enough sleep that I know where and who I am and what I'm doing. It turns out I'm the same old guy I always am, and I'm at home but I'm about to head back into work, and will almost certainly have to miss my Sunday basketball game this afternoon, which any faithful reader of this blog will know is a HUGE DISAPPOINMENT. If there anything that makes up for it though, it could be that I just caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror, and I realized I'm wearing pretty much the exact outfit that young Tom Cruise wears while playing air guitar in Risky Business. I'm going to go listen to Bob Seger now. Oh no wait, sorry, I'm going to work now. I will put some pants on first. L8er 5ucker5!

I realize that publishing one's thoughts about work on the internet is so December 2000 - May 2005, but it's 1:30am, Sunday morning, and I've been here since 9:00am, Saturday morning. I am so tired that every thirty seconds or so I competly forget where I am because everything seems completely weird and foreign, and then I realize I'm in the exact spot that I spend more time at than any other spot in the world, and is in many sad ways the spot I am most familar with in the world. So basically fuck work.

I did catch about 2 minutes of sleep around 5pm, on my chair, after playing with the various levers underneath it to tilt it back a little bit. My nap was interupted shortly after it began when this horrible, loud, windy squealing noise started coming out of my face.

That whole desk nap incident reminds me of my flight to Jamaica this past April. I purchsed one of those inflatable neck pillows for the ride down, because I always want to sleep on airplanes but have a hard time because I either need some object to support my neck, which I never have, or I need someone awake enough that they can hold my head up the whole ride, which usually ends up being me. So this time I said fuck that and bought one of these inflatable neck pillows. About twenty minutes into the flight I whipped it out, felt really self-concious blowing it up, and then tossed it around my neck. It wasn't perfect, but it did work pretty well. I was able to sleep almost the entire flight. It was a light, broken sleep that at the time didn't feel like any sleep at all, but at the end of the flight I realized that five hours had gone by and I hadn't done anything, thought about anything, or talked to anyone, so I must have been sleeping. So anyway, this pillow was alright, except at one point while I was sleeping, the air valve, which is ends up being right next to your fucking ear, opened up and as the weight of my head started pushing the air out, it made this horrible windy screaming noise right in my ear. It scared the shit out of me. This is going to sound far-fetched, but when I woke up to this sound I actually thought I was going to open my eyes to witness terrified children being sent to the gas chamber. But Jamaica was nice. A few days later while playing beach volleyball I accidentally kneed this kid in the balls so hard that my KNEE hurt.

While not quite as good as sports, online poker has become an exciting part of my VERY EXCITING life. Since the beginning of December, I have accumulated just over 500 "Frequent Player Points" (FPPs) on the site I play on, which means I've wagered somewhere around $800 USD. These FPPs can be cashed in for merchandise with the site's logo on it. At 300 FPPs I could have cashed in for a stress ball or a stress star, but I wisely restrained myself and now have enough to get a knit beanie. Now a knit beanie with a poker website's logo on it would obviously be pretty fucking wicked, but do I go for it, or do I hold out for the duffle bag at 1000? Or maybe I should wait until 800 for a spaghetti strap tee -- maybe by that time there might be something more substantial going on with the lady I fancy and I could cement my feelings with a gift. It's all so overwhelming that it makes me wish that I'd gone for the stress ball. But of course, if I had, I wouldn't be stressing. Are you catching the 22ness of it all?

Speaking of Catch-22, if you ever decide to read that book, you might want to take a piece of paper and write an ordered list of all the military ranks and keep it in the book and constantly refer back to it a la the family tree in 100 Years of Solitude. If you're not a military nerd, Corporal, Captain, Colonel, Lieutenant and Lieutenant Colonel all kind of sound the same, but some of them are really different. I wasn't too up on that shit when I read that book, but now that I've seen the last half of Band of Brothers twice and have read of most of Corelli's Mandolin, I'm a modern day Sun Tzu. I could even tell you where a Major fits in.

One time I played Lazer Quest or whatever the fuck it's called for a girl's birthday party and at the end of the game some teenaged staff member calls out every player's self-selected nickname and that player had to come up and get his/her score card. My name was "MJR DORKUS" and she cracked up when she read it and I found that gratifying because as anyone who knows me well can tell you, I am constantly either going for laughs, or sulking. Those are my only two modes. As I recall, my score in that game of Laser Tag was pretty shitty because I had been betrayed by the lady in my life at the time. She had shot me in the back after assuring me that she had it (my back). Three months later that girl found herself dee-you-emm-pee-eee-dee'd. But it was over more serious shit than being shot in the back with a laser. And for the record, my score would have sucked anyway. I've never been good at that game.

While I'm waiting for interesting events or thoughts to write about, which hopefully will all be sports related, allow me to share a memory.

Just before Christmas 2005, I saw an old, presumably polish man in the Timothy's on Roncesvalles who had brought in his own food on a paper plate. On it was a hamsteak, a slab of butter, some white onion, and I think some mellon. Each was absolutely uniform in its colour, and all of them were cut to an identical thickness. Basically the guy was eating these perfect slabs of grey, yellow, white and orange. I felt lucky to witness it.

I am looking forward to being old and crazy and ethnic enough that I can get away with that kind of shit. At the moment I am still young(ish), sane(ish) and wasp(er than you can imagine) enough that I am expected to adhere to "no outside food or drink" rules.

Thank you for reading my blog. I hope you will be entertained as I share with you some of the more interesting events and thoughts taking place in my kick at the life can.

Last night I played softball. My team won a really tight game, 10-9. I went 4-4 at the plate, and made one catching error and no throwing errors in the field. I play shortstop, and have traditionally struggled with my throws to first, so overall I was very pleased with my performance last night. I was conciously trying to make calm, accurate throws all night. It seemed to work.

After softball I went to my friend's house. On the drive there I listened to the baseball game on the radio. The whole ride there the radio announcers had a guest in the booth who was raising money for prostate cancer research and awareness. It was really frustrating for me because I wanted to hear people talk about baseball, not prostate cancer. When I got to my friend's house I watched some televised basketball and ate take-out. I felt good about the tomatoes in my dinner because they are good for prostate cancer. Eventually a friend of my friend came over and told me I had bad hair and that sports are boring. But less than a week earlier a hot 18 year old told me she really liked my hair. This all has left me feeling a bit confused about my hair.

If nothing else, I hope this blog will prove that sports are less boring than one might expect.