The Bigger The Stalker...

I found myself sitting on a bar stool recently at the always atrociously awful Sloppys on N Elm St. I believe it was a Tuesday evening. The much-maligned Michigan Molly waltzed her wantonly & time weathered ass into the joint, and sure enough, sat at the bar stool two spots to my left. I immediately ordered a shot of the most repulsive rock-gut scotch they hide deep in the bowels below the bar. And that was a wise move on my part. I have some experience in these types of situations. You know, the types of situations where you can't possibly be intoxicated enough not to hate where you are or anyone within 10 feet of where you are who happens to represent the worst that womanhood has to offer in the known world. As always, I knew what was coming. Questions. Questions. And more questions. "How are you, Jack?" & "Are you having a nice spring, Jack?" & "Why do you seem so unhappy, Jack?" Things like that. The question about unhappy Jack was easy enough to answer. I simply told her I'd been listening to The Who quite a bit. That reference flew right over the woman's head. Usually the best way to proceed in a scenario like this is to try and get the terrible person to move on to another terrible bar (preferably Ass Traps or The Wench). The thing is that I can never get Michigan Molly to leave a bar. She's so fantastically clueless that she never gets offended at what I say to her. So, given that she wasn't about to leave, I decided that I better get the hell out of there my own damn self. I ordered one more evil tasting scotch shot & an indiscriminate light beer to chase the shot with. And I drank up pretty quickly. But before I could get the hell out of Sloppys, I got several uninteresting pieces of news from Michigan Molly. One, she was on Spring Break from her job teaching Sex Ed to wheelchair bound 2nd & 3rd graders. Two, she had a big tennis match coming up against some perceived foe. Three, she's contemplating moving into some old man's guest house on Lake Townsend (and yes, I noted the irony of her mentioning Lake Townsend after my Happy Jack reference flew several yards above her boil riddled head). The thing about Michigan Molly renting a guest house did catch my attention a bit. While telling me about all the perks of living on this giant estate (horses, golf, massive dildos everywhere, etc.), Michigan Molly mentioned that the man who owned said estate looked like a "fat Bill Murray." I asked if this fact turned her on. She seemed put off by that. I delved a little deeper into this "fat Bill Murray" comment. What I did was note that Bill Murray is a very talented man. A genius to be accurate. And this is when she said it. This is the comment that this whole stupid paragraph has been leading up to. Michigan Molly informed me that she loved Billy Murray in Animal House. All I could really think to do at that point, having paid my tab, was finish the last few gulps of the indiscriminate light beer I'd been tolerating, get up from the bar stool, and say, "So did I, Molly. So did I." I felt like a beaten man. I felt about as low and depressed as I've ever been in my continuously & habitually low & depressing life. Everything worked out okay though. There are several other bars within about a 5-7 minute drive of Sloppys. I simply drove to one of them and got hammered.

I ran into someone at work recently, someone I hadn't seen since like last July. This person asked me, "Where have you been hiding yourself?" I replied, "The Prison Farm."

I ran into a 2nd person at work I hadn't seen in quite a stretch that same morning. This person said, "I heard you've been working in Durham." I replied, "That's a damn dirty lie."

I ran into a 3rd person that same morning at work. This person happens to be a woman I hadn't seen in 6 years. She also happens to be one of the women who stalked me. This particular stalker did her stalking 11 years ago. I blogged about being stalked in a post from 2009. And to recap the thrust of that stalking post: Being stalked sucks. It's not all it's cracked up to be, that's for sure. It's a bit of a nuisance, if you know what I mean. Anyway, this stalker chick said to me, in a sick and perverted lilting voice, "Long time no see, stranger." Now, I wasn't expecting to see this stalker ever again. I had no heads up that she'd be in the building working. In other words, she caught me off guard. I did manage to regain my composure though. I said, "That's true. It has been a long time. I guess the reason it's been a long time is because you've obviously been spending hours a day at the Golden Corral." Which might be true. I have no idea. The reason it might be true that this stalker has been spending hours a day at the Golden Corral over the past 6 years is because she's put on a good 60 pounds. Or a bad 60 pounds. Or some kind of 60 pounds. I was super depressed over the whole incident. Not so much because I ran into this stalker so unexpectedly after 6 years. Although that didn't help matters. What I was so depressed about was the fact that this stalker of mine had gotten so fat. Back in 2001 when she was stalking me, she wasn't the hottest girl alive by any means. But she at least was reasonably not terrible looking. And if you're gonna be stalked by someone and have to carry those memories around with you for years, it's best that the stalker at least be reasonably not too horrible looking. And those are the memories of this stalker I've been carrying around about her (even the last time I saw this stalker in 2006 she was not bad looking). But now that's all ruined. Now, whenever I think of this stalker moving forward, I'm gonna picture this fat-ass woman saying, "Long time no see, stranger." And that really sucks. Damn my luck.

I've been passing the time the last month or so by watching reruns of Beverly Hills, 90210. It airs on something called Soapnet Channel. I've been enjoying it immensely. My girl Valerie Malone...

You're just like Mary down in Mexico on All Souls' Day

Oh By The Way, Which One's Floyd?

I was at one of those terrible pharmacy type stores earlier buying a couple packs of smokes & this old timer with a putrid male perm happened to be in front of me in the old queue. He was buying a small bottle of some generic pink Pepto Bismol crap. His total for this purchase was $3.19. He then proceeded to pull out a checkbook. Yes, he paid $3.19 with a check. I stood there in utter disbelief as this dude took 2 minutes to write a check for $3.19. Finally, after the 100 year-old clerk processed his check and the geriatric check-writer took off to get loaded on generic Pepto Bismol, I said to the ancient looking clerk, "I haven't seen someone write a check for 3 bucks in like 25 years. Does that happen often in here?" This nasty old bag informed me that some older folks don't believe in using check cards. I said, "What the hell is there not to believe in? It's a damn debit card." She then let me know that someone had written a check at this pharmacy for 17 cents recently. That's when I lost it. I really did. I broke into convulsions of laughter. The only question I had for the Methuselah-esque clerk was, "What can you even buy here for 17 cents?" She replied, "We were running a special on used condoms." I asked, "How used were the condoms, ma'am?" She looked a little stumped on that one, but pulled herself together long enough to give me an answer, "Sonny, we got them from an old folks' home, so there wasn't much jizz in them & what remnants of pecker tracks that was in there was saturated with apple sauce." I told her I appreciated her candor as well as her grammar and took off out of that damn pharmacy.

Some dead white poet wrote something about April being the cruelest month. I'm not sure who the poet was, as I never read the poem (hell, I've never read any poem). But I overheard some unbathed hippie classmates talking about this whole April being cruel deal back in my days of pursuing an English degree at TOSU. It's interesting to note that the unbathed hippie students were discussing this April being cruel issue with an unbathed hippie professor. But I digress. I never gave too much thought to this whole poetry conundrum since those halcyon days in college where I'd show up to class at least 3 or 4 time a month. At least. Some months I'd make it to 6 or 7 classes. I was a real overachiever in those days. But Saturday night I got to thinking very seriously about this dead white poet's assertion that April is the cruelest month. What I decided is that the dead guy was just a little off. See, Saturday night was March 31 - just before April started. And what I witnessed in the 2nd half of that 2nd game from NOLA might be the cruelest thing I've ever seen in my entire fucking life. Poets - way off once again. Why does anyone waste their time studying that garbage? In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo...Bullshit. No, they don't. Chicks I overhear tend to come and go talking of the best way to treat their damn yeast infections...

Our friends who happen to pull for the Duke Blue Devils have had it bad. They got blown off their home floor by UNC, pounded into submission by the Noles, then were embarrassed by a team from the Patriot League - in the Gate City no less. For that loss to Lehigh, Brandon & I were out at Scams Lakeside. The bar was packed. There had to be 75 folks wandering around drunk, ripping their stupid brackets to shreds after Mizzou lost to those brothers from the MEAC. The funny thing was, I didn't see one Duke fan anywhere. Maybe they were all at the Coliseum witnessing the crushing choke firsthand - I have no idea. All I know is that I kept looking for someone wearing Duke blue to mock until they either cried or took a swing at me. Either way would have been okay by me. Alas, nothing. Hell, there were more folks at the bar rooting for the Michigan Wolverines at the time. And they choked as well - losing to the damn Ohio Bobcats...

I was out not too long ago at some joint called Buck Naked Saloon - Brandon is interested in one of the chicks working the bar there. Hence, we've been there a few times recently. Anyway, I was sitting at the bar chatting with a fat man sporting tons of chest hair. I mean this dude's chest hair was amazing. Thick and luscious. And a little creepy if you ask me. But whatever, to each his own. All I know is that if I had chest hair that was like 2 inches thick, I'd hide as much of it as possible under several t-shirts, a button down, and a blazer. But that's just me. What this wild chest hair freak and I got to chatting about was the band that was about to start playing at the old Buck Naked Saloon. They are called Sock Monkey. This hairy freak asked if I liked the band. To be honest, I couldn't recall if I'd ever seen the band around town. And I was honest with chest hair boy about that fact. But I did tell him this, and this is the absolute fucking truth, "I do wear socks. And I like monkeys." The dude didn't have a thing to say to that. After about 20 seconds I asked him, "Do you like Camper Van Beethoven?" He said, "Huh?" I explained, "I've heard about people camping. And I know there is a dead composer named Beethoven." I could hear the damn rocks bouncing around in this chest hair dude's almost shaved head. I tried one more on this genius. "Do you like Pink Floyd?" He suddenly got excited. A light bulb went on somewhere. He said, "Fuck, yes. Pink Floyd rocks!!!" I said, "The only problem with that is this - yes, I know there is a color called pink & I have heard of Floyd being a noted barber of days gone by, but Pink Floyd sucks. They suck the soul out of you with every cliched second of their mind-numbingly stupid lyrics." The guy didn't seem too keen on chatting with me after that. Brandon noted shortly after the hairy chested Pink Floyd man walked away that I was by far the best person in the entire city of Greensboro when it came to the tricky skill of getting losers to leave a bar. It might be the only thing I'm good at, when you really think about it anyway. But it is something. It's a strength. And you gotta go with your strengths...

Pictures of Matchstick Men

I Even Like The Feel Of Gold

I'm very concerned over what I've been seeing lately, that's why I buy gold every chance I get. I even like the feel of gold.

The Faceshit has struck again, as it inevitably does. This time Geilfuss shared a link on his Faceshit wall that went to some online Baltimore e-zine where there was an article written by someone named John Geilfuss. Now, being that Geilfuss's first name is John and Geilfuss's last name is Geilfuss, one could assume that Geilfuss wrote the e-zine article that he linked from his Faceshit page. I have no idea. I did look at the article. Well, I looked at some of the article. I skimmed the article. It was all about how bored and poor hippies throw these potluck dinners around the Charm City where they eat shitty hippie food and watch homemade porn projected onto huge brick walls. At least that's what I got out of it. There were many disturbing photos that accompanied the article that featured topless hippies eating soy-based crappy foods while images of intense hippie fucking played in the background (or foreground, or somewhere). If the author of this piece of hometown journalism is indeed the Geilfuss we all know and mostly tolerate, then I gotta congratulate the kid. What an assignment for his first published bit of writing. I gotta think on the heels of covering a hippie/porn potluck extravaganza, Geilfuss's next assignment has to be the school board. Or the police beat. Or maybe an article examining what happens to hobos' shoes when they lose them while running down Charles Street chasing that elusive free 40...

As I mentioned above, I'm becoming increasingly concerned over what I'm seeing these days, that's why I buy gold every chance I get. Hell, I even like the feel of gold.

I was over in Durham recently, toiling away at yet another fake job, when I happened to wander into a room adjacent to the one where I was fake working. In this adjacent room were about a dozen folks taking calls. Only, I never saw any of them on the phone. The room was coined the Call Center for some reason. I asked around about why it was called the Call Center and yet no one was taking any actual calls. No one had a good explanation for that. Eventually I decided that this room should be called the No Call Center. There was one young woman sitting in the No Call Center who perplexed me quite a bit. She was a mousey looking chick who was horrified to make eye contact with another human being. You say, "but TBFH, it's Durham, that describes 97% of the girls over there. What's the big deal?" And you'd be right about that. Only in this chick's case, I happened to get to know a little about her. Not from speaking to her, of course. Girls like this mousey freak would never talk to me. Instead I got to know a little about her from overhearing her talk about being a vegan to her fellow No Call Center buddies (I was doing some fake filing in a fake corner of their fake workspace at the time). At one point this mousey looking vegan informed everyone that she can't eat anything with lard in it. I don't know what tasty foods she can't eat that are made with lard. Lardburgers? Lard steaks? Lard tacos? Lard stir-fry? Whatever. But I felt bad for this lonely gal at this point. I felt so bad that I started to call her Lard to my fake coworkers in the fake office where we were fake working. One of my coworkers, a kid I mentioned recently on this asinine blog named Ryan, took some offense at my referring to Lard as Lard. He felt it was a little harsh. The only thing about that is, soon Ryan was calling her Lard too. We'd ask ourselves questions like, "Do you think Lard is having a good day today?" Or "Did you see Lard in the hallway? Does she look ashen yet again?" Things like that. Well, soon our fake time in the fake job was coming to a real end, and Ryan decided to serenade Lard using some application on his IPhone called Songify. Here's how Songify works if you've never seen it: you say a word or short phrase into the Iphone and in a few seconds a song comes out of it featuring whatever you uttered into it when you uttered whatever you uttered at the time of uttering. Well, Ryan just uttered one word into the old Songify application. That word was Lard. Then he played back the song version for me and other coworkers. It went something like this - funky house type music for a few seconds then the word Lard repeated over and over in the most hypnotic beat known to man. I encouraged Ryan to walk over to the No Call Center and play the little ditty called Lard for Lard. But he wouldn't do it. He didn't have the stones. It ruined my damn day. I told him as much too. Lllaaarrrddd.....Lllaaaarrrd...Laaarrrruddd...

Did I mention that I'm really concerned over what I'm seeing lately and that I've been buying gold? I even like the feel of the shit.

Brandon & I walked into Sloppys recently. We stood near the bar for a few minutes without being served. It was a Saturday night about 7 and the entire staff had called off for some reason (probably because the place does shitty business and the staff doesn't make any dough). Anyway, the Indian owner of the joint was running around trying to tend bar for the 7 or 8 barflies assembled. Maybe the kid didn't notice Brandon & me. I have no idea. Well, while we were standing there not being served, we glanced around at the assembled drunks. Creepy Gay Larry, Moose, bald-headed Scott, and Michigan Molly were all there. Brandon said, "Do you wanna just take off?" I said, "Yes, I do." Then we walked right out of the place.

I have so many concerns right now over what I'm seeing that I've been buying gold as fast as I can get my hands on it. I even like the feel of gold.

I've been watching this show on the Food Network featuring America's worst cooks. It airs Sunday at 9 I think. There's this Jewish woman on there who is like 63 and can't boil water to save her life. I'm not certain about this, but she bears a strong resemblance to an old colleague of mine from my days working in downtown Baltimore in that building across from 1st Mariner. Maybe it is my good friend and the ultra-incompetent Fran. I forget what she looks like exactly (it's been over 29 months since I've seen Fran), so I may be mistaken. But I don't think so. The reason I think it may be Fran that's featured on this worst cook program is that Fran is notorious for not having a clue how to do anything. I mean besides bitching about the service at a restaurant. Fran is golden there.

Speaking of Fran, I have it on good authority that she's incredibly concerned over what has been happening recently. As a result, she's been buying the shit out of gold. I hear that Fran even likes the feel of gold. She touches her gold longingly.

I saw where they gave out the Oscars recently. I didn't get a chance to watch it myself. I was a little disappointed that the chick who had the Joker's baby didn't win for Best Actress. I'm a big fan of the girl.

Limey McPhee

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Zacchaeus Was A Wee Little Man

I came across something on the old DirecTV a few weeks ago, the day of the Super Bowl to be exact, called the Celebrity Beach Bowl. And it was stupid. Obviously. Retired NFL stars like Warren Moon, Joe Montana, Eddie George, and Prime Time played flag football with C and D list celebrities (Doogie Howser & girls from a vampire show I've never heard of as a few examples). Anyway, the key to the Celebrity Beach Bowl was not the players in the pathetic game. The key to the Celebrity Beach Bowl was the coaches. Or one coach in particular, Cam Newton of the Carolina Panthers. We learned something very important about Newton as he coached his team. We learned that Newton can't count. Newton repeatedly had either one extra player on the field or one too few. Over and over and over Newton demonstrated that he can't count. At least 15 times throughout the game someone had to tell Newton to either throw someone else out there or get someone the hell off the field. It was enlightening. If I were a Carolina fan, I'd be a little worried that my franchise QB can't count to 6.

I dropped into RumbleForeskins Saturday afternoon for a bit to visit with my man Tommy, history teacher extraordinaire and part-time bartender. We got to talking about the typical stuff we do each Saturday during college football season: Siler City, gambling, Slobodan Milosevic, toilet lids, & the 100 Years War (which wasn't a hundred years by the way). Anyway, Tommy is a native of Mobile, Alabama. And I started to really press Tommy on the number of mobile homes there are in Mobile. I actually believe I read somewhere that every home in Mobile is a mobile home. It's a city ordinance or something. Now, Tommy didn't disagree with me. In fact, Tommy noted that every home in the entire state of Alabama must, by law, be a mobile home. It's certainly something to keep in mind. I bet Nick Saban has one of the nicer mobile homes in the state. Hell, it may even be a double-wide.

I was sitting in Sloppys last Friday night for some dumb reason, right next to Moose & Tim. They were running their mouths about the typical fake macho silliness they always do. Then to my right, down at the end of the bar, I notice the despicable Michigan Molly. I was worried to death she'd recognize me (remember, I did steal her car about 16 months ago). And sure enough, after a few minutes Michigan Molly says, "Hey, Jack. How have you been?" Now, the reason she calls me Jack is because I told her my name was Jack at some point a few years ago. I get a big kick out of it when someone goes to the trouble to remember a fake name I've given them in a drunken stupor. Anyway, I asked her the same silly questions I do when I run across her every 8 months or so. You know, "Do the wheelchair kids you teach struggle with Sex Ed?" Or "Do you teach Sex Ed topless?" Or "How many fingers do you recommend for the crippled girls to cram into their holes the first time they get the urge to masturbate?" Those kinds of harmless queries. She did her best not to get upset with me. Blah, blah, blah. At one point, Michigan Molly asked why I hadn't run across her in so long. And I told her I had been fighting the old Hepatitis for much of last fall. She asked which type of Hepatitis I'd been batting last fall. I said, "Type C, woman." She replied, "Don't most people die from Hepatitis C?" I said, "Hell if I know, but it was touch and go there for a few months. I was real worried." Now at this point, Tim & Moose, overhearing this whole exchange, were barely able to sit up in their bar stools from laughing so hard. I got bored of telling puerile lies to Michigan Molly after like 10 minutes and informed Tim & Moose to start calling me Zack repeatedly in conversation. Why, you may wonder? Well, I wanted them to call me Zack repeatedly so that when Michigan Molly inevitably eavesdropped on our bizarre & alcohol-fueled conversation, she'd get the idea that I'd given her a fake name way back when I told her my name was Jack. And I gotta hand it Moose. The man did not disappoint. Moose must have called me Zack 50 times in 5 minutes. At one juncture I even threw this gem out there, "Did I ever tell you guys that Zack is short for Zacchaeus?" Pure bar inanity. Another 15 minutes goes by and I desperately wanted to get the hell out of Sloppys and far away from Michigan Molly. Moose suggests we drop in Scam's Lakeside for a few. I said, "Okay." Little did I know at the time that Moose was looking for a little oral action from Michigan Molly. So, I'll be damned, but when I get to Scam's Lakeside, after about 20 minutes, guess who drags her ragged ass into the joint but Michigan Molly. I said to Moose, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Moose explained that he was looking for a blowjob and Michigan Molly was his safest bet for the night and I couldn't really get too upset with him over that. And I guess he had a point. But remember, Michigan Molly is disgusting and horrific. Lucky for me, Tim suggested shots. I had 2 Jagers in like 7 minutes. And that did the trick. I was feeling it. So, I went up to the short black kid that runs the Karaoke in Scam's Lakeside (he's a Raider fan, I've seen the kid around the bars for years) & told him to fire up the Naughty By Nature for me. And sure enough, the Raider fan obliged me. When the song started and the brother says, "Arm me with harmony. Dave, drop a load on 'em," I went up to Michigan Molly, told her that she better be ready to receive Moose's load later on, threw a $20 bill on the bar, and staggered out of that damn bar.

I was sitting at Wing Joint Sunday night watching the Heat/Hawks game, chatting with my buddy Dave, who was back behind the bar toiling away the same as ever. There were 3 servers working at the time. Dave asks me, "How many of the 3 do you think are pregnant?" I answered, "I assume all of them."

I got the chance recently to watch Lost In Translation for the 1st time in a few years. It made me tear up like always. Bill Fucking Murray.

Gisele Knows Football

I haven't had a chance to write anything stupid on this stupid blog since the big, silly game last Sunday night. As far as the bet goes, I mainly feel bad for Geilfuss. The kid didn't have the luxury of hitting any prop bets. I'd take the Pats again if the game were tomorrow. They simply didn't make enough plays. That's it.

As far as the aforementioned prop bets, I hit 5 of them and made back almost all of what I lost on NE as a result. I was considering putting them up on this asinine blog. But I figured most readers could give a shit if Brandon Jacobs rushed for more than 30&1/2 yards, Mario Manningham had more than 44&1/2 receiving yards, etc. Remember, it's all harmless horseplay. No rape whatsoever. Nil.

Speaking of horseplay, I saw where the old coach at Horseplay U managed to pass on to that giant shower room in the sky recently. I feel kind of bad about it because I predicted this wig wearing fraud would more than likely kick the bucket pretty quickly after getting canned at Horseplay U. I'm gonna quit predicting people will die on this blog. I've been right too often. It's a little freaky. Or freakish. Or something approximating freakdom...

Speaking of Super Bowl Sunday, Brandon & I crowded once more into the infamous Kickin Chicken for the game. And let me tell you this about the Kickin Chicken last Sunday - there were more brothers in there than there were at the Guilford County Detention Center.

My man Legend was out for the game as well. And he was on fire with his typical behavior. That's right, Legend was taking shots and pulling women. As we all know, that's what Legend does. He was hanging out in the main bar area under some Bud Light themed tent deal with his running buddy Closer and various slightly chubby babes. I saw Legend pull one of his patented moves on one girl. He does this thing where he talks a girl into giving him a peck on the cheek. Only just as the girl is about to plant said peck on said cheek, Legend turns his head in the girl's direction and throws his tongue down the poor girl's throat. The victim of this sad move last Sunday was so distraught afterward that she wiped her mouth for 20 seconds with a napkin. Seriously.

I did speak to Legend a couple times during the game. And the kid slays me. He really does. The first time we spoke, Legend approached me and gave me one of those half hugs guys will give from time to time and says, "What's up, Killa?" Like he's all gangster. And the kid is no gangster. He's a balding overweight 30ish white kid wearing a button down pink shirt and a Brooks Brothers overcoat.

Our friend Gisele was in the news after the game criticizing Wes Welker or something. I could care less. The funny thing about all that is that for years I've joked about Gisele and how she probably has no idea what Brady does for a living. You know, she'd say things like, "Have fun playing with your friends today, Tommy." Or, "Why do you and your friends insist on going to Miami this weekend to play this game you seem so enamored with?" Things like that. I figured she liked Brady because of his winning smile and because he acceptably serviced her in the sack. And that she was totally clueless that he's one of the most well known athletes in America. But it turns out I may have been wrong about Gisele. She knew enough to rip the Patriot receivers. And that's more than most Pats' fans know.

Roll With Brady

The pick for the big silly game is coming later in this stupid blog post. Don't worry gamblers, I expect my spotless Super Bowl picks record on this not so spotless blog to continue (I am 5-0 the past 3 years on Super Bowl picks...). Before that, we need to break down the teams scientifically, as always. This year features New England and New York. Except that it doesn't feature New York. The G Men don't play in New York. They play in Jersey. Hence, I was all prepared to give a myriad of reasons why NYC is vastly superior to Boston. But it doesn't matter that Gotham kicks Beantown's ass - not in the least. Because when you start delving into the merits of northern Jersey, there's not much to like. Granted, my man Paulie Walnuts hails from Jersey. And they tape Jersey Shore in Jersey from time to time (JWoww...). But that's it. Let's delve into this as best we can considering that New York isn't really involved in this game at all.

I was sitting in the Newark airport back in 2001 with a colleague of mine named, ... well I can't remember the guy's name at the moment. I forget names. I'm bad with names. Anyway, we were knocking back a few pints of Sam Adams in this bar at the airport. We had just finished a pointless week of work at some conference center off the Jersey Turnpike somewhere. So, we were relaxing a bit. And by relaxing a bit, I mean we were getting hammered. I just remembered the guy's name. It's Ted Lyons (and I was always a fan of the guy, he was a professional drummer at one point in his life {he played with the dB's for a stretch}). So, Ted & I are getting loaded at the airport. Then suddenly we hear our names being called over the PA system. The airline was requesting that we get our asses to the gate. The flight was about to take off without us. I didn't particularly wanna spend the night at the Newark airport. So, we bolted for the gate. When we got there a few minutes later, some airline lackey informed us that we had just made it in time for takeoff. This airline worker asked me why we were cutting it so close in boarding the plane. I was feeling it a bit at the time to be honest. I was in the zone. I told this airline worker that the reason I was cutting it so close was that I was busy in a darkened recess of the bar nailing Adriana La Cerva. Alas, only Ted laughed at that...

The thing about New York that would be important to remember if the Giants actually played there is how expensive everything is. Did you know that a Big Mac is like $17 in Manhattan? Did you know that getting like 6 beers and 2 shots will set you back like $110 at a run of the mill watering hole? Did you know they don't even have grocery stores in New York? If you wanna stock up on the typical crap like 40's, prune juice, & rubbers you gotta drive all the way out to Connecticut? And those pesky Connecticutters don't like to see grimy New Yorkers strutting their shit in the suburban morass that passes for the good life. Believe me on that. I have it on good authority. I talked to someone once. It's true. I really did. Anyway, this whole deal with New York being super pricey is a real issue. One that Barry is working hard on alleviating, to no avail I might add. But all that doesn't amount to a hill of Lima beans in looking at the big game in Indy. Not one fucking bit.

When we turn our attention to the northeast of New York, we can see clearly that Boston is a terrible place - full of flaming liberals, Irish thugs, and ex-hippies. There's the People's Republic of Cambridge for one thing. The best that can be said for Boston is that Bill Spaceman Lee, Oil Can Boyd, Manny Ramirez, and my main man Pedro Martinez played for the Sox. Other than that, Boston is all Ben Affleck, Larry The Hick From French Lick Bird, and the endless menace that is the Kennedy Dynasty. It's probably best to leave it at that. If you don't have anything nice to say, blah, blah, blah...I was raised with some decorum. Some. A little. A teensy bit. Maybe...

Coincidentally, not speaking of Geilfuss, I got a text from him yesterday in which he informed me that Creech has been hanging out in gay bars recently. I immediately forwarded the info to both Luke of Jacoby fame and Andy. And the consensus of the 3 of us on this Creech going to gay bars deal was that we are not the least bit surprised. Luke said it best in his reply to me, noting this development was inevitable. Now, I'm all for Creech delving into the dark world of the anal arts with skinny, young men (Creech would be a bear in the gay world, I believe). I want Creech to be happy (actually, I could give a shit about it entirely, but...) & if shooting his load all over some dude's butt-crack accomplishes that, well good for him. Rock on, Creech.

I was sitting at my current fake job the other day, chatting amiably with an irate drunk woman on the phone, when she demanded to know my name. I replied in a very calm and steady voice, "Madam, I'm Harry Balsac."

Enough of the silliness, on to the Super Bowl pick. I am of the mind that Tom Brady has revenge on the brain. Take the Patsies -2&1/2. It's that simple. No further analysis is necessary.

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