Jake knows of my adoration for women’s tennis (more specifically, of my adoration for Maria Sharapova). Today, as I ate lunch from home, he calls.

Jake: Turn it to ESPN.
Me: Why?
Jake: Just do it.

I turn the channel to see Maria Sharapova, adorned in her little skirt, grunting, moaning and serving heat to Japan's Ai Sugiyama at Wimbledon. In a well-played tennis match, Sharapova won 5-7, 7-5, 6-1. She will now face Lindsay Davenport in the semifinals. It is moments such as these that reinforce why I am friends with Jake.

Labels: chicks, jake, sports

After reading this, I love the Costco even more. I usually roll up into that bitch every other week for some steaks, a case of Orbit chewing gum, assorted fruits and vegetables and two gallons of non-fat milk (and just because I have not said it lately and it has been on the tip of my tongue: Fuck Wal-Mart).

Labels: gluttony, l-i-v-i-n

It has been raining in Denver for the past week now. Today it is 45 degrees and coming down like Jehovah is smiting the wicked with an Old Testament plague. I just read that this gloomy weather is going to stick around for another day or two. This news depresses me. I think tonight I will go out like Kurt Cobain and pen train-of-thought lyrics on a cocktail napkin, cook up a spoonful of smack and blow my head off with a shotgun.

Labels: denver, pop culture, rain

I am a public urination menace. My patented move in high school was the "piss walk" where I would whip it out, amble side-saddle and relieve myself on the move. I am all about multi-tasking. And taking leaks on trees, bushes, lawn ornaments, car doors, truck tires, off of balconies, off of bridges, off the top of houseboats, in lakes, in rivers, in goldfish ponds and in shampoo bottles. Unfortunately various authority figures do not share the same affinity as me for public urination. One evening outside of Fiddlers Green Amphitheatre for example, my friends and I were draining Fosters oil cans in the parking lot in an effort to enter the concert venue intoxicated (who we were seeing that evening escapes me as most of the concerts I attended in my 20s all blur together in a glorious miasma of noise pollution and overly-priced, watered-down domestic beer). As we walk to our seats, I decide to take a piss on a nearby chain link fence behind some pine trees (the line for the men's room had a long a line). As I begin relieving myself a sawed off rent-a-cop emerges from the shadows and tells me in his best authoritative voice, "Zip it up, punk." I taunt him as I continue urinating saying, "I would probably have a Napoleon complex too if I did not graduate from the police academy." Thankfully, he did not have a registered firearm.

Labels: colorado, drinking, glory days, tomfoolery

1. "You should buy two packs. You are smoking for two now."
2. "Is your husband gaining sympathy weight just to keep up?"
3. "Did you ever see that old Twilight Zone where the giant bug crawled into a crib and laid eggs in a baby's head?"
4. "Joaquin Phoenix is proof positive that you can still be successful with a birth defect."
5. "Look at you! You are ready to explode!"

Labels: babies, tomfoolery

The fourteen defining characteristics of Fascism according to Dr. Lawrence Britt. I would argue all but one characteristic (number 11) applies to the United States.

Labels: politics

I have never heard the word cunt used as a term of endearment.

Me: You look beautiful tonight, honey.
My Lady: Aw, thanks Matty.
Me: Who is Daddys special little cunt?
My Lady: Excuse me?

Somehow I do not think that will work.

Labels: c-bomb, wife

During my freshman year of college, you could not go anywhere without hearing the song "Breakfast At Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something. For those of you lucky enough to never have heard this scourge upon popular music, let me assure you that if faced with a choice of inserting your genitals into a meat grinder or listening to this song until the end of time, you would gladly drop your pants. I first heard this lyrical cluster fuck late one night on a lonely road near Amarillo, Texas. I was sharing driving duties on the way to helping my good friend Julie move into her dorm room at TCU. As Julie lay asleep in the passenger seat, I was fumbling with the radio on a quest for programming that would keep me awake when I came upon "Breakfast At Tiffany's." After listening to one minute of this pussy band wax philosophical about a former relationship where both parties had nothing in common but the enjoyment of a 1961 Audrey Hepburn film, I was on the verge of hurling myself onto the highway in front of an eighteen-wheeler. Here is an insight into why your relationship probably fell apart, Deep Blue Something; while you were busy playing the sensitive card, talking about cotton candy and kittens and watching old chick movies like a middle-age gay man with a personality disorder, your woman was dropping ecstasy at a frat house and getting fucked on a stained couch by a guy who still had his balls intact. I was hoping that would be the only time I would ever hear that song, but unfortunately, for the next year and a half it haunted me everywhere I went. Thankfully, the one-hit wonder that was Deep Blue Something faded back into obscurity and I went on living my college musical life in the zen that was the Wu-Tang Clan. Enter this past Saturday morning. As my lady and I were eating a delicious breakfast at Le Peep, "Breakfast At Tiffany's" comes on over the Muzak. I began to panic and look around for a loaded gun or stabbing implement to kill something.

Labels: college, music, rage, wife

Ten years ago I was sitting on my parent's couch, watching the NBA Finals and eating a ham sandwich when the broadcast was interrupted to show live footage of OJ's white Bronco creeping down the freeway with a menagerie of law enforcement vehicles behind it. It is rare when an event freezes in time, embeds itself into your psyche and you can remember the most inane details surrounding that event for the rest of your life. I can tell you, for example, that I was seated in my sixth grade classroom listening to my teacher ramble on about the Philippines and his time in the Peace Corps when it was announced over the intercom that the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. Or one night in November 1989, when my father interrupted my phone serenade of "Love Bites" to my junior high school girlfriend Becky to tell me that the Berlin Wall had fallen. Most importantly, I remember that the Steve Miller Band song "The Joker" was playing on the radio and I nearly drove off the road when the girl I lost my virginity to told me she wanted to have sex with me.

Labels: glory days, history, pop culture

Mark: You need to sign up for the Gmail, Matt.
Me: I have enough internet email accounts. I am an internet email whore.
Mark: All you need is one; Gmail, baby.
Me: Sigh. You are so young.
Mark: Give me a break. 1000 Megabytes!
Me: I do not need that much space because I never save emails.
Mark: Well Gmail is out to change all that.
Me: Gmail sounds nice and everything, but I rarely use my internet accounts.
Mark: Well, it is a nice fucking service!
Me: Let me give you an insight into the internet emails I usually get (keep in mind I have a spam blocker). This morning, for example, I received a wonderful link regarding the sexual habits of lactating women. Sounds sexy, right?
Mark: Gmail would have caught that.
Me: You cannot catch a lactating woman, Mark. They are elusive. Like a Yeti. Or the Loch Ness Monster.
Mark: Nice.

Labels: /mark, im convos, tomfoolery

My weekend was quiet and uneventful. I played some softball, drank some beer, sold 1970s style furniture at a garage sale, did some freelance web design and watched a crazy bastard demolish the town of Granby, Colorado with a customized bulldozer.

Labels: crazy, drinking, weekend that was

All I want to do is smoke up, baby. What is with this annoying neighbor kid? He keeps asking to drive my car? Here are the keys, kid. Now leave me alone let me burn this bowl in peace and quiet. What is the worse that could happen with him driving, anyway? Oh, right.

Labels: bad parents, drugs, inner-monologue, stupidity

My favorite warfare oxymoron is friendly fire (peacekeeping force being a close second). I think it is safe to assume all shots fired on the battlefield are fired with malice since their intent is to harm or kill. Either way, it sucks that Pat Tillman met his end from the bullets of his own troops instead of taking twenty enemy soldiers out by lobbing grenades into their bunker while charging up a hill.

Labels: pop culture, war