More Cowbell!!!

Babies, before we're done here you'll all be wearing gold plated diapers.

Random Musings:

Hitting a ball into the corn at the Field of Dreams may be the single greatest moment in my life thus far, if my dad were there it would have been better, but all things considered it defiantly reaches the Pantheon of Great Moments.

Until last weekend I thought a girl turning into a lesbian, twice, and then sending a text message that said "BURN IN HELL" was a sign she wanted nothing to do with me, but a note taped to my bedroom door seems to say otherwise. This kind of shit could only happen to me.

I need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. Maybe more importantly I need to stop talking to myself out loud about my need to stop talking to myself out loud while walking the streets of Chicago. It leads to very uncomfortable moments when there is someone with in earshot.

Somewhere between 5 dollar steak and dollar draft Mondays at Lion Head, cheap everything Tuesdays at Brehon's, dollar bottle Wednesdays at Kelsey's, dollar draft and $3 jager bomb Thursdays at Hogs 'n' Honeys, Friday and Saturday night have lost some of their luster.

Confidence is descent con movie in the same vein as Oceans 11. This was further bolstered by the fact that in my drunken haze I confused Ed Burns with Ben Affleck acting with "Damnit Damon, I wanted to be in that movie, too" fervor.

I don't care what anyone says, the Indiana Jones trilogy was the high water mark for Lucas and Spielberg.

Lesson Learned: Just because the mix disguises the taste of the alcohol, doesn't necessarily make it a good idea to continue to add booze until you notice it's presence, just trust me on this one.

With fresh ideas seemingly non-existent, would this be the right time to pitch my show in which 20 women vie for the heart of a pseudo-millionaire who turns out to be a syphilitic hobo? Would anyone not watch this?

If I knew then what I know now, I would have spent everyday of my childhood learning how to throw a knuckle ball.

Rooting against the Cubs is like rooting against Christopher Reeves walking.

Living in Chicago, I sometimes forget the Mid-West is essentially a expansive collection of crops and agriculture interrupted only briefly for metropolitan areas.

One of my favorite things about a road trip is the inevitable game of "Guess the Smell." Although it is usually simple animal manure or a skunk, every once in a while you are suddenly assaulted with some undistinguishable olfactory nightmare, and while the odor may be ephemeral you know you will never be the same.

Looking on the floor of my office I realize that if you removed the name, the covers of Maxim and Playboy are essentially interchangeable.

Having a Fantasy Baseball team may make me a nerd, but having a first place Fantasy Baseball team defiantly makes me "King Nerd" and yet it still doesn't seem to impress the women as much as I think it should.

I have reached the point where not only can I pick the chaotic chick out of a bar full of people, but I can also apparently telepathically channel her to come talk to me. My buddy George can attest to this.

As far as sports go there is not a better time of year than right now. (Late September/early October)

The French Dip is the most underrated sandwich in the country, while the Turkey Club may be the most overrated.

Speaking of sandwiches: It feels like an Arby's night.

I hope the "don't wear white after Labor Day" rule doesn't apply to me because I don't do laundry often enough to be able to obey it.

It turns out that the guy who sells knock off Movados up the street from my office offers no kind of warrantee.

I can't ever remember having a bad experience with Kool-Aid.

I hate Bernie Mac and the story line looks ridiculous and trite, but I'm still going to see Mr. 3000.

My friend Tim and I have worn identical shirts on two separate occasions and I think people are starting to talk.

If there is anything more degrading than laughing at someone after they punch you in the face because you were hitting on their girlfriend and being an ass, I can't think of it.

On the Monday directly following a miraculous Bears victory over the Packers in Green Bay, if you listen closely enough you can actually hear office productivity in Chicago grinding to a halt.

In a related story: J! E! T! S! Jets! Jets! Jets! . . . that's right, bitches 2-0.

Although I am unilaterally opposed to the Starbucks Empire in its entirety and it's unyielding attempt to monopolize the worldwide coffee industry as a whole, I must say they make a damn good frapachino.

Finally, it is imperative for every group of friends to pick someone who shall from this day forth forever be referred to only as "Scrotum" I'm not suggesting it. I'm demanding it. By the way if you're studying your group of friends and no one is a clear cut candidate for this new nomenclature, well, it's you Scrotum. Enjoy!

Cameron + Drunk Chick = Mess

The other night I went to a "party" at my friend’s apartment. A few girls showed up and one of them was pretty cute (read: big tits) so I began to talk/flirt with her. Her name was [Not Important] and she was a shallow, vapid, shell of a person, but with really nice tits. One direct quote that should have tipped me off "I don't eat bread because it makes me fat." In and of itself it screams self-esteem issues and possible eating disorder but also take into account that on a "fat day" there was no chance this girl came in above 105lbs. Plus she punctuated this statement by taking a swig off a beer.

In order to distract myself from the glaringly obvious character flaws, I drank as much and as fast as possible and kept a keen eye on her jovial love bubbles. After a few more torturous attempts at conversation I wished her words were somehow tangible so I could rub her nose in them and hit her with a rolled up newspaper while shouting "No! That’s a bad girl. We don’t do that in the house." I fought back the urge to verbaly berate her mercilessly as I could tell she was into me, or she was hammered, probably a little of both, so I stuck around, oh yeah did I mention her tits? They were great.

I continued to feign interest and shat out a few classic lines that always seem to get the job done and it paid off. She ended up kissing me; we went into one of the bedrooms and continued. Her tits were as good as I had figured them to be but drastically out of proportion to her waif like body. She seemed a little timid at first so I "guided" her in the right direction and she ended up going down on me, for about 30 seconds.

Not only was it one of the worst bj's I have ever received, she apparently had way to much to drink and an extraordinarily sensitive gag reflex. She pulled back let out a strange guttural, animalistic sound and puked. All over my junk. I’m gonna pause here and let that soak in. After allowing the requisite time to process the horrible turn of events. I got up, told her to go, although in a much less friendly manner, and went to the bathroom that was thankfully attached to the bedroom and hosed off. She apparently left the apartment in utter humiliation.

When I walked back out her friend asked what happened, and after I relayed the story, peppered with as many derogatory remarks and obscenities as I felt were appropriate to illustrate my frustration, she caped off the incident with 6 little words that made everything worse:

"You know she's only 16, right?"

Yes I'm a bad person, yes I need to find out age before I do things like this, but I refuse to take full responsibility for what happened. What the fuck was a 16 year old doing at a party populated by people in their early 20's? Why was she wearing a low cut spaghetti- strap shirt and skin tight pants? Why did she kiss me and give me the "fuck me" eyes? Am I entirely to blame here? Or is this a gray area like a "No-Fault" traffic accident? Look I'll be honest with you, I really don't feel guilty about this, but I feel like I probably should and that is somehow worse. Can I get a ruling here?