Wednesday, May 10Grammar Enema.
(Here are four items of note. Enjoy as needed. Repeat.)
1. What I'm Proud Of Is Disgusting.
The next time you're bored, just start typing without any pauses for 30 seconds. Spew out anything and everything that comes to your mind, no matter how surreal or senseless. It's a purifying ritual; sort of like a grammar enema. It also gives you a nice idea of what's going on in the deepest recesses of your head. Permit me to demonstrate.
Monkey knife fight particle board, permeating through my glass-thick lungs, sinking deeper into the Twister board of defeat and struggling jocks. Out of the darkness, a man emerges with the fury of a thousand treats, raising my honor over his head and barking loudly as if to say, "I love you!"
See? That's all kinds of messed up. Come to think of it, this is how a lot of Spam e-mails look. I may be on to something lucrative. Anyways, try it. It's fun and not the least bit foolish.
2. A Bucket Of Balls.
I went to the driving range this weekend without a golfing glove, and I tore my hand to pieces. We're talking blisters, cuts and huge bruises here. On top of that, I have a pulled muscle in my stomach and my forearm muscles are completely shot. Finally, to add injury to injury, I think I'm one misstep from yet another pulled groin, which is something I don't wish on anyone but the President and perhaps Robin Williams. I feel like an old man; it takes everything I have to stand up and sit down, all because I didn't take five minutes to stretch properly. Let that be a lesson to you; I'm a pansy and I can't golf without hurting myself.
I'm trying to work golf more and more into my ever-growing list of things to get slightly better at (just above guitar playing and just below the alcoholism). I'm getting pretty decent on the driving range and I can putt with laser-precision and limited tantrums; we'll have to see how I do when I finally start hitting the courses again. I promise to bring my camera in which to document the predictable fall from grace.
If I may go off topic for a second, pulling your groin is just awful. I'm sure that some of you can already attest to this. What's more, once you pull your groin, it becomes easier and easier to do it again. Much like a broken nose, it never heals 100%, and everything you do with your pelvis from that point forward is susceptible to horrid pain and agony.
My first pulled groin came at the hands of the Missus (scandal!). When we first started going out, back in 2000 or so, we were wrestling on my bed, which was the custom at the time. Out of nowhere (and taking it way too far, which is her style), she thought it would be funny to clutch my right leg and wrap it around my neck like a scarf. Trust me, she could if she wanted to, but I screamed and pooped my pants before she had the chance. It took weeks to heal; every step felt like I was getting a white-hot branding iron to my tender areas. I've pulled it about three times since then, and it doesn't get any easier to find a quiet place to cry all the time. Be kind to your inner thighs.
3. The CDP Network: Live!
Here's what's going on elsewhere in the CDP Network:
Paste creates a new list of Chuck Norris facts; agruably the best of the bunch.
This Is My Exit drops a bomb of awesomeness. Radiation levels are still critical.
Sandbox Films snaps a blood feather and freaks out.
Brandon Tom talks David Blaine and American Idol. He updates almost as much as me.
Teaonnie has mea-ono.
Chaotic Ryan catches us up on all things metal sign-y in nature.
4. The Best Card Trick Ever.
Watching David Blaine on Monday reminded me of the greatest card trick I've ever pulled off. I was in the 7th grade, and I threw a party for all of my friends at my Grandma's house. Being the eager-to-please host, I handed out sodas and generous slices of pizza, telling jokes and performing magic tricks to the content crowd.
I was quite the magician in my time, as you would probably assume. It's been a while since I've busted out the playing cards, but I think I could still throw down with the best of them.
Anyways, in what would be my last trick of the night (you have to go out on a high note), I told my friend to pick a card out of the deck and show his friends. It was the three of hearts, and everyone made certain that I did not see it when he thrust it back into the deck. I began to do my little routine where I cracked wise while I did my slight of hand, but something went wrong about halfway through. I lost track of the three of hearts, and I knew that I had to abort the trick.
A little frustrated and embarrassed, I announced that I had to start the trick over, and had my friend shuffle the deck about six times. I then told him to pull out another card at random and once again show it to his friends.
When he pulled the card out, the room got really silent, jaws dropped and focused directly on me. "Woah, how did you do that?" he said.
"Do what?" I shot back, as he turned the card over to reveal the three of hearts. The bastard actually pulled the same card twice.
"Thank you and goodnight!" I said, snatching the cards and making a beeline for the door. This exit would have been far more dramatic had it not been my own house, as I had to quietly enter a little while later when nobody was looking.
THURSDAY - KATHARINE McPHEE WATCH.
(Will she make it to the semis?)
FRIDAY - LOST FRIDAY
(Oh, hell yes.)
Elliott nailed it; he's safe.
Taylor's always safe, no worries with him.
Katharine's in trouble, but might be able to squeak out another week.
Chris is the dark horse candidate to bow out tonight.
Oh, Lost is on too.
If it's not McPhee tonight, it will be Daughtry. Mark my words.
After about an hour on the range, I started getting bored and tried to purposely hit balls into the street. If golf is a game of inches and patience, I'm in for a hurting.
I'm in the process of scoring tickets to the Packers/Patriots game this year; thought you might want to know that. Has Tom Brady ever faced Favre?
She's right though. Finding a nice set of left-handed golf clubs is about as easy as sitting through a Robin Williams interview. I think I talked about this 'golf club incident' in an earlier post. I was beaten severely.
My poop Red Ryder BB gun.
Whoops, I meant 'poor.'
Again, I'll bring my camera when I start wrapping irons around trees.
"Spermamax can even get a fly pregnant"
Assuming how many people receive this email, there will soon be a race of human-fly hybrids out to take over the world.
You've been warned.
Aaron, I'll take you up on the golfing offer as soon as I can verify that I don't suck. After that, it's on.
You're right though, I did call it again. I feel pretty good about myself. Yup, riding high in the ole' saddle and so forth. It's a shame to see Chris go, but we all know he's going to be just fine.