I just heard a Christmas gift related commercial on the radio. Gene Juarez salons are inviting men everywhere to buy gift certificates for massages and the like. They ask men to give their significant other the “Gift of Calm.” Personally, I think the commercial would be much more effective if they had Samuel Jackson deliver the sales pitch instead of what sounds like a woman stoned out of her gourd. I think it would go something like this:

This is Samuel Jackson telling all guys out there to get their asses over to Gene Juarez to get your lady a gift certificate. Get her the gift that says, “Calm down Bitch! You tell that bitch BE COOL!” Just like Fonzie man, and what’s Fonzie like? That’s right, Fonzie’s cool. Worst case scenario you get her out of the house for a day so you and your friends can get down to the strip club and then out for some tasty burgers. I’d say it’s more of a present for you; it’s the gift that gets her away from you for a day, and calms her down at the same time. So go get that gift certificate and tell them that Uncle Sam sent you… Oh, and enjoy the strip clubs.

That commercial speaks to me a lot louder than the stoned chick. Hell, seems to me the salon is missing out on a bet by not partnering with a local bar for the guys. You could even toss in a free drink coupon for every $50 spent on the certificate. Take her to the salon, then get hammered… everybody wins. On a completely unrelated note… with ideas like this, how am I still single?

Dear World,

I can actually feel the civilized world as we know it crumbling down around me. When the simplest of social niceties can no longer be counted on by your fellow man, well, it's all over and we might as well head back to our caves. I entered the restroom at work today and found the stall was unflushed... no, worse than that... unflushed and full of shit. The floor that my lab occupies is filled only with adults, and this happened.

WHEN DID THIS KIND OF THING BECOME ACCEPTABLE ANYWHERE!!???? How is it possible that a grown man would simply walk away from that mess? I figure of all places you wouldn't pull that kind of bullshit, the office would be it! What happens if somebody walks in just as you leave? In the immortal words of Travolta, "It would have been worth him doing it if I had caught him." I would have spread the word so fucking fast he would never be able to show his face again.

Sadly this is simply an extension of the direction most public bathrooms have been heading for years. Why do people feel that they can simply destroy a public restroom? I'm not simply talking about not flushing... though that is an all-too-common occurence (mostly in the urinals). I'm talking about pissing all over the toilet seat, or all over the floor around the urinal so that others have to stand in your puddle as they relieve themselves. Has society really been degraded this much? I figured the last time I would see a destroyed toilet would be grade school, but sadly the situation has only become crappier... pun intended.

Forget why a person could do these things for a second... HOW could a person allow themselves to behave this way in public? It's not like you rented a fucking car with the insurance and want to drive it into the ground! You have to repeatedly return to the scene of the crime and look at the consequences of your behavior! Then some poor soul is eventually going to have to hose that shit down. HOW can a person allow this?

Even wild animals have an instinct to be clean. Even dogs and cats have the good sense not to shit where they have to remain! Some even bury their leftovers. Have we as a society become filthier than our pets? Before you answer "no," do you always flush? YOU may very well be the problem!

I shouldn't even have to ask this, but here it goes... "STOP ACTING LIKE SUCH FUCKING ASSHOLES AND FLUSH THE GODDAMN TOILET!!!!! FURTHERMORE, STOP PISSING ALL OVER THE FUCKING SEAT, AND STOP PISSING ALL OVER THE FUCKING FLOOR! I SINCERELY PRAY THAT WHOEVER DOES THIS GETS NUT CANCER AND DIES A SLOW, HORRIBLE DEATH!"

Love,
Bryan

OK, as I was out and about this weekend, the issue of flowers was brought up on more than one occasion. Specifically, it was the question of whether it is a good idea for guys to give their significant others a nice bouquet from time-to-time. Given past experience, I would like to say this to all men out there... "Don't do it! Don't fall into that trap!" I know this sounds cold and unromantic, but allow me a moment to explain.

Men are always taught from a young age that giving flowers to their girl is a nice thing to do, and doing nice things will make for a happier relationship. While this may be true in the short-term, it makes for a poor long-term strategy. Giving flowers is surely a nice thing to do, but it will start a vicious cycle. What cycle is this? I'll tell you... but I think most of you already know. It starts the "How come you never buy me flowers anymore?" cycle. Unless you are prepared to give flowers on a fairly regular time schedule, you should never buy flowers in the first place.

I know this sounds harsh and heartless, but let's look at it from a non-emotional perspective for a moment. You are basically paying good money for a dying plant that will smell good for a day or two. You will have a happy woman around you for a little longer... but as the saying goes, "No good deed ever goes unpunished." You are now on the hook to forever deliver flowers with reasonable frequency or else next time you get into an argument of any sort, she has ammunition. She has proof that you are neglectful and uncaring... after all, "You never buy her flowers anymore." It's much easier to answer the flower accusation if you never bought her flowers in the first place.

The worst part of performing this good deed is that eventually it becomes an expectation. Then even when you DO deliver the goods, it's more of a common thing than a good deed. The more you give, the less it means because you always do it... and that is the suck. So best not to start, then if ever the day comes that you fuck up really badly, you have that ace up your sleeve.

Bonus Rant: I was at the ATM this morning, and the first question asked was "What language do you want?" I hit English, but for some reason I got a Spanish subtitle to every question anyway. Is that really necessary? Why ask what language I want if I'm going to get both anyway? WTF? Are they trying to teach me Spanish for some reason? And why have they dumbed-down these machines? I'll give an example, instead of asking for my PIN number like in the old days, it now asks for my "Secret Code." Was PIN number really too confusing to some people? Did people have a tendency to freeze and not know that this is the point where they enter their four-digit code? WAS THIS REALLY A PROBLEM????? When they put these programs into service, do they really need to make sure that even the most dimwitted fool can use the machine!? I say it's time we stopped catering to the least intelligent among us and started demanding that they wise-up. I'm pretty sure that if we expect more from them, they will have no choice but to rise up to a functional level of competence or simply fade into the background as mainstream society becomes inaccessible to their level of stupidity

Lutefisk may just be the most repulsive food in the history of humanity. For those that don't live near a large Scandinavian population, lutefisk is fish... sort of. In order to make this affront to humanity, you start with whitefish (usually cod), then you act as if you have lost your senses completely. First, you must air dry the fish, and then soak it in water for several days until it takes on the consistency of jelly. As if this wasn't ridiculous enough, you must then soak it in lye. For those not in the know, lye is better used to clean bathroom floors than cook... it has a tendency to turn flesh into soap (literally). After this particular step, the fish is highly poisonous, and would be the equivalent of drinking Drano... so you soak it in water another five days or so to neutralize the hydroxide. Then, you take this nasty, disgusting, gelatinous fish... and steam it. Once it is steamed, it looks, smells, and tastes like rotten, soapy fish. Anybody hungry? Believe it or not, our friends from Sweden, Norway, and Finland eat this shit... and they don't even have to beat themselves over the head with a hammer before attempting to scarf it down.

Now I know what you are thinking... "Hey Captain Jackass, why are you giving me a lecture on this nauseating concoction?" Well, as those following this tale know so far, I had a cannon and some explosives.. but what on earth would I use for ammunition? That's right ladies and gentlemen; this gun was going to be firing a rather unique round. Now all I had to do was acquire enough lutefisk to fill the cannon, and I wasn't about to pay hard-earned money for this gelatinous goo that smells like it came out of Satan's asshole.

There is a city not-to-far from Issaquah called Ballard. Redhook beer made it the location of their first brewery because it is full of fishmongers. Statistically speaking, these fishermen drink more beer per capita than any other city in the Seattle area. While this is indeed a proud achievement, it also happens to be one of the largest concentrations of Scandinavians this side of Minnesota. I figure they drink so the lutefisk goes down a little easier, but on the other hand... it might just make a person want to pray to the porcelain god a lot more.

Whatever the reason for their strong drinking and strange eating, they had lutefisk... and lots of it. The only problem is that Scandinavian fishermen tend to be very large... which is to say they are mostly taller than six feet tall and absolutely ripped. Woe be to the poor soul on the receiving end of that particular beat-down. I was not deterred by this potential ass-kicking, so I plotted to pilfer the largest lutefisk factory in town... my target was called the "Lutefisk Lair." To put it into perspective, the largest lutefisk manufacturer in a town full of Swedes and Norwegians was still only a two-story building made of brick and taking up about half a block in each direction. Not exactly an impenetrable fortress... but (as usual) there was a problem.

The problem happened to be the night-shift guard. The guard was far more dangerous than Huey, Dewey, and Lewey... and far more beautiful. You see, the night-shift guard was a woman named Inga Sirenson... and Inga could have been a model for the Swedish Bikini Team if she so chose. She was about as close to the ideal in beauty that she really had no business keeping her looks behind the wall of a stank-ass lutefisk factor. The trouble was, for as nice as Inga looked, she was (in technical psychiatric terms) absolutely bat-shit crazy. Inga worked the night-shift because she was not mentally stable enough to be inflicted on society during the daylight hours.

I know many of you out there may be scoffing at my claim of a dangerously hot guard, so allow me to enlighten you. Believe it or not, but historically speaking I'm not the only person to have designs on robbing the "Lutefisk Lair." I may be the only one that simply wanted the stinky fish, but others tried to get their hands on loot... lutefisk loot that is. As disgusting as the whole fish-melting process sounds, it is also quite expensive since the EPA got involved with clean-up of all the caustic materials. If you pile on top of that the reality that every single person in Ballard buys some vomit-inducing fish at Christmas, you have quite the jackpot.. assuming of course Inga doesn't get her hands on you. Just last Christmas two would-be robbers entered the Lutefisk Lair. Accounts of what truly happened are a little sketchy because Inga isn't exactly much of a talker, but suffice it to say that both robbers were hauled off to the morgue with broken pelvises, severe internal bleeding, and huge grins... use your imagination.

Make no mistake, I totally intend to breathe my last while nailing a hot Swedish bikini model... but not until I'm a crusty old man. Needless to say, I was a little nervous going in to this particular phase of the prank... could I say no to a hot, horny supermodel? This would surely be my biggest test, and I knew I couldn't go it alone. Again I would need help, so I recruited yet another friend... let's call him... oh I don't know, how about Josh Weltman. Yeah, that works... but certainly not a real name. Stop looking at me like that.

Josh and I made our way out to Ballard on a dark and stormy night. Yes, I know that sound cliché, but in Seattle, pretty much every night is dark and stormy. The Lutefisk Lair stood in the middle of a somewhat industrial area of Ballard, so there was not much foot traffic passing by to see two high school guys dressed all in black and clearly up to no good. We moved as silently as we could in the shadows that reached from the Lutefisk Lair to the alley behind. The back door to the Lair was one of those "Emergency Only" doors that would sound an alarm if we tried to open it, so we had to make our way to the side entrance. The side entrance was not visible from the street, so we had time to pick the lock... but we had no idea how to pick a lock. It seems to me that in every part of this story, somebody at some point has to try to knock in a door... and here we go again... (Hey, it's my story).

Weltman and I lowered our shoulders and charged the door... and we both pulled up at the last moment. Neither of us actually hit the door, apparently we both knew that this was one of those anti-tank missile type doors. So we had to regroup and come up with a better plan. This particular plan involved getting on the roof and sneaking in through a door up there, or perhaps an air vent. Thankfully this was a rather old building and it had one of those emergency stairwells on the side like you see in New York all the time. We made our way up that rusted-ass piece of shit ladder to the second level. (I made Josh go first because I knew he would totally check out my ass if I had gone first.)

The roof of the Lutefisk Lair was dark... and it was still stormy out. We saw a shadow of a doorway in front of us, and we quietly made our way over. As luck would have it, the door was unlocked, and no alarms went off when we threw it open. The door slammed against the wall with an ear-shattering "BANG!" It probably would have been smarter for us to quietly open the door, but we wanted out of the storm. A dark metal staircase stood before us leading down into the bowels of the Lair. There was a faint light at the bottom of the stairs, not unlike a fire. The fire fit perfectly with the illusions of traveling into hell that I had running in my head... and the stench... holy shit dude. It stank of rancid fish wrapped in a mule's asshole and left out in the sun... somewhere a Swede is getting hungry.

We crept down the staircase like two teenagers trying to sneak out for a kegger... but sadly the door slam had already alerted Inga as to the presence of an intruder (stupid storm). We saw the shadow of a very shapely, very attractive woman thrown against the wall.. and we knew we were in serious trouble...

(Sorry folks, you'll just have to wait for the rest... though by my count there are now 6 episodes)

In this world it is a well known fact that high school guys love watching shit explode. It doesn't matter what explodes, just that it gets wasted. High school guys have been blowing shit up from the day the Black-Cat was invented. We laugh in dark rooms about strapping M-80 to frogs' backs… bottle rockets up a cat's ass… good times. As a result, responsible adults everywhere have gone out of their way to make sure that serious explosives don't end up in the hands of mischievous people who would put them to spectacular use… bastards. I only bring up this point because I had a cannon and a plan… but plans can't fire things out of cannons.

I needed something that would provide the necessary power to unleash the most unholy ammunition this side of hell. I knew what I had to do, but I had no idea how this part of the plan would unfold. We have a gravel mine here in Issaquah, and that is where I intended to find my explosives. I knew again that I would need assistance if I was going to successfully "borrow" what I needed for my plans to work. For this part of my plan I enlisted another friend that shall remain nameless… but for the sake of storytelling I'll call him Mark. Again… not a real name, just something I threw together at the last minute.

The mine was a formidable obstacle to my vision of pulling off the greatest prank of all time. The entire facility was fenced in with razor wire, and what I needed was surely down in the pits, and not up on the surface in any of the storage facilities. I figured that had to be true because this story would be very boring if I didn't actually have to go down into the mine. I mean seriously, why bother stealing from a mine if you don't get to go see what horrors lie inside? So Mark and I waited until nighttime when all the workers had gone home, and we made our way past the fence with a little help from my trusty bolt-cutters.

In the interest of fairness, it should be said that Mark announced before our travels into the dark depths that the building marked with the explosive warning on the door was probably a good place to start our search. I told him to stop ruining my story, and we made our way toward the entrance to the mine. It's amazing how mines in reality look nothing like the mines in the movies. I was assuming there would be little railcars, and tracks that we could use to quickly make our way down into the pit… you know, like in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Sadly we were not going to be getting into any railcar chases this particular night. I know, I was as disappointed as you are.

So unfortunately we had to hoof it down into the pits. Thankfully we had remembered to bring a couple of flashlights, and we brought extra batteries because everyone knows that flashlight batteries always die right before the really dangerous part. We were not going to fall victim to that particular cliché. So we proceeded into the tunnel system on our way toward the explosives we needed… and could only assume were waiting for us.

As we continued down into the mine, it occurred to me that mines are really boring places. It was nothing more than rock walls with wooden reinforcements and it went on forever. That's a pretty boring walk my friends, and it took about twenty minutes to get to our destination, so I'll do you a favor and skip to the good part.

There was a door marked "Danger! Do Not Open This Door!" We immediately knew we were in the right place. The door also had a skull and crossbones situation going on, which made us all the more curious about what the big deal was. I figured that if something really terrible was on the other side of the door, there would be a better description of why we shouldn't go charging through. So we did what anybody in our position would do… we lowered our shoulders and charged the door. Unlike Mike and Charlie, Mark and I totally owned that door. We hit that shit so hard we ripped it off the hinges as we charged into the darkness beyond.

The stench in the room hit us like a sledgehammer. I mean it was bad, it was like a rancid case of six month old sardines. The floor of the room looked as if it had been painted white by a psychotic monkey on speed. As we lit up spaces in the room with our flashlights, we saw moving shadows that immediately made us think we had stepped into a bat cave. The creatures flying around the room didn't quite look like bats though… they were far too colorful. They were also pretty small for bats, and that's when it hit us… literally hit us… bird shit. We were dealing with canaries, thousands of canaries.

These were not ordinary canaries either, these little bastards were aggressive and had eyes as red as demons. The well picked-over human bones on the ground also tipped me off that Mark and I might be in a little bit of trouble. Right about then I was wishing that we hadn't managed to knock the door of the hinges. The demon canaries started swarming us, tearing at us with their claws and beaks. It was pretty fucked up. While we had planned on our flashlights dying, we had not managed to foresee an angry swarm of tiny demon birds.

Looking back on it now, I have a theory about how the canaries ended up in the mines. Back in the day, miners used to take them down as an early warning about toxic fumes down in the pits… if the canary dies, everyone leaves the tunnel. I figure somebody just left a few of the birds down one tunnel and forgot about them. Over time, they evolved into ferocious hunters, and then they went after the miners. The miners managed to shut them off in one part of the tunnel system, and there they have remained for years… just becoming angrier. I suspect they wanted to keep the whole thing quite, so the miners that got eaten in the initial rampage were simply listed as casualties of a digging accident.

So anyway, Mark and I were up a certain creek without a certain paddling device. Our only defense was swinging for the benches with the pry bars we brought. Canaries were so thick in the air that we couldn't help but wipe out four or five birds with each swing. As many as we hit, we were losing the fight and we were starting to bleed pretty badly. That was when things went from bad to worse… somehow the stench in the room got worse. It was terrible, but an amazing thing happened… the canaries started dying. I looked over at Mark, who had a guilty look on his face, "Sorry, it's that Taco Bell we had for dinner," he said.

It seems that as vicious as the birds had become, toxic fumes still had a strong effect on them. We knew what we had to do… we had to unleash the Taco Bell beast within us. Suffice it to say, Mark and I had been training for this very moment our entire lives. We had the eye of the tiger, and the gas of the taco. Those poor canaries never stood a chance, we had created a fog of killer fumes in that room faster than they could fly for cover. Bodies were everywhere, legs twitching, wings shaking, they never knew what hit them. We left the birds to their fates, and placed the door back on its hinges. We had had enough adventure for one night.

We made our way back up to the surface and paid a visit to the building marked with explosive warnings… and Mark was right. We grabbed some dynamite and made our way out into the night.

I told you the story wouldn't be interesting if we didn't go down into the mine.

To Be Continued...

It seems the environmental engineers in Finland have suffered a huge case of thinking outside the box. You see, there is a pond in Finland located next to an old abandoned mine. The pond is contaminated with heavy metals like copper and zinc, there is also a large sulfur contamination. As water soluble heavy metals have a tendency to prevent life from flourishing, they have to get rid of them. Now most engineers would have come up with some sort of filtering system, or added specific salts which will remove the metals from the water and make them sink to the bottom. The Finns came up with a better idea... pig shit.

Yes, pig shit... and not just a little bit of pig shit, but quite literally a ton of pig shit. A shit-ton if you will, or yet more specifically they intend to pour 450 cubic meters of pig shit into the pond. While I'm quite confident that this is easily a lot more than a ton of shit, let me help you visualize 450 cubic meters. Imagine five football fields stretched end-to-end. Now extend that vision vertically and horizantally, and then fill that box with liquid pig shit.

You see, pig shit contains bacteria... and that bacteria can "feed" on the heavy metals and make them sink. As an added bonus, pig shit doesn't cost a lot of money... and is environmentally natural. On the other hand, it stinks like... well, shit. It also tends to get into ground water and cause contamination issues of a different sort.

You figure they could come up with a better source material for this bacteria. Hell, we grow bacteria of all sorts in our lab, and we don't have to put up with the un-Godly smell. So to the people of Finland, I must offer some advice... don't go swimming near any mines. That smell isn't a skunk, and please, please, please don't drink the water.

-Bryan

Stranger than fiction: http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060721/od_nm/finland_mine_dc;_ylt=AptfoHCd84h6YQzrUYHp5j_tiBIF;_ylu=X3oDMTA0cDJlYmhvBHNlYwM-

I have very fond memories of my childhood playground back in Texas. There was a large gravel area, enclosed by rotting lumber, and containing the greatest jungle gym of all time. There were monkey bars, and some sort of pipe dome type thing. The main stucture included ladders and swings and fireman poles, and of course a tire pit. As a child I looked at that park with joy and happiness, I would play on it until people watching got tired and had to drag me home. I must have burned myself on that slide a hundred times (hot metal slides on hot Texas days made for melted shoes and burned legs). I must have skinned my knees on the gravel as many times, and then there was that nasty splinter I got... but I digress. As much fun as I had at that playground, some overprotective parent (not mine I assure you) was having panic attacks that their kid might accidently get a little bit hurt. So they insisted that the playgrounds become more and more safe.

Fast forward 15 years, and suddenly you are hard-pressed to find any sort of playground that contains metal or gravel. Now they all have padded foam on the ground, and safe plastic structural pieces.

At what point in time did all the parents in America decide that they want their kids to be complete pussies? Are kids no longer allowed to hurt themselves, or knock out their teeth? Does somebody actually have to get sued every time a child cries. (Every time a child cries, a personal injury attorny get a hard-on.) What the fuck people? Are we no longer allowed to let kids experience the fun and pain that is gravel rash? I'm sure I cried more than once at that playground, hell, I nearly folded myself in half landing a jump off of the swing set. It sucked, but I'll be damned if I wasn't trying again moments later.

So here's my thing to all you parents out there... kids get hurt, it's what they do. It's supposed to happen, that's what life is all about... you fall down, you get back up. If you fall down on rubber chips, you don't learn to be more careful, and then the kid will actually be in danger. He won't learn to hold on tighter to the monkey bars, he will learn that stupidity has no consequences. This is a poor lesson to teach the kids, because they will never learn to fear and respect the more dangerous parts of life.

-Bryan

Last Monday, the USA National Soccer Team made a liar out of me. I swore they were an excellent squad that could take on all comers and give good account of themselves. They played like little bitches against the Czech Republic and got spanked to the tune of 3-0. It was a disaster that could have been avoided if they simply reached down, grabbed their nuts to make sure they were still there, and then took the fight to the enemy. As this did not happen, I was a little concerned going into the match against Italy. Would the USA pull their heads out of their asses and play attacking soccer like we did all through qualifying?

Yes, yes they did. At the end of the match, we were down to only nine men... some of them bleeding, one with stiches... but all putting their guts on display for the world to see. This was without a doubt the grittiest game of the cup so far. The USA tied the Italian squad that is one of the favorites to win the whole tournament. We did it with a one man disadvantage, as the referee saw fit to send off two of our players. Italy had a man sent-off for the bloody injury to Brian McBride that required three stiches... he returned to menace the Italian defense for the rest of the game... bloody eye and all.

When Italy scored the first goal of the match, the USA did not quit. They instead pressed the attack like they have done so well in the past, and they leveled the game. When the USA were forced to play 40 minutes of 10-9 man soccer, they did not quit. They again pressed the attack like crazed animals, and scored a goal... only to have the ref disallow it based on off-sides. The USA outplayed, outran, and showed more guts than the Italians throughout the game... and earned a point that would inspire songs in other countries. If this was the English squad, they would be national heroes... but alas, the United States is only beginning to understand the true nature of the brutal, beautiful game.

Way to go boys... now take the fight to Ghana and show them the same blood, guts, and heart that stunned the Azzurri.

-Bryan

I was on the Ave the other day, and as usual it was filled with freaks and hobos. As I passed this one guy, who was arguing quite loudly with a lamp-post, I thought to myself, "I wonder what I would do if I was as hopped up on drugs as that guy?" I mean, I'm 26, maybe I should start doing drugs... you know, to shake things up a bit. I've tried getting high on life, but I can't figure out how I'm supposed to smoke it. So I guess that only leaves real drugs on which to get high. But which drug should I choose? I want to pick one that really fits my personality and lifestyle. I immediately disqualified alcohol, smokes, and weed... because let's face it, those aren't really drugs. That left a list of the really messy shit.

I had to rule out cocaine because I have no intention of snorting a drug and dissolving my nasal cavity. Also, I can't help remembering the line made famous by Bob Saget in Half Baked... I don't want a drug that results in pole smoking. I'm also not really the excitable type, so a drug that would make me want to run around and party for a week straight really isn't for me. For this same reason, I had to rule out crack, because while I like the smoking part of it, I have seen people on crack, all twitchy and shit... I don't need that.

I then considered the heavy narcotics, like heroin and the like. I'm not enthusiastic about the IV needle delivery system, but I DO like the fact that I could drop 40 pounds in a few weeks. Also, sitting around totally relaxed is more my style for when I'm messed up, and these drugs seem to be compatible with that. But then again, I have seen Requiem for a Dream... and that is some seriously fucked up shit that happens to heroin heads... Trainspotting demonstrated this same idea... I have no intention of going swimming in a toilet chasing after a suppository that is supposed to relieve my withdrawal pains. These drugs are simply too addictive to use recreationally... so moving on...

How about a hallucinogen? I already have an overactive imagination, and I just know that a drug that plays on that part of my brain can only end in me waking up naked in a field. Either that, or I will wake up as the supreme ruler of the earth, and that's not good for anyone, so hallucinogens are out.

I guess when it all comes down to it, there is only one thing on this planet guaranteed to make me happy and not crazy. A thing that won't result in permanent brain damage, or rotten teeth. Something that won't make me fat, or make me a skeleton. Something that really hits the spot, tastes great, and leaves one with a sense of total euphoria. I'm speaking, of course, about the blood of the innocent. Now if only I can find a dealer.

-Bryan

I work on the tenth floor of the med center here at the U, and the elevators are the most inefficient pieces of shit ever assembled. They seem to run in synchronized fashion at all times. This means that once I've waited 20 minutes for the damn thing, all four of them arrive at once, generally two of them are full at this point. Given this reality, I always take the stairs down to street level when it is time to leave. This way I can reach ground level in a minute or so rather than being pissed off and 20 minutes late for the bus. Occasionally I am not the only one taking the stairs...

Now as I have a bus to catch, I generally take the stairs rather quickly. To be more specific, I haul ass down the stairs and out into the sunny day. As I am often charging down the stairs with a sense of urgency, I figure that gives me a sort of "right-of-way" if you will. I know that if I was taking the stairs and a person was charging down behind me at a faster pace, I would move to allow them to pass. This seems like common courtesy to me, you make way when you can to allow those moving faster to pass. You do it on the freeway, you do it on the golf course, you do it on the fucking staircase, OK?

So to those that seem unaware of people around them trying to move quickly... "MOVE BITCH! Get out the way!" Why do these jackasses on the stairs insist on walking slowly, and in the middle of the stairs so that there is no way for anyone to pass short of yelling at them or pushing them? Can't they pull their heads out of their asses for 2 seconds and let a person pass? What if I was a doctor on the way to the emergency room? This IS the med center after-all... When did common courtesy become such a rare thing? I propose these people should be rounded up and sent to North Dakota, there they will be able to move as slow as they want, and take up as much space as they want. Nothing is in North Dakota anyway, we should just turn it into a holding tank for people who do not benefit society in any way. We can ship off Eli's rude homeless friend too:)

-Bryan

So it seems that a disturbing percentage of Americans between 18-24 can't find Louisiana, Iraq, or India on a map. While I know that it is a very rare day indeed when your life could hang in the balance based on your knowledge of geography... "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" What the hell is wrong with these people? Did you not know we are at WAR with one of those countries, and Louisiana just had an 'Act of God' disaster flatten its only fun city? The president's approval rating is low based on these two facts, and most people don't even know where these things happened. I think we should now require people to actually know where shit is going down before we allow them to have an opinion based on said events. I don't want to listen to some asshole go on about how awful the situation in Iraq is when they don't even know WHERE Iraq is located. As a matter of fact, I think there should be a little pre-vote exam in this country from now on.

No longer will complete morons be allowed to hit the polls. They must first be able to prove they know where they live in this country. As a matter of fact, I have the test already written out.

1) Locate on this map the state in which you are currently standing.
2) Identify your candidate by looking at this series of photos (Presidential race only).
3) How many states are there in the United States of America?

If a person can't answer all three of these questions, they will not be allowed to vote, and I don't care if that's Constitutional or not. Although I do wonder if the diminished number of voters will push the balance of power to any one particular party... Lord knows there are some real dumbshits on each side of the spectrum, but how many exactly? Well, we could find out with this test. In the meantime, vote for the OMFG STFU party.

-Bryan

Well Cinco de Mayo is nearly upon us... a day when Mexico celebrates its victory at the battle of Puebla (1862). It was a day when an outnumbered Mexican Army beat the shit out of some French soldiers. A glorious day indeed, but really, is it worth celebrating? Given the perspective of history, is the defeat of a French Army really all that big of a deal? I have a feeling that we would be in a constant state of partying if we were to commemorate every single French failure on the battlefield. Seriously, at this point, beating the French in battle is like beating up a retarded fourth grader... that only has one leg... and no arms... Which is to say, sure it's fun, but at the end of the day you haven't really done anything of which you should be proud. While I am aware that the Mexican victory had implications for the US (it may have kept the French from helping the Confederates), come on... you beat the FRENCH! Google French Military Victories (with the I feel lucky button) and see what happens. Mexico, I'm happy for you, but you were not the first, and certainly won't be the last to fuck up France.

I do however love a great party, and Mexicans have a gift for doing it right. I say bring on the pinatas and Corona, bring on the Mariachi bands and the luminarios! Viva Mexico and keep the excellent food flowing! I fully intend to celebrate by visiting Taco Bell tomorrow for some authentic Mexican dining. I can't wait to try the encherito, or the Mexican pizza... As everybody knows, there is nothing more authentically Mexican than a Taco Bell. I can almost taste it, but in the meantime, with everything that's been going on... let's not hate on our immigrant friends... loving this country and wanting to live here isn't a crime, or I would be the first to be locked up. So let's party together and celebrate yet another in a long line of French ass-beatings! Hooray!

-Bryan

Barry Bonds is very near to passing Babe Ruth on the all-time home run list. This accomplishment will surely happen in the next few months, but the commissioner of baseball has proclaimed there will be no fanfare when this feat is done. I for one say, "Damn straight!" Barry Bonds should not be applauded for what he has done, he used steroids to set this record, and that is more deserving of our collective scorn than adulation. I know there are some folks out there that have no problem with his artificial advantage on he field, but I say he is a total cheater.

Many in the media like to play Devil's Advocate on behalf of Bonds, and say that he didn't break any rules when he was shrinking his testicles. To this I must call bullshit. I understand that the MLB had no specific rule saying "do steroids and you will be busted," but they should not have had to. Anybody that appreciates good sportsmanship can tell you that giving yourself any sort of artificial physiological advantage is cheating, whether it is explicitly against the rules or not. This is not like having a better pair of shoes than your opponent, and thus having an edge, this is making your arms more muscular so they can swing the bat faster and hit the ball further. Taking steroids comes with many health risks (unlike a better pair of shoes) and fans should not expect athletes to endanger their health off the field for the sake of a game.

Others will say that Babe Ruth's homerun mark should have an asterisk next to it because he never batted against an African American pitcher. While I agree that playing in an all-white league inflated his numbers, do you really believe that he couldn't have taken an African American pitcher out of the park? How many of his homeruns should be taken away? 40? 50? OK fine, how many did Barry hit while on the juice? Well over 40 or 50, I guarantee you.

It is not a race issue either, that was a moot point back when Hank Aaron legitimately became the homerun king. I know that Mark McGuire was a hero back when he broke the single season homerun record with Sammy Sosa, and he was definitely on steroids. I know it looks like a white player can be a hero while on the juice while Bonds can't. I can honestly say that at the time I was naive about the issue, I figured he was just taking that Andro supplement that he was always talking about. Anybody could go to the store and get that, it was just some sort of health supplement. Turns out that was not the truth, and I have no problem saying we should stick an asterisk by McGuire's numbers as well... maybe even Sosa's if he was also guilty. Sosa still doesn't strike me as a 'roidhead, but I could be wrong.

The bottom line is that while many in MLB use steroids (and all should be punished severely), only one cheater is in a position to write his name in a major statistical category. Bonds can deny all he wants that he ever used steroids, but that is simply not the truth and we all know it. His 715th homerun should ring hollow as a career milestone, and his name should forever be linked to the drugs he abused. I hope Willie Mays is ashamed of his Godson, he should be.

-Bryan

I went and saw an excellent concert last night, the band was the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs. Let me just say this... that band kicks serious ass! They rocked like there was no tomorrow, and that lead singer had some serious pipes on her. She was screaming into the microphone like she was Chester from Linkin Park. It was great, I highly recommend that you all go grab a CD, or steal one off of whatever file sharing network you like best. You won't regret it (unless the RIAA catches you).

But the concert was not a total kick-ass, scream-fest... the opening band left much to be desired, and left no choice for the over 21's but to head for the bar. This is where the real drag began... the bouncer at The Paramount is a total tool. I don't know what his deal is, but every time anyone hands him an ID, he takes it and acts as if he has never seen one before. He looks at it, then the person, then back at the ID, then quizzes them on their birthday. Then he acts as if he is doing the person a favor as he lets them pass. Absolutely bush-league. I hope the bar does something about that guy because honestly, when it is your return trip to the bar and he again acts as if he has never seen you or your ID before... it is aggrevating.

What could posses a guy whose only job requirement is "be fat and tall" to go on such a power trip? Does he really feel so superior to the rest of us? On our second encounter with the guy, did he really not remember that he just let us in? WTF? Anyway, many beers and an excellent set by a great band made the night a happy one, and a big shout out to the person that sold me her tickets so she could go to Hawaii instead of the show.

-Bryan

I just read a report on MSN that says sleepy drivers are more likely to cause accidents than rested drivers. Now after I picked my jaw up from off the floor at this little tidbit, I read an article that claimed Barry Bonds was on steroids. Well I may be a little cynical here, but... "NO FUCKING SHIT, SHERLOCK!" This is news? Sleepy drivers are dangerous? Barry Bonds' head isn't supposed to be that freaking huge? Which reporters got the tough task of doing the fact checking on these stories? I'm anxiously awaiting the article that proclaims rain to be made of water.

If those kinds of things pass as news in this country, I could totally be a reporter. I just need to hit myself in the head with a hammer a few times to diminish my apparently sizable intelligence advantage. I could use the raise in pay, and I obviously like seeing what I have written in print (hence, this site is full of useless ramblings). So I shall now use this forum to give some headlines that should be newsworthy, and hopefully a local newspaper will hire me to write the stories...

-Politicians not as trustworthy as they seem!
-Obese population in America doesn't get as much exercise as doctors recommend, also eat way too much.
-Cigarettes not as healthy as they seem.
-Drunk driving not the best way to get home.
-Mexican food provokes intestinal gas.

Now all I need to do is quit my job and wait for the phone to start ringing. Look for me on the front page of the New York Times.

-Bryan

So Tom and Katie have brought their in vitro baby into the world... and named her Suri. Brooke Shields has had her second daughter, and named her Grier (who's older sister Rowan is also sporting a boy's name). Gwyneth has Moses and Apple, and Julia Roberts has Phinnaeus and Hazel. Celebrities are retarded... that's all there is to it, they are retarded and should never breed. I feel bad for these kids, even though they are already famous, and will want for nothing throughout life, they have been given perhaps some of the worst monikers of all time. The previous examples pale in comparison to other unfortunates, like little Audio Science, and Pilot Inspektor. What the hell are these people thinking?

Why do celebrities feel the need to give their kids names that will guarantee beatings in elementary school? I know being rich means something to high schoolers, but elementary school kids will always pick on the odd man out. This is almost the equivalent of the boy named Sue. I know the kid will grow up to be tough, but when the kid will also grow up filthy rich, what's the point of making sure they are mocked and picked on growing up? Furthermore, aren't they aware that there are regular people out there that will mimic pretty much anything they do?

Imagine being the child of some celebrity-obsessed nutjob that names you Apple because they love Coldplay and Shakespeare in Love. Would you legally be able to kill your parents for doing something like that to you? The Menendez brothers showed that it's OK to wipe out abusive parents... would that fall under the same heading? Should we just send anybody that gives his or her kid a ridiculous name straight to jail? I can see it now... "what do you want to name the child ma'am?" "The kid will be named Lacrosse Ludwig Bellefonte." "Ok officer, you can wheel her gurney over to the state pen now, that's a ten year sentence with hard labor."

Vote for me, and make this a reality... women getting wheeled on their gurney to jail to do some hard time... new dads praying they don't drop the soap in their new shower...

-Bryan

Oh, happy day! Bud Light has resurrected the greatest marketing campaign of all time! I am talking, of course, about the "Real Men of Genius" ads. So far I have heard three new ones, and they never fail to please... So far there is "Mr. Really Loud Cell Phone Talker Guy," "Mr. Boneless Buffalo Wing Inventor," and "Mr. Half-time Shooting Contest Contestant." These are the funniest, and at the same time thought provoking ads on the air right now. They also have a tendency to make me very, very thirsty. I am so glad they have returned, but I have a few suggestions for the next batch of commercials...

1) "Mr. Bathroom Attendant at a Two-Star Restaurant." I mean have you ever encountered this guy? You go to that restaurant specifically because it isn't all that expensive, and here he is trying to bum tips in the bathroom. And good luck trying to avoid him, because once you wash your hands, he is the only source of paper towels in the place... I mean come on, do I really need some creepy dude handing me towels in the bathroom as I awkwardly pretend I left my wallet at the table? And no, I don't want to use your comb... I don't care if it's been sitting in the blue mystery fluid all day! What the hell is that shit anyway? Am I supposed to assume I won't get a disease from this comb simply because it has been sitting in a fluid that doesn't look like water? What if it is just water with food coloring? I also don't need any of that cologne you so presumptuously push on me... You aren't getting a tip, I don't care if your job description is handing out towels while listening to dudes dropping deuces.

2) "Mr. Marathon Runner With the REALLY Short Shorts." We've all seen this guy, the one that wants nothing slowing him on his run to wherever the hell he is going. Now look, I understand the mechanics of chafing, and running a marathon in shorts that tear up your inner thigh doesn't sound like much fun... but come on! It looks like you're wearing hot pants for crying out loud! And the fact that you are so proudly sporting a moose-knuckle in public makes me very worried. So get that self-righteous look off your face, and get yourself some soccer shorts! They don't chafe, and they don't scare small children.

3) "Mr. Tom Shane." OK, this is just a personal vendetta against the asshole that just crossed the line. You made fun of Sea Monkeys on national radio you jackass, and now you are going down. I happen to be the proud owner of some Sea Monkeys, and they are great... and they are not simply brine shrimp. If you read the package of ready to go eggs, you would know that they are actually a hybrid. These colonies have a life-span of up to two or three years, and they even have little toys to play with in there. Seeing as how my Sea Monkeys will outlast the average US marriage by about a year, I happen to think that they are easily a better investment than your crappy diamonds. You suck, you boring ass-hat.

-Bryan