An exerpt from the party conversation this Friday, which for some reason centered around illegal stimulants:

Will: “That’s a class two narcotic.”

Oscar: “Huh? How do you know? What do you do, man?”

Will: “I’m a meat inspector.”

Oscar whips down his pants to reveal the perfectly-positioned ass-tattoo that looks like a stamp and says “USDA Prime.” Classic.

For those of you who made it out to Summer Bash v. 1.0, thanks for coming and I hope you had an awesome time. For those of you who missed it, you not only missed out on seeing my roomie’s ass-tattoo, but you also missed out many other hilarious moments, some damn good sangria, and a bunch of cool people. Never fear, though. There will most definitely be a repeat performance – we have a ton of liquor left over. Next time I say we break out the kiddie pool in the driveway – either that or slip ‘n slide.

On a totally unrelated matter, I went to the dentist on Monday. That dentist is a pill-popping, crack-smoking Republican bastard. The majority of the time there was spent sitting in the chair while he’s digging into my gums with his little pokey-metal devilstick, making me wish I had dentures just so I wouldn’t ever have to go to the dentist again. But that’s not all. While my mouth is open wider than Miss Hilton’s as she makes a new porn entitled, “Paris: In the Hole,” I am forced to endure his political take on everything from the peak oil crisis to the upcoming presidential elections. Of course, I can’t say anything. Even if I could though, is it really a good idea to argue with someone who has a tool that I refer to as a “devilstick?” I think not.  

I’m a big fan of the demotivational posters; they’re a cynical spoof of the motivational posters which you’ll see around many offices in the DC area. My office has Demotivations. One of my favorites is a larger than life picture of french fries. The headliner reads, “Potential,” and the caption underneath says, “Not everyone gets to be an astronaut when they grow up.” After years of cyclic overachievement, subsequent burnout , and then re-focusing, many of the people I went to high school with have gone on to do impressive things and hold job titles that require a professional linguist to decipher. Some people are less impressive, yet know how to spin well enough to seem so. I’m one of those. I love my job and I’m passionate about what I do, but even though I own a t-shirt that proclaims, “I’m kind of a big deal,” in the grand scheme of things I’m really not. That said, I find it enlightening when I have the opportunity to speak with someone who is completely down-to-earth and honest about their lack of achievement. I had such an opportunity while I was back in the homeland last week thanks, in part, to the blog.

Allow me to set the scene… I’ve mentioned my blog to a few people, and I have links to it on a couple of other sites. I like the attention and I aim to entertain. A few months ago someone who I had a vague association with in high school contacted me to give me props for my writing. “I wanted you to know that I have gotten the occasional kick from reading your notes/blog entries, specifically the ones about dating. You’re very jaded. It’s quite amusing. Just thought I’d let you know.” Never one to pass up a compliment, I responded.  “I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m jaded, just realistic. I tell it like it is and make no apologies. Bet you’re glad that we never went out now, huh?” Well, now we have, and now I get to write the requisite blog. Oddly enough, I told him I wouldn’t, but he requested it. Finally, someone who’s more of an attention-whore than I am.

So… it’s difficult to blog about something when you care. One of the novelties about my blog, one of the reasons that I’m able to be so bluntly honest, is that I only write about things that don’t really matter to me. When it matters, when it’s personal, it’s off-limits. That being said, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Even as I chick, there’s only so much you can read into this particular situation – ie: not much. And, so, since I don’t want you to think I’m making it too personal, and since the circumstances and the resulting impression left deem it bloggable, I’ll honor the request. (I hope you have some money on whether I would do this or not).

I was stuck in Illinois for a little over a week, a chance to get away from the 24/7 rush of DC and to get some much-needed face time in with the fam. I was bored after the first day. While there, due to the wonders of Facebook and its amazing stalking capabilities (which, I will admit, I’ve taken advantage of over the years), I ended up meeting up with this guy from back in the day. The last time I saw him was at reunion last year. I didn’t recognize him then because he looked quite a bit different – ie: better – than he did in high school. (Amazing what puberty and a little weight-loss will do – I would know.) So, six years and several drinks later…

No. That’s not what went down.* We talked. We talked more during a lunch we had together one day than we talked during the three years we went to school together. He’s not an astronaut. After graduating from an impressive university with an impressive degree, he’s living back home with his folks. In other times, in other circumstances, there would be a lot of condescension to be read into that. None now – it happens to the best of us. All bets aside, there’s potential, and that’s what counts. That being said, though, sanding decks and playing online poker is not what you want to put on your resume to reflect the past year’s efforts. As attention-grabbing as a business card reading “Professional Player” would be, it doesn’t quite send the right message.

While hanging out with him, I had the opportunity to visit some of the fine drinking establishments in Springfield. You know you’re back in the Midwest when the beverage of choice can be sipped out of a bucket. Classy. Very rarely have I visited the area bars and I certainly haven’t missed much. That being said, it’s better than sitting at home and I’m glad I had the opportunity. I know that some people love the small town atmosphere. For them, there’s nothing better than drinking out of a bucket or being proud of the fact that they can name all of the past 4 seasons’ American Idol top ten contestants. One of my good friends who also happens to be living at home right now just emailed me and said how great it’s been. Yes, it can be good – don’t get me wrong – but my opinion is that it’s too easy to get sucked into staying within a zone of comfort. The Midwest is like a smelly wet dog. It’s friendly and fun sometimes, but if you get too close it’ll take you by surprise, jump on you and start humping your leg, and before you know it you’re left with a lingering scent and you need to put on new pants. Okay, maybe that analogy doesn’t quite work. My point is that people like the Midwest and the small-town feel, but as comfortable as it might be at times it’s difficult to leave and get rid of the permeating scent of monotony and apathy if you stay too long. That’s why I love DC. The only thing that you can count on here is that nothing stays the same. There’s always something different to do and something new to see. But this isn’t about me or my life in DC (for once).

Back to the point. I feel there’s an inverse correlation between the length of my posts and their entertainment value. I need to wrap this up in a thoughtful, yet hilarious, way… (Note: This is totally only going to make sense to people who went to IMSA)

So… I had a wonderful time back at home this past week, in part due to this particular person from back in the day. I’m sure you’re wondering if I’m going to name names. As tempting as I am to lie and make you piss your pants by telling you it was someone like Yogesh, I can’t bring myself to do it. Just the thought of anyone having anything happen with that guy is enough to make me cringe. Ew. As with most things, I like to tease. I’ll leave you to guess.

Happy birthday.

*There’s more that happened, but that my friends, is personal.

Picture this: It’s a beautiful spring night. Your psychobitch roomie has just moved out and your pals are over helping you switch rooms. You’re working hard, laughing hard, and enjoying some pizza and booze. All of a sudden, there’s a knock on the door. You open it and see a much older, more decrepid and evil looking version (if that’s possible) of ex-roomie. It’s her mother – with ex-roomie in tow. She accuses you of stealing her daughter’s lamp, the same one that’s been sitting in the corner for the past 3 days. This doesn’t surprise you because you’re used to ridiculous accusations and paranoid ramblings by now. As you gladly hand over the ugly lamp and shut the door you hear her call you an unpleasant name. What do you do?

a) Let it go. Be happy that it’s over with and you don’t have to worry about psychobitches anymore.

b) Wish that you actually had stolen the lamp so that you could pull an Office Space scene and destroy it to the tunes of gangsta rap in the background.

c) Run over to the open window and yell out, “Hey I think you forgot something else.” As they turn to look, whip out your middle finger and high five your friends as you all laugh. You are awesome.

I don’t know about you, but when this happened to me last night, I chose door number 3. It was classic. On second thought, maybe I should’ve just shoved the lamp up her ass to go with the many other things that I’m sure are firmly lodged. 

She’s finally gone. 

It’s finally May. It’s Thursday. It’s almost 6:00. You know what that means, folks? Kickball!

You only have to read a bit of the backlog to know that WAKA and I are good pals. I even friended them on Facebook. That’s dedication. WAKA taught me how to puke into a plastic read cup… silently. They proved to me that not all drinking games end in fights. They’ve given me an excuse to kick balls… without making anyone cry. You know how much I love listing things, so here’s why kickball this season is already off to a kick-ass start;

1. The Pre-Season party was packed.

I’m not a superstitious or religious person. Granted, I’ve had some very odd and coincidental things happen to me that some people might attribute to some kind of paranormal power. Who hasn’t?  Seriously though, just because my magic 8 ball told me that I could “without a doubt” expect to have a great day yesterday – and it happened  -doesn’t mean that it can predict the future.

Who comes up with the phrases that go into the magic 8 ball anyway? Instead of telling me to “ask again later” when I question whether or not my brother will grow up to be a train-hopping hobo, it should say something like, “I don’t have time for your questions – go away.” Alternately, instead of the generic, “Outlook good,” when I ask it whether or not I can expect to be honked at this week as I walk to the bus stop from my house, it should read, “Booyah!” or my new favorite, “Wawaweewa!” I’ll admit that, at times, the magic 8 ball has amazing predicitve powers (especially when it comes to helping me decide on what outfit to wear in the morning), but it’s not something that people can actually believe in.

That’s why I rely on Dionne Warwick and her psychic friends for personal advice on life’s most difficult matters. Who else but a washed-up diva could I turn to? Maybe a palm reader. I’m partial to the daily horoscopes you find in the paper, actually. They never say anything horrible and you can interpret them however you like. For example, today’s horoscope started out, “There are certain laws of the universe that must be obeyed, and one of them is that anything worth having is worth working for. ” Well, obviously since I have been craving a lovely bottle of my calorie-free strawberry water, it means that I should get my ass off the couch and go get one from the fridge. It could also mean that anything that’s free is not worth having. I don’t know if I would agree with this or not. That would mean that my free internet right now (not really free… just borrowed from the neighbors) isn’t worth having. It would also mean that the free drinks I get when I go out aren’t good and that the samples I’ve come to love so much from Panera’s and the Teeter are worthless as well. If you’ve ever had the Teeter’s gamut of samples in their produce/bakery section, I’m sure you would understand.

Something to think about. Maybe I should consult my magic 8 ball…

I sometimes have been heard to say that I was a genius child who turned into an average adult. I don’t know if that’s as true as I used to think it was. People nowadays constantly astound me with their stupidity. For lack of better writing material at the moment, and because I’m tired of writing sophomoric essays for my brother, I will regale you with some tales from the distant and not-so-distant past.

I was at a grocery store with a friend once and we overheard a lady make a remark to her son who had thrown some frozen french fries in the cart. The mother exclaimed, “Why you put those in there? We ain’t gettin’ no frozen food. You think I want radiation poisenin’ from all those micro-waves?” Clearly she lived in the amish ghetto.

I was watching a movie this weekend. In the movie a man had been shot and his psychiatrist, who he had kidnapped, was trying to stop for medical supplies. He didn’t want to let her out, for fear she would try to escape. She said, “You’ve been shot. I can help fix you. I’m a doctor.” Bravo to the screenwriter who came up with that line. Way to put that DeVry education to work.

Listening to a local radio show the other morning, there was talk about legal issues involving children. One listener called in a gave a lengthy speech about the subject. When asked by the radio personality whether he was a lawyer or not, the dude replied, “Nah, man. I saw that shit on Law & Order the other night.” I wonder if his name was Alberto Gonzales.

The President, until just recently, denied the human impact on climate change. ‘Nuf said.

This one time, at a Nature Day Camp I taught at, one of the little girls came up to me and asked if I knew her brother. I replied that I didn’t and then she said, “He got AIDS.” I was a little shocked and I told her that wasn’t something appropriate to talk about at camp. She went on to elaborate, “You don’t know. Just listen. My brother was outside playing in the driveway yesterday and he stepped on a nail and now he got AIDS.” No child may be getting left behind anymore, but that girl most definitely fell off the bus long ago. Sad, but true.  

Last one. Not really a story, but more of a saying to keep in mind. “Quitters never win, and winners never quit. But those who never win and never quit are idiots.”