SINS: Sorry I'm Not Sorry

Tim Tebow—The most talked about White Bronco since the OJ Simpson Trial.

Post-Traumatic Segway-Stroller Syndrome.

We live in a pretty unbelievable world.  We have clocks that wake us up, let us go back to sleep, and wake us up again in 9 minutes…there are driving ranges that tee the ball up for you. We have sent a man to the moon, there are even internet sites that play the music IT KNOWS you will like.  With all of these achievements and countless others it is god damn incredible that we still have some of the advertising that we do.  I would like to propose the greatest idea since Barack Obama becoming President…wait…that was a terrible idea. Scratch that. The greatest idea since Facebook created “Its Complicated” and “An Open Relationship With”!!!! We need a TV Ad for Your problems. Not mine…yours.

I am sick of your herpes commercial, by the way your next outbreak might not be for another 6 months.  I am sick of your  hemorrhoids commercial. I still struggle with the notion of women doing #2. As in “Honey I took out the dog, she number 1’d but didn’t number 2”. Obviously I am NOT talking about walking your wife or girlfriend, I am talking about her pooping. I am not sure they do it. What makes you think I want to hear about the growing bump inside you that makes it difficult to sit down?

Yeast Infections? Nope, don’t want to hear about it unless you are talking about a bakery—one that doesn’t produce BABIES. I am sick of hearing how much your tampon absorbs. Or do you use a pad? Well, you are in luck, because it can absorb A PITCHER OF LEMONADE. While we are at it, lets throw in Viagra and Extenzz commercials too. Don’t want to hear about your soft, and/or small package, Uncle Randy.  Really Jessica Simpson? Did you have to do the Pro-Activ commercial. Your music sucks, you clearly ruled out being an intellectual gem when you couldn’t tell if it was chicken or tuna…but now? You are turning in your one redeeming quality—your skin, for an endorsement and showing me your oil ridden face while I eat dinner on the couch? Sorry it didn’t work out with John Mayer, really not that surprised.  While we are on the subject, lets talk about the Adopt A Dog commercial with the Sarah McLaughlin tune. Really? Really, Sarah? Not on my TV screen. I shield my pups eyes when that comes up, and if I can’t hit mute—I ear-muff it as well.

There should be a television station that houses all of these disgusting advertisements. That way you can find a solution, and I can continue my regular scheduled programming at peace.

There is an unspoken truth that eHarmony and Match dot com leave out of their adorable television commercials. Women go on the first date for the free food, and the free booze. This is a fact. Do not fight it, the universe will win. Countless times women over history have said “I sure am tired, I am not too interested in going out with him, but hey a free meal is a free meal, so I’ll put up with it.”

A new book needs to be penned called “She’s Just Not That Into You” and this is chapter one. First dates are just terrible. Do you pick her up? Do you meet her at the restaurant? Well if you pick her up what music should you be playing because you want to listen to AC/DC but does she want to listen to John Mayer, but really she likes country but you would never guess that because you hate country and assume that any girl you are interested in by default hates country too, so you don’t end up playing any music in the car and you end up having awkward conversations about each others day but really neither one of you cares. Then you get to the restaurant, do you sit outside, do you sit inside? Is it too windy outside you don’t want to mess up her hair but its the wind not you but its the first date so you feel like its you, but if you are inside do they seat you too close to the kitchen so you cant really have a conversation will the service be good? Then what happens? Maybe order a cocktail, she’ll play it safe maybe a dirty martini, men drink beer you should probably get a beer, don’t get wine she got vodka don’t book a one way ticket to queer-town but if she wants wine do i get wine but i don’t really want wine. White or Red, what are the rules again what wine goes with what food, oh god I want to look classy…Then what do we share an appetizer? Maybe the bruschetta but thats really messy, does she like tomatoes i like tomatoes but oh mans what if she hates them, how about the calamari that would be good okay we will have the calamari. Time for entrees? Ok I need another minute to look over the menu, I’ll let you order for yourself but i know what you are going to get. Go ahead order your salad, but we just had an appetizer why would you order another pre-dinner meal oh because thats protocall, you dont want to look like a fat cow gorging down a 22oz sirloin in front of me, and what if you eat really fast then I will clock your eating time compared to my dog, my dog eats fast so you will probably play it safe, order the salad, balsamic dressing hold the onions who likes onions on a salad anyway. Go ahead eat slow I have an entire game-hen in front of me. And then the bill comes and the waiter puts it in front of me, thanks jackass, and you do this adorable little thing where you pick up your clutch and you open it slowly and rummage through it, but you act like its a never ending pit and you cant find anything and by this time my card is already in the bill on the table and you play this little song and dance “no no please, lets split it, please…please….please…I insist….please lets split it” but really you are saying one of two things you either want to split it because you want to get the hell out of dodge and send a clear signal that this date ended as soon as it started or you are testing me to see if we are really a gentleman and will refuse, refuse, refuse your attempts at paying and insist you put the card away so eventually you give up but in the back of your head you are giggling, at another victory but really the jokes on you because you just had 3 pieces of calamari and a bowl of lettuce…you are still starving, Ill drop you off at home but you just have to go back inside and make Easy Mac or Romen Noodles to stave off the hungry pains you just gave yourself, maybe curl up on the couch with your girlfriends, during a DVR’d episode of Dancing With The Stars and cackle about the meal and terrible conversation, both of which were free. I mean, to be honest though most of the entire time you were talking I was just sitting there nodding my head waiting my turn to tell a better story that included less about you and way more about me.

A special thanks to jackasses like Michael Buble who sing songs like “I Just Havent Met You Yet” who allow people to have the insane idea that a first date can be a proactive attempt at finding the mate of your dreams. Sure, and I go on vacations to find bury treasure.

Heidi Montag now gives handjobs for hotdogs.

Please feel free to kill yo’self if…

A) The above picture is your Facebook Profile Picture (really? best option?)

B) Your “About Me” is: “You have probably heard about the 6 week bootcamps I host”

C) All of the above

I find the outrage over Jesse James’ infidelities to be slightly hilarious. The outrage over Tiger Woods was a bit more understandable—an icon in a sport built on tradition and manners, a game for the elite gentleman.  At what point did our society start assuming that a guy who builds expensive motorcycles, has his own reality TV show, and is covered in tattoos would be the most upstanding citizen. Are you really that surprised that he was having extra curricular activities with a woman with a face tattoo? Really? In my grandmother’s day these people were circus freaks, a traveling band of performers traveling the globe on trains, like gypsies just looking for their next boardwalk performance.  But now? The fire eater gets the prom queen in Sandra Bullock.  The man has an arm band tattoo of a motorcycle chain.

The Original Jesse James was a was an American outlaw, gang leader, bank and train robber, and murderer from the state of Missouri. And you are surprised that the modern day Jesse James is a bad boy?

While in Vegas a few weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to get all hooked up at Tryst by a guy I went to college with that is now the VIP director…we have a table and bottles right next to the waterfall. its me, my buddy and 4 girls from nashville.

so we are having fun and around 230AM, my stomach starts grumblin, most likely from the full rack of ribs i ate for dinner around 9PM at a dive restaurant located in a casino which was attached via an overhang to a motel 8—Ellis Island, as it was named.

so im sitting at the table saying to myself “lock it up. lock it up. rule number 1 of a nightclub. you do not shit in a nightclub”

eventually i feel like im about to start sweating. i convince myself that i dont have enough time to go into the hotel lobby and that that is an equally bad decision because i may not be able to get back in.

so there i go, into the tryst mens room, to violate rule number 1.

luckily for me, the stalls at Tryst are their own little mini rooms, with a large wooden door with venitian blinds.

usually i am pretty quick on the pot, sometimes to the point of people not being able to tell if i number 1 or number 2’d.

well, a new number may be needed to added to the scale for what happened in stall #1 in the mens bathroom of the tryst nightclub located in the wynn hotel in the city of las vegas, nevada of the united states of america planet earth, solar system

there i sat, as I essentially recreated the dropping of the atomic bomb on nagaski.

Eventually, things began waft. and my nostrils lit on fire. i sat there contemplating my options. it was a foregone conclusion that I would be going home alone, because I would surely get vomit on my stomach considering my balls would be chilling at the gates of hell for the remainder of the evening.

i took a deep breath and eventually pulled myself together. i opened the door to the stall and staring back at me like a mugshot is the tiny mexican bathroom attendant, and he is accompanied by a pale and a mop. Literally, this pale was up to his knees. He could have cleaned up a double homicide and suicide crime season.

apparently the fumes had drifted thru the venetian blinds.

eventually the aroma of disaster hit his nostrils, he shook like a wet dog and whispered “EL DIABLO” while looking at the floor and shaking his head. i quickly washed up, and returned to my vip table, eventually making it home by 5am.