O Stereotypes, You Amuse Me So

Part of dinner conversation recently:

Me: So I'm going to be heading to Atlantic City in a few months, if anyone wants to join me on a weekend trip.
Friend 1: But there's a catch.
Friend 2: What catch?
Me: I have tickets to a show, but it's not like anyone has to come with me to it....
Friend 2: What show?
Friend 3: Cher?
Friend 4: Madonna?
Friend 2: Streisand?
Me: Wow, you guys think I'm totally this uber-stereotypical gay guy, don't you?

For the record, the show I'm seeing is (no surprise to longtime readers of this blog) Olivia Newton-John. Yeah, because ONJ is totally not stereotypically gay.

Gay Threesome

A good friend of mine was visiting town this past week. Like the terrible person that I am, it completely skipped my mind that I could have cleaned the apartment and offered that he crash my place for the extra nights he stayed that weren't conference-related (and therefore paid). Oops. Anyway, we hung out a few nights -- most times much later than I should have for school nights -- hitting some the gay bar scene that I hadn't explored in a long time. I learned two important things:

1. Throwing Your Cell Phone at a Boy Is Not an Effective Way of Breaking the Ice.

I learned this wholly by accident, and it involved a boy I (thankfully) wasn't planning on saying anything to anyway. I was at 30 Degrees, waiting for my friends to show up (actually I didn't know that they were already upstairs at Cobalt, so I made a round of the relatively dead downstairs first), when I wanted to check the time. Watchless, I reached for my standby to get the time: my phone, tucked away in my back pocket.

Thing about these Razrs -- so thin, so elegant, so chic, so difficult to hold on to. I pulled it out of my pocket then promptly lost my grip on it. My efforts to keep from dropping it only compounded matters, as I ended up batting it upward and sending it soaring across the room, where it landed near the feet of some random guy sitting there with his drink.

"Uh, sorry," I said sheepishly as I bent down to pick it up. I can't even begin to imagine how stupid I must have looked juggling my phone in my hands (and failing).

The guy didn't say anything. About 20 seconds after I retrieved the phone and continued my milling about, he got up and left. Maybe some other time I'll try to do this again with a guy whom I might actually want to talk to, but I'm not sure I'd want to risk throwing my phone around so much.

2. The Gay Men in this City Can't Get Enough of Skinny White Guys.

I've reached the conclusion that this city is filled with gay men who have little to no appreciation for diversity, and who have consumed with full force all that the media has to offer with respect to what is considered "hot."

My friend and I made our way to Wet one night (who knew it was still open?) (and that dude on the webpage is scary) because he has thing thing for stripper boys. And if you're in a city where it all hangs out, well, you gotta hit the strip joint. We were enjoying watching the crowd hover around various unclad men gyrating the thrusting and bobbing (not their heads) on the bars, socks overflowing with singles. There were black guys and white guys, all of whom were slim and tone and none of whom I would kick out of bed for eating crackers....

Then the amateur night started. And I say this not to try to be snarky about the dancers, I really mean they allowed people from the crowd who were not "professionals" to hit the platform to compete for a prize. In what I can only assume was sheer fortuity, the contestants presented a virtual Benetton ad of diversity: a black guy, an Asian guy, and a white guy hit the bar and started strutting their stuff. In my humble opinion, the black guy wasn't as cute or hot as the other two, but okay.

Then it came time to vote. We were told to clap for who we thought was the best amateur of the night. The crowd (not a huge surprise) selected the white boy. (I voted for the Asian boy.) Of course, the host had to act like he couldn't tell who won, making us clap again, and this time some kind of groundswell starting surfacing for the white boy. People started chanting his name, trying to drum up support for him, as if they felt a need to claim, once and for all, that the white boy was the superior one of the three.

I clapped for the Asian boy for several reasons. First, we Asian peeps need to stick together. More importantly, though, I couldn't help thinking that the white boy amateur really wasn't all too different from the white-boy professionals who were working the bar before the amateurs started. I mean, really, after a while, some of these tall skinny (naked) white boys just become fungible. Give me something a little different once in a while. Like, an Asian boy. Oh wait, there was one, but the crowd decided to make damn clear they didn't really care to see him naked.

Of course, the city's overwhelming bias in favor of skinny white boys also explains why I can't get a date to save my life.

3. Beware the Alcoholic.

When you find yourself wandering around the city at 2:30 am in search of a bar that's still open, you may have a problem. Likewise, when you shut down a bar then offer to buy up a part of a friend's alcohol stash from home so you can continue drinking after leaving the bar, that's a bit much.


And that is today's lesson.

Spam. A Lot.

I do not understand spam. Not the canned "food" product (which I LOVE, by the way), but junk email.

Does anyone actually open up a piece of spam email and actually consider buying these things? Potential thoughts that run through a spam recipient's head:

- "Even though this is addressed to the wrong email, has no valid return email address, and clearly is unregulated and unsecure, it would be a great idea for me to send these people my money!"

- "An unregulated drug which could very well cause me disastrous health effects because it's unregulated through a reputable pharmacy for only $13 a pill? Sign me up!"

- "In fact I do need to reduce my mortgage. Let's go ahead and give some random stranger my social security number, full name, and address so he can set that up for me!"

- "Because I am a horny bastard who doesn't get enough attention from my wife, I would love to find some hot sexy vixen to take care of my needs for me!"

(Okay, maybe that last one isn't all that farfetched.)

Today, for example, I got an email entitled "You're Not Big Bone." (I'd give them props for spelling "you're" correctly (such low standards!), then they went ahead and misspelled "big boned.") The opening line for what seems to be an ad for a weight loss product:

"Yay! I have lost 0 pounds this week! It is so much easier to stick to Southbeach (low carb) while I am taking the Hoodia. Thank you so much!" -- Maude G., Miami, FL

Yeah, there's no typo there. Seriously. They're bragging that Maude didn't lose any weight at all. Sure makes me want to reach for my credit card.

What's more confounding to me, though, is how people actually understand what some of these spam messages say. There's so much extra crap in there, undoubtedly put there to defeat spam filters, which renders the message itself completely incomprehensible unless you know exactly what to look for. For example, I don't want to buy "VxIjAbGvRcA" -- in fact, just looking at that string of letters gives me a headache of the highest order. I'm reaching for the AxDyVjIqL as we speak. And no, I don't need to REFINANC3 my house. Unless your market is the 12-year-old geek who happens to own a home, that message is going unread (not that I'd want to read it anyway).

Sadly, of course, in the end spam propagates the internets because it must work. For every few million pieces of junk email that goes out, it literally just takes ONE schmuck to make it cost-effective. Kind of like those Publisher's Clearing House things where some poor old woman invests her life savings in magazine subscriptions because she "already has won a million dollars!"



I have not seen Spamalot, and for this I remain very frustrated, because I really want to see it.

Dance White Boy Dance White Boy Dance

This guy is so cool. I mean, unspeakably cool.





His name is Matt Harding. You can check out his website here.

First, I'm mad jealous that he's gone around the freaking world and seen a helluva lot, I'm sure. I wish I had the balls (and the money) to do something like that.

Second, I absolutely adore that he looks like he's having such a great time everywhere he is. That dance is stupid and geeky, but he in every single shot he's got a goofy happy grin on his face. He's clearly enjoying it, and why shouldn't he?

It's a beautiful world.

Boobies on Parade

This morning I was faced with a minor conundrum while walking to work -- a conundrum which I quickly resolved by burying my head in the figurative sand and walking along my merry way. But, as these things tend to do for me, I started thinking too much about the situation.

As I stood on the corner of a relatively busy downtown DC intersection waiting for the light to change, I noticed a nice young woman out of the corner of my eye. She was about my height, petite and trim, sipping what appeared to be a cup of coffee.

I noticed her because every time she lifted the cup to her lips, I got a rather clear view of her bra, as it supported her right breast, nicely separating it from the left.

I did a subtle (I hope!) double-take just to be sure, and yes, it appears that one of the buttons on her blouse had come undone. But not the top one. So basically she had one button done, the next one undone, then the rest, leading down to her waist where the blouse was then tucked into her dress skirt.

Flummoxed, I tried to figure out how to bring this to the woman's attention. Do I tell her that I just saw her lace-covered right boobie? If so, how? Do I feign some embarrassment? Excitement? Perhaps just saying it matter-of-factly might do the trick?

Eventually, however, I reached one conclusion, and that was that it was too early in the morning for me to get slapped in the face or, worse yet, to have coffee thrown at me. Not having much experience in the field of commenting on women's breasts, I figured I'd err on the side of personal caution and keep my mouth shut.

See, you can never tell how a woman is going to react to the knowledge that a random man has been -- however briefly or accidentally -- staring at her breasts. This woman could possibly have thanked me for pointing it out. Or, this woman could possibly have branded me a perv for even daring to allow my eyes to drift 10 degrees south of the horizontal, missing her eyeline completely.

Sometimes women react this even if when they are wearing clothing designed to draw attention to her breasts, or at least their chest area. By this I mean, for example, tight t-shirts with words on them, like "Everything's Bigger in Texas" or "Juicy". Most people are compelled to read those things, but then some women wearing them get offended that the readers are staring at their chest:

Girl: Are you ogling my chest?
Guy: Uh... well, uh... I was just...
Girl: Man, I hate guys like you. That's so freakin' rude.
Guy: I was just reading what your shirt had to say!
Girl: Yeah, right!
Guy: Don't look now, but there are words running across your chest right now, which kind of invites me to read them.
Girl: Just because there are words on my chest doesn't give you free license to stare at my boobs all day!
Guy: Well if you don't want someone reading your chest, you shouldn't wear a shirt with all those words on them.
Girl: Just go home and masturbate, and leave me alone, perv.

With me (because I seem to attract scary people), the conversation would have continued thusly:

Me: Chill out. Hell, I'm gay, fer cryinoutloud.
Girl: Shyeah, right. "I'm gay" is a cheap and easy get-out-of-jail-free card for sexual harassment, now isn't it?

Just to be sure, for reasons completely outside the realm of sexual harassment, the same analysis applies to men. I can never tell whether to tell a guy his fly is down for fear that they'll wonder why I was staring at their package to begin with. This took a particularly uncomfortable turn when, at a work conference several years ago, a colleague of mine returned from the restroom with part of his shirt, otherwise tucked into his pants, protruding from his wide-open zipper. How was I supposed to tell him? Would that have been better or worse than having him suffer the embarrassment of many many many people seeing it before he noticed it himself? (Aside: he is a rather overweight guy, if you catch my drift, so I'm not sure he would have seen it himself for quite a while.)

So this is why I ended up keeping my eyes straight and, and mouth shut, on that corner this morning.

And for the record, sometimes I do go around just checking out random guys' packages.

Birthday

Today is my brother's birthday. I'd say Happy Birthday to him, but he became a Jehovah's Witness several years ago. They don't celebrate birthdays.

I've always considered my brother to be kind of a Wally Cleaver figure in my life. Not that I was a Beaver, of course (snicker), but Wally was, well, the coolest older brother ever. Well, second only, of course, to my brother.

My brother's the kind of guy who would do anything for me. He's a good part of the reason I'm a spoiled younger brother. When he and his friends hung out, I wanted to go with them, and he let me, even though his friends probably didn't really want me to tag along quite so often. At a very early age, he helped me sate my curiosity with his schoolwork, so that I knew how to do long division way before any of my peers did. (Of course, no one in subsequent generations knows how to do it anymore.) We used to spend all kinds of time together. Lots of guys hate having their younger brother around. Okay, well, maybe brother didn't really like having me around, but he tolerated it well enough.

One year, when we were little, my parents decided to send my brother and me to a summer day care program at the local YMCA. (It's fun to stay there.) It was really just some way to keep us occupied during the day while my parents were still working. As my mother stood there, they began dividing us into our respective "groups" to whom we'd be assigned all summer. They announced my brother's assignment and off he went. As I stood there, with my mother right next to me, I started to cry uncontrollably. I mean I was sobbing. That's what kind of security my brother represented to me. Everything would have been all right had we both been assigned to the same group. (Things turned out perfectly fine after that day, of course, save for my complete embarrassment at melting down like that.)

So anyway, it's my brother's birthday. Happy birthday, bro. I don't say it enough, but I love you.

Crime Central

A recent post from EJ Takes Life (as highlighted on DC Blogs) resurrected, for part of me, a post I wrote back in February.

The part that hit me was what DC Blogs highlighted:

One thing I'm particularly losing patience with is the gentrification blame game. People like me are damned if we do, damned if we don't. Yuppies who live in Northwest and the suburbs get all kinds of crap for fleeing and taking their resources and influence with them, yet are told that because they don't live in the rougher parts of town they don't get to comment on what goes on there. If they, as I do, live in "transitioning" neighborhoods and something bad happens, they get a reaction of "what did you expect? This is a city. If you can't deal, get out." It's a vicious cycle that doesn't go anywhere or help anyone, and I'm sick of it.

The levels of two-faced crap we speak in this country is staggering and astonishing. EJ is spot on in her analysis. On Logan Circle News, for instance, I'm constantly seeing the same old back-and-forth regarding gentification and life in the city (I'm paraphrasing and extrapolating):

Commenter A: Something should be done about the crime in this neighborhood! ["Crime" usually refers to any of the following, among others: muggings, shootings, vagrancy, gang-like activity, vandalism, litter, solicitation of prostitution, overt public sex acts....]
Commenter B: This is an urban area! You can't move here and then whine about the crime. Get over it!
Commenter A: Just because I moved here doesn't mean I should have to put up with clearly illegal activities!
Commenter B: It was here when you got here! It's like moving near the airport then complaining about noise!
Commenter A: So you're saying no one should make any effort to make this place better?
Commenter B: Just quit your yappin'.
Commenter A: Fuck you!
Commenter B: Fuck you!

Most comments anonymous, of course.

Then there's that Annoying Commenter from my previous post, who called me "racist," "privileged," "self-important," and "irresponsible" (among other things) for the sin of going out to eat and not guarding my belongings carefully enough. The implication of his comment, of course, was that I should have expected to be the victim of crime. Strange: I seemingly walk through life oblivious to the potential for crime, but I'm the racist for not expecting my stuff to get stolen when I enter an urban enclave.

I'm only guessing here, but this A.C. would probably also criticize the woman who hugs her purse or child a little more closely and tightly when a black man comes too close to her on the sidewalk. Or what if she crosses the street to avoid him? Is she racist for presuming that the black guy is going to accost her? Or am I racist for failing to acknowledge the potential for crime? You can't have it both ways.

To me, it smacks more of racism to say "(Mostly-minority) inner city = CRIME BY DEFINITION" than to be surprised when it happens. I dunno, maybe that's just me. Like Annoying Commenter, I would like for "mutual respect" to "permeate" all our "interactions," but to me, mutual respect includes not stealing other peoples' stuff.

***

The rash of crimes in the District of Columbia has spurred the declaration of a "crime emergency" status (whatever that means) here.

Then the City Paper ran this story about some poor guy who (1) gets mugged; (2) is mistaken for the mugger and gets arrested after he calls 911; (3) gets mugged AGAIN when the cops wise up and let him go. Day-um. [Aside: I am still in shock over the name of the first officer to arrive on the scene.]

Fun times in the District of Columbia.

I Died Last Night.

This is not an "I'm still in such a funk" post, though it sounds like it, because I think I'm actually emerging from the funk (though part of me is resigned to a life of misery). Be that as it may, I had a dream last night in which I died.

I was with a large group of people, none of whom I knew. I forget the locale, but maybe it was a take-out counter or something. Me and a bunch of strangers. Oh, and one guy with one arm around some woman's neck, holding a gun toward her temple with his other hand.


I don't remember being particularly scared at this point. Maybe I just thought he would never actually fire? I can't even tell if he was robbing the place or just generally insane or sociopathic. I just remember everyone else in the place screaming, and I felt almost detached from the entire situation.

POP!

It sounded more like a cap gun than anything, possibly because I don't know that I've ever actually heard the sound of real gunfire before. The man released his neck-grip on the woman, who now slumped to the floor, a bloodied mess. The room around me erupted in chaos, though strangely enough, not many people bolted for the door (which should, I would surmise, be one's first reaction). People were screaming, but no one was really effectively fleeing, nor was anyone rushing the gunman.

POP! POP! POP!

The gunman just started methodically shooting random people, as if he had only just realized that we were witnesses, and that he could be in serious doo-doo if we were left to live. Each pop corresponded to another person near me dropping to the floor. I didn't run. I didn't do anything. I just stood there.

POP!

I heard the shot, and I knew that the bullet that had just emerged from the chamber had my name on it.

I awoke before I experienced any pain.

Are We Done Yet?

So I hate to dwell on this whole "I'm in a funk" thing -- and honestly, I feel like it's at least starting to lift -- but now the universe is just getting comical with respect to how much it hates me.

Last night is my usual pub poker night. I sent an email to a girlfriend of mine (who sometimes joins me for these games) to ask if she was planning on going:

If I can slip out of here by 6.15, I'm thinking of getting some poker in, despite the fact that I've been in a somewhat bad mood and may therefore suffer a losing streak which will put me in a progressively worse mood. Now that I've totally sold you on the pleasure of my company, were you thinking of going tonight? :)

Luckily for her, she declined.

I steeled myself and went anyway, if for no other reason than to re-establish a routine. Besides, poker is fun, right? And besides the fact that I've been losing like crazy on line, at least this is social, and I get to interface with actual people (one of whom was kinda cute last night).

The game started at 7:00.

I was done by 7:30.

Taking the lion's share of my chips was when my opponent had a pocket pair which tripped up on the board where I hit top two pair. I tell ya, when the universe is unhappy with me, it really makes the effort to let me know. I went all-in in the next hand (it was relatively weak anyway) and promptly lost it all. This was a shame, because one guy I was talking to had flirt potential (and by this all I mean is he had yet to drop a reference to a girlfriend). Perhaps I'll see him next week.

Then I came home and decided I'd do laundry, because, well, I needed to anyway. Well, upon my return from the laundry room I saw the most unmistakeable shadow: I kid you not, there is a rodent in my kitchen. I have no idea how it got up to my floor, but I saw it duck into a vent in stove. There are droppings all over my counter. I was grossed out to an extreme. I started furiously cleaning and getting rid of any trace of actual food product left on my counter. I can only presume that the thing isn't agile enough to make it into my "dry foodstuffs" cabinet, or even to the top of my cheap-ass table where I keep (for example) some boxes of cereal.

I was so grossed out I was on the verge of crying again. Then I resigned myself to my Joe's Apartment lifestyle and started watching tv.

Then I fired up the computer and played a few hands of online poker -- and came in second and third on two different tables. Not great, but still in the (play) money. So perhaps the tide is turning. I can only hope.

Unrecognizable To Myself

Wow, so I'm still in this funk. I hate this. I don't like this at all.

My boss is still on my case about stuff that I have no control over.

Boss: Have you talked to the witness?
Me: She hasn't returned my call.
Boss: Well what are you going to do about it?
Me: Uh, hunt her down, lock her in a small confined space, tie her up and force her to talk to me?

Boss: So have you formulated a plan of attack yet?
Me: I wasn't aware that you wanted me to formulate a plan of attack.
Boss: So that means no, you haven't formulated one.
Me: Uh, I guess that's precisely what it means. In so many words.

I am reaching wit's end with this particular stress patch. I know these things ebb and flow, and I need to ride this out, but the temptation to throw up my hands and announce how I am so done with this is really strong.

After work last night I decided to hit the Green Lantern, a bar behind my office. It's kind of gross (though they're apparently making efforts to put lipstick on the pig), but it's got cheap beers and it's right behind my office and it's not too terribly crowded. A downside is that it's also right next door to the gym (the one I have privileges to, in fact), so that, while sitting there drinking beer at 7:15 pm, one could conceivably make the mistake of looking out the window to see a bunch of less-beer-gutted folk sweating it out on the machines: stairmaster, elliptical, treadmill AND bike, all face out toward this bar. Thankfully, the windows to the bar aren't terribly big.

So I think we can all acknowledge that there's a difference between needing a drink after work and needing a drink after work. The former is all right, the latter can be a problem. Last night, I needed a drink after work.

I recognized the bartender (sort of -- he'd been out sick for an extended period and appears to have lost a lot of weight, though he still looks good) (actually, it reminded me of this conversation I overheard), so I talked with him just a little. Nice guy, though. Unfortunately my bad mood spilled over to him as well, as this conversation ensued:

Bartender: So why are you just sitting there alone? You should talk to these guys [gestures over to a couple of guys talking and laughing] -- they're pretty friendly.
Me: Nah, I'm antisocial.
Bartender: No, you're not.
Me: No, really, I am. Terribly antisocial.
Bartender: You're talking to me.
Me: Yeah, well, that's your fault, not mine.

I laughed at the end of this -- the real-life equivalent of a "LOL" or a smiley-face, to make sure that he knew I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I hope he bought it. Eventually I finished my second beer while he was talking to some other patrons so I slipped out. I would have shot him a goodbye wave, but he never looked my way. (Then again, not many men do.)

I went home and was tempted to sleep. Instead I got sucked into a Dark Angel marathon on SciFi and came to the conclusion that Jessica Alba has a great body but her face isn't consistently hot. (It really does depend on the angle and the lighting.) Michael Weatherly, on the other hand, is indeed, smokin' hot, and I would love to do obscene things to his naked body. (Thank goodness for Navy NCIS, or else I'd never see him.)*

Okay, perhaps the fact that I can still talk about my desire to do unspeakable acts upon hot actors means I'm not necessarily as depressed as I think I am.

* I wanted to come up with some deep, spiritual analogy about why my life is parallel to some character's on the show, but this is all I came up with. Now I disappoint myself too.

Hazy Crazy Days of Summer

I've been in a funk for the past few weeks now. It crept in, well, like a San Francisco fog (coincidentally, it did so at around the same time as my recent trip), took hold and has not let go. For once in my life, though, I know exactly where this funk is coming from. It would make a fantastic blog entry, except that it's way too long and involved and includes metaphors on life and shit like that.

The worst part is that, try as I might to keep my life on an even keel while I ride out these feelings, I feel like the universe is conspiring against me.

My work is (apparently) suffering, as reflected by the fact that my boss has been riding my ass unusually hard for several days now. (I'm not even in the mood to make an anal sex joke here; besides, the fact that it would involve my boss makes that particular joke ew to an extreme.)

Even my luck at trivial pursuits has turned irretrievably on me. My online poker games have met with an incredible losing streak. I lose at board games with friends. I lose online Scrabble games, despite some killer plays.

And the worst part? The other night, while flipping through uninspired television programming, I set upon a four-minute scene from a movie -- one I had already seen before, no less -- that set me on a crying jag that lasted for an hour. (I'm too embarrassed to even mention the title of the movie. Suffice it to say that it was on the friggin' Logo channel.)

My world seems to have been turned upside down as deep fissures develop in the walls I've spent a lifetime so carefully building up around me. I've reached my own Stephen Dedalus moment.* Yet instead of rejoicing at the prospect of liberating myself from the prison which I have so delicately crafted for myself, I find myself frightened, like a puppy dog who is all too used to being smacked upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

The last time I reached my own personal epiphany was when I finally decided to stop living my life so deep in the closet. I felt clean, refreshed: I felt a burden taken off my shoulders even before I decided to tell any of my close friends of my long-harbored secret. I was a new person.

Intellectually, I feel like my newfound personal revelation should be resulting in the same feelings of emancipation as my determination to come out did. After all, epiphanies** such as these can only be good for me. They clean out the emotional baggage, they clear the soul, they clean out your aura.

That's not what I'm feeling right now. I'm scared as shit. Far from feeling that all is and/or will be right with the world (and my place in it), I feel a foreboding sense of doom, that the world will never be right again, and my place in it will never be defined, settled, or even pleasant for me.

It's getting harder and harder to deal for some reason. I feel like I'm being some major drama queen,*** yet I can't help it.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

* For the record, I detested Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and yet I'm having substantial high school English class flashbacks right now.

** See what I mean about English class redux?

*** Holy crap! It's made the Merriam-Webster!

She's so cool

I can't explain why I like this video so much.

Could It Be.... Oil?

"Diplomacy must be given a chance to work."

"It's my view that the best way to solve this problem diplomatically is for there to be more than one nation speaking to North Korea, more than America voicing our opinions."

"I view this as an opportunity to remind the international community that we must work together to continue to work hard to convince the North Korean leader to give up any weapons program."

Now that North Korea has launched seven -- SEVEN! -- test missiles, these are the responses our White House has come up with.

Check out this chronology of North Korea's nuclear testing. Frankly, it seems to me that they've been up to this for years.

So let me get this straight: North Korea has some capacity to launch weapons into some of its neighboring countries, though not the U.S. or its territories. It looks like they can wage devastating effects in parts of East Asia. Our response? "You shouldn't do that, North Korea! Bad Kim Jong-Il! Bad!"

Iraq had no weapons of mass destruction. Even if it did, it's unclear that their weapons would have made it all the way to the States or its territories. Our response? We went in and invaded without international support or even concrete evidence of imminent harm.

Oh sure, our goal in Iraq has shifted. Where it was "we don't want the smoking gun to be a mushroom cloud" once, now it's "we had to bring democracy to these people." But that mushroom cloud was a boogeyman in the closet; the North Korean one seems much more imminent. And yet now we act with restraint. With diplomacy. With a desire for international concensus.

Iraq seems more and more like the biggest, costliest lie in recent history.

I did the Macarena with a monster because I can't control myself.

I totally stole this from this guy.


Pick the month you were born:

January--I kicked
February--I loved
March--I smoked
April--I dry humped
May--I choked on
June--I murdered
July--I did the Macarena with
August--I had lunch with
September--I danced with
October--I sang to
November--I yelled at
December--I ran over


Pick the day (number) you were born on:


1-------a birdbath
2-------a monster
3-------a phone
4-------a fork
5-------a Mexican
6-------a gangster
7-------my cell phone
8-------my dog
9-------my best friends boyfriend
10-------my neighbor
11-------my science teacher
12-------a banana
13-------a fireman
14-------a stuffed animal
15-------a goat
16-------a pickle
17-------your mom
18-------a spoon
19-------myself
20-------a baseball bat
21-------a ninja
22-------chuck Norris
23-------a noodle
24-------a squirrel
25-------a football player
26-------my sister
27-------my brother
28-------an ipod
29-------a permanent marker
30-------a llama
31-------A homeless guy


Pick the color of shirt you are wearing:

White------because im cool like that
Black------- because thats how i roll.
Pink--------because I'm NOT a homosexual.
Red---------Because the voices told me to.
Blue--------Because im sexy and i do what i want
Green------Because I hate myself.
Purple------Because Im cool.
Gray--------Because i was drunk
Yellow------Because someone offered me 1,000,000 dollars
Orange ----Because i hate my family.
Brown-----Because i was high.
Other-------Because i'm a ninja.
none------Because i cant control myself.


Random fun on this particular day of the year.