Patriots. Pinheads. July has come, and it is now near gone. Despite our evolutionary advantage of thumbs, slipping from our grasp is arguably the most patriotic month of the year, and I made sure of it this year that did not go unnoticed.
I feel as though I lived the month of July as if I had just signed the Declaration of Independence. Of course, like any dapper and powerful gentleman of the 18th century, I wore a tuxedo. Upon signing the declaration I placed my manacle on my strong eye, and with a hand in my billfold I whisked into the mid-summer’s night air, with a deep breath and a feeling of renewed refreshment I tousled my cane counter-clockwise in the air not once, not twice, but thrice and escaped into a month of lawless abandon along the eastern shore filled with celebration and dance floor plank spanking, cocktails and ponytails amid a wonderful garden of spontaneous turbulence. With an army of gentleman and scholars flanking my sides, we would climb atop the tabletops of Dewey Beach, leading countless renditions of the Star Spangled Banner. As an ice breaker I would invite strangers in an announcement in the pledge of allegiance. In no different effort than any other American Patriot we would sport self adhesive facial hair on our faces, only to sweat them off in the heat of battle during a spin the bottle dance circle dance off. Hold your robot, I’m bringing the heat sausage. Offering a hand of dance to fair maidens and sirens ranging from ages of 4 to 84, not a foot was left still, auto-play pianos were tuned and Ray Charles was brought back to life, and Stevie Wonder could finally see what we have all been reveling in all these years. Luxury Resort pools were crashed, Yachts were boarded, shores were stormed, and we live to fight another day, another year, only in the hopes to raise the Flag of Freedom with an accompanying fist in the air, to sing about the home of the brave.
I am getting pretty excited about my date with NASA. Well, the girl that works at NASA. I have a new interest, and that interest may be of interest to you. Here it is, ready? Pre-Date Ultimatums. It sets the tone. Its an anchor in the water saying, hey here is where I begin, lets jump in.
Pre-Date Ultimatum for NASA:::Wear an Astronaut suit to dinner, or the date is cancelled a REAL Astronaut Suit…and by cancelled, I mean we will go Dutch when the bill comes. Then its not a date, its just two people, sharing the same table, living different lives.
I have also given myself a Pre-Date Ultimatum, for it is only fair. My predate ultimatum is to look nice. Nice shoes, jeans, button down, and Tiger face paint—-kind of like the picture above, but with more whiskers to indicate not only aggressive prowess but also timeless wisdom. Additionally, to indicate interest in her interests like your interest in my interests, I will place a solitary, yet temporary, tattoo on my left cheek. This tattoo will be of a space shuttle. At the start of the date, the shuttle will be pointed skyward filled with hopes and dreams of possibility and worlds to be discovered. If the date goes poorly, the shuttle will slowly shift (on its own) downward towards the ground, and may be accompanied by a buzzing noise commonly heard on Family Feud or Wheel of Fortune.
For the date, I think we will go to dinner and a comedy club to see an improv show. I will not be performing, so I can only imagine this is going to be a lot like being a production assistant on set for the filming of a porn. Just with a lot more clothes. Equal amount of moaning.
Friends, Fans, Readers and Sworn Enemies,
I write you this afternoon with an exciting update. Like Obama’s presidency, and Tiger Woods being a role model, this is something that only happens once. This instance is not something I expect to happen again, ever. I have a date on Thursday with a girl who has a brain. She does not do hair, she does not live at home, she is not in real estate, she is not an Orlando “model”. She is a mechanical engineer at The National Aeronautics and Space Administration, better known to idiots and mortals as NASA. Whenever a space shuttle goes into orbit, she is responsible for controlling the levels of helium (wweeeeeee) and nitrogen that are in the shuttle. If those levels are wrong, apparently people die. Except for Justin Bieber, who is, as we all know—immortal.
I am spending the rest of my week brushing up on the conversational talking points of Time Travel. I texted her this morning with “Are you going to space today? Ya, me either.” I have no interest in space. I have interest in traveling in time and riding on the horse with Paul Revere. 1 if by crown. 2 if by ginger. You wouldn’t know about Paul, those of you who are Arizona Immigrants…he is an American patriot, hero, and active horseman.
Other than time continuum, the laws of relativity and flux capacitors, I am wondering if you guys or any of your friends would like to submit conversational talking points during our date of pizza and air hockey at Chuck E. Cheese (what is the middle name of Chuck bee—tee—dub, that would be interesting to start the date with). The thesis of the date: Is Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure a practical possibility?
Please submit all requests by Thursday at 12PM to NopeNotApologizing at Gmail Dot Com. Feel free to forward this request. Thank you.
For further reading material on Time Travel, please visit www.abovetopsecret.com
There are certain points in life that really make you wonder if the path you are on, is really the best path to take. For some, these thoughts come with the birth of their first child, a career change, or some sort of random epiphany from the heavens above.
For me, this realization came while hanging out with friends. Each and every one of my friends was laughing hysterically at what was on TV, and some even making lewd and obscene gestures with their hands. On the other hand I was sitting there, trying to concentrate on the television screen so that I could memorize the 1-800 number without having to write it down in front of the howling hyenas I call friends. Its true. You are officially the ultimate lazy/skinny hybrid when you think to yourself “Man, the “Shake Weight looks like a great option for me!!!! Whats the number again?!?!” This level of genuine lackadaisical excitement is only to be crushed by the hoots and hollers of friends sitting next to you who, with tears of comedy streaming down there faces yell, “what fag would order that…what an asshole”. There I sat, looking down at my gellin Dr. Scholls sneakers, whimpering “i wanted to order it”
The Shake Weight is perfectly practical. It allows the user to avoid monthly gym payments, driving to the gym, parking at the gym, seeing fat ladies on the cardiovascular machines at the gym…i mean really sweetheart? that stair master isnt doing you any good…going into the locker room at the gym, seeing penis in the locker room, seeing dude ass in the locker room, going to the weight room, having people laugh at you doing bench press sets with bar-only, take 40 water breaks in 25 minutes at the gym, playing pick up basketball against teenagers and getting shut out at the gym, crying at the gym, running out of the gym, running around the parking lot looking for your car at the gym, driving home from the gym, getting a speeding ticket on your way home from the gym, taking your anger out on your girlfriend when you get home from the gym and breaking up with your girlfriend….all because of the gym.
So what you are telling me, is for only $19.95, plus shipping and handling, which also allows me to get a free DVD that has $15 in value, I can have sculpted arms, a few more dollars in my pocket, and maybe have a steady girlfriend? I think my friends will just have to accept my shake weight.
Orlando! Tigers and Skulls and Flowers OH MY! Rawr.
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I’ll be honest. I dodged a bullet last night. During my travels this week, a mutual friend set me up with what I can only assume is a lady of the night, to show me around downtown Athens, Georgia. I was told she answered to Jamison—as in the porn star Jenna, and the stiff liquor in the green bottle. Traditionally, women who share names with either a porn-star or a stiff bottle of liquor traditionally is either a stripper want to be porn-star, or a drunk Tranny. Either way, I was in serious jeopardy of losing an eye. To be honest, I do not have many redeeming qualities, so the loss of a baby blue really was not an option. Although, my eyes are green. But I think you get the point. Phone turned off, woke up in the morning to watch Saved By The Bell reruns with both eyes. What A Blessing.
