Dear New Years Resolutionists

People are innately programmed to feel something towards an ending, be it happiness, sadness, nostalgia, or bitterness.  It's why everyone but me cries at the end of My Girl and why everyone loves to celebrate New Years.  It gives us a finite unit to measure our lives, and unfortunately, most of us use this to make a half assed attempt at trying to better ourselves.  In a day, week, or month, that resolution will have been broken, and mostly likely you'll be the same person you were 365 days previously. 

I was talking with my friend Cindyloo recently about how nice people have seemed around the holidays this year.  In long lines at stores and the post office, no one was bickering, or getting mad about wait times.  People are looking each other in the eyes, smiling, and being pleasant to one another.  I even found myself doing this, which is against every fiber in my being in a crowded setting.  The only explanation that makes sense is that for some reason, people have decided to have more compassion and more camaraderie overall around Christmas this year.  It's not everyone, of course.  I still had a customer threaten me to use all of his high powered Senator and political friends to get my hotel shut down if I didn't give him a free upgrade on Christmas Eve, but some dogs don't learn new tricks.  They stick to the old ones, no matter the time, place, or idiocy of the tactic.  As a society, we just don't seem to have it in us to try this for a full year, and only seem to be able to kick it into gear when we are reminded that it is a time of giving, or that time is running out, in some respect.  It seems like we'd forget to eat if we weren't a bunch of gluttons with fast food on every block and dozens of restaurants that will deliver directly to our doors. 

Why waste your time making a half assed oath to better yourself just because it is late December?  Yes, next year could be the best year of your life, but unless you are half the assholes I went to high school with, good luck doesn't just fall in your lap.  Life is going to throw giant piles of feces at you, and you have to work hard to duck and weave.  Changing your life for the better isn't going to happen just because December became January, or because you buy a gym membership.  You've actually got to go to the gym, five days a week, every week, and literally work your ass off.  You want to be a nicer person?  Be nice to people.  Want to quit smoking?  Do it, and stop making excuses.  Want to learn to jazzercise?  Be at my place, Friday at 5. 

The point is, you can do this at any time.  January 1, June 22, or October 16, it doesn't matter.  If you are miserable, do something about it.  And if it gets tough, don't quit.  That's how you got miserable in the first place, because you took the path of east resistance.  That's why stupid people have more kids than everyone else, and that's why hardly anyone ever follows through with their resolutions. 

Me, I'm not changing anything, because I am magnificent.  You're a goddamned mess though, so get started now, and don't wait for Thursday.

Dear Grinch

This is not a funny letter.  This letter will most likely make you mad.

I was recently working an event I have worked for the last eight years.  A nearby residence for people with developmental disabilities has a Christmas party every year where the children and adults come to have a nice meal, dance, and sit with Santa Claus.  To a person, everyone that attends and works the event looks forward to this.  It is simply a time of pure happiness for all involved, and everyone has a great time.

Well, everyone but you.  I was called away to the lobby in the middle of the festivities because I was told that someone had a complaint and demanded to see a manager.  You did not ask to see a manager.  You demanded it.  Your appearance was certainly worthy of a man making such lofty demands of people's time.   Your dirty ball cap covered your grey, lank hair, and a stained discolored t-shirt strained around the bulge of your ample gut in order to stay tucked into your faded bluejeans. 
I introduced myself and asked how I could be of service.

"I can't park in front of my building.  I just came back from lunch and I had to park all the may in front of the next building over" you grunted at me, sweat pouring over your porcine face. 

You were renting a hotel room where this function was going on.  Your room was in a building right next to where the event was, and parking had overflowed.  Ok, I get that.  What I failed to point out to you is that if you had to park at "the next building over, that only added about 100 feet total of a walk instead of the 20 you might have had.  These are not long buildings.  I let this be.

"I'm very sorry sir," I said, "but it's a communal parking lot.  That's why we don't charge for parking."

"You do too!" he blustered.  "$140 a night!"  I tried not to sigh while explaining that is a his room charge, and most hotels charge an additional fee for parking.  This one didn't, this, free for all.

"If you won't make someone move, I'll just park behind a few cars and see how you like that" he fumed.  First, you are making an assumption that I am in charge of parking.  Wrong.  I am wearing an apron, which should be the first clue.  Next, you think I will be willing to make someone move their car for you after I just explained that you are not owed anything.  Seeing I would not do this, you quite literally stomped out of the lobby and climbed into your gigantic pickup.  Someone overheard your rant and approached me, offering to move their car for him.  I told them they could do so if they wished, but not to feel obligated.  They gladly went to accommodate your infantile idiocy.

So, I walked outside and over to your building to let you know there was a spot.  Sure enough, you have three cars blocked in with your Ford F30000TurboImpotence.  I knocked on your door and pointed to the new spot the person had opened. 

"Nope, I'm good where I am."  You closed the door.

I knocked again, seriously considering how much I liked not being in jail.  You opened with a smartass grin.

"What you failed to let me explain to you, sir, is that the party that has taken up all of the parking spots is a holiday party for people with mental and physical handicaps.  They can't park far away, because they cannot walk that far."

A normal person, a real human being, would apologize here and be civil.  This is how I know you a scum, and a dickhead that I don't wish any happiness towards. 

"Well I have a bad back and shouldn't be walking far, but I guess I'll move my car now that you did your job and got me a spot."

Your back is bad from carrying around your fat ass, beer gut, and inflated sense of self worth.  This is completely ignoring the fact that your giant truck, which caused all this mess, was so big that you have to enter it with a step, so your back can't be all that bad.  If I was half the asshole you are, I would have hit you there, and posted your name, address, and phone number here for all to see.  I could get those easily, and would love to see the hate mail you'd receive.  Instead, I smiled and thanked you.

This is the freaking holiday season.  If you can't muster up compassion, caring, or even the faintest of human emotion, you should rot.  To even slightly compare your back pain to the struggles that those people go through their entire lives makes you sickening to me, so I walked away from you, and went back to the party where people were just happy to be there, eat cookies, dance.

We're all here to see Santa, not watch you do your impression of St. Dick.     

The Mauling of the Faithful 2014

Welcome to the third annual Mauling of the Faithful.  I find it pleasant and warranted that, during this season of thankfulness, unity, and love, that I remind each and every one of my readers that I know what deviant scumbags they really are, and that I don't think they post enough on the Facebook page. 

• Elizabeth O'Sullivan writes Perfect Strangers fan fic.  Slash fan fic.  
• Will Gulley was the Rio that Duran Duran sang about.
• Jolene Schafer has been waiting years to get her chance to be a field goal kicker for a college football team ala Necessary Roughness.
• Annelise Montone believes herself to be the next coming of Stevie Nicks.  She doesn't worry that Stevie Nicks hasn't died...yet.
• Stephen Wheeler lobbied so hard to get the nickname "Wheel Dog" that he lost every friend he ever had.  
• Bryant Rasbold has been slipping up and calling the pet store next to his work the "grocery store" too many times for his coworkers' comfort. 
• Liberty Heidmann still thinks that there is only one letters between K and P in the alphabet- Mellaneno.  This is because when she was younger, no one cared to correct her when she sang "H, I, J, K, Mellaneno, P".
• Anthony Jacob Homer wet the bed until he was forty years old.  He is currently only 24, and has a rocky road ahead of him.
• McHale Baden funds every book Nicholas Sparks writes.
• Stephen Murphy teaches children to lick every doorknob they come into contact with.
• Jay Phoenix still makes sure to include an Austin Powers impersonation in every interaction he has with anyone.  
• Jackie Chase Oldenberg has created a holiday that is a mix of Valentine's Day and Halloween.  She jumps out of bushes to scare children, then pelts them with candy hearts while screaming "I love you all!"
• Dori Gregory took her Halloween costume of a One Eyed One Horned Flying Purple People Eater too seriously and devoured three party guests before the cops subdued her.
• Chloe Buicke makes a special dish she called "Necco Wafers Pot Pie" whenever she goes on a first date.  
• Matt Lesley became a clown for one reason and one reason only: the unadulterated thrill of greasepaint.  
• Benjamin Kloch refuses to be taught how to say the word "Worchester" correctly.  He says if he does, then the Republicans win.
• Kurt Lewis has a song he sings while he eats jelly beans, set to the tune of The Specials "Guns of the Navarrone"                                                                                                                           "Who loves the jellybeans?                                                                                                              Kurt loves the jelly beans!                                                                                                                All of the jelly beans!"                                                                                                                 He gets very quiet then, chews for a moment, and angrily grows the last verse.                            "But not the red ones."
  

• Regina Harris Lee was originally one of the Spice Girls, but was replaced with Baby Spice when the other members felt that her "Creepy Spice" character wasn't doing well with fans.
• James King, David King, and Clara King will be assassinated soon by Ricky Prince so that Ricky can assume the throne.  Even Ricky isn't sure what throne that is though.  
• Courtney Freed still uses a Wang computer.
• Ted Humburg has worn the same shirt for the last seven years.  He says mesh can never get dirty.
• Jordan Riccio ate a sandwich when he was three years old that has haunted him ever since.  Nothing he has experienced has ever lived up to the glory he felt as he ate it.  In a few years, the yearning will have driven him mad.  If only his mother would just tell him that it was a Big Mac.  
• Michelle Vela is responsible for every Hitler comment on every website comment thread.  Every single one except Vogue.  
• Andrea Buntz Neiman has written a musical based on the life of Aunt Jemima.  Every other lyric contains the word "buttery".  The the other lyric is "evil".
• Karey Gelrud. Bic Pens.  There's a story there, but I am legally not allowed to tell it.
• Elizabeth Friedel reenacts Revolutionary War battles with children in her neighborhood.  The children are never aware of it until the first cannon shot is fired.  
• Virginia Fisher, my own mother, started calling her favorite crock pot Greg.  She says there should be at least one Greg in her life that doesn't disappoint her.
• Travis Shaw knows the Muffin Man who lives on Drury Lane.  In the biblical sense.
• Tracey Dolan Portwine is like one of those cats that can smell cancer, except her ability is that she can tell when Willis Kurtz is going to vomit.  It is a completely unnecessary talent she thinks.  On January 7th, she will figure out just how wrong she has been.  
• Rachael Osberger says that the world is going to hell, and she uses the remake of Shaft as her proof.
• Ashley Jean Effinger went through a Goth phase in high school, but she was shunned because her Goth name was Phyllis.
• Sarah Timmons-Marshall dyed everything she owns puce thanks to the book Summer of the Swans.  
• KC Corbitt thinks that microwaves are a form of witchcraft, and worships them with blood offerings. 
• John Mann is the last known person to speak Sanskrit.  Because of this, he has never been able to order food from a drive through. 
• Corey and Jeneanne Kehew opened a Bed and Breakfast just to make it easier for them to watches strangers sleep.
• Laura Wienand can only truly express herself through interpretive dance.  That dance just so happens to closely resemble the Safety Dance.
• Adam Poston has waited on a porch for the last three years, just waiting to yell at a kid to get off his lawn.  
• Pretrenya Williams refuses to follow the B story on any television show. 
• Jordan Bradford spends 30 minutes every day trying to teach his son to knife fight.  He's desperate to make money to feed his Cinnamon Toast Crunch addiction, and he thinks that "Baby Knife Fights" are real things. 
• Edward Eason burns down every building he leaves, just so that no one else can have it.  
• Valerie Sedai was forced to close her day care when she handed the painters the wrong piece of paper.  Instead of a sign reading "We care for your kids all day" it read "Bet you can't eat just one". 
• Libby Davis savors the winter, when she lashes together all of her pets and forces them to pull her on a sled. 
• Jaclyn Whittington tries to invent a new racial slur every day.  Everyone is going to be pissed when they find out what "Pochungo Badow" refers to.
• Bernadette Bellerjeau Cunningham once ate a Pop Tart in the shower.  I wish I was joking.
• Drew Stoppels kills Poppells.  That wasn't meant to be cute.  He is a murderer and someone needs to stop him.
• The greatest compliment that Gus Medina has ever received is that he "has the teeth of an elder Dutchman".
• Cory Schroeder boycotts Long John Silver restaurants because she says that they discriminate against chickens.
• Chynel Degenstein won't last a week in prison, and that is why she has a plan...
• Simon Austin has already aligned himself with the Mole People in anticipation of the upcoming war.
• Chelli Follman cannot kick ass and chew bubblegum at the same time.
• Keith Sechrist was the best weatherman channel 6 out of Souix Falls had ever seen until the one day he accidentally referred to Detriot as Nipple-opolis. 
• Sean Shank started a band called the Sean Shank Redemption. It is just him playing a recorder, yet it is the greatest band I've ever heard of.
• Jessica Leiby got Freaks and Geeks taken off the air.  For just $5 I will give each of you her address.
• Katie Cavallo raises attack goldfish.  You laugh now, but one day you'll be screaming.
• Nell Owens owns every copy of Innerspace that has ever been on sale in Kentucky.  She lives in Delaware.
• Leigh Angela will have her hair feathered next week.  This is only the first step in her plan to create a real life Dukes Of Hazzard.   
• Lisa McQuighan has, on several occasions, stated that her main thrill in life is to see the look of wonder on children's face right before she eats a rabbit alive in front of them.
• Handrikus Webb sounds like a kind of sex device.
• Timothy J. Lankes considers soup to be a finger food, and showers to be a spectator sport. 
• Michael Asplen has lobbied for years for NBC to bring back "Wings".  Stephen Weber has pleaded with him to stop.  Tim Daly doesn't care.  In fact, most mornings he can be found on Mike's balcony, drinking Night Train and screaming at passersby.  
• Derric Gray, Lanier Green, Laura Redfield, Cody Brown, Brian Rose, and Jen Greenwood made a breakdancing crew called the Crayola Kids.  They were quickly beaten up by every other breakdancing gang.  
• Sabrina Senger was the dancing queen until she was removed from the throne in a bloodless coup.
• Kris Webb-Flowers won't speak to anyone with the letter A in their name.
• Colleen Thomson has held a grudge against her best friend for three years for saying that Wesley Snipes played Willie Mays Hayes in both Major League and Major League 2.  The stupid bitch couldn't tell that he was replaced by Omar Epps in the second?  What a racist.  Colleen might just tell her that at the gym tomorrow.  Yup, she's finally going to say it.
•  Jeremy Peterman says that napkins are for poor people.
•  Mirium Deniger decorates her Christmas tree with dead pigeons and people's hair she buys from the barber shop because she says that "It's the thought that counts."
• Margaret Alldredge Randall anxiously awaits the day where she can be the sexually suggestive 50 something woman that tries to lure high schoolers to her home to mow the lawn. 
• Layla Asplen think I've been joking about her naming her firstborn "Flapjack".  I have a man in the hospital ready to print up a gift certificate for Flapjack Arnold Horshack Asplen the moment he is born.  He shall be a king among men. 
• Mel Curro won't answer the telephone out of the fear that Danny Devito will find out were she lives.  
• David Weston Gregory Jr. can't wait for frilled collars to come back into style.  
• Jade Marie Vega will never admit it, but part of her died the day they cancelled Harper's Island.
• Katie Sill was once so adorable that she gave diabetes to a hummingbird.  
• Michelle Trotter Milne sits down every night with a nice glass of Vegetable oil and watches "Showgirls" until the world makes sense.  
• Beth Brennan Shaw created a computer virus.  The only thing it does is puts invisible umlauts over every letter in a Word Document. 
• Thomas Murphy wishes to remain out of this.  I don't respect his wishes, or his refrigerator.  You don't even want to know what I did to that.  
• Andrew Tanner tells everyone that he was the missing son from Full House. 
• Jazma Ward has written every single episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  It was years after they actually aired, but she still did it.
• Tretrunk Edwards is a maniac, maniac on the floor.  And also according to the state of Michigan.
• Dimpy Sharma is obviously not in the witness protection program.
• Sveinn Storm rocks himself to sleep, cooing and stroking the deathray he built out of pop rocks, Coca Cola, and plutonium.
• Rose Howlett calls water "wet air".
• Curtis Evans had to quit his job at Yankee Candle to to a condition he referred to as "Scent Boners".
• Ryan Hershfeld might not be familiar to you, but you probably know him by his birth name: Debbie Gibson.  
• Laura McSpadden Belle Isle used to be a peninsula until frightful governance and a freak flood cut her off from the mainland.  
• Scott Humburg is simultaneously the worst and greatest Woody Allen impersonator that you will ever meet.  
• Stephen Ursu has 37 different names for his penis, but forgets his name some days.
• Patrick Evans eats his own eyebrows.  It isn't a compulsion, he just thinks they are tender and delicious.
• Alana Collits was raised in an artificial habitat, like an orphaned bird.  She was fed by hand puppets made to look like her parents.  
• Daniel Leneghan won't eat veal because he is jealous that those baby cows get to be locked up in little cages and treated badly.
• Jordan Free has been the frontman for no less than five failed Bananarama tribute bands.
• Erin McSpadden keeps a box full of chiggers "just in case". 
• Brooke Summers has voted for Dukakis in every election since 1988, including American Idol.
• Liam Webb needs to realize that there is a fine line between trick or treating and extortion and coercion when you are in your twenties.  
• Brian Massey is so grouchy because he has had a pimple inside of his nose for the last ten years.  Bet you feel bad about calling him a dick now, don't you?
• Laura Brockmeyer started life as Laura Sanchez until she developed a weird obsession with Breckin Meyer.  
• Mary Kate Schneider Truesdale sleeps in tupperware to stay young. 
• Erick Tirrell will never find a publisher for his memoirs "37 Days of Mac and Cheese: The Best Month and a Week of My Life."
• Dan Fox was Dan Fugly until he lost a bunch of weight and had a weird looking mole taken off his chin.
• Bodine Boling has had a crush on me for years.  I've begged her to get over it, but she still makes me little cookies in the shape of hearts.  Anatomically correct hearts that spurt red icing when you bite them.
• Tina LeBlanc says that eggs are a myth made up by the government to keep Duran Duran in retirement.  She might be the smartest woman I have never met. 
• Joseph Jiminez created a board game called "Beep".  It was burned in a house fire three days later, and Milton Bradley has no alibi for that night.
• Barbie Niva was an up and coming host on Food Network until she bit Giada Di Laurentiis' ear off in a bar fight.  
• Vicki Fisher lives in an elaborate fort made out of couch cushions she has stolen from 37 houses in 7 states.
• Lara Kristine Turner started the hipster trend as her own way to bring about the apocalypse. 
• Elizabeth Doll earned her name for her impressive collection of Care Bear dolls, including little known and hard to find ones like Dysentery Bear and Unlicensed Driver Bear.
• Kaitlin Butler Rothstein has lost more chili cookoffs than any person in United States history du to her insistence that the greatest spice is hunger.  She kidnaps and starves the judges for a week before every competition.  
• Megan McGilloway runs a bathtub Ecto Cooler speakeasy out of her basement.
• Heidi Hartshorn believes that she was born to be the love interest in a superheroine movie.  She has since become very good at getting tied to bridges and falling in love with the wrong kind of guy.  We have a date later this week.
• Helen Dowling feels that Journey has let her down.  They told her not to stop believing, but they never specified in what.  Now she doesn't know what to believe or who to trust, and has turned to a life of crime.
• Lindsay Robibero Scully reenacts the boom box scene from Say Anything to elderly people.  She does it while blasting "Cum On Feel The Noise" and brandishing a pistol though.
• C.J. Sellers ever wanted to be a garbageman, but sometimes, a calling just finds you.  Other times you get drunk right before the SAT's and your uncle has to bail you out by getting you a job with the county when your dad goes ballistic.  
• Denise Flanagan-Doyle still uses Internet Explorer as her primary browser, even though she knows better.
• Tom Barnes was the first person ever rick rolled.  He will carry that shame to his grave.
• Kevin Kiley has a condition he calls the "sleep poops".  It is ten times more horrifying than it sounds.
• Lisa Burkman Solier loves her lime green velour jumpsuit more than anything.
• Joel Van Goor was the third Bosom Buddy, but he tested even worse than Peter Scolari.
• Nina Coderre will never admit it to herself, but last Thursday was the greatest day in her life, and it really is all downhill from here.
• Andi Kttn needs to buy a vowel and some yarn.
• Vineta Byrd has attempted to start a cult following around the movie "Dante's Peak".  She has used $3 million of the taxpayer's money to do so.
• InSung Yoo and Travis Humburg created a delicious chocolately drink.  Travis proposed they used their last names and call it Yoo Hu.  InSung wanted to call it "Eye Gunk".  Unfortunately, Travis is scared of InSung, and now they are both bankrupt.  Insung's wife Catherine Chow Yoo didn't fare much better with her product "Cat Chow", a vitamin snack for the elderly.
• Stephanie Marie O'Brien feeds strangers at restaurants like she is a momma bird.
• Jessica Emerson has been shot with a speargun on six different occasions, yet she refuses to stop wearing sharkskin. 
• Ben Carioso's time as an amateur bee keeper came to an end last Thursday when he mistook a jar of honey for his hair gel. 
• Jacqueline Leslie Miller's favorite dinner is boiled chicken and plain white bread.  Anything else is too spicy and brings out her "urges".
• Christopher Neu created a dish consisting only of cooked spaghetti and white chocolate chips, meant to be eaten with your hands.  Again, I wish I was joking.
• Teresa Dupuis has a very fun name to say.  Dupuis.  Dupuis.  Du-puis.  Dooooooo-pwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.  It's lost all meaning.
• David Wendig was arrested in 1989 for public urination.  It was thrown out of court because he urinated on Keith Richards, and Keith Richards loved it.
• Chris Biller watches movies on Betamax because he says it just "feels right".
• Antonia Segura is a fun name as well, but more in the supervillain way.  His path has been laid.
• Sarah Ogle will also live up to her name, and MY EYES ARE UP HERE, LADY.
• Reggie Gilbert will never leave this room again.  He just got up and tried to leave.  Sucker.  
• Lisa Fretz has been crowned the Greatest Scratcher by all of her cats.  The vote will later be overturned when it is found out they were forced to vote under duress.
• Natalie Litofsky has unsuccessfully tried to incorporate the phrase "I don't cotton to that" into her everyday life for seven years.  
• Nicole Ann Forrosuelo was born with hands for feet, which explains her extremely creepy foot fetish.
• Ellen Kathryn has never thanked me for saving her life.  I could have hit her with my car, but I talked myself out of it.
• Theresa DeLizza wants to dance with somebody, but god help us all if she feels the heat from somebody.   
• Heather Davidson Friel swallows pennies to freak out the TSA.
• Sharon Rothblum Schlenger likes to drop it like it's hot, and that's how she lost her job at the pet store.
• Col Kpati has never been the same since a tragic game of "Red Light, Green Light" where he never heard them say Green Light again and stayed in placed for seven days. 
• Michelle Bailey doesn't understand why she can't seem to replicate McDonald's secret sauce at home.  The closest she ever came to it was using Play dough and eyebrow hair.  She is not a good cook.
• Timothy Dodge was always the first out in dodgeball thanks to his hubris.
• Monica Cavanaugh is seen as the Grim Reaper of Peeps. 
• Nancy Fisher North was the inspiration for both Patrick from Spongebob Squarepants and Murock from Macguyver.
• April Baymer refuses to admit that the month of July exists.
• Mike Muszynski learned to kiss on a life sized cardboard advertisement he took from a dumpster behind Blockbuster.  Gary Sinese was a gentle tutor.
• Chris Law has standards.  For instance, he will not eat any food that has been in a trash can for longer than five days.
• Nicole Blankenship is not a sea captain.  She has no power to marry you, and she cannot pilot your yacht, no matter what she says.  
•  Ryan Protos is still good friends with his ex wife, Angela Bassett.  
• John Beasley needs to buy some curtains, or at least some pajamas.  
• Niahm O'Sullivan feels that there is a very real connection between her bloodlust and flannel sheets.  
• Karen Donnelly is racist against giraffes. 
• William Booz turned himself in to the police for a hit and run.  He is a little too literal to use bumper cars.
• Lynne K. Fletcher colors her face with highlighters to express her moods.  
• Rafa Madero hates Falco for beating him to recording "Rock Me Amadeus".
• Jamie Doud Latsko plans to kickbox a panda bear for charity.  The charity is Punches for Pandas, a nonprofit she started last week.
• Aoife Kirwan sends a letter to her grandmother every week.  Typically they are ransom notes.
• Michael Winchell is the only known Cleveland Browns fan in existence.  
• Becky Bradford has gotten every word of every lyric that the band Toto has ever written tattooed on the inside of her belly button.
• Hanna Gribble cannot understand anyone when they speak.  All she hears is the 1993 hit single "Pocket Full of Kryptonite" by the Spin Doctors. 
• Anela Collazo has just found spandex, and her life will never be the same.
• Christina Courts is still scared of The Nothing in the Neverending Story.  
• Brad Bury proposes to every person who has ever waited on him at a drive through.  He cries every time they think it is a joke.  
• Amy Diane Holt-Arafat has spent her life carving busts of contemporary female celebrities out of cheese.
• Dbo Johnson has eaten every one of those cheese busts.  His favorites were Paris Stilton and Char-cheese Theron.   
• Twyla Moudy is the woman every country singer sings about.
• Jacqueline Slosky was one of the Baja Men.
• James Yamakawa wakes every day and laughs at the death of the moon.  Every night he falls to his knees and screams "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!"
• Geri Ebertowski is the worst Asian name I have ever heard.
• Van Zarr is the best.  
• Emily Miller spent the first three years of her life thinking she was a bee.  It hasn't impacted her life much since, except for her constant insistence that she be allowed to pollinate flowers.  
• Joe Flannigan once ate a 92 pound steak in under thirty minutes.  He was legally dead for six minutes, but the steak was free.
• Kevin Johnston call the dentist a "voodoo warlord".  He will be the first person since 1637 to die from gingivitis.   
• Randy-Amanda McGhee, your blatant use of hyphens will be the death of us all.
• Matt Slaga fell from the monkeybars in the first grade.  When he hit the ground, he saw through time.  Unfortunately, he was still unable to stop Gangnam Style.  
• Mandie Moore isn't tricking me again.
• Carol Stone has a village named after her in Spain.  It only took three months of intimidation and audio warfare.  
• The comic and movie "30 Days of Night" are based on Julie Stricker's last trip to Sizzler.  
• Jesse Howell thinks that the Jolly Green Giant and Santa are pimps.  He sees no other reason for a man to say "Ho, ho, ho".
• Christopher William Beasley will not rest until he creates a new flavor of Jolly Rancher.  All he has come up with so far is "Wood".
• JessanJerry Roberts thinks music never gotten any better since Wham!
• Tricia Boyce tells time with the metric system.
• Ramon Thompson Sr. jokes with movie theater ticket salespeople about getting a "senior" discount.  None of them find it amusing. 
• Megan Usilton sits at her desk every day, slowly singing "Dixie" while eating Chinese takeout and staring at a blank wall.
• Maggie Small Ferguson trains herself every day, waiting for her eventual showdown with Maggie Gigantic Ferguson.  
• Megan Foreman is never allowed back into the build a Bear-A-Bear store at the Mall of America.  Let her tell you why.
• Joyce Phelps chooses not to see the color purple.
• Jamie Book was thrown out of the NHL after she stabbed one of the Montreal Candians with a toothbrush shiv during penalty shots.  
• Josue Servin would like to know if you have heard the good word of his lord and saviour Gumby and his apostle Cherry.
• Gwyneth Whieldon thinks all white people look the same. 
• Renea Stecik has never had to correct anyone on how to spell or pronounce her name.
• Cristina Uribe is still going through her Pat Benitar phase.  She spent $1,000 on lace gloves last year alone.
• Janine Eller Dowdle has made a scrapbook of all of the cease and desist letters that she has gotten from Stevie Nicks' attorneys through the years. 
• Sarah Mattes lives every day like it is Arbor Day.
• Matt Stephen, Jody Lily and Jason Andrew all refuse to take a last name.  
• Leslie Somerville's favorite game is Candyland, prison rules.  
• Julie Harvey enters a diorama of the burning of Rome, made out of chicken skin and Elmer's glue, into a local middle school's contest, and every year she brings home that gold medal.
• Nancy Stange, what can I say about you that's any worse than you having to live with Jesse Howell?
• Hannah Piper Burns has owed me a copy of the movie SLC Punk! for the last eight years.  I don't even want it anymore, but it is the principle. 
• Katiedid Langrock thinks she is a better humor writer than me.  She's probably right. 
• Annie Barrett's claim to fame is that she learned to play "Kickstart My Heart" using only a toothbrush and a kitten. 
• Susan Rosensteel contends that "Willow" is a docu-drama based on true events.
• William Chris Ward dances like no one is watching, and cackles like no one will ever be able to stop him.
• Philip Walters cringes at the word "and".  His life has been a living hell.
• Keith Robertson dresses like a homeless person simply because he loves sitting on the ground and holding up signs.  
• Jessica Chappell believes the greatest creation of man is gravy, and she makes sure to drink 8 glasses a day in appreciation.
• Jodi Bailey wishes she had been born with a prehensile nose.
• Bridgett Heard believes that knickers are the height of fashion.  She will be right in 3 weeks.
• Angela Desmond believes it every time Cher says it will be her final tour.  Angela thinks once Cher is gone, it will be her time to shine.
• Jered Hannawald created a sentient robot to help him around the house.  It dismantled itself after the fifth hour of watching him sit in his underwear crying at the Golden Girls.
• Marcia Milne passes off store bought cookies as her own at bake sales.  Anyone that tries to call her on it is never heard from again.
• Steve Nickerson stabs himself in the leg every morning so that he can park in handicap spots.
• David McKenna wears a child sized dinosaur costume while he shops for groceries.  He thinks that the clerks will never deny a Stegosaurus the use of expired coupons.
• Jen Hamner Fisher is a Dallas fan.
• Tenley Martin mistakenly thought that the song "I Don't Want to Work" was her own thoughts.  She's dedicated her life to playing the drum because of this.
• Nico Danks has the "real" version of Titanic, the one where Johnny Quest saves the day.  James Cameron pays her dearly just to keep it quiet.
• Pam Profit knows the names of every member of Chumbawumba.
• Brian Rose doesn't understand why his catchphrase "B. Rose before Hos" hasn't caught on.
• Margie Webber started a poop based newsletter called "Fecal Matters".
• Dennis Fleming hates Jennifer Lawrence, but he is terrified to admit it.
• Charles Saunders is going to give up pretty soon and just start going out in slippers and a housecoat.  It's just more comfortable.
• Brittanie Bigler likes her coffee beans like she likes her men- lifeless and covered in scalding water.
• Matthew Leeper swims immediately after eating, just to mock the children at the pool who have to wait.  
• Shannon Lester doesn't understand how the "Uncle Fester look" isn't more popular.
• Epi Valez can read in his dreams.  Trust him, you should be glad you can't.
• Tawanda Grimes faints at the sight of grass.
• Eric Wilder has a glass case in his house that says "In Case of Emergency, Break Glass".  The only thing inside is a bottle of bourbon and a sparkler.
• Zach Rothstein's safe word is the guitar solo from "Stairway to Heaven" right before the part where it goes "And as we wind on down the road.."  
• Michy Aja can't understand why Maclemore looks good with hat haircut but she doesn't.
• Kate Alanna Fritz has tried every fetish you can think of, except the one we call "love"
• Mason Hudson won't take no for an answer.  Nope, nyet, and nah are fine though.
• Laura Freeman thinks a library is a fancy kind of quick stop store.  She is furious they won't give her nachos. 
• Derek Douglas has based his life off of every bad guy in an 80's skiing movie.
• Sean Murphy is married to the sea, and consummates that marriage nightly.
• Keefa Cleary is known as the "Orel Hershiser of Snowcones".
• Michael Breheny has worn a toupee since age seven.  It's been the correct color since he was ten.
• David James Lee doesn't give into the demands of terrorists.  That's what he tells his dogs every night when they cry for dinner.
• Alex Rodney Lynch was the member of Genesis that no one remembers or cares about.
• Luke Madden stole the cookie from the cookie jar, that thieving son of a bitch.  He'll burn for it.
• Last, but certainly not least, if Jefferson Starship Troopers Tolbert.  Jeff lost several of his fingers in an accident playing the boardgame Operation, but has made good use of the middle finger/pinky combo on his left hand and thumb/ring finger combo on his right.  Until the age of thirty, his main goal in life was to be either an explorer or the guy that brushes cats at the animal shelter.  Jeff suffers from a disease where if he meets someone named Steven, he calls them Stephen, and vice versa.  He says it gives him strange sexual powers as well.  For his ninth birthday, Jeff was given dropped off on a remote island and forced to find his way back home.  Six years later he was still on the island, weaving a raft out of dead and rotting monkey carcasses and leaves.  Every summer, Jeff goes to the beach and gets his hair braided and beaded, because he says "It's just what you do at the beach."  Jeff believes in the hollow Earth theory, mainly because he hopes there is a way he can somehow use that space to store his collection of creepy antique dolls, all of which he has named "Kimber-Anne".   Jeff will only drink goat's milk because he calls cows "rampant fornicators" and I once saw him throw a punch at Angela Lansbury, claiming that she owed him money on a basketball game.  In his free time, Jeff likes to draw pictures of himself in the style of famous cartoon animators, and then he forces the different versions of himself to kiss.  Jeff has never jumped in his life, for fear that a hawk will be able to snatch him easier if he wasn't rooted on the ground.  He finds baby corn erotic, and was thrown out of an Old Country Buffet because of this.

Dear OBX

OBX is not short for obnoxious.  No one cares that you've been to the Outer Banks.  There.  I said it.  You wasted somewhere between $5 to $10 to let everyone know that you went to a place full of sand and secession and nobody cares.  It's not like you are part of some mystic brotherhood of asshats who drove a car and ended up at South of the Border.  Judging by the number of these stickers I see on cars on the highway in Maryland alone, there was some mandatory decree that everyone see the dune where the Wright Brothers had their hovel, or Tyler Perry would remake "It's a Wonderful Life".  I'm fairly certain some people have bought those stickers for their car that haven't even been there.  There are just too many out there.

No, you are no better if you have some far flung retreat like Paris, Hawaii, or the UK.  You're just more artsy and pretentious than those that really wanted the world to know they bought Steak N' Shake instead of McDonalds one time and then got some really cool fireworks.   Good for you, you travel.  The only reason to announce it is to make yourself seem superior to those that don't, haven't, or can't. 

In light of that, I've started a line of stickers I call "Future Stickers".  These are all places you haven't been yet, but I highly suggest you go:

Dear Hotel Guests

Working in the hotel industry, I get a different side of things from everyone staying at the hotel.  Whereas they are out to supposedly have a relaxing time away from home, I am trying to earn a living without having to gently sob at my desk at least three hours every day.  However, guests rarely hold up their end of the bargain, making me break mine.  It almost feels like the majority of people become even more edgy and prickish when they stay at a hotel.  Normal people suddenly feel the need to be pampered and preened by people barely making minimum wage, and if they don't get what they want, they throw hissy fits and threaten to post bad things on TripAdvisor.  Well guess what?  I don't negotiate with terrorists.  Maybe they feel like since they have to pay to stay there, they are owed everything, but in reality, I am just renting you a room for a finite amount of time.  The right there is where one of the dumbest things I see in my line of work occurs.

We are very clear with people that check in time starts at 3PM, and that you must check out of your room by 11AM.  We are not a large hotel, and we have to get the rooms cleaned up for the next arrival.  I'd say 70% of the arguments people have with me on any given day stem from their not wanting to honor our checkin or checkout times.  Fine.  Ok.  I get it.  You want in earlier and out later.  This is somewhat understandable, but not practical, so that's not what this letter is about.  It is about checkouts though.

I've worked my job for eight years.  Somehow, it still amazes me every time that when people come to the Front Desk to check out, I have to ask them, "Are you completely out of the room?"  I have to do this, because there is a 50% chance I will get an answer somewhere along the lines of, "No, I just have to go back in and get my things" or "No, I'll be out in 30 minutes though".  You cannot check out of a room if you are planning on going back into that room.  It negates the entire purpose of checking out, yet people think it is a perfectly natural thing to do.  By that very same logic, I should be able to check you in at 3PM, and not let you into the room for a couple hours.  Something tells me you'd have a pretty big problem with that one, but hey, why listen to the guy that does this for a living?  You know more than I do anyway. 

Everyone lately is so damned worried about not shopping on Thanksgiving.  Do you care the other 364 days of the year when you mock, berate, and make life hell for customer service workers?  Does anyone care when they book hotel rooms or go to restaurants on Thanksgiving or Christmas, or do we only care that the good people of Radio Shack get to have turkey with their families?

Dear Sleep

For someone with anxiety issues, sleep can be a blessing.  If I am able to get my body calmed down for long enough to let sleep take hold, I am almost guaranteed several hours of uninterrupted stress free time.  Unless work calls and wakes me up in the middle of the night, that time is mine to relax and let my fragile-frankie body and mind revive itself for another round of grief the next day.  As a bonus, ever since I started taking pills to make my brain ticks and chiggers whither and die, my dreams have been much more vivid and exciting.  One of them is even the basis for an entire subplot in the novel I pretend to work on between blog posts.  Much like most things in my life, I should have tempered myself when a good thing showed up, because inevitably it would be used to harm me.

It started off so grand.  I had dreams in amazing locations, bursting with vibrant colors I hadn't seen in my dreams for years.  One dream the other night, I moved to a wonderful theme park type city where everyone had videogame powers.  I took special pills that gave me super jumps, and I could bound across the land, and hop from rooftop to rooftop.  Basically, I lived like Nicholas Cage thinks he does.  I had another dream where I was hunting monsters through a gigantic warehouse.  That was intense, but so much fun.  You haven't really slept until you've obliterated a nest of leprechauns using a coffee can full of homemade napalm.  Little bastards couldn't find the end of that rainbow. 

Other dreams took me back to places from my past.  Several dreams involve some semblance of the house I lived in when I was in Delaware, albeit with odd new floor plans and hidden passages.  I have dreams involving friends I haven't talked to for quite sometime every so often as well.  These dreams sometimes give me insight into our relationship that I had never thought of while waking.  Several of my friends have received "Had a dream about you last night, that means its been too long" emails.  Most dread the "I had a sex dream about you last night" email I send as well. 

The worst came a few days ago. Sometime around 6:45AM, I started to have a dream where I was still on my high school baseball team.  I had roped a shot out into centerfield and somehow pushed my tank of a body into second base for a double.  Since in this dream I was clearly the great white hope when it came to running, I took a gracious lead off of second and tore off on the pitch to steal third.  In fact, I was so fast in this dream, that no sooner had I leapt from my lead, I crashed headfirst into the third baseman and laid on the floor in agony.

Unfortunately, this was not all just a dream, only the stuff leading up to head injury.  Sleeping on my stomach, and apparently in a half sleep, I brought my left leg underneath my chest as I prepared to steal third in my dream.  When I took off in the dream, my real body used the coiled leg to catapult my body forward, which just so happened to be where the wall behind my bed lives.  The wall and my head did the favor of denting each other before I grabbed my head and fell out of bed to the floor.  Not only was my head gashed and openly bleeding, but two toenails on my foot ripped out as my foot pushed off the bed.  I lay on my back, on the carpet, dazed and bleeding from my head and foot.  I could only assume I'd been thrown out and disgraced the team. 

That's right, I even injure myself in my sleep.  Even crack addled balloons in a razor blade factory have a longer expiration date than a man that slams his head full force into walls when he is supposed to be in blissful slumber. 

Dear Neil Gaiman

As a famous author, it is your job to let me know whether you are a good writer or not.  I tell people all the time that I am the best at writing, so that they can use their time reading my excellent work instead of debating my greatness.  I do this, because I care about my readers.

I read your book "Good Omens" in college.  It was good.  Really damned good.  Good enough that my roommate Scotty Bob, who lent me the book, and I aped the style for a theater scene we needed to write.  Thievery is the sincerest form of flattery.  However, since you are too busy writing books to keep reminding me that I like your style, I neglected to read anything else you wrote for about ten years.  This probably wouldn't have changed had my Amazon Daily Kindle Deal not had two of your books each for $2.  I vaguely remembered enjoying your work, so I bought Americans Gods and Neverwhere, then promptly left them on my Kindle unread for several months.    Then, when I was at a bookstore, they had a hardcover copy of Stories for $5, and I picked that up too.  It went on the bookshelf, unread as well. 

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I worked my way through several other books I had been waiting to read.  Not many of them really stayed with me, and I wanted something good.  For lack of anything else jumping out at me, I started Neverwhere. 

I remember circumstances surrounding when I read several of my favorite novels.  I was home sick from middle school, and my mother picked up a copy of Dean Koontz's Tick Tock on a whim, even though she nor I had ever read him before.  My disease riddled body strained to stay awake so that I could read more.  Many years, and several other Koontz books later, she found a new novel by him, Odd Thomas, and purchased it for me for Christmas.  I still remember having to put the book down near the end because it was too much to take in.  I remember picking up And Then We Came to an End by Joshua Ferris at a Barnes and Noble right after graduating college, joyous that I now again had free time to read whatever I wanted, not just what I was told to.  I remember picking up Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing at the library on the way to work, needing something to read on a slow winter day while watching the phones.  I read it in two days, forsaking most everything else to keep reading. 

I'll remember sitting up at night and reading Neverwhere and inhabiting that world of London Below with the characters.  I was overjoyed to find that it was both a BBC miniseries as well as a radioplay, and I devoured both of those as well.  I regret that I may have taken years more to do so, however, since the simple cover gave no indication at the greatness that lay within. 

Had you taken the time to write me, call, or just name the book, "Hey Greg, You'll Love This", perhaps I could have arrived at this point some ten years ago, and been all the more happy for it.  No, you didn't though.  You were lazy, and I have so much lost time to make up.  Not to say that I automatically went ahead and read American Gods when I was finished.  That and Stories are still on the backburner, because you haven't told me to read them, and I never learn my lesson. 

Dear Audience at the Mike Birbiglia show

Much like morons who talk and make noise through a movie, I have no respect for someone who goes to a show or play and disrespects those onstage.  You paid money to see this a professional do their job, so why do you feel the need to interject your own "wit" every few minutes, or get up to get another beer every half hour?

I spent a good bit of money to go see one of my favorite comedians, Mike Birbiglia, at the Warner Theater in DC last night.  DC folk think that since I come from the Eastern Shore, I must be some sort of Podunk redneck that can't handle the city life.  The rednecks on the Shore put the mouth breathers in DC to shame in the manners department.  I should have been wary when the line at every beer stand was at least thirty people deep.  I should have been more wary that doors opened at 7PM, the show started at 8PM, and at 8:10 people were still filing in, talking loudly, and dicking around. 

The opening act had to deal with more and more people wandering in to find their seats.  There was a large sign at the entrance telling people that if they arrived late, they would not be allowed to sit until a set break time.  The Warner Theater staff decided that they must have been drunk themselves when they posted that, because repeatedly ushers with flashlights kept ringing people in all the way through the opening act. 

Finally, Birbiglia took the stage, and people still hadn't all taken their seats.  To his credit, he was quick to point this out.  "Well, I was here on time" he intoned to the people in the front row showing up 15 minutes into the set.  He then would stop his act whenever anyone was coming down the aisle and sarcastically thank them for coming to the show. 

This wasn't enough for the crowd though.  Trying to ruin the night of one of the most genial comics around suddenly became the united goal of the crowd.  Three rows behind me, a drunken frat troll from UMD began screaming "MIKE BIRBIGLIA" anytime there was silence.  Apparently , this cretin's $40,000 a year college experience failed to help him understand that comedy is a fragile thing that depends largely upon timing and delivery.  When both of those are interrupted by a backwards hat wearing pillow humper, it ruins the experience for everyone.  Birbiglia pointed out how ludicrous it was that this pillar of academia could think of no better heckle than the scream his name, and the grunting dillweed drunkenly murmured in self satisfaction for a few minutes.  He grew listless being out of the spotlight soon, and started yelling again.  Wisely, Birbiglia started to ignore him.  Frantic that his newfound fame was slipping away, the drunken crapweasel pleadingly degenerated his yell, until it was almost unintelligible.  By the end of the set, he was screaming "Mym Berblglera", most likely while high fiving the other members of his high school lacrosse team that he brought with him.

Next, a woman's cell phone went off.  Rather than quickly mute the call, she thought it was best to answer it, then loudly exclaim, "Hey!  I'm at a comedy show!" for all to hear, because nothing else had been nearly ludicrously ignorant enough up to this point.   

The final straw of the night came because of the ignorance of the venue itself.  As I stated, they were selling beer.  Ok, fine.  Let the asshats get drunk.  Problem is, they were selling very large glass bottle of beer.  Anyone ever loosely associated with something I can "rational thought" might realize that giving out glass bottles to an event that is largely based around hundreds of people being able to hear what one person was saying might be a bad idea.  Time after time, someone would stand up to go buy another beer in the middle of the set, and they would end up kicking their empty bottle.  It would spend roughly the next six minutes and thirteen seconds rolling down the aisle, pinging and clicking on everything it passed.  After the fifteenth time this happened, Mike simply lay down on the stage, wishing himself away to a place where people have even a modicum of social grace or respect. 

Bottom line is, Mike Birbiglia has never gone down to the Dairy Queen and screamed "DILLY BAR" at you until he was hoarse.  He has never gone to the Hooters your mother works at and completely ignored her while she tried to tell him what the specials are, and he has not banged pots and pans while you try to check people out at Walmart.  That being said, why would you go to the place where he works and be an ignorant fool?

Dear Betty Rucker

 I barely remember what you look like, except that you were impossibly short and small and that you would never answer the telephone.  That doesn't tend to work well for sales people.  You probably worked with me for about two months, which was just long for them to order you a giant box of business cards which sat on your old desk for quite some time in your absence. 

I found myself at that desk for some mundane reason one day, whether to update the computer or steal a stapler.  What I found was a giant box of business cards for a woman I never particularly liked.  Those cards instantly became mine.  For what, you may ask, did I need business cards with the words "Betty Rucker, Sales Manager" on them?  I get bored easily, for one and also, madam, to make it rain. 

Every coworker I passed would get a hearty handshake, and in that handshake would be a card.  I'd use my deepest voice and tell them, "Hey there, Betty Rucker, good to meet you."  "Hey, Betty Rucker, how's it hangin?"  "Yo soy Betty Rucker.  Necessito un tortuga mas grande."

Betty Rucker was entered into every business card giveway in every fishbowl in every restaurant in the county.  You should thank me, because you've probably eaten like a queen thanks to me.  I scratched out the company logo and contact into so the cards just read "Betty Rucker, Sales Manager" as if you managed all the sales of everything.  Those cards were left everywhere.  People who shopped at a particular Barnes and Noble would find them in their the copies of "50 Shades of Gray" they kept hidden from their families.  Every copy of "Civil War Enthusiast" carried your card as an insert.  They were left in pairs of shoes at Nordstroms, in the pocket of chinos at Old Navy, and I even donated a dollar to charity so I could tape one to a sunny cloud at Rita's Water Ice. 

I'd like to say you had done something in particular to make me single you out, but the cards were there, and you were not.  So, it happened, and I really hope you've seen one. 

Dear Honda

Yesterday, I got up at 5:30AM.  I worked a 12 hour day setting up and tearing down meeting rooms and a wedding reception.  Tired, sore, and very hungry, the only thing I wanted to do was to get home, have dinner, and fall asleep in my recliner. I live exactly 14.9 miles from work.  On a good day, I get home in 20 minutes.  Of course, this wouldn't be a good day.

Two miles from work, I get behind a hulking beast of middle aged mediocrity, the Honda Odyssey.  Since Ford stopped making the Aerostar, Honda has cornered the market on cattle cars for families.  I have a theory that if you are stuck behind a slow movie vehicle, chances are that car will either be an Odyssey being driven by a soccer mom or dad, or a Prius being driven by the kind of prick that buts a Prius.  Pay attention some time.  You'll be surprised how often I'm right.

This one must have been hauling the cast of the now deceased Honey Boo Boo show, because it was moving ten miles an hour under the speed limit.  Myself and seven other cars had to follow this jackhole for three miles before there was a passing lane, at which point I passed with extreme prejudice.  That means I honked at him while passing and probably flipped him the bird.  Probably.


I only made it another mile or so before I caught up to another car, this one wavering between five to ten miles an hour under the limit.  This car, yet again, was an Odyssey being driven by a middle aged woman with a bitching top ponytail going.  On top of being a lousy driver, she was also talking on her cell phone, I'm sure about how little regard she has for other's time or well being.  I couldn't pass her for another mile or so, and at this point, my drive had been held up a good seven or eight minutes over a usual drive.  Clearly irritated, I gave her a thumbs up as I passed.  She ignored me as she gabbed over her Galaxy S4bitch. 

Finally, I was in the home stretch.  I had one turn to make at a stoplight, and then three miles to home.  I had to stop at the light, and a car creeped through the intersection before I got the green.  A stream of "No no no no no no butt no" poured from my mouth.  My luck, a third asshat mobile Odyssey.  This one was practically speeding at three miles under the limit.  That breakneck speed brought my to a mile from my house until he pulled to a turn lane.  Surprisingly, this was a twenty some year old man with a neckbeard.  Clearly, the backseat of this Odyssey was now a mattress strained with the tears of hookers that regret the choices they've made.  He slowly bopped his head to some Ani DiFranco song that only he could hear, turning into whatever den of sadness and stained Homes and Better Gardens magazines that he had fashioned out of his townhouse. 

I made it home in over half an hour.  That's one and a half times longer than need be.

Please Honda, do something about this.  Only you can stop this mayhem.  Make these cars unable to operate under 55 mph, or at least let them expel some kind of gas from the vents that lets the driver have some sort of compassion towards those around them.  We're dying out here, a slow, slow, painfully crawling death. 

Dear Old Lady That Tried to Kill Me

Merge lanes are for merging.  They are used so that you don't have to stop at a stop light in order to gain access to a major roadway.  At the worst, you may have to slow down slightly in order to fit into the new traffic.  At best, like it was around 8PM the other night when you tried to murder me, you can zoom right in, because there is absolutely no traffic around. 

So, foolish me, as I maintained a fairly steady pace, some twenty to thirty yards behind you, I turned to verify that no, there were no cars on route 50, the road we were both attempting to merge onto.  I was driving out to see my lady friend.  The pickup truck between us was heading for a late dinner.  You were trolling the highways to up your death count.  In the two seconds I had looked to the left to check traffic, you had slammed on your brakes, ostensibly because you mistook your cataracts for a truck blocking the road.  The pickup behind you was able to veer to the left slightly, just missing your bumper.  I turned back in time to hit my brakes, lessening my speed enough so that I merely obliterated my front bumper, instead of just atomizing it. 

Dazed, I realized the truck driver was standing at my window, asking if I was ok, and telling me if I could to drive my car our of the roadway.  His truck was up ahead, trailer hitch bent towards the ground.  You had taken the opportunity in all of the chaos and confusion to turn yourself and your car into a giant bat and fly away cackling into the night, lest the police question you when they show up.

I suppose I should thank you.  In the end, you gave me something.  No, not the $12,000 in damages to the car I bought five months ago and had paid off two weeks ago.  No, you didn't give me the rental car I'll be driving for the next month, which is a "I'm better than you" freaking PRIUS.  No, it's not the broken watch, broken cell phone, and missing Rocketeer action figure.  What you gave me was bruising up the left side of my body and shoulder, bruising across the waist and clavicle, a cut up my head, and a dislocated thumb.  Why should I thank you for that?  Because it should have been so much worse. 

What you gave me is the realization that I am unbreakable.  Even after being in that bad of a car crash, I still have never broken a bone.  I am invincible.  I am the night.  Unfortunately for me, I don't have a Mr. Glass for an arch nemesis.  I have an elderly lady who should be in jail for fleeing the scene of an accident that she caused, but that doesn't matter. 

Why? 

Because I cannot be broken.  I am forever.  There can be only one, and it will not be you. 

Dear New Ska Bands

It's been nigh on seventeen years since ska hit it big on the mainstream.  I was, and am, still a big fan.  However, the bands I listened to have either broken up or become so diluted with band members leaving and what can only be explained as sharp declined in the quality and quantity of groupies that their stuff doesn't grab me anymore.  The last ska show I saw was in 2005, right before the Bosstones went on hiatus.  That event is telling of how the current scene seems to be nothing but a caricature of the one I grew up on.  The Bosstones were the classiest of them all.  All in suits or tuxes, always looking good, song with hooks, and songs that just got you moving. 

I had gone to the Warped Tour every year from high school into college, until I looked old enough that everyone simply assumed I was a narc, and no one at the shows would come near me.  It got about as old as I felt, so I stopped going.  Somewhere in the intervening decade, the ska scene has gone back underground.  I hadn't heard a new band in years, until I wistfully decided to check out the lineup of this year's Warped Tour.  Out of twenty or thirty acts, only two were billed as ska bands.  Less Than Jake, who last put out a good album when I had a full head of hair, and a new band, called Beebs and Her Moneymakers.  I took to Youtube, hoping to find a new good band.  What I got was bland dreck that was dangerously verging upon mocking the old scene.

A big thing with ska has always been checkered things.  I had a checkered pickguard on my old guitar, and a checkered border along my bass.  It symbolized race unity.  As I watched a video of this band, I noticed the EVERY. SINGLE. BANDMEMBER. was decked out in some sort of checkered suit or clothing.  If they moved around enough, someone was liable to get a seizure.  It wasn't just for one video.  This was apparently "their thing".

I began clicking through the suggested links to the righthand side of their video, and found more and more new ska bands that had an overwhelmingly innocuous and bland sound, and every one of them were dressed like checkered monkeys.  None had the energy of Reel Big Fish, or the speed of Less Than Jake, or the class of the Bosstones.  There wasn't anyone even getting by on raw talent like Save Ferris, or unabashed fun like the Aquabats.  They were doing things by some trite formula, and it sucked the fun from every song.

How to have a successful ska band in 2014:
1.  Must have the word Ska somewhere in the name, so that everyone knows we are a ska band.
2.  Everything must be checkered, in case people didn't know we were a ska band from our name Doh-re-me-Ska-so-lah-ti-doh.
3.  Unenthusiastic dancing is a must.
4.  Try to get someone from one of the old ska bands to sing halfheartedly on a track.  We will use their fame to our advantage.
5.  Whatever you do, remember, don't have fun, but make it look like you are.  This will usually end up with you wearing a stripper's dead eyed smile.

Dear Tee Fury

When I saw your special "Mystery Grab Bag T-Shirt Sale", I liked my odds.  There were no less than three Supernatural shirts, a couple of Cap tees, and an Arrow tee.  In fact, looking through the assortment of possible shirts I might be sent, I saw only a few I would refuse to wear.  So, of course, when the shirt finally arrived, I got one of those.  It was from a program I have never seen, it was a brown shirt, which I don't wear, and the graphic was not even ironically bad.  So, I decided that this shall not be.  I was informed that I could have store credit should I mail the shirt back.  From postage receiving and returning, I would have already doubled the cost of the shirt, but now it was a matter of principle, so I geared up and drove down to the post office.

It seems I've grown rusty in my post office savvy in the year or so since I stopped selling books over Amazon.  I was stupid enough to enter the dying den of government antiquity too close to the traditional mid day feeding hour, when the blue hair elderly clash with the blue collared working drones trying to mail off bills or candy or whatever the hell they have in those boxes.  I was briefly optimistic as I was able to get a spot directly out front, which seemed to be a good omen for low occupancy.  As I entered the dimly lit, wood trimmed dungeon of a building, I was proven wrong.  at least six people stood before me in line, and a procession of more ambled up the sidewalk.  I quickly jumped into place ahead of the oncoming rabble, right behind a tiny Asian girl bopping along to her Ipod.  That was the most I would move for the next ten minutes.

Despite there being six spaces at the counter for agents, only two were on duty.  The one to the very far left was a woman so elderly and tiny I could only make out the top of her bob haircut.  The other woman was more imposing, with a combination beehive/weave that was strategically dyed red in places so that she resembled some sort of bored government cheetah with press on nails.  This was made more amusing by the fact that she instead moved with all of the urgency and grace of a dying, drugged sloth that also hated being a mailperson.  I sat there, sandwiched between an old man whose socks were pulled up so far that they actually complemented his shorts to make them full pants, and the tiny Asian girl blaring Cyprus Hill's "We Ain't Going Out Like That" over her headphones.  She was mistaken.  We had no choice in our fate.  We were at the mercy of the post office.

Finally, I made it to the front of the line.  The sloth/cheetah, whose handlers apparently had named her Ronaea according to her name tag, took my package, then told me to answer the questions on the LED screen.  As I did, she tapped her hideous claws upon the desk, then asked how I wanted.  I swiped my card, and nothing happened.  She glared at me, then slowly drawled out, "You wait for me.  Now you go."  Swipe, nothing.  "Swipe again."  I do so, and again nothing.  "I'ma back out, then you swipe again." This happened four more time, intoned with all the fervor of a WASP couple married for 30 years having obligatory birthday sex.  Finally, she hit the right button, and I was able to pay. 

I am still waiting, Tee Fury, to get confirmation of that store credit.  Halloween is coming soon, and I could use a bitchin' Winchester Brothers shirt.  You owe me. 

Dear Waitresses

I like terrorizing the waitresses where I work for two reasons:
1) They don't work directly for me
2) They are usually young and easy to mess with.

A new waitress started a few weeks ago.  She was younger than usual, so I thought I would go easy on her, so when I was in the kitchen getting a drink, I announced it was time for everyone's favorite game: The New Girl Guesses How Old Everyone Is!!!!  She was not happy about this in the least bit, but agreed to play.  Carrie, in her mid thirties, was now 40, as was her husband Steve.  Lisa was now a younger 35.  The waitress, who we shall refer to as Slumpathus, then turned to me, and without even hesitating, said "45".  The rest of the kitchen staff felt better about there guesses, and Slumpathus refused to quantify how she came to that decision.

Now, any time I see her, I just give her a glare, and she blurts out "I didn't want to play the game!"  This won't save her when the revolution comes.

A couple of weeks past this, I met up with Kentucky Jim for dinner.  Unfortunately, he brought The Angry Scholar with him.  After a round robin tournament of rock-paper-scissors and Inkum Stinkum, it was decided that we would be having Italian food for dinner.  Once Kentucky Jim got his horribly racist remarks under wraps, we were seated al fresco, and ordered drinks.  Our waitress barely looked out of high school, let alone capable of serving alcohol.  We proceeded to make some jokes which she joined in on, and created a good rapport with her.  Through that, we were able to find out that she was 21, originally from Canada, and that she thought The Angry Scholar's head was too large, yet also hypnotically lopsided.  Inevitably, masochist I am, I asked her to play the game.  Three men, right guess across the board.  No one, even some people that had know us for a period of time, would guess that I was younger than those two, but she gleefully called me the baby of the group. 

She also taunted Kentucky Jim with cheesecake, his one true kryptonite, and made perfect food recommendations for The Perturbed Academic and I.  So, moral of the story is, young American girls have much to learn from young Canadian girls, especially in the ways of waitressing and age guessing. 

Dear Bogey the Dog

In my life, there have only been a few animals that did not like me.



This first I can remember was my mother's lhasa apso.  Ginger only loved my dad and vengeance, so I stayed clean of that mop of death.  I remember having a recurring dream where that dog attacked my face to try to get some cheese that I was eat.  I am not sure it ever really happened, so I adamantly insist it did. 

Why Matthew McConnaughey had the dog, I have no idea. 

 Then, came the maincoons.  For some reason, that breed of cat has never completely cottoned to me.  First came Sweet Lou, a rescue I even helped nurse back to health.  I was rewarded by guarded stares and general lethargy.  Later, my friend Karl Spackler would adopt a different mainecoon, Chairman Meow.  Meow is a sneaky one.  Her presence is never seen.  She is only know by the sound of scurrying and a hint of wind whipping past you. 

Until now, the worst has been the unholy bastard dog owned by my sister.

The cone is for our protection

He is some sort of mutt mix of a border collie, an Oscar Meyer train whistle, and the entire cataloger of Soulja Boy's discography.  He is loud, destructive, and about as loveable as a bad case of crabs.  Worse, I proved that he was a drug user.  I told him, "Buster, hugs not drugs. Come hug me!"  He barked for the next thirty seven hours and then swallowed a button.

I genuinely love animals.  I just want to pet them, and hug them, and hold them until they can't handle it anymore.  It pains me that these poor animals will not allow me to love them.  However.  I like to think that these are isolated cases, because, other than the detestable Buster, the animals don't like too many people in general.  My hopes were dashed when I met Bogey.

Bogey belongs to my friend Dave.  He is a mix of a chihuahua and a dachshund and all I heard forever was how loveable and loving this dog was to everyone.  Every time I'd visit Dave, Bogey was away visiting Dave's parents.  Recently, Dave moved, and Bogey was with him all the time, so I was finally ready to get the hugging going. 

Let us just say, Bogey was not as advertised.  He first named the nickname "Dour Dog", because he always looks like this:

 

No matter the circumstance, Bogey looks like he's learned that the world is unfair, and that nothing he every wanted to accomplish can be achieved.  Dave has seen this dog shed real tears when it was worked up.  I can deal with this, but for the fact that if I enter a room, Bogey immediately positions himself behind Dave's legs.  Only Dave can protect him from the giant that is clearly there to rape and/or eat him.  Dave tried to trick him, and picked him up and handed him.  If a dog has ever screamed "Unwanted Touching! I need an adult!", this dog did.  He was put down, and went back to the sanctuary of Dave's flip flopped feet. 

As I sat in Dave's living room, watching an ungodly bad movie on Chiller, Bogey sat forlornly on top of a nearby chair, staring despondently at me.  I looked at him, and he tried to sink lower into the fabric.  "Bogey", I said, "if you keep this up, I am changing your name.  Bogey is a fun name.  You are a Debbie Downer."   Bogey went boneless and slowly oozed to the floor, hoping to go unnoticed as he sought refuge with Dave. 

"Ok, that's it.  Your new name is Stephan.  Stephen Brontalewski.  Not even Steve.  You are too uptight to be a Steve."

Little puppy tears welled up in Stephen's eyes as I sat and pet the cat.  He slowly crept over, fueled by jealousy and an unflattering nickname.  The cat rolled in ecstasy as I scratched him stomach.  Stephan slowly found his way onto the couch, and insinuated himself between myself and the cat.  He stared at me, and I at him.  I hoped this meant that he was finally ready to be friends.

Instead, Stephan Brontalewski dramatically rolled onto his back in a very "Paint me like your French women" pose, and gave me a look like, "This is it.  Be gentle." 

The mood was ruined, and he continues to be Stephan to this day. 

Dear Lemuel the Brain Chigger

Lemuel is a good friend of Gene the Brain Tick.  Unlike Gene, Lemuel is an agent of chaos.  He's not happy just feeding on my insecurities and blowing them up.  Lemuel is the cause.  Let's put it this way: if Gene is the grease fire on my brain, Lemuel is the gleeful ingenue with an oily rag collection and an affinity for lighting sparklers and throwing them with reckless abandon.

Those that have known me for awhile, or even just met me once, or possibly even glanced at this blog in passing, might get the impression that I am a laid back, type B surfer type.  I put up a fairly good front, but in fact, I am wound fairly tight,  I suffer from what is innocuously called "Generalized Anxiety Disorder".  This is akin to calling a chainsaw wound a "Randomized Flesh Realignment".  Paired with an ever present degree of depression I've dealt with for years, and a skewed sense of self worth, I've made myself the belle of the ball. 

Things got bad enough a few years ago after a relationship ended and things got tough at work that I went to my doctor for help.  Like mos trips to the doctor for me, this did not help.  The time I saw him previously, I went to get a pinched nerve fixed and was wrongly diagnosed with a tumor on my pituitary gland.  This time, I was given pills that gave me all of the side effect with none of the cure, so I gave up on them and continued with my normal coping mechanism: pushing things into a tiny ball of hate in my chest that sporadically bursts on the innocent. 

This works for only so long before you are either freaking out on people in public at random, pissing your friends off by complaining about the same things that are wrong with your life, and/or barely being able to cope at work without anxiety and anger controlling your every action.  I went back to the doctor, we talked about my issues, and he gave me pills that he thought might work better. 

The wonderful thing about the pills is that they worked to fix most of the problems I had.  My anxiety attacks are down about 95%.  I can get through a day of work or a rush hour drive without my chest tightening to sickening lengths.  My brain doesn't flood at night with lost seratonin and chemicals that can't find the right receivers, leaving me emotional and pushing the ever present feeling of loneliness to the only thing I can think of.  In fact, I don't really have those feeling at all.  And that is the bad thing about the pills.  I don't exactly have any strong feelings, unless apathy is a feeling, then I have a shitload of that.  If "only wanting to sit in my recliner and watch reruns of Supernatural while drinking coffee" is a feeling, than I am the best at that feeling. 

I laugh at tv shows.  I can enjoy things still, and I can still get pissed off, but for the most part, I'm just in the vaguely velvety room where I can see the feelings through the door, but they are in the other room.  This doesn't bode well for a writer, or a comedian, or asshole, or whatever you want to call me and what I do.  This is why I haven't been posting.  I just can't get the ire up, or the comedy.  I think this post feels pretty forced honestly.

I have a choice: I can take the pills and be a bit less of a miserable person, or stop taking them to try to be a bit better at something I am good at and that I enjoy.  For the time being, I am taking the pills.  I'll keep trying to write this blog, and hopefully it's still something people want to read.  I hope so, but I couldn't even do something as meaningful and powerful as Allie Brosh did with her Hyperbole and a Half admittance of depression. 

What I can say is that if I have a choice where I am not sitting in bed a night and trying to remember the last woman that actually showed me affection, or who the last person that wasn't family was that said they loved me and actually meant it was, but I'm just worse at writing this blog that hasn't gotten me famous in three years, I'll finally try to be happy for once.

Hopefully you're all down with that too.

I'll try to be funny again next week, I promise. 

Dear Woodstown, New Jersey

I've written once about my recent trip to America's playground, but this trip has warranted a second letter.  As I drove behind a wonderfully ignorant driver down a single lane stretch of route 40, I had plenty of time to look at the scenery as we drive 10 miles under the speed limit.  I had an even clearer view of everything with the car widows open as I tried to try to alleviate the meat sweats I had gotten from the generous lunch portions at the Woodstown diner.  I had a good look at the goon vamping shirtless in from of the giant cowboy in front of the Cowtown Rodeo, his children embarrassed and waiting to throw water on him for the Ice Bucket Challenge.  I saw where the formerly abandoned and creeptastic strip club Sensual Desires had reopened, under the appropriate name Pole Positions.  But the thing that caught my eye, and nearly caused me to brake my car in the middle of Route 40, was much more innocent, at least at first glance.  I saw the single billboard, just a poster between two 2x4's in the ground, that stated "Haunted Paintball Hayride".  Other than the words, there was just one picture.  That picture was a zombie.

This was just outside the limits of Woodstown, New Jersey, a town I had previously known to show perhaps the most vibrant and patriotic display of town Halloween spirit I had ever seen since my childhood.  This is now the town that has stolen my heart.

I love Haunted Hayrides.  My friends and I did one on Halloween my senior year of highschool, and I still remember the night fondly thirteen years later.  I've never played Paintball, but I love laser tag and the shooting range, so I think this is a safe bet that my enthusiasm will translate.  So, when you ask me if, during my favorite holiday season of the year, would I like to ride a slow moving conveyance through a dark and spooky landscape, where zombies will attack and I get to actually shoot them?

I'm sorry, I passed out due to the lack of blood in my brain due to the massive erection I was just given.

Dear Cute Girl at the Bar

Poor innocent me was minding my own business, spending time at an outdoor bar with my sister and my friend Cindyloo.  Cindyloo and my sister, being tremendous lushes, left me alone at the table, sipping on my cola, as they went to search for tequila and a funnel.  Point being, I was behaving myself.  Sure, I had been looking at you a little previous to this encounter, but it was mainly to figure out if your hair was cut in a weird, short style, or if it was pinned up weird in the back.  You were still very pretty, I just don't seem to understand what constitutes a valid hairstyle anymore.

So, while I was sitting there, I couldn't help overhearing you since you were sitting ten feet away.  Also, you were drunk talking so loud that Gilbert Gottfried would have found you to be excessive.  Typically I would tune out your offkey caterwauling very quickly but for what you said next.

"I just....you know...it's been so long...I gotta kiss someone.  I'm gonna make out with some guy so long....it's gonna be awesome.  I'm just gonna find a guy and do it."

Clearly this was intriguing to me.  My initial gambit of coughing to garner attention failed so I brought out the big guns.  I stretched my arms out wide, making myself look as large as possible, same as I would with a jungle cat.  Sadly, same as with a jungle cat, this only caused you to look at me oddly and shrink away.  Suddenly little miss chatterbox was all whispers and stares.

Luckily for me, Old Lady Bourbon worked it's magic on you, and when we were leaving, you ran over to me.  Stars were in your eyes, a coy grin on your face, and excitement peppered your every move.

You leaned in close, and very seriously, you asked me, "Have you ever seen Hocus Pocus?"

This would not have stung the ego so bad had it not been the same day that a 19 year old server guessed that I was 45 years old. 

Dear DJ's, revisited

For the second week in a row, I need to revisit an enemy I've already addressed.  This time, I'm not angered at your astonishing lack of originality, or by the fact that you let Pauly D. into your ranks.  Your horrid masses culminated what ended up being a day of the universe holding me down and trying to spit in my mouth, and I cannot hate you enough for that.

I was able to snag one extra day off of work, and booked a trip to Atlantic City.  I went through all of my casino mailers, and found that I had free rooms for the Taj Mahal, like I usually do.  However, I couldn't book them for some reason.  When I called, I was only told that due to occupancy issues, my comp rooms were discontinued for only the exact dates that I was able to attend, but that I could book at a reduced rate.  With little other choice, I booked.  Looking into it, I figured the rates were up because on the Atlantic City air show, which I somehow have stayed through at 3 other times previously without having planned.  This would seem serendipitous until one realizes that with my anabelpophobia, looking up at low flying planes will tend to make me vomit on myself.  I cursed my luck, but still looked forward to my vacation. 

I never make big plans for the first day, since it mostly involves traveling, getting situated at the hotel, and losing most of the money I brought to gamble that was supposed to last for the next two days.  I started things out extremely well, to be honest.  I ate lunch at my favorite diner in my favorite town on the drive up Route 40.  I hit little traffic, was able to check in with minor hassle, and ended up even on the slots by the end of the night.  Even with the torrential rain outside, I was not hindered.  I had a great dinner for one last time at Showboat before it closes for good, and got to bed early for AC standards in preparation for the next day.

The middle day of the trip is the crucial day.  I had it planned out almost hour by hour.  I'd get a breakfast hoagie at White House Subs in my casino, have a cigar and play in the smoking section, hit another couple casinos before a quick lunch at the Irish Pub, then golfing down at the Renault Winery.  I'd end the night with dinner from Tony Baloney's Pizzeria, and have some cigars and a Collins at the Almost Angels show.  It would be as close to a perfect day as I can have in my sad little world.

I awoke to the first sunshine I'd seen since leaving Maryland and took this as a sign that maybe my luck was going to finally turn around for good.  As I waited for my egg and pepper hoagie, I sat and checked my emails, only to see that due to the rain the night before, my tee time at the golf course was cancelled and the course was closed.  I tried to shrug this off.  Yes, I was really looking forward to playing the course and enjoying the amazingly mild weather, and yes, I had now lugged my golf clubs across three states for no good reason.  This would not put a damper on the day.  I would still have the best day ever, I told myself over my delicious meal.  The smile faded from my faces as a cacophony of voices muted out the top 40 on the radio in the restaurant, signifying what appeared to be the Tenth Annual Running of the Middle Aged Hipsters. 

What I'd failed to notice as I'd wandered through the hotel were the myriad signs and banners welcoming all of you jockeys of discus to your exposition.  My once peaceful breakfast was ruined by a long line of potbellied, pierced fortysomething wedding DJ's discussing the merits of Pitbull while standing in line for the Panda Express next door.  The urgent need to be taken seriously was sucking most of the oxygen from the room, and I was forced to flee for my safety, sanity, and sandwich. 

This is what you miss when you stare at cocktail waitresses who end up calling you "bizarre" when you hand them your business card. 

Realizing that I need to get as far away as I could from this madness, I took to the boardwalk, only to receive a flyby from an old CeeBee from the airshow.  Faced with the choice of either vomiting outside or inside, I ducked into the next casino over, but felt that it wasn't far enough.  The faint ghosts of "Ooonce  Ooooooonce  OOOOOOOOOOOOnce" bled through the walls and through my soul.  I jumped into the most rickety Jitney ever constructed, and spent the rest of the day out at the Marina casinos, where the only Dj's they knew of were Tanner and Qualls.

My life in exile couldn't last, I knew this.  Even if I were to have Tony Baloney's delivered to the front stoop of the casino, I'd still miss the Angels show.  Reluctantly, I boarded and even worse jitney for the ride back home and dialed the pizzeria as I sat in the tiny, non Greg regulation sized seat.  After a ten minute hold, I slowly realized yet another joy was being stolen from me, as there would be no pizza in a timely fashion.  Resigned, I again went to White House, thankfully dining peacefully and alone. 

I adjourned to my room for a shower, shave, and all over gussification for the show.  I chose my finest cigars, and headed to the Ego bar.  Tremors twitched my nerves as the familiar "oonce  ooonce ooonce" started getting louder as I approached.  When I crossed the threshhold, The lovely ladies of the Angels weren't onstage.  There was a DJ rig manned by someone who looked like he'd had his hair chewed off by an overzealous goat was thrashing about to a song that, if it were named by Onomatopoeia, would have been called "FLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLORRRRP DUMPDUMPDUMP TWICKA bip Hanson." 

I knew better.  I knew what this day had became, yet I still turned to the bouncer and asked the question I didn't want the answer to.  Yes, the Angels had been bumped tonight so that some of the DJs that were lecturing at the seminars could show off their skills.  I pointed out that's like asking the best t- ball player on the field to show how they were the best at running.  It was bound to be awkward, and someone was likely to get hurt for no reason.

Somehow, in my sorrow spiral, I found myself on a deck at The Revel, which had just that day declared they would be closing in three weeks.  I sat in a chair, smoked my Arturo Fuente 858, and looked out to the Atlantic City skyline.  Some things are good enough that even DJs can't kill them.