Almost everyday around 10:30 in the morning, I proceed to the corporate washroom to evacuate my bowels. I am a regular man that enjoys his stall time and building on his high scores at cell phone bowling (my lady's brother aptly refers to his stall time as a visit to the Fortress of Solitude). The problem with the corporate washroom is that every time you open the door, you are rolling the dice. Sometimes, its as fresh and sparkling as if the Mexican janitor just hosed it down with some industrial strength cleaner. Other times, its reminiscent of a monkey cage at the zoo. We have three stalls; two are regular size and one is of the jumbo, handicapped variety. Most people use the handicapped stall because it is spacious and makes one feel important. The amount of traffic to that stall is the very reason I never use it. I do not wish to share the same seat with a grubby salesperson that ate three microwavable cheeseburgers from a gas station for breakfast. My choice is limited to the remaining two stalls. I always choose the stall closest to the door due to my understanding of basic psychology, as most people do not prefer to sit in the seats closest to the door. I open said stall this morning and prepare to take care of business when I notice something on the toilet seat; a single curly hair. I conclude it is indeed a pubic hair, as no man in our office has the kinky, curly locks of Gabe Kaplan or a Jack Sikma. Disgusted, I exit the bathroom, walk down a flight of stairs and use the second floor commode. As of today I have officially instituted a floor down corporate shitting policy. Those mortgage fuckers seem more civilized, anyway.

Update floor down corporate shitting policy: I just returned from the second floor lavatories and must say that I am impressed. The bathroom smelled of a mountain spring, the toilets and floors were spotless and there was a copy of today's paper left by a thoughtful gentlemen. All that was missing was a classical music feed, a hand towel attendant and a bowl of mints.

Labels: data slaughterhouse, poop, pop culture

Over the weekend I celebrated my ten year high school reunion. Festivities spanned the entire weekend, capping off with an adult prom on Saturday evening. I chose only to subject my lady and I to the Friday night homecoming game and post-homecoming game drinks with former classmates. Here is a breakdown of said evening:

• Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight gain: Three.
• Number of former classmates I did not recognize due to an excessive weight loss: One.
• Number of former classmates who had to, "Go get something out of their car" then came back smelling like marijuana: Three.
• Number of former classmates who had just "Gotten something out of their car" that thought my lady went to our high school and graduated with us: One.
• Number of former classmates I had to convince that this website was not pornography: Three.
• Number of former classmates that look like Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan: One.
• Number of former classmates that look like Lou Ferrigno: One.
• Number of former classmates that were wearing a trendy GAP-style stripped shirt: Five.
• Number of former classmates that are working in real estate: Four.
• Number of former classmates that are working in real estate that got pissed I did not use them to sell my town home: Three.
• Number of former classmates I told, "My lady is only in it for the dick" to: Two.
• Number of former classmates I told "You did not like me because I am white" to: One.
• Number of former classmates I gave my business card to: Twelve.
• Number of former classmates I gave my business card to that I expect to hear from: Zero.
• Number of years I hope to see the majority of my former classmates in: Ten.

Labels: a-town, drinking, l-i-v-i-n, wife

I lived next door to some shady neighbors growing up. My parents are clean and meticulous people, so the house to the west of us was an eyesore, the proverbial yin to our yang. The neighbors were a poster family for dysfunction; drug abuse, domestic violence, unsupervised children, cross-dressing (yes, you read that correctly) and lacking in diligence for basic lawn care, car detailing and home improvement (crimes which in my father's mind should be punishable by death). Sometimes the dysfunction spilled over into our driveway, as the unsupervised neighbor kids would hang out with us while we washed our cars or played basketball. We did not mind much; they were nice kids and could not help that their father was inside shooting smack and wearing their mother's nightgowns. Still, you knew it was just a matter of time before the girl became a sexually promiscuous drug addict and the boy started hanging out with juvenile delinquents and stealing car stereos. My neighbors were a sad but necessary lesson to learn about life; no matter how safe you think you are, you are always close to danger.

Be careful working for Dick Cheney, Inc, cousin Mark. Kuwait City might be safe, but do not trust the neighborhood. Once I get your address a crate of contraband smut and whiskey will be imminent.

Labels: a-town, family

My 29th year on earth began with a five-pound weight gain and the arrests of Carol Seaver, John Conner and Kevin McCallister. Saturday night, my lady's parents treated me to a steak dinner during which I consumed a slab of beef bigger than my head. Last night my mom had me over for ravioli and a peanut butter ice cream cake that was richer than an oil sheikh.

Labels: birthday, family, gluttony, wife

Lately it seems like a fraternity in Colorado is more like a funeral home (CU and CSU). I think there should be a class in college called Drinking 101 that teaches kids the subtle nuances of alcohol consumption. Here a few topics that should to be on the syllabus:

• When you have lost feeling in your extremities and are blacking out, it is time to put the bottle of schnapps down.
• If you are a young, attractive female you should not drink nor hang out at a frat house. These places are havens for date rape, alcohol poisoning and disease. It would be much cleaner and safer to drink in a construction site port-o-potty with a used dildo.
• Under no circumstances should you participate in any shenanigans with somebody that has passed out; this especially includes placing your testicles on somebody's face and taking a picture. It is called karma and she is a cruel bitch.

Labels: college, colorado, death, drinking

I was required to take the Myers-Briggs Personality Test for an Organizational Management class in college. Upon completion of said test, the results were lost in the vast abyss that was my alcohol soaked brain. Now that my hardcore binge drinking days are behind me and I have gone respectable, I decided to take the test again. Here are the results. Feel free to call me Erwin Rommel, or Wustenfuchs if you prefer.

Labels: college, matt brozovich

Governor Schwarzenegger may be remembered years from now for making it illegal to have sex with the dead. Unless of course he is the antichrist, then he will be remembered for something else entirely.

Labels: perversion, politics, pop culture

Joseph Goebbels has nothing on Dick Cheney. Dick reminds me of a crazy old man in the neighborhood I grew up in who threatened to shoot any kids that stepped on his lawn for retrieving an errant ball.

Labels: a-town, childhood, politics

This summer I have been busier than your mother's digestive tract post all-you-can-eat special at the Sizzler. Not only have I been moonlighting as a freelance web designer, my lady and I moved in together after spending two and a half months painting and tiling our town home. Thankfully, our good friend/neighbor works for Coors and brought over many cases of free beer to placate my laboring ass while I was up to my tits in tile mortar. So, my apologies that I have not been diligent in finding links regarding chicken fucking and adolescent impalement.

Labels: drinking, l-i-v-i-n, the fairways, wife