Breaking up is hard to do. Especially when you’ve been together for over 17 years.

About a month ago, I said goodbye to my favorite band, They Might Be Giants. I can still remember being a freshman in college back in 1989 and someone down the hall played some cuts from the Lincoln album. It was love at first sound. I loved the irreverence. I loved the embracing of geekdom. I loved the lyrics that sounded good but really didn’t mean much at all. I loved the hooks in the chorus. But mostly, I loved the sense that these guys were having a blast every time they picked up a guitar and accordion. Yeah, that’s right, an accordion. I don’t care what you think, their shit was good.

And maybe it still is. I don’t know. All I know is that I haven’t really loved the last couple of albums that I bought and I haven’t bought their most recent albums either. It’s not that they’ve gotten too weird, or too alternative for me. I just kind of feel like they really haven’t gotten any more anything.

And that’s too bad.

They sound pretty much the same as they have since they started playing, and I guess I’m just a little sad that they haven’t grown up with me. Since I started listening to them, I’ve finished college, put myself through graduate school, held a couple jobs, got married, got a dog, got a mortgage, and had a kid. I’ve held my two-pound niece in the palm of my hand the day after she was born. I watched my brother go through a divorce I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I lost all three of my living grandparents. I’ve been given an all expenses paid trip to Hawaii for kicking ass at work. I’ve watched my beloved Red Sox win a World Series. That’s a lot of milestones.

But I never really felt that TMBG was there for any of them.

People would ask me who my favorite band was and without a beat I’d say “They Might Be Giants.” I liked saying that. It wasn’t that I liked liking a band most people hadn’t even heard of. I liked saying it because deep inside, I felt like I knew them. That they were my friends. But then, one day a couple of months ago, I paused before answering the question.

Sometimes, all it takes is one pause and it all comes crumbling apart.

I thought about them for a long time. When I hear most of their earlier work, I’m suddenly transported back to a time when I felt like I could do and be anything I wanted. I’ll always have a soft spot for those early songs. But I hear them now and I feel like I’m looking for answers I know I’ll never find in their disjointed lyrics. Heck, I can’t even tell you the last time I popped in one of their albums because I was just dying to listen to it. So, I took a good hard look at them and said, “I think it would be best if we spent some time apart.”

It still makes me kind of sad, really.

I’ll be driving to work and WXRT will suddenly play “Ana Ng” and I’ll say to myself, “We can still work this out.” But I know we can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So, I’m making it official. I’m breaking up with my favorite band of all time. I’m not throwing out the albums. I’m not deleting them from iTunes. I’m just not doing anything at all with them. Instead, I’m concentrating on some of the artists who have really resonated with me lately.

Colin Hay, for one. Former lead singer of Men at Work. I hear his songs and I feel like he’s been to most of the places I’m going right now. I want to know what he thinks about getting older. Changing perspectives. Finding joy in just standing on the water’s edge and trying not to get swept away. I hear his voice and I think, “This is a guy I can listen to for a while.”

Pete Yorn for another. He’s got a new album out that I’m itching to get. I want to hear his voice struggle to rise above the guitars and give new meaning to the collisions inside my head.

Bob Schneider. My buddy Terry turned me on to this guy and I’m just amazed by the variety of sounds he can produce. He does things with words that should be illegal, and I can straight-out dig that. One of these days, he’s going to put out another album I can buy and leave in my CD-changer for weeks without wanting to take it out.

In the meanwhile, I’ll take the TMBG CDs out of the holder in my car. I’ll file them away in a safe place, near the bottom of my musical rotation. And someday, when I’m feeling older than I really am, I’ll pop in Flood, and it will be 1990 again and I can do and be anything I want, at least for the next 43 minutes.

I’m not sure what it is.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been pretty warm lately. Or maybe it’s the residual moisture in the air from last Friday’s monsoon. In any case, I’ve had several awesome penis days in a row. Seriously, I don’t know what got into the guy. He’s looking better than he has in a long time.

All right, if I keep writing about this, someone’s going to get the wrong idea. So, I’ll stop. We now return to our sporadically scheduled blogging.

Do you pick your nose?

Liar!

Of course you do. Everyone does. Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you. I’m cool with the fact that you do a little digging from time to time. The only time it bothers me is when I have to look at the aftermath.

See, we’ve got this dude at work, Pickasso. For some reason, he seems to think his mucus is an art form that should be displayed on the walls. Ok, maybe not the walls, but he’s putting them on the door to the stalls in the men’s room and that’s just a little too visible for me. I don’t bring reading material into the stall. I like to sit down, get started, and get out as soon as I can. So, whenever I sit down, I’m looking at his green gobs trailing down the front door.

Nasty.

It’s not so much nasty as it is unnecessary. The boogers have to go somewhere, true. But why there? The other day I brought a ruler into the men’s room with me. Sure, I got some weird stares, but it was for science, I explained to everyone. According to my measurements, the front door to the stall is approximately 31” away from the front of the bowl. That means you have to lean forward to touch the door. By the same token, the roll of TP is approximately 18” from the side of the bowl. Heck, you almost bump up against it when you sit. Are your boogers really so worth seeing that you’re willing to reach another foot out in front of you to display them?

I think not.

I could understand the door being the display area if he were flicking them, but he isn’t. He’s definitely wiping them. If watching CSI has taught me anything (besides how to NOT get away with murdering crack whores), it’s taught me to observe splattering with semi-solid objects. A booger that was flicked would tend to be more solid at the top than at the bottom as the booger would most likely fly from low-to-high and continue climbing up the wall after impact and leaving a slug-trail in its wake. Why do I think that? Because boogers are sticky. In order to get one to release from your finger, you have to flick it pretty hard. You want to error on the side of caution and flick harder than necessary. 31” isn’t far enough that the booger will reach the apex of its parabola and begin its descent towards the floor. No, dear readers, these boogers are not being flicked. These boogers are definitely being wiped as Pickasso is making contact with the wall and dragging his finger down. That sneaky bastard!

I have made it my life’s work to track down Pickasso and beat him senseless and then flick my boogers at him. If you have any suggestions as to how I could finger him, I’m all ears.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, the Old Girl made an uber-strong brew of coffee this morning and the brown beast is beginning to stir. It’s time to go look at more of Pickasso’s handiwork.

Jumpin’ Around the Blogspot

Let me tell you, I love that whole “Next Blog” link on most of these sites. I’m always looking around for new and interesting stuff to read, so occasionally I’ll click that bad boy up to ten times until I come across something awesome to read. Sounds easy, right?

Wrong.

I’m not saying this blog is good. With a little bit of effort on my part, it could be. But, I can say that the VERY infrequent postings I put up are better than about 99% of the stuff that’s up there. As a matter of fact, from my own random surfings, I’ve determined that the Blogspot universe breaks down into the following percentages:

32% - High school students posting shitty poetry and bitching about how much the rest of the world doesn’t get them.
23% - Blogs in a foreign language. They may kick ass, I don’t know. All I do know is that I can’t read them.
18% - People blogging about the situation in the Middle East. All of them different. All of them unreadable.
11% - Political blogs. Whether you’re left-wing or right-wing, your blogs bore the living shit out of me.
9% - Suburban moms and/or dads posting baby pictures. Like I care what your ugly kid looks like.
6% - Nothing but Google ads. Yeah, that shit’s going to make you some serious cash.
1% - Mildly-amusing stuff.

There are some good blogs out there, most notably my buddy Terry’s All You Need to Know (and as soon as I figure out how to hyper link, I’ll do that – in the meanwhile there’s a link on the side of the page). But if you’re not convinced that my numbers are accurate, here’s the blogs that come up by clicking the “Next Blog” button. Would you go back to any of them? I think not.

1. Rice Grains (http://rice-grains.blogspot.com/) - Teaching physics? Lame-ass metaphors about life? Boy, I can’t wait to come back for second helpings.
2. Alphaville (http://capitaledeladouleur.blogspot.com/) - Hey, “Forever Young” was a kick ass song back in the day. This blog doesn’t mention it. Well, it might, but it’s in another language. So who knows?
3. /C.A.R.O.L (http://carol-complicated.blogspot.com/) – Uh oh, Carol’s complicated. Of course she is, otherwise she wouldn’t create such a shitty blog. Let me make things uncomplicated for you, Carol. Nobody understands you because you have nothing original to say.
4. Jing & Meow Food Cart (http://oink-meow.blogspot.com/) - I was just thinking to myself the other day, “Donkey, if you were in Singapore, where would you want to eat?” Why trust all the local food critics in all the Singaporean newspapers when you can trust a couple of chooches who put up a blog?
5. hi, welcome to migraine prevention medication’s blog (http://www.myblogreadyspace.info/blog/migrane-prevention-medication/) - Hey, doctors can’t agree on the best way to prevent migraines, so I’m thrilled that someone has the courage to create an anonymous blog with Google ads linked to migraine medicines. Finally, the world is safe from migraine pain!
6. the moon (http://findtopic.info/the-moon/) - Ah yes, Google links to moon and astronomy stuff. And people used to be afraid that geeks and nerds would try to take over the internet.
7. forever no more. (http://p-isforpoison.blogspot.com/) - Wow, that shit is deep. I mean, the irony of the title is just so, so, deep. But, I think the best part was that you put a period at the end. That was the icing on the fucking cupcake, wasn’t it? I was just wondering where I could go to find crappy poetry written by a girl who thinks the world doesn’t understand her. Who would have thought I could have found it on the internet? Thanks Rochelle!
8. Credit Card Instant Approval (http://www.dietpillsandweightloss.info/c1/four.html) - Sign me up for some of this shit. Credit card offers from an unregulated web site. I’d love to pay the 21.99% introductory rate. That’s sweet. This is too good to be true!
9. Pinklysilverapple (http://pinklysilverapple.blogspot.com/) - Well, apparently national day is over and tomorrow is going to be teachers day. Whatever that means. Thanks for sharing. My life is much fuller because of it.
10. 22bunnylane.com (http://purplethang.blogspot.com/) - Girlfriend, I just love your style. I mean the disjointed photos with no story to tell. Fascinating. Can you keep doing that every day, because I can’t get enough of it.
11. ;KissOfDeath. (http://kimi-ga-koishii.blogspot.com/) - Want to see 87 pictures of the same two Asian girls mugging for a camera? Wait, what if I told you there was a semi-literate diary to go along with them? Look no further!
12. ballet dance (http://www.learn-ballet.website-dot.info/ballet-dance37291/) - Damn, I’m not sure if it’s the complete lack of content, or if it’s all the Google ads, but I fucking want to take up ballet now.
13. Uh, some word I can’t spell because I can’t type in Chinese characters (http://beyondyoursteps.blogspot.com/) - A Chinese soccer fan. Or, so I’m assuming from the picture in his first post. Note to self: take up Chinese so you can see if some of these blogs kick ass.
14. COOKIE THIEF! (http://in-eternal-oblivion.blogspot.com/) - According to this blog, the author is trying to keep it a secret. Why hide your genius?
15. maricelas space (http://nelda858.blogspot.com/) - Man, maricela is a wealth of info. I can find a Ford dealer; understand, access, and use the internet; and hoist fitness equipment all with the help of her links. Thanks maricela!!!!
16. TERAPIA DA IMAGEM (http://terapiadaimagem.blogspot.com/) - I don’t know much about Terapia, but I do know that picture is reminiscent of a young Erik Estrada.
17. The Blue Chair (http://jimchadwick.blogspot.com/) - All right, if I were as into music as this guy is, then I’d probably come back to his site. Wait a minute! He’s got an IMDB site. Holy shit, I’ve actually seen this movie on late night cable. It was either HBO or Showtime. This movie sucked hard, but at least now I know who wrote it! Awesome.
18. renaissance hotel (http://findscoop.info/renaissance-hotel/) - You know, there just aren’t enough sites out there that give you information on hotels. Where can find out more? Right here!
19. oh salad days! __ __ __ ______ version 1.0 (http://drink-milk.blogspot.com/) - I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what the fuck this site is all about. It’s got some pictures of some zoo animals. That’s all I know. Seriously, that is all I know.
20. Donkey’s Word (http://donkeyhoatie.blogspot.com/) - Gee, some guy who thinks he’s funny. Just what the internet needs, another smarmy jag off. I would love to kick this dude square in the stones . . . oh wait. Never mind, this site kicks ass.

So, there you have it. 20 sites. None of them worth going back to. Shit, there wasn’t even any nudity to be seen on any of them. What the hell? Everyone told me there’s tons of porn on the internet. You figure one of these blogs would have had some. I feel like I’ve been ripped off. I’m paying Comcast like $50 a month for high speed internet, you figure they’d throw a little porn my way.

I give up. I’m never surfing blogspot again.

Who would you punch?

Seriously, which celebrity would just flat-out smack if given the opportunity? Remember that episode of Friends where they were putting together lists of five celebrities they could sleep with (In order of first to worst, mine are: Courteney Cox, Kirsten Dunst, Halle Berry, Diane Lane, and Naomi Watts)? This is sort of the inverse idea of that. Your chance to hit just once, or haul-off and utterly destroy five celebrities. This was a subject of debate I read about while perusing the Sports Guy’s mailbag over at ESPN.com. Good stuff there.

So, go ahead and pick five. You know you want to.

Now, I’m not saying you would get away scot-free with punching any of them. You have to accept the consequences. You’d have to be willing to risk jail time. I think it’s a little harder for guys to put together the list, unless you have no problem punching a lady (and you’ll see that there’s one that I have absolutely no problem with punching, my pure loathing offsets any fear of being labeled a woman-beater). There are some guys I left off the list because they could probably kick my ass (in my younger days, I might have been able to get the best of Terrell Owens, not so much now). So, without further adieu, I give you the final five:

5. Richard Dreyfuss. Yes, he’s old. I don’t care. It’s that voice. That smug, smarmy, nasal sound just infuriates me. However, I want to point out that if the movie “Jaws” had followed the plot of the book a little better, his character would have been killed. Seeing his death on screen might have allayed my desire to punch him. We’ll never know, will we? Curse you, Spielberg!

4. Kanye West. I admit it, I don’t like his style of music. But, mostly I don’t like him. Arrogance of unmitigated proportions just irks me. Nothing wrong with being confident. Nothing at all. However, this is more than confidence, this is a self-aggrandizing nature that needs to be taken down several pegs. You are not great. You are not the shit. You are a piece of shit. The only thing you've ever done that I've enjoyed was seeing the look on Mike Myers face when you espoused on how G-Dub doesn't care about black people. That was priceless. But not as priceless as a chance to shoot my fist into your solar plexus.

3. Billy Bush.I would love to go all Access Hollywood on your ass. I would punch that shit-eating grin right off your smug little face. I swear I would. First, I would have to remove your lips from any celebrity anus in a 30-mile radius and then I would punch them. Hard. You little twerp. What the hell is wrong with you? You're not a reporter, you're a fluff man for the entertainment industry. How do you sleep with yourself at night? My fingers are trying to contort themselves into fists right now as I write this.

2. Stephen A. Smith. Quite frankly, I almost put him number one on the list. If I was going with all dudes, he’d take the top slot hands down. Put us in a room together and I would kick the A. out of his name faster than he can purse his lips at the end of a diatribe. He’s everything I hate about sports journalism. More interested in himself than the story. Thinks that being loud is the same as being right. Was embarrassingly unprepared for the NBA draft coverage. Yes, I would punch this man. Repeatedly.

1. Barbara Streissand. I debated for a long time on whether or not to put her on the list. Do I include a woman in the list of people I would punch? Yes. Yes I do. That’s how much I hate this woman. Everything about her. My hatred was born about 15 years ago when I went to go see the movie “The Prince of Tides.” I loved the book. Loved it. Loved it despite it’s massive flaws. Loved it in spite of the extra 200 pages it carried. And I’ll admit I was excited to see the movie when it was released. What I watched was nothing like the book. And that’s fine. That happens. Movies and books are two completely different things. But the fact remains is that the story didn’t need changing. It needed to be pared down, and it could have been without losing its soul. Yes, protagonist Tom Wingo fell in love with his psychiatrist. But the crux of the book was that when his brother died trying to take back the family land, it left a rift so wide in the family that it disintegrated. Luke Wingo was the glue that held Tom and Savannah together. For Christ’s sake, he WAS the Prince of Tides. The fucking title character of the book. And Streissand chose to relegate the roughly 1/4 of the book that was dedicated to this crucial allegory of the fall of the south to one measly sentence in the movie and place the focus on her romantic subplot. Sort of “oh, my brother died and it kind of sucked. But now I love YOU.” I will never forgive her for this. Or forgive her bitching and moaning about the lack of respect she received at Oscar time that year. Twisting and manipulating an author’s plot to service your own narcissistic needs is cheap and debasing. And ever since I walked out of the theater I knew I had made an enemy for life. I make no qualms about it. I hate her. I loathe her with a white hot passion that scorches every fiber of my being. Even friends who don’t know that much about the disturbed machinations creaking in my cerebellum know that I hate her. At work one year, I walked down the hall to my office only to see them lined with photos of Streissand. Hundreds of them. I was presented with a cake with her picture on it and I took perverse pleasure in using the knife to first slit her throat. Then I ate her eyes. They gave me a photoshopped picture with my face done instead of James Brolin’s, resting on her shoulder. It looked so real I nearly threw up. I keep that photo on the bookcase in my office and look at it as a reminder. A reminder of how much I hate her. There was no way I could leave her off this list. None. I would punch you, Babs. I would punch you a thousand times over. I would punch you until my knuckles were splintering their own bone and cartilage into a crimson miasma on your skull. I would. I swear I would. I hate you so.

So, I ask you again, who would you punch?

Magnetic Poetry on My Door At Work

I love poetry. I know, that makes me sound about ¾ gay, but I can live with that. Something about making words flow with some sort of rhythm and resonance appeals to me. Plus, being able to use words to lure girls out of their panties is a great skill to have.

Years ago, I bought one of those Magnetic Poetry sets and kept it in my office in grad school. When I got an office at work, I put it back up. But it has sat mostly unused for years.

No more.

I threw some things together using the original Magnetic Poetry kit and another with 1950s references. Here’s what I came up with:

One Man’s Vision
Delirious with power, I moon Nixon
A black shadow is my gift to the drunk
Sleep light, bitter Dick
I show you the finger

Untitled
Picture it
An enormous Marlon Brando plays out
Like petals rusting beneath roses
Gorgeous in eternity

An Elaborate Show
I heave produce above the screams of my mother
A smear of juice and meat and skin falls from the apparatus
Lick the repulsive symphony of McCarthyism

Untitled
The world is like a summer crush
Ready to leave you behind
Without recall or a whisper of love

I’ll see what else I can come up with in the next couple of days.

Are you ready for the interruption?

Yup, our fearless leader, G-Unit, is going on television tonight to talk ‘bout some immigration stuff. Thank goodness he’s not preempting any good shows, or else I’d be pretty steamed.

When I first started thinking about doing a blog, I decided I would make a conscious effort not to drift into anything political. Why not? Well, you could throw a bag of turd out your window and hit someone with a political blog these days. Then, you’d be out a perfectly good bag of turd and you’d become the subject of their next posting. It’s a lose-lose situation. But mostly it’s because I can’t stand any of this left-wing, right-wing, buffalo wing crap. I can’t stand people who make every opinion out to be some political agenda. And, I mostly can’t stand people who anchor themselves to some side of a political spectrum and refuse to even admit the very real possibility that the two-party system sucks balls.

My balls, specifically.

However, since people at work think I’m pretty smart, they’ve been asking me what I think about immigration reform. I’ll be honest, I’m not versed enough in either side of the issue to even remotely debate one side or the other.

I think the retard hillbillies who claim immigrants are stealing their jobs and should be rounded up and deported are, well, retard hillbillies. That goes without saying. Their argument is so ludicrous, I won’t even begin to ridicule it. By the same token, I’m nowhere near ready to start granting mass amnesty either. This is a problem that requires a creative solution.

Enter the Donkey.

I propose a three-part plan to clean up the immigration mess.

Step 1: All hot chicks stay. I’m not sure there’s anyone who’s willing to argue this point. Have you ever been to a party and said, “Man, there are too many hot chicks here, I’m leaving.”? No way. It’s like a dude looking down his pants and saying “Too big.” It’s just not going to happen. Even the retard hillbillies are on board with this. It doesn’t matter whether you have a chance with these hot chicks or not. More hot chicks means more fun for everyone.

Except the ladies, they need some goods as well. That leads me to. . .

Step 2: Any dude that can kick my ass can stay. I’m putting a ginormous cage in my front yard and challenging all immigrant dudes to a no-holds barred, old-school cage match. I’m a big guy and I used to be stronger than about 99% of the U.S. population. Not so much anymore, which means they’ll have a chance. No weapons, no groin punching, and no eye-gouging. That’s it. You win, you get a green card. You lose, you get a green shirt that reads “I got my ass handed to me by the Donkey.” That way, everyone leaves with something. Plus, I’m not above whoopin’ some old dude’s ass or some handicapped dude’s ass. No exceptions to the cage match if you’re a dude.

But, there’s got to be some exemptions, right? Of course, that’s why my plan has three steps.

Step 3: If you’ve been deemed not hot enough or not badass enough, there’s still hope for you yet if you want to stay in the U. S. of A. Can you say, “Scavenger Hunt?” This won’t be some sissy-ass scavenger hunt either. You’ll need to find more than a button from an old jacket and the same old crap you used to find on these lists when you were a kid. Nope, it’s going to include stuff specifically that I want and currently can’t get. Things like Courteney Cox’s underpants. Or a good pepperoni cheese steak with mayo. Awesome stuff. Finish the list and you get to stay. That’s it.

So, why should people adhere to my three step plan? Simply put, it’s not just because I’m awesome. It’s because a couple of weeks ago, I was awesome enough to march in the immigration rally in Chicago. We all have our reasons for marching in these things. Fair wages. Health insurance. Retirement benefits. But, my purpose was much more noble. Did I want to feel like I was part of something historic? Absolutely. Truth be told, that wasn’t the main reason. When it comes down to it, I just wanted to cross the street.

See, I was down at McCormick Place for a tradeshow that morning and we had an event up on Monroe and Michigan Avenue that afternoon. I was with some ladies from work and we took a cab up north around noon so we could get there by 2:00. At 12:45, it showed no signs of letting up, so we grabbed some lunch and hoped it would clear up before we had to be there. At about 1:30 we went out and it was still curb-to-curb marchers for as far as the eye could see. We had to make a choice: move forward or give up. I wasn’t for giving up.

So, we moved down one block and walked right in. Slowly, over the course of the block, we made our way across. Along the way, one of the ladies got smacked in the face by a Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. I laughed because, well, co-workers getting hit in the face is funny. But then I asked myself, “Why are they carrying all these Mexican flags?” It seemed sort of counterproductive to me. You want the same rights as American citizens, but you’re not willing to let go of your native land. It’s called having your cake and eating it, too. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage. I’m cool with that. I’m just saying it’s probably not the best way to garner sympathy with the average American.

Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, you were once dating this average-looking girl, and things were fine, but there was one problem: she’d never give you a blowjob. Eventually, you decide that she either starts giving you blowjobs or you’re moving on. Your ultimatum passes and still, no blowjob. So you leave that girl and set out to find another. Now rumor has it that there’s a hot girl across the street who gives great head. If you spend some time with her and treat her right, provide her with things she can’t get from other guys, she’ll eventually start smoking pole. Now, she’s got some high standards, and you’re not always the first guy she’ll start sucking, but if she thinks you’re worth it, you’re golden. Why, with that kind of set up, would you then start marching around with pictures of your uglier, less fellatially inclined ex-girlfriend and demand that the hot chick move you up into her good graces. Yeah, that plan will work.

Yes, it’s a poor analogy and yes, it’s in poor taste. You know what? I don’t care. I just know that this nation was founded on hot chicks giving great head. That’s such a beautiful thing, I don’t want anyone to screw it up for the rest of us.

All right, I’m done talking about this. It’s time to get back to more important things, like taking wagers on how soon Aras from Survivor starts becoming a serial killer. There’s something not right in that dude’s head.

You know what pisses me off?

Cans of Diet Pepsi. Not Diet Coke. Not Diet Rite. Not Diet Whatever Generic Brand Your Store Carries. Just cans of Diet Pepsi.

As far as diet drinks go, Diet Pepsi tastes pretty good. The problem is that Pepsi puts their carbonation on steroids. That shit in the can goes flat in about 3.8 seconds. If you don’t shotgun it, you’re going to be drinking flat pop. Seriously, open up a can and before you can get to “Four Mississippi” it’s just murky brown water.

Jagoffs.

I'm not saying it needs to be carbonated for an hour, but it would be nice to enjoy a bubbly beverage for at least 10 minutes. Someone needs to do something about this. Soon. Otherwise, I'm going to be back on the overpass chucking cans at everyone I see. If I have to go back to prison again, so be it. Just don't say I didn't warn you all first.

Long Time, No Write

Well, I’m back after a long hiatus. I’d like to say I was off saving the world from the forces of evil. So I will. Truth, baby. I was fighting the evils the only way I knew how—by growing my hair. Seriously, my hair is awesome. It’s been a full-time job keeping this bad boy looking smooth.

I’ve never had long hair before. Even back in the 80s, when everyone and their cousin was mulletting up our nation, I bucked the trend and sheared mine off at the roots. Now, as I discover more and more strands working their way down the shower drain every morning, I want to give my hair the sendoff it deserves. So, I’m not stopping until I get rock star hair. I’ve trimmed it once since about November. For a while, it was looking as bad as Tom Hanks’s hair, but it has since reached the “awesome” phase. Seriously, look at how shitty his hair looks here. My hair kicks his hair's ass!

I rule. And now that I’ve cemented my rule, I’ll be back to posting about all the stupid stuff I’ve wanted to do in the past. My hair gain is now your blogging gain.