The poltergeist situation in Waco, TX last night was well in hand.
Bustin' makes me feel goooood!
The Red Sox won the World Series last night. Unlike all of the other boners on the web, I'm not going to wax bonerifically on what this means for the people of Boston, how badly I want to make love to Curt Schilling, and whether Pedro Martinez's munchkin gets a World Series ring; others do all of that better. Their victory certainly excited me, but only 50% of that was related to good triumphing over the forces of not quite evil (it's physically impossible for anything in Missouri to be evil). The other 50% of the excitement derived from a bet I had going on the series. Since Boston won, Trucky has to prepare a four course meal for me. Knowing how spiteful she is, it will almost certainly be the last meal I ever eat. And while this was never made explicit, I will be snapping my fingers and demanding lemon wedges and wet naps throughout the entire thing.
There's an interesting pattern to the most recent bets that I've won. Last weekend, I won a bowl of pudding because of the Trinity/Centre game (not to rub it in, but I won THE CRAP out of that one), and immediately afterwards, I get a four course meal coming my way, thanks to the Boston Red Sox. Extrapolating that trend out, I'm going to win a tortilla factory on my next bet, or maybe some sort of fortress made of cookies. (I hope I didn't jinx that one by mentioning it.)
Unfortunately, bets of that magnitude don't just come waltzing up to Powell Manor every day. If they did, the other party probably has some sort of trickeroo planned. For example, no tortilla factory tycoon is going to bet his place of business on the flip of a coin. That's what I gather from my limited interaction with these people, at least. If you do happen to come across a rather simple-minded tortilla baron with a gambling obsession, for the love of pete, send me email! Also send me email if you have a tortilla factory you'd allow me to borrow for wagering purposes.
Aww snap, I'm starting Goulash a lot later than usual because of some work stuff I had to do tonight. You probably thought I conveniently forgot to do it, but no, the only thing I conveniently forget about is my sense of decency. And how many feet are in a mile. I could save myself one google search a month by tattooing 5280 on my forearm. But really, if I tattooed every unit of measurement I can't remember on my body, I'd be like some sort of flesh covered measuring cup. I'd probably get no props for that in prison whatsoever. And how often do I convert furlongs to nautical miles anyway? A lot, yeah, so I should probably just go ahead and do it.
To all of the Hungarians: what the crap? So you find some illegally imported paprika, and all of a sudden, Goulash is a great health risk? Only in Hungary could something this inane happen; there's a reason your country is known as Romania Light. What do you want me, the world's 3rd leading resource on Goulash, to do? If you're thinking I'll share my paprika reserves with you, you better think again. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not some paprika baron who can bail out an Eastern European nation with my secret stash everytime something goes awry; no sir, I buy my spices one ounce at a time, just like everyone else.
Hungary is an important part of the world economy, putting out a lot of fake Rolexes, machine guns, and underground porn. If something happens to Hungarian exports because of the goulash drought, the cheap, violent perverts of the country are going to go insane. Trust me, that is one group we do not want rioting out in the streets. Has anyone heard if either of the presidential candidates have a plan to address this disaster? Perhaps someone could tell Bush and Kerry that a few of us have larger concerns than Social Security and Medicare. In case they haven't noticed, my google ranking has nothing to do with either of those. Let's get something going here; it's beginning to make me look bad.
Amongst the people of the world, I am a divisive figure. It usually only takes one encounter for an individual to make up his mind about me, and the reactions can be grouped into the following categories: Cody is cooler than Teen Wolf and I must bear his seed, or Cody is a walkie talkie from the devil and I must make a suit from his skin. Last night, at the Badly Drawn Boy show, it took me roughly 2 sentences before the bartender at the club decided on the latter..
Danza and I are standing around before the show starts, and we're feeling a little parched. It's understandable; I'm used to walking 20 feet at a time at the most, not the 40 feet we had to walk from the car. My strength sapped, I began to wilt in the mugginess of the evening. Like a St. Bernard bringing a lost skier back to life with his little barrel of brandy (does that actually happen?), Danza made a beeline to the bartender for something to revive me, carrying me all the way on his back.
He ordered something for us, and the bartender gave us an odd look. "When were you two born?" she said. I'm used to this; I look like I'm around 4 years old. (yeah, I definitely take advantage of that as often as possible by wetting my pants and making people feed me.) Anyway, we answered her with our honest-to-goodness birth years, and then she said, "Okay, can I see your IDs?" It was an understandable request, but nevertheless, my inner beast roared.
"What's the point of asking when we were born if we still have to show IDs?" I said.
"I was just trying to be nice," she said.
"But it made no sense!" I bellowed. "I gave you a legal year and you still asked me for ID! What answer were you looking for?"
The horrified looks of those around me plus Danza's whispered pleas for me to shut up had no effect; I wanted answers. She then made the wise decision to ignore me. Perhaps I expect too much from the world, but it only seems reasonable for a PROFESSIONAL MIXOLOGIST to utilize some sort of ID CHECKING METHODOLOGY. Come on! Lady bartender, you were flying by the seat of your pants and I called you on it; you should thank me, not alert the bouncers as to my presence. That's how I saw it, at least.
Later in the night, Danza went back to the bartender to get us some refills. When he got back, I asked if she'd again asked him for the year of his birth. "No," he responded, "but she said she was glad you didn't come with me." Finally, she says something reasonable.
Short entry tonight because Danza and I are going to see Brendan Benson and Badly Drawn Boy tonight. When I say we're going to see them, I mean we'll be attending a concert put on by those two, not that we're going to some freak show where Brendan Benson and Badly Drawn Boy are on display in giant mason jars. I hope that's the case, at least. For $22, I want a lot more than just watching some dude sit in a jar; at the very least, throw a rabid possum in there with him. Or, better yet, put the guy in a cage so I can poke him with a stick and throw corn dogs at him.
Back with the usual 200 proof wackiness tomorrow. That's assuming neither of the performers become enraged by me singing along to all the songs in a glorious falsetto, and start swinging microphone stands at my head out of frustration. Danza: bring a camera crew in case someone connects and sends me into a vegetative state. I'll drool my way into the poor house!
Make it tapioca.
Cody Wayne Maxwell Powell
PS: I hope you noticed how I didn't even try to rub in your face Trinity's 52-34 victory over Centre. I was tempted to, but they taught us a few things at old TU, such as it's not prudent to rile Kentuckians. I also took a class on third world film and literature, where I learned it's not prudent to rile people from Burkina Faso. Cheer up, Brendan; even Africa has a Kentucky.
PPS: I hope you also noticed that I didn't even bring up the fact that the entire Centre team spent most of the second half roaming the stands, looking for onlookers to bugger. I'm not one to judge, but it seems to be distasteful, at the very least. However, that is the Centre way: whenever you encounter an obstacle, immediately give up and start making unwanted sexual advances towards strangers. Save that for the locker room, guys!
PPPS: One last thing I didn't bring up: the way I'm going to eat your pudding. I will dress myself in my finest velour jumpsuit. I will light some candles. I will put on some soothing music, like Nick Drake or Joni Mitchell (do they have songs about pudding?). I will whisper sweet nothings in the general direction of the pudding. Then, I will insert a straw into the pudding and drink it until I go into some sort of hypoglycemic coma. I do this not because the pudding will be great; if anything, it will be awful because you made it. However, we are two honorable gentlemen who made a dignified bet, and I will treat my spoils as such. Even if the smell of the pudding burns my eyes and causes me to dry heave, I will eat it with gusto, because I respect the pudding bowl and all it represents.
PPPS: If you try to poison me though, that last part is off, and I'll see to it that every professional spanker between here and Louisville knows your name. Comprende, amigo?
Hmm, I'm intrigued how Brendan Adkins, Centre alumnus and Internet simpleton extraordinaire, has had absolutely nothing to say on the upcoming Trinity vs. Centre football contest since I started up my Rivalry Week posts. Either he realized the error of his ways, or more likely, he and his fellow Kentuckians are trapped in a coal mine after a hootenanny went awry. Someone please tell the rescue workers to pass along the following message: mine collapse or not, I expect my bowl of pudding, Brendan! Please don't make me take this matter to the Division III Sportsmanship Alliance, or whatever entity handles such disputes. By the time I get through with Centre, it'll be a taxidermy training academy.
Unfortunately, the Goulash coffers don't contain enough to fund a trip to Kentucky to watch the Centre/Trinity game on Saturday. In fact, all the Goulash coffers contain are Canadian quarters and Funyun wrappers. I'm really beginning to question to my decision to make Octopussy the site treasurer; she wouldn't know a double entry accounting system if it amortized her remaining eyeball off. Anyway, I will have to cheer the team on from the confines of Powell Manor, pretending all the while that I'm actually in Danville, Kentucky. This shouldn't be too hard, if I bust out all of my windows and replace my bed with a moonshine still. You see, I feel completely secure in saying these things because the literacy rate in Texas is 1/18 of a point higher than it is in Kentucky. Okay, that's enough of that.
Isn't it interesting Alex Rodriguez goes to the Yankees from the Texas Rangers, and the Yankees then proceed to experience a monumental collapse against the Red Sox? On behalf of all Texas Rangers fans, you are welcome, Red Sox. We don't want to brag, but we kind of have this kiss of death going (see Chan Ho Park). (also see the state of the USA since former Rangers owner George W. Bush took over.) In light of that, victory was fated for the Red Sox the minute that trade went through. Really, I say all Rangers fans give up on baseball entirely and become voodoo warriors, travelling the countryside and cursing people for profit.
This week, an athletic rivalry shakes our nation to its very core. Civility grounds to a halt as family and friends are torn apart by their team allegiances. Strangers pass on the street, adorned in the colors of the opposing teams, and promptly beat the ass out of each other. What's worse, these two strangers are two 90 year old women, both of whom love that Andy Griffith and would find the other a real asset in their knitting circle. Not this week, though. This is a week for taunts, insults, and thinly veiled threats. A week for high fiving and gasped obscenity. A week where two halves of the world play their conflict out through their teams. Soon enough, it'll all be over and we can go back to being friends. Not for now, though; this week, we are rivals.
And apparently at the same time this magnificent contest is going on, there's some sort of baseball game going on in New York. What's all the clamor about there? Boston and New York play each other 30 times a year; Trinity and Centre only play once. I'm no professional sportsologist, but it seems like the stakes would be a teensy bit higher there in the football. Not to mention the fact that the only thing that these two gay liberal arts schools take more seriously than post-modernism is the delicate ballet of the gridiron! Offer me a choice between attending game 7 of the Yankees/Red Sox series in New York or attending the football game out in Danville, KY, and like most of God-fearing America, I'll don my Trinity U dashiki and then ask for some mace to keep the hillbillies away.
Since my declaration last night that this would be Rivalry Week, owing to the football contest between Trinity and Centre on Saturday, Internet dilettante Brendan Adkins has had absolutely nothing to say about the subject. What's the matter, Brendan? Let me guess: Centre gave up on school spirit entirely when the administration realized the students cared much more about chasing their cousins around while enthusiastically strumming the banjo. Perhaps I should've relayed my response solely through stick figures and farting noises, the official means of communication for the Kentucky educational system. It's just like a Centre man to give up entirely when he encounters the slightest bit of character.
Sadly, Division III lacks the pagaentry of big school football, with its Rose Bowls and fancy trophies and whatnot. So, I hereby propose to Mr. Adkins (and the Mr. part is in quotes after some of the erotic poetry he's sent me) that we raise the ante here. Let's institute the Trinity/Centre Pudding Bowl. Immediately after the game on Saturday, the loser must send to the winner one bowl of pudding. The only thing more delicious than the complete and total victory is the celebration of complete and total victory with a bowl of nanner puddin. What do you say? Put your pudding where your mouth is, if you dare!
And no, Brendan, you can't fool anyone by pooping in the bowl.
You know what stirs my cocoa, people of Goulash?
"Tater tots," you yell in unison. "You think tater tots possess a lower potato/cost ratio than french fries."
Yes, I stand behind that. They're blockier! There are bound to be spatial inefficiences when putting them in a container! But really, you know what else?
"The guy who lives across the hall from you."
No kidding. I don't want to be on the softball team. Stop knocking on my door!
But there one more thing that sticks in my craw, something that I've kept to myself for the past few years. Every time I think about it, I just want to puke in digust. The sickening monstrosity of which I speak is none other than Centre College in Danville, KY. Every year, my beloved alma mater, Trinity Universidad, is scheduled to play Centre (more like Pooptre) in football. Every year, the entire campus erupts in dismay. The newspaper is filled with screeds along the lines of, "But those hillbillies could give scabies to our students! We've seen Deliverance, we know how those people work." Only after millions of dollars of litigation does the game then proceed, at which point the Trinity football team stomps a few mudholes in the asses of Kentucky's finest, then promptly takes an extended shower to wash the filth off.
Usually on the week of the Trinity/Centre football game, I put on a brave face and act like nothing is happening. Just another football game, I tell myself, let's not blow this out of proportion. No such restraint is shown by the Centre crowd. With wanton abandon, those yokels sully and besmirch (besmully?) the reputation of my alma mater, just like everything else within spitting distance of Kentucky. As example numero uno of this, I invite you to peruse the misguided ramblings of one Brendan Adkins, Centre alumnus and renowned Internet douchebag. Mr. Adkins, you may insult my undergraduate institution; you may even insult my person. However, once you insult the sweet ladies of Trinity University, you have gone too far. That, sir, is beyond the pale, and I have no choice but to respond in kind.
Trinity and Centre play this weekend in Danville, and I will not rest until every last person on the Internet has chosen a side. It's more than Trinity vs. Centre, or Goulash vs. Not Falling Down: it's Innocence vs Evilado. The rest of the week will be Rivalry Week here at Goulash; you're either with us or against us. If Brendan or any other Centre folks show their faces in Austin this week, I'll punch them in the butt so hard, they'll poop out of their ears.
PS: Elliott Smith's posthumous CD came out today and it's great great great. I uploaded the eeriest/best song here.
PPS: If anyone has any good juju, send it tomorrow to my dad, who'll be going through some unpleasant medical stuff.
PPPS: Don't think any of this PS garbage lessens my anger at all about this Centre garbage. If anything, it enrages the beast even more. Rarr!
I am loaded with idiosyncracies. Most of these are bad, such as the fact that I'm scared of camels (I'm worried they'll spit at me). However, every 23.5 years or so, a good idiosyncracy emerges. This weekend, at the fair, that very thing happened, and while my newfound talent may not seem incredibly useful, the discovery thrilled me. I realized that, hold your breath everyone, I'm really, really good at that game where you throw darts at balloons for prizes. If you don't believe me, ask the poor carnie who had to give me a stuffed animal when I hit THREE BALLOONS IN A ROW!
This is surprising for a couple of reasons. First, this activity is vaguely athletic. Judging from my previous forays into sports, I'm surprised that, immediately upon being handed the darts, I didn't trip over my feet and stab a baby in the eye with one. But no, all of the maimed babies that night had nothing to do with me (for once I can say that with total honesty). Secondly, I don't perform well when others are watching. I used to dread it when I'd have to read in front of the entire class. At home, when I read aloud to my fossil collection, I delivered a rapturous performance, performing curtain call after curtain call, leaving nary a dry eye in the house. Then I'd have to do it in front of my class mates, and suddenly I'm stuttering through the first paragraph, screaming the f word, and running into the bathroom so I can gorge myself on bar soap. Not a pretty sight.
But Saturday night, I put all of that behind me. Amidst a sea of pregnant teenagers there to see Uncle Kracker, I took hold of the darts and harkened back to my prehistoric ancestors. In my mind, I stood with them in the tundra, yelling caveman expletives, and hurling spears at wooly mammoths. A thunderous pop greeted each throw, but my bloodlust did not relent. I continued to throw until I collapsed to the ground, exhausted. Just as I faded into unconsciousness, the carnie tossed me my trophy: a yellow fish I named Jaku. My chest heaving, I gasped, "Jaku, you have vindicated me." I sat there for a moment, catching my breath, then I ripped off my shirt and scaled the ferris wheel in celebration. Cavemen represent.
A lot of times, I'll see a boar and think to myself, "That is the biggest damn boar in the nation!" It's not just an idle observation either, I get really into it: printing up certificates, having them notarized, holding presentation ceremonies. Well, I discovered this weekend that all of that was complete hooey, because I saw the nation's largest boar at the State Fair on Saturday and that dude was so big, he didn't need a certificate. In fact, that dude was so big, Big Elvis could saddle him up and ride him around the stage. God forbid the Big Elvis-laden boar should tip over and fall, though; the shockwaves alone would rip the flesh off your bones.
In addition to the world's largest boar, I paid a dollar to see a two-headed albino snake in the back of some guy's trailer. And no, that's not nearly as sexual as it sounds. He was a little too creepy to engage in conversation, but it seemed like a neat set-up with his one man travelling snake oddity show. Not only does he get all of the benefits of the carnie lifestyle, but he gets to share his living quarters with several venomous, nightmare inducing reptiles. I'll go ahead and make it public knowledge that if things start going badly at work, I'm getting a trailer, filling it with amphibians, and hitting the fair circuit. I'll send you chumps a post card, direct from Easy Street.
Finally, just like years past, the State Fair featured their Magnum PI themed ride. Part of me says that gets 5% weirder each year, while the rest just can't resist the animal magnetism of Tom Selleck. You see that big portrait of him on the front of the ride, and you gird yourself for a hairy chested ride through Hunk Town, Hawaii. When it goes to the big junk yard in the sky, let us hope there's a Three Men and a Little Lady ride waiting in the wings.
This weekend, I'm attending the Texas State Fair, and I don't care what anyone thinks. The State Fair is pretty much my only chance to combine my great loves in this world: corndogs, prize winning hogs, and 52 ft tall cowboy statues that talk. To me, those things symbolize America; only terrorists could hate them. If you don't believe me, find yourself a suspected terrorist and offer him a corn dog. One million yankee dollars says he won't eat it because terrorists and corn dogs are like gremlins and water. In the very near future, expect to hear Tom Ridge advising the American people that the only true protection from terrorism is a vest made of weapons-grade cornmeal and weiners.
Back to my point: I enjoy going to fairs. That statement does not apply to all fairs, since Renaissance fairs represent the lamest things in the history of the world. Call me ignorant, but I had no idea that the Renaissance featured a bunch of pasty-faced cashiers from Fry's, running around with powdered wigs and declaring to each other, "Sire, thy cell phone doth ringeth!" Such rampant weinerbiscuitry gets me red in the face. And job fairs? Man, those suck. I went to one my senior year at Trinity, and had to repeat over and over, "No, I'm not interested in an exciting career in selling Canadian yarn art." I felt like I needed a tetanus shot after a day at that place. I will not even get into science fairs, since my numerous entries on Sasquatch's mating habits were never deemed SCIENTIFIC enough for admission. Just as I told the Arlington School Board, I will tell you all now: I stand behind my methodology. Like Galileo and Darwin before me, they persecuted me for daring to dream. This is why I will never support the science fair.
But REAL fairs, with carnies and funnel cake and squash growing competitions, cannot be beat. I say with this authority because, in 1984, I visited the World's Fair in New Orleans with my parents. Yeah, I'm not exactly a lightweight. Twenty years later, I don't remember it perfectly, but we definitely saw some shrunken heads and rode some sort of mermaid ride. Although I was only 3 at the time, I remember thinking, "I belong here!" And then I remember thinking, "If I don't master this potty training gig soon, I'll be wearing diapers forever." Call me Nostradamus, because time has proven me right about both.
I knew I was in trouble this morning when I saw them outside of my office, firing up the grill. They gathered around it with bags of charcoal and packs of bratwurst, their eyes filled with the glint of determination. An uneasy growl escaped from my stomach. "Be quiet, my pet," I whispered, "we have work to do." With that, I slipped into the bathroom to prepare. A few seconds later, I emerged with a bib stapled to my shirt and a battle cry on my lips. Over the din of mouse clicking and keyboard clacking, I bellowed, "THIS MONKEY'S READY FOR HIS NANNERS!"
If, by the grace of God, I were chosen to teach a class on dramatic stories about eating, I would hand that paragraph out with the syllabus. The students' eyes would fill with tears. "But we can never top this!" they'd whimper. I'd walk over to them and place a sympathetic hand on their shoulders. "I understand," I'd begin. Then, I'd kick their desks over and say, "but I honestly don't give a damn! If you'd rather have a crybaby party than write dramatic stories about eating, then get the hell out!" Maybe some of them would leave after that; good, we don't need that kind of crap in there. From there, it'd be just like Dead Poet's Society, except in the end, I'd fail all of the students and then get fired for making threatening remarks about the Portuguese.
But the opening paragraph is more than my humble contribution to the field of dramatic eating stories, it's an honest-to-God account of what happened this morning at work. We held an Octoberfest deal today, complete with sauerkraut and oompa loopma music. As part of my unflagging support for multiculturalism, I went after the bratwurst like some kind of wolf child who's been surviving on tufts of reindeer fur and roofing shingles for the past 10 years. I ate so much, it took all of my facilities not to go into my office, turn off the lights, and curl up into a ball under the desk, where I'd spend the rest of the day alternately crying, dry heaving, and praying. Thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead, I just walked through the halls for a while, rubbing my stomach and trying to figure out if I what I saw in front of me was a meat-induced hallucination.
The Yankees vs. Red Sox playoff series starts tonight, and like every being with a soul, I will be pulling for the Red Sox. In fact, I feel so strongly about this, I will try to infiltrate the Yankees pitching staff so I can engineer their doom from the inside. To those of you doubting my ability to do that, I point to my Little League record. I played baseball for several years, but I only made one appearance as a pitcher. After trotting out to the mound and warming up, I walked the first guy on four pitches, hit the next dude in the head, and then promptly got put back on the bench. Never one to take it personally, I immediately resumed my usual gametime activity of eating all of the orange slices and talking way too animatedly about the Ninja Turtles.
In retrospect, I should've been left in there a little longer. The first walk was a result of me shaking my jitters out; that's understandable. Hitting the next guy in the head was my attempt to establish dominance over the strike zone. I owned the inside of that plate, and I'd be a bug eyed mule before I let some uppity 9 year old from Grand Prarie take that away from me. It's called power pitching! Sandy Koufax threw brushbacks all the time, but just because my own attempt was slightly more injurious, I got pulled. It's been 15 years since that fateful night, and I still think the whole thing stinks.
My point: I possess an incredible lack of skill in this area, and I wish to use it to help the Red Sox. There are a few options here. I could disguise myself as the Yankees pitching coach, so I could offer the Yankees pitchers my well-meaning, but ultimately disastrous advice. Here's one gem I'd share with them.
Listen up, ladies. All of you who want to lose, please continue pitching as normal. For those of you who LUST FOR TRIUMPH, take out your notepads and write down every damn word I'm about to say.
The guys we're facing tonight have all been playing baseball for a really long time. How many fastballs and curveballs do you think they've have seen? Probably a billion. And we're certainly not going to catch them offguard by throwing them a billion more in this series. No, I think we need to do something a little unorthodox if we want to beat these babies.
I am going to suggest we implement a policy of total unpredictability when we're on the mound. Maybe for one pitch, you toss the ball in the air and then kick it towards the batter, like Pele. After that, you could throw your shoes and the ball at the guy all at once. Then, you might start crying hysterically, and when the batter comes out to comfort you, you zing a strike in there real quick. The sky is the limit here, people; you can incorporate nudity, midgets, amphibious rodents, whatever. It's not baseball anymore, it's basebonkers.
In the unlikely event the Yankees refuse recognize my authority as coach, I can take the more direct route of jumping their pitcher in the bathroom. I'll put on his uniform and run out there. By the time they realize what's happened, I'll already have given up homeruns to half the team, while hitting the other half in the face with the ball. Although I don't like my chances of getting it over 50 mph, you'll probably want to keep some Neosporin in the dugout just in case.
If I'm not mistaken, the weather is starting to get a little colder, and I'm getting a little happier. I love the cold. Just how much do I love it? Well, if I could swing it, I'd get a job as the Abominable Snowman's caretaker. If I could find a vet to vaccinate it, I'd ride around all day on a caribou. And if society didn't frown upon it, I'd make myself a girlfriend from icicles and tundra. In fact, screw society, I'm doing the last one anyway. Instead of the normal male/female intimacy thing, I'll show my affection by covering her in syrup and taking bites out of her head. That way, I can combine my love of snowcones, cannibalism, and frigid women. Hot dog, that admission disturbs me.
There's a little bit of excitement here, since the approaching cold weather means I'll soon get to use my heater for the first time this year. Since I live in Texas, I typically go around 10 months without using the heat. Whenever I turn it on for first time after such a long break, it infuses my entire place with an aroma of winter majesty. Last year, winter majesty smelled a lot like dead racoons. It was so beautiful, I would've cried, had the nausea not paralyzed me. What will it be this year? The smart money says rotten plums combined with burned pee. Just like Santa's workshop!
If I really bought into all of this winter stuff, I'd remove my fancy heating system entirely and get one of those wood-burning stoves, so I could face the frigid air like a true man. I'd sit around it at night, mournfully strumming a mandolin while singing songs of eskimo heartbreak. Well, I don't know about songs in the plural, since I'm guessing it'd take me roughly 10 minutes with one of those stoves to turn my home and everything inside of it into a raging inferno. I guess it all depends on how long a song of eskimo heartbreak lasts. If they tend to be those sprawling, Grateful Dead type affairs, I probably wouldn't even get to the chorus before Octopussy dragged my nearly-asphyxiated body to safety. The whole thing sounds vaguely disastrous, yet I feel compelled to do it anyway. Old Man Winter demands sacrifices, and I am not one to refuse.
We all know of my love/hate relationship with Google. Who among us hasn't taken into their hearts my entries about getting the #1 ranking on Google for goulash and subsequently losing it? Who among us hasn't printed the aforementioned entries out and then locked themselves in a bathroom stall at work with my words so theycan really see what I'm saying? And who among us, after several hours of analysis, start to see something there, and all of a sudden they don't know if they're laughing or crying, but they don't even stop to think about it because THEY'RE ALIVE FOR ONCE? I mean, I'm pretty sure it's not just me that does it.
I've come to terms with the fact that I'll probably never again be #1 with regards to goulash; there are forces out there that are too powerful for even Cody Powell to conquer. Forces so strong that, if I were to mention their names, you could expect to find my head on a pike in Budapest the next morning. And trust me, the pike wouldn't be in a nice part of town; I'm guessing it'd reside at either a brothel or one of those places where they artificially inseminate livestock. Perhaps you can tell that these are not the kind of people I'm inviting over to my place for a game of bawdy Jenga. No, the only board game I'm playing with these rapscallions is "Give Me My Damn Google Ranking Back". However, since I'm clearly not dealing with lightweights, I'm trying to keep that information as quiet as possible. If these people can get to Google, they can surely get to my apartment complex, the cable company, and the people at Taco Cabana, which would effectively undermine my entire support infrastructure. No, it's better to keep my objective a secret, so I can sneakaroo up on them and get my spot back for one glorious day before they deal with me a starkly terrifying Eastern European manner.
Instead of publicly lobbying for the #1 spot for Goulash then, I've decided to pick a slightly easier search term. No longer will I jockey for favor with recipe sites and Hungarian cuisine pages. Instead, I've decided to take over the #1 result for a slightly less contested term: fancy boy. According to what I see, I'm #7 right now and I haven't even really been trying to get to the top. I figure if I crank the fancification up a notch or two, it'll be a matter of weeks until I'm regarded as the Internet's premier fancy boy. My beloved MHS Latin t-shirts will temporarily be replaced by sailor suits. My undying love for pork and beans will be replaced with a newfound appreciation for pomengranate chutney. Most startingly, I will now drink my King Cobra malt liquor with my pinkie sticking out. People of the Internet, I beg you to support me in my quest for search engine immortality. If you fail to do so, I will have absolutely no mercy when my reign as king of the fancy boys begin, and I will see to it that my henchmen dress you in only the cheapest of velveteen.
My computer desk is to good furniture as those Cuban refugee boats are to seaworthy crafts. It's no fault of the desk maker, that's just what happens whenever I try to do something productive by myself. For a while, it was just kinda crappy looking, where someone'd sit something down on it and I'd joke, "Oh, be easy or the desk will fall apart! Ha ha, it's rickety because I don't understand how to use a screwdriver!" We'd laugh into the night at that one. Over the course of the past few months, the desk has deteriorated rapidly to the point where it is now, in all honesty, a death trap. In fact, the desk is so dangerous, whenever I hear someone driving through the parking lot of my complex, I have to run outside and yell, "Please don't come any closer, or else you'll knock my desk over, thus spilling my cup of pens and, quite possibly, killing us both in the process." Let me tell you, it's not easy to run outside and spit all of that out during the 3 seconds the car is within shouting distance.
Every night this week, I've managed to knock the desk down without doing anything. Well, that's not exactly accurate. The first time it broke, I had gotten a little out of control with my nightly nude calisthenics and was knocking crap all over the place. That, my friends, is the dark side of pilates. But the other two times, I merely sat there like a little gentleman, type type typin' away, only to witness the structure of particle board burst into flames and crumble to my feet. Perhaps it's due to poltergeists, or maybe some voodoo priestess has cursed all of my office equipment (this one makes extra sense since my shredder spits blood at me everytime I try to use it). Whatever it is, someone needs to fix it. Who will answer the call? Not me. My caveman method of propping it up with a cardboard box no longer works. Not Octopussy, who seemingly lives to see all of my possessions reduced to ruins, and probably takes secret delight every time the desk falls apart. The only person I can think of, surprise surprise, is Santa Claus. So, if a representative of Mr. Claus happens to read this, let the big guy know that I'd like a new desk for Christmas. Preferrably, this new desk will be made of sturdy wood, not hundreds of toothpicks glued together with mucus, as I suspect is the case with my current desk.
Funny enough, the other piece of rickety, poop-laden furniture in my aparment is my nightstand, which I also put together by myself. Maybe someone can straighten me out here: you're supposed to be able to pull out a drawer more than 3 inches, right? Those instructions had to be defective. I'm almost 50% certain that I put that thing together correctly, yet if I so much as breathe on nightstand, the drawer flies out and dumps my Troll dolls all over the place. I'm getting awfully close to giving up on furniture entirely and just putting all of my stuff on the ground, like some sort of worm man. The egg will be on your face then, furniture industry, not mine.
Hot diggity, I'm feeling better today. Better enough to recap the Tricentennial? Even with the strength of 10,000 pumas, that'd be a challenge. Nevertheless, I'm going to give it a shot.
It's hard to know where to start with this, as the Trice differed from the past Goulash events in several critical ways. First, because of an equipment problem, we weren't able to tap the keg until the criminally late time of 8:15 PM. That may not sound so bad to you, but most Saturday nights at that time, I'm throwing a paint can through the window of a mannequin shop in a drunken rage. Oh yes, we made up for lost time, but there was brief talk of a mutiny before things got smoothed over.
Second, our most precious party tradition, the Topless Box, was ignored. Well, maybe it wasn't ignored as much as it was put to shame. You see, two individuals decided to leapfrog the topless concept entirely so they could fornicate in my closet. It's hard to generate much excitement for the Topless Box when the Intercourse Closet has already been established. Luckily, the Intercourse Closet gave the rest of us a much-desired chance to practice some amateur lock-picking skills. Boy, is that complicated. Fortunately for the nymphos, they finished up and unlocked the door right as I got exasperated with our efforts and gave the go-ahead to bust the door
down. Any day now, I expect to show up to work wearing a shirt that was used in the climax of a tawdry sexual fandango that I dare not imagine.
I could continue describing everything in great detail, but I'd like to eat a ham sandwich sometime during the next week, so I'll summarize. We made several excursions to the woods behind my house without anyone getting rabies or raccoon syphilis. We rocked the apartment hot tub so hard, it's now called the Apartment Too Hot For TV Tub. We dirtied up my apartment so bad, a leper would call us trashy bastards. Then, Sunday morning, I woke up to find my living room full of bags of black sand and metal furniture from the apartment pool. It was too cool, and I remember about 45 minutes of it.
Click more for the pictures.
Is it really a party without a chocolate cake with a dinosaur on it? I didn't eat any of the cake, but I look forward to cleaning chunks of it up for the next several months.
The kegs sits there and mocks us...
while the natives grow restless.
Sweet Sependipity, the tap arrives!
The white spots on everyone's shirt are buttons that we made. Here's one of the few created without the f word prominently featured.
Fast forward several hours. We're slamming back the Jager now, and I've decided that if I'm going to act like an idiot, I should look line one as well; thus, no shirt. Check out that look of longing in Hound Dog's eyes.
Best Boj pic ever.
Ahhh! Much scarier pics of this man could've been taken, pictures him of doing things that you could never unsee.
Wet, drunk, and incoherent: Diddy represents for the pool posse.
If anyone has more pics, please send them along; these are like dipping your toe in the insanity of that night.