Fizzix

It's a good thing that cold water sinks, otherwise we'd have to redesign watercoolers.

Why I'm Glad I'm not a Woman, Reason #461:

Swimsuit shopping. For guys, this is easy. We go to the store, find some trunks in a color/price that agrees with us and we're on our way. With women, it's a completely different story. First of all, the shopping day has to be planned well in advance so that any necessary dieting can be completed beforehand. Next, the entire day must be set aside, because finding the perfect suit seems to be akin to finding the Holy Grail. And, 9 times out of ten, a woman will return from the store suitless, because none of the 85 suits that she tried on that day fit.

Speed Bump

I remember hanging out at Christopher's place one summer's eve. I think I'm the only one who calls him Christopher besides his mother, by the way. It was dusk and the two of us were riding our bikes around his driveway. We'd set up a little ramp, consisting of a board and a few bricks, and rode endlessly in circles taking jumps off the ramp. I'm not sure if either of us noticed when it happened, but at some point, an object appeared about two feet in front of the ramp and exactly centered. The lighting was too poor to really see what it was, but we used it to line up our bikes to hit the ramp and rode over this marker time and time again. Eventually, we tired of trying to beat gravity and decided to call it a night. It was while we were dismantling the ramp that we looked closely enough to see what we'd be running over all night. Now flatter than a pancake and completely disemboweled, lay the remains of a large toad.

Bad Carma

Last week was a tough week to be my car. Things first went sour on Wednesday, when Kevin and I went out for lobster tacos at World Famous. I drove the two of us down to Pacific Beach after a tiring day at work. We always park in a parking garage adjacent to the restaurant, but we usually get there late enough that the attendants are off duty, the gates are up and the parking is free (it would be free regardless, as the restaurant validates, but that's besides the point).

We decided to go out a little earlier than normal, so the garage was being staffed at the time. I pulled into the driveway, my mind on autopilot, rolled over the severe tire damage strip and stopped, right in front of the gate. My thoughts caught up with me and it suddenly occurred to me that I would actually have to get a ticket to get the gate to go up. No problem, I thought to myself, and proceeded to put the car in reverse and start backing up to the ticket machine. Kevin immediately clued in on what was about to happen and started to say something in an effort to stop me. However, the car was already in motion, and the front tires crept back towards the waiting spikes. By the time Kevin's wild-eyed look made their way into the forefront of my thoughts, it was too late. The car was all the way over the speed bump and spike strip. We witnessed a miracle that night, however, and somehow the spikes failed to puncture either tire.

****************

On Friday afternoon, I left work and walked out to my car. Imagine my horror when I saw a huge, one-foot dent in the roof of the car. It looked as though someone had dropped something quite large and heavy right on top of the car! Was there a note? Of course not.

When I got home, I also happened to notice that there was a nice 6-inch strip of white paint on the rear bumper, courtesy of someone else who decided to hit my car.

False Advertising

If Spike TV is really the first TV Network for Men, then why are there so many damn tampon ads on there?

Happy days are here again!

My neighbors are moving out and I couldn't be happier! There is a houseful of guys that live across the doorstep from me and they are some of the most rude, obnoxious, inconsiderate, loud, annoying people I've ever had the pleasure of not meeting. They're constantly yelling at each other, playing their music loud, people come over in the middle of the night and bang on the door, they leave trash sitting out in front of their door, etc., etc.. I've tried to say hi to them when I happen to see them around, but they just ignore me.

So, you can imagine how elated I was to be driving through the complex the other day and happen to notice a for rent sign in the vicinity of their condo. I didn't want to get too excited, though, because its placement was not such that I could rule out the possibility of one of the other nearby condos being for sale. I went out of my way to walk over and see if there was any way I could tell what unit it referenced. I was in luck, as the address was listed on the sign; 4337. I repeated the number over and over in my mind as I quickly walked back to my front door. I read the address number at Casa de Jackass like I was hearing the weekly lotto numbers 4…3…3…7. Sweet Jesus, we have a winner!

I always said that I was going to throw a party when those guys moved out. Guess I'd better start planning.

And yeah, I'm old. Suck it.

A taste of their own medicine

By now, anyone with a legitimate email address has had the pleasure of receiving multiple messages originating from Nigeria; messages promising huge sums of money if the fortune-bequeathed recipient is willing to do a bit of footwork. Beyond the issue of people actually being inane enough to fall for such a scam, these messages prove quite annoying. Well, this site has brought about a bit of redemption for all of us who have to delete these amazing offers on a daily basis. Definitely worth a read to see what they have been able to get the scammers to do (e.g. take pictures of themselves doing stupid things or sending money to the very people they are trying to scam).

Drinking my way to a new wardrobe or, how I got fleeced at Rock Bottom

In the past few weeks, I've made a very conscious effort to cut back on the amount of alcohol I'm drinking. It's pretty amazing what a difference it makes, especially when I'm playing hockey and around my waist. Additionally, I feel like my immune system is a lot stronger and I can get by on less sleep. With all that said, I will now tell the tale of the Rock Bottom Jean Jacket.

The Rock Bottom Jean Jacket story revolves around my membership in the Rock Bottom Mug Club and swiping my club card all the way to earning a jean jacket. Because of the unique nature of this accomplishment, I decided to turn it into a large scale, mock ceremony.

Here is a copy of the text from the invitation I sent out:

There are many moments significant in a person's life; graduations, marriage, children, and, of course, jacket acquisitions. Yes, my friends, much like fellow San Diegan, Phil Mickelson, I too will be earning a place in the closet of history when I receive my jacket next Wednesday. Granted, the clothing article bestowed upon my shoulders will not be the brilliant rye green blazer of Augusta; rather, my accomplishment will be of the more common denim variety.

For those of you who may not know, I have been a prominent member of Rock Bottom's Mug Club for a year now. I have earned Rock Bottom memorabilia, gift certificates, and even a plaque in the Barrel Club. But, all this pales in comparison to the ultimate prize: The Mug Club Jean Jacket.

As my Mug Club card makes its fiftieth venture through the magnetic strip reader, I will be rewarded with this prestigious garment. I would like to invite all of you to share in this momentous occasion; to raise a glass in this, most, happy hour.

The event took place at the beginning of May on a typical Wednesday evening, following a long day at work. I arrived at Rock Bottom around 5:00PM to find many of my co-workers already there, ready to revel in the upcoming festivities. I ordered a mug of Catcher in the Rye beer and informed the waitress about the momentous occasion that she was about to lay witness to. I proceeded to hand her my mug club card so she could verify the validity of my claims.

After running the card, she returned to the table with my claim form and asked for my jacket size. I requested a large, rubbed my hands together and eagerly waited to be ensconced in denim. She came back moments later, but the denim trophy was nowhere to be seen; rather, some sort of black cloth object adorned her arms. Surely there must have been some mistake. Before I could voice my concerns, the waitress dropped the black heap into my lap. Sensing my disappointment, she went on to explain that Rock Bottom no longer gave out the denim jackets, and instead gave out fleeces. Now, that would have almost been a good thing (after all, unlike the jean jacket, there was a slight possibility that I would wear the fleece after that night), but even that dream was crushed when I went to model my new apparel. Seems that not only did I get a fleece instead of the jean jacket, but it was a sleeveless fleece, at that. Oh well, perhaps it will be worn as much as the jean jacket would have.