30 Second Blog (8-7-09)

I am officially the biggest loser.

The on again/off again Biggest Loser contest held at my work ended this week, and I finished in 1st place with a final result of 21 lbs. Not too bad. For finishing in first place I won $45 and a free lunch. I haven't decided yet what to do with my money. I'll either add it to my gambling stash for the cruise or buy Staind/Shinedown/Chevelle tickets. Tough call.

I told those fools at my work they were making a mistake letting me compete with them. I don't lose weight loss bets when there's money on the line. Or lunch. I didn't even really try and I still won.

I'm the biggest loser, baby! But we all knew that.

Random Thoughts

When I woke up this morning, I immediately began sifting through my memories of the previous night like I always do after a night of heavy drinking. And as always, my general sense of the evening was that I was a loud, inarticulate buffoon. Somewhere between sobriety and drunken foolery is the happy median of lowered inhibitions and fluid communication that I long for. Unfortunately, it's probably somewhere around 2.5 drinks. I shudder at the thought of moderation.



-- Speaking of vices, I foresee a very interesting dilemma arising while cruising Alaska in a few weeks. The closer we get to the trip the clearer our spending budget is, and it looks like Steph and I will have a little less personal spending cash than I thought. So here's what I'm wondering- which of my vices is going to win out on the cruise, drinking or gambling? With the limited budget, one of the two activities won't get nearly as much attention as it deserves. At first I thought I'd spend a lot less on gambling and leave most of my money for booze. Now I'm not so sure. Reading about the ship's casino online I found out that on some voyages they have Texas Hold 'Em tournaments, and there's no way I'm missing out on that. Plus, could I really pass up a chance to roll the bones? Not likely. But somethings gotta give, and I can't imagine walking around the boat without a drink in my hand. Damnation, what a mind fuck. It's like trying to choose between tits and ass.

-- As some of you have already heard, I recently scored Broncos tickets from one of my co-workers who's a season-ticket holder. She's not going to be able to make the week four game against the Dallas Cowboys, so she sold the tickets to me. I'm terribly excited about it. I can't wait to have the chance to scream at Josh McDaniels in person! Maybe I should wear my Cutler jersey to the game.

-- Check out this article posted on yahoo. It's about a bank teller who chased down a bank robber and lost his job for it. Silly bank teller. He should have known better, but I can sympathise with him.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090802/ap_on_fe_st/us_odd_robbery_teller

-- That's all I got. Consider yourself lucky.

I am Implore You To Employ Your Eyes For This

I think my brain is officially broken.



For some time now I've been noticing that I seem to have difficulty finding the right words I want to say when having a conversation. Sometimes I end up rattling off a bunch of nonsense while my brain desperately searches for the word I want to use, while other times I end up saying the wrong word instead and continuing on with whatever lame ass shit I have to say. I used to think I was just being paranoid about this, since it mostly seems to happen when I'm drunk. Lately though its been happening quite a bit when I haven't had any alcohol at all. Maybe it's social awkwardness. Maybe its because I'm a tool. Whatever the reason, it irritates the shit out of me.



Take last Saturday night for instance. While hanging out at R and R's, the subject of Vegas came up, and I mentioned to everyone how the next time I'm there I intend to employ a similar strategy as the one Daniel used the last time we hit up the sports book (he threw down a bet on a heavy underdog and nearly banked on it. Tit was damn cool.)



Anyway, I didn't say the word "employ." I meant to say "employ." What I ended up saying was "implore." What the fuck? Why the hell did I say implore? What, I'm going to beg Daniel's strategy? I'm going to beseech his strategy?



As we were driving home that night, Steph confirmed my slip up. As always though she told me not to let it bother me, but I can't. I hate the idea that I might sound like a moron. Of course, there's not much I can really do about it. Not really. So instead, I've decided to embrace it.



Let's turn it into a drinking game! Here's how it'll work- any time you're hanging out with me, have a shot glass filled with your favorite alcohol somewhere close by. If we're out on the town, say at a restaurant or something, be sure to bring shooters with you. Then, any time I use a word that doesn't quite fit, take a shot. Now, I promise not to do this deliberately. My goal isn't to get you drunk. I just think it would be a fun way for everyone to help me with my problem. If I'm rambling on about something and everyone around me suddenly takes a shot, I'll realize I said something stupid and then rephrase it.



How fun is that? We should have been doing this for years.

Damage Report: Supplemental

In the light of the morn, the full results of last night's storm were finally revealed to us, and it wasn't good.

All of Steph's flowers were gutted and decapitated, their broken bodies left scattered about the patio. Our once beautiful car is now littered with craters, like a pasty-faced teen with severe acne. There is a crack in one of our sky lights that looks like the beginnings of what will become a canyon. My liver appears to have hepatotoxity and cirrhosis, which I didn't even know could be caused by hail damage. Aries is an emotional wreck. Now every time he sees ice he hisses at it. We can no longer put ice cubes in his water dish. Perhaps worse of all though, since the storm, Steph hasn't been able to reach orgasm.

Damn you, mother nature. How could you do this to us?

Mother Nature, You Cruel Bitch

Mother nature, that heartless whore, just raped all of Steph's pretty pretty flowers.

About two minutes before mother nature unleashed her fury on Castle Carlton, Zach buzzed me to tell me about the brutal hail storm pounding his apartment. His description of power outages, lightning scorched skies, and marble-sized hail were prophetic to what Steph and I were about to endure.

Then, at about 10:35 pm, mother nature bitch-slapped the Carlton town home. The power flickered in and out, threatening to fail. Icy projectiles pounding the skylights drowned out the sounds of the TV, screaming cats, and frantic Dolphin.

It lasted but a minute or two, but that's all the time mother nature needed to lay waste to what was once a decent looking patio.

I took pictures. If you listen closely as you gaze at these photos of devastation, you can almost hear the marigolds and daisies weeping as they die.

Random, Scattered Thoughts

-- Thanks to everyone who sent me links to the doctored videos showing Obama throwing the ceremonial first pitch at the All-Star game the other night. It's amazing what they can do with special effects these days, isn't it.

-- Steph and I was surfing channels the other night when we stumbled upon the Denver episode of Man Vs Food on the Travel channel. In it, the shows host hits up the Cherry Cricket (my favorite burger joint in the whole wide world) and does his usual routine of checking out the place and interviewing customers. While in the kitchen talking to the chef, they let him try an array of burgers that they make, including specialty burgers they don't list on the menu. You just have to be in the know that they exist. So guess what. The Cherry Cricket has a peanut butter hamburger! Fuck yeah. They call it the Goober Burger, and they also put a fried egg on that shit. Peanut butter, fried egg, and hamburger. Holy shit I can't wait to try it.

-- It hurts my heart considerably that Black Hawk and Central City have had craps and roulette for two weeks now and I have yet to go hit it up. Mostly it's because of that damn Alaska trip stealing all my cash, but it's also because of all the awful stories I've been hearing from customers at the bank. According to people in the know, our gambling towns have gone the way of Vegas in having more higher end tables available than they do cheap ones. Depending on when you go (so I've heard), it's nearly impossible to find $5 tables for any of the games. The only ones that are open are the $10 and $25 minimum bet tables. Dear goodness, I hope that's not the case. Why do all my good times keep getting ruined? First liver disease, now this.

-- As you may recall, I posted a blog a while back detailing the several bets I have going with a few of my friends. One of those bets was with Zach over which of our teams (Broncos or Avs) would have the worst record next year. Well, Zach's friend Matt heard about the bet and decided he wanted in. He agrees with Zach (try not to laugh) that the Avs will be greater fuck-ups than the donks. So I now have the same bet with Matt as I do Zach. Should I lose, I will have to grow out my hair and get a flat top, as well as keep my face shaved, so that I look exactly like I do in my driver's license photo from 2003. Should I win, Matt has to shave his eye brows off. Completely. Yeah, I'm not sure why he agreed to my terms either.

30 Second Blog (7-15-09)

Hey, guess what! I have a bulbous, irritable mouth sore sitting directly underneath my tongue. It's been there for about two days now, and it's driving me nucking futs. I can't stop tonguing it because it keeps bumping into my fucking tongue. Being that I've been prone to mouth sores my entire life, I'm not really worried about it despite its unusual size, coloration, and disposition (it's about the same size as a clitoris, the same color as a clitoris, and seems to respond in a similar fashion to tongue action as a clitoris). It's most likely just a canker sore that's taken up an unusual residence at the base of my Lingual Frenulum, but who knows. Maybe it's more. Maybe it's something else. Just in case, I've given it a name.

I shall call it Marla.