Season 4 - Episode 13/14: "There's No Place Like Home (Parts 2 & 3)."

The final Lost Monday is upon us. We have nothing left to discuss.

Going into Season 4, we knew that things were going to be different for Lost. Storyline-wise, the addition of the flash-forwards added a new depth to the plot, character development and Harvard degree one needs to fully comprehend the show as a whole; the concept that yes, people were rescued from the island, and no, that doesn't mean the show is necessarily over. The Oceanic 6 had problems of their own, there were hints that the island may exist on a different plane of time than the rest of the world, and Jack Shepard's Future Beard had a nation captivated. It was good times.


("Face it, Sawyer. We're never getting our Frisbee back from Richard's yard.")

However, from a more technical (ie: boring) aspect, Season 4 of Lost was also different. The Writer's Guild strike shortened the run of the show to just 13 episodes, with a huge hiatus between the 8th and 9th episodes (known at CDP Headquarters as 'Black April'). The patience of the viewers was tested, but the producers managed to cram about 20 episodes worth of story and development into those 13 short weeks, giving us a season of television that couldn't have possibly been expected after the scattershot and roaming Season 3.

No question about it, Season 4 brought the pain in a big way, overcoming the odds and succeeding when they probably shouldn't have. I've come to expect nothing less; Lost has become the Chicago White Sox of television; continually being awesome even though everyone wants them to fail miserably. All we need now is Ozzie Guillen showing up on the Island every week to deliver a profanity-laced tirade about nothing in particular.


("Why didn't they just kill me off in the Pilot episode like they wanted to?")

So, what's to make of this? Personally, I thought that the Season 4 finale did everything it needed to do (like all of the finales that proceeded it). They answered the questions of Season 3, raised new ones for the future and set the stage for a Season 5 that is nowhere near anything that we could have predicted a few years ago. Locke is the leader of the Hostiles? Where is the island, now that Ben warp-whistled it to the middle of nowhere? What dangers and conspiracies are about to befall the Oceanic 6? Are any of the survivors actually 'good' people?

All this speculation is making my wee-wee hurt. Strap in and prepare for the Green & Leafy!



As a longtime vegetarian, displaying a large piece of steak every week to introduce my detailed Lost recap was a very tongue-in-cheek way of introducing the hilarious, historic and world-famous satire that was about to invade your loins like the lemon-scented crotch of Zeus Himself. However, because this is my last Lost Monday, I'm going out a winner. A weak, protein-deficient winner who never gets invited to barbecues because his tofu dogs taste like ass. Let's make it happen.


(John McCain takes a lie detector test.)

AROUND THE ISLAND, WHERE EYELINER AND RUM IS PLENTIFUL.

Jack and Sawyer catch up with Hurley and Locke at The Orchid, where John is looking for a ramp large enough to jump over a Dharma-stamped shark. Locke explains to Jack that whomever gets rescued would have to lie about their experiences on the Island in order to protect it, as Jack tries in vain to stuff his intestines back under his t-shirt. It works, but only for a little while.

Jack, Hurley and Sawyer head back to the helicopter, where Hurley is reminded that he shouldn't be eating so many saltine crackers when water is a limited commodity. Was there any reason why those stupid crackers were referenced three times in two weeks? It wasn't that funny.


(Nobody steals Alpert's makeup and gets away with it. Nobody.)

AT THE HELICOPTER, WHERE SAYID BECOMES BRUCE GODDAMN LEE.

Keamy is hauling Ben back to the helicopter for transport, when Kate bursts out of the jungle, claiming that Ben's men are chasing her. Keamy forms a battle plan, when the Hostiles spring out and start straight-up wrecking stuff. Ben and Kate run off during the fray, as gunfire and general awesomeness reigns supreme. For a group of people guaranteed to never age or get sick, those Hostiles sure know how to kick an ass or two.

As Keamy tries to catch back up with Kate and Ben, Sayid takes him out like the Iraqi torturer we used to know and love. A nearly two-minute long fistfight ensues, with Sayid and Keamy taking turns hitting each other in the head and multiple ribular stabbings. A tree branch is brought into the fray, as it has now become a No Disqualification Match. Just as Keamy gets the upper hand, Richard shows up and caps him four times in the back. Never let it be said that Richard isn't an opportunist, but shooting someone in the back is a pretty cheap victory, regardless of how evil of a bastard Keamy is.

Ben proceeds to hop into Richard's arms like a puppy with a thorn in its paw, and they let Kate and Sayid have the helicopter in exchange for helping them out. Ben returns to The Orchid, as Locke continues to struggle with anything even remotely resembling tact or initiative.


("My kingdom for a frozen donkey wheel.")

ON THE BEACH, WHERE AUXILIARY CHARACTERS TALK ON CAMERA.

Daniel lets Juliet know that the Freighter is getting closer to the island, as they get more groups ready to be taken aboard. Damn, I just realized how few Oceanic Flight 815 survivors are still on the island. There's like, five of them left.

Daniel lets Miles and Charlotte know that getting off of the Island is important, as it's about to be hurtled through space and time like a change-up pitch to David Ortiz (two baseball references in one recap? Boo-yah!). Miles decides to stay, and Charlotte decides to stay, although it's implied that she may have a serious birth connection to the island. More to come in Season 5, I presume.

Also, I don't care about Charlotte, so this storyline is unnecessary and wasteful. Carry on.


("Yeah, I play starting forward for the Pistons now. MEEEEEEEEEE!!!!")

IN THE ORCHID, WHERE IT ALL COMES INEVITABLY CRASHING DOWN.

Ben and Locke take the elevator down to the Orchid Station, and I'm left frustrated because there was no Muzak playing in the elevator. This was a great opportunity for the same sort of dark humor displayed when Ethan was about to slice Claire open in the Medical Station, but to no avail. Quick Comedy Tip: Muzak is always funny.

Once in the Station, Locke sees a The Fly-esque device, asking Ben if it's the 'magic box' he was telling him about before. Ben says no, and makes him watch an educational videotape, slightly winking at the viewing audience with his humorous delivery. I quite enjoyed that moment, to be honest.

In the video, Dr. Mark Wickmund/Marvin Candle/Edgar Halliwax explains that the Orchid is pretty much a place where they send bunnies through time. Fair enough. Ben looks to sabotage the vault-area, and as the elevator starts to ascend, Locke and Ben realize that they're about to have a visitor. Probably one that is none too happy about digging bullet residue out of his spinal cord.


("Man, I can't wait until I'm in that coffin.")

Keamy shows up in the Orchid, and delivers a monologue about how he's not really dead and that his heart is hooked up to a monitor that will make the Freighter go explodie-time if he were to be killed. He then starts making fun of Alex's death, which is about the least-classy thing I've ever seen someone do on national television (minus anything ever uttered by Billy Packer), even if it was towards a sniveling douchenozzle like Ben Linus. Locke pops in and distracts Keamy long enough for Action Linus to spring into frame and stab the crap out of his neckhole. Keamy dies, and when Locke scolds him for allowing innocent people to be vaporized on a freighter, Ben doesn't seem to mind all that much.

Welcome back, you evil asshole. We've all missed you.


(Michael comes to terms with the fact that he has ruined the lives of everyone he ever came in contact with.)

In a terrific scene, Ben goes on to tell Locke that he made a mistake in killing Keamy, and that Locke should try to be a better leader of the Island. Ben explains that by moving the island, he will not be allowed to return to it, and that Locke will be in charge from here on out. Locke is confused, the audience is confused, and Ben apologies for making John's life so miserable. Hey, get in line, buddy. You're probably the best thing that ever happened to him.

After the Ben-caused explosion of the vault of the Orchid, a pathway is opened up to the interior of the Island. For whatever reason, this section of the Station is frozen and covered in hieroglyphs. Across from Ben is basically a frozen donkey wheel, which Ben attempts to move while declaring to the sky, "I hope you're happy now, Jacob."

Um, okay, dude. At this point, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, just to make sure that I wasn't dreaming or dead. This is the same show I started watching at 8pm, right?

As he begins to turn the wheel, the room begins to get brighter, now beginning to resemble the same circumstances as when the Swan Station imploded at the end of Season 2. Outside, the Island emits a shrill noise and a light envelops the island before everything freaking disappears, including about five million viewers.

(Daniel represents the future vision of Lost: Random, senseless and possessing patchy facial hair.)

ON THE FREIGHTER, WHERE THE CORPSE POTENTIAL IS GROWING.

Michael, who will from this point forward be known as 'Black McGyver,' finds a canister of liquid nitrogen and explains to Desmond and Jin that he can temporarily freeze the battery leading to the C4 explosive, buying them some time to either defuse it or haul ass for the mainland.

With Keamy dead and the bomb armed, Desmond leaves for the chopper and Jin hangs back with Michael for a bit. Michael convinces Jin to leave because he's about to be a father, but Jin doesn't make it to the helicopter in time. Christian Shepard appears to Michael, let's him know that his work for the island is done, and he's finally rewarded with that sweet, sweet death that he's been hoping for since he first got back from the Island. The freighter blows to pieces, killing Michael, Jin and presumably everyone else on board.

Well, maybe 'Black McGruber' is more like it.

("I sure hope that thing was the bathroom, 'cuz I just peed in it.")

ON THE HELICOPTER, WHERE HURLEY CONTINUALLY ASKS FOR PEANUTS.

There's about 6.5 people in the helicopter heading for the freighter, when Frank realizes that they're leaking gasoline. He tells the passengers to throw out anything that isn't bolted down, so some toolboxes, parachutes and Aaron are tossed into the ocean. This still isn't doing the trick, so Sawyer decides to be noble and, after whispering something indecipherable into Kate's ear, throws himself overboard and swims back to the Island.

It's a damn good thing he got back to the Island before it decided to move itself. Hell, he's lucky the Island didn't land on him.


("I'm so glad Lost Monday is over; the fat jokes will finally cease.")

Once on the freighter, Desmond warns them that a bomb is about to go off, but Frank lands anyway and fuels up the chopper. Everyone hops on board, including Sun, and when the helicopter takes back off, Sun loses it over the fact that Jin has now become food to the very same fish he grew up catching with his father.

So poetic. Oh, then the Island disappears right in front of them.

With nowhere to land now, the crew braces for impact and crashes into the ocean. They all make it into the life raft and are pretty much stuck in the middle of nowhere for the time being. They cut to commercial, and I check my pupils to make sure I didn't recently suffer a concussion. Am I really seeing this?


("Psshems mmmmffrrrt frazzakle pwwpwwweet.")

BACK ON THE BEACH, WHERE JULIET DRINKS ALONE AND GETS ALL EMO.

Sawyer washes ashore and asks Juliet why she's displaying such public alcoholism. Juliet points to the remnants of the Freighter, and Sawyer seems to think that everyone on the helicopter is now dead. On top of that, his pants are extremely uncomfortable after such a long and tiring swim. This is a bad day for everyone, it would seem.


("DAAAAANCE CONNNNTEST!!!!")

AFTER THE ISLAND IS MOVED, BUT BEFORE THE CANNIBALISM.

The Oceanic 5 (plus Frank, Desmond and Aaron), continue to aimlessly float on the life raft. Hurley proclaims that, yes, Locke really did succeed in moving the island. Jack, agitated and sick of being wrong, tosses Hurley overboard just as Frank notices a nearby ship. At this point, Jack decides that Locke was right, and lets everyone know that they should probably lie about everything that has happened to them on the Island, for the good of those who were still on it.

Also, he didn't want anyone on the mainland to know about the time that he was caught pooping in Sawyer's pillowcase. Something like that could get your Medical license revoked.


("Jin had my keys in his pocket! NOOOOO!")

As fate (or lazy screenwriting) would have it, the boat happens to belong to Penny Widmore. A teary reunion takes place, as Jack tells Penny that they need to talk; presumably about planning their staged rescue. It's amazing that Penny decides to go along with this, but then again, I've never thought she was all that bright.

One week later (did you notice that?), the Oceanic 6 depart from Penny's boat with a well-established cover story, while Desmond and Frank stay behind (with a happy ending; never to be seen again?). The conversation between Jack and Desmond seems to state that Penny let them all know just what Charles Widmore is capable of, and the 6 castaways hop on the raft and head for the island of Sumba, which is known for their fishing exports and finding of plane crash survivors.


("Hi folks. I'm James Ford, for Cool Water cologne.")

FLASHFORWARDS ARE THE WAVE OF THE FUTURE!

JACK - Picking up where the final scene of 'Through The Looking Glass' left off, Kate seems less than excited about the prospect of going back to the Island with Jack. She tells Jack that Locke (Jeremy Bentham) had met with her, too, and she knew that he was crazy and not about to help him by going back to the island. Jack claims that he trusted him because he thought it would protect Kate and Aaron, but Kate is having none of it, and speeds away.

Aaron makes a cameo and flips Jack the bird.

HURLEY - Waaaaaallllllt visits the institution where Hurley is staying, asking him why nobody visited him after they were rescued. Walt claims that Locke visited him, and asks Hurley why everyone is lying about the crash. Hurley tells him that they're lying to protect the people on the Island, and Walt seems to think that his dad is currently alive and well. Hurley decides not to upset him with the truth, as Walt is now six-foot-nine and at least 27 years old.


(This wheel just spins the dessert tray in the Dharma break room.)

SAYID - Sayid visits Hurley and wants him to come along where it's 'safe.' Sayid claims that 'circumstances have changed' now that Locke was dead, and assures Hurley that they are not going back to the Island. Hurley accompanies him, but not before owning Zombie Eko in a game of chess.

I called shenanigans here, mainly because I don't think Hurley can beat Eko in a game of chess, zombified or otherwise.

SUN - Sun tracks down Charles Widmore in London, and pretty much makes him look like a silly, Australian tool. She wants answers, and lets him know that she's ready to listen when he's ready to talk. Snap!


(The CDP takes his shirt off.)

KATE - Kate, dreaming, answers her phone to hear the message 'The island needs you; you have to go back before it's too late,' spoken in reverse. As she goes to check on Aaron, we see Claire in his room, telling Kate not to bring him back to the Island. Kate wakes up, heads to Aaron's room and profusely apologizes for being such a terrible faux-mother.

JACK, AGAIN - Jack heads back to the funeral parlor, only to see Ben. According to Locke, some 'very bad things' happened on the Island after the Oceanic 6 left, and it was Jack's fault for leaving. Locke also added that he needed to come back.

Ben is there to tell Jack that everyone pretty much needs to come back to the Island before things get even more wonky, and Jack claims to not have the resources to gather up the rest of the Oceanic 6. Ben offers to help, and specifies that everyone must return, even the corpse of Mr. John Locke.

Smash-cut; everything over. Wow. How about that?

In honor of the Season Finale, I think that this episode deserves its very own haiku.



Moving the Island
With a frozen donkey wheel.
Why is this awesome?

Hey, truth be told, this episode was awesome. And hey, let's not get all sad because the show has crossed the realm into the absurd and 'you have to believe in Time Travel to continue to enjoy this madness;' let's attempt to focus on the positives here, with 5 Awesome Things!

Here are 5 Awesome Things...About Being Able To Move An Island Through Space & Time.

1. Every night is pizza night...somehow.

2. You could move it somewhere cooler during the Summer months. It could be like a three season room, minus all the elderly people and wicker furniture.

3. Remember when you used to play Super Mario World, and you could pause the game just
before you died and reload your previously saved progress? Yeah; just like that!

4. I'm not entirely sure, but I'd rig it so I'd somehow never have to do laundry again.

5. It makes your once-amazing and respectable television show a helluva lot easier to write for.

One more time, for the kids, let's Break It Down!



4 - As a way to keep the spoiler heat off of the writers and producers of the show, two alternate endings for the 'funeral parlor' scene were shot, featuring Sawyer and Desmond in the coffin. This was presumably done to prevent the secret ending from leaking early. Other television shows have done this in the past, such as the Seinfeld finale, or the 'Who Shot Mr. Burns?' episode of The Simpsons. Subsequently, these are pretty much the only two shows that are better than Lost.

8 - Apparently, what Sawyer said to Kate was the same thing that we had presumed he had said to her, which was: "I have a daughter in Albuquerque. You need to find her; tell her I'm sorry."

Go ahead, rewind it and listen. I'll wait.

See?


("My only line of the Season Finale is in a dream sequence?")

15 - For the fourth season finale in a row, the action centers around a big-ass explosion. In Season 1, the Hatch and the raft exploded. In Season 2, the Swan Station met its fate. In Season 3, dynamite was used in mass quantities to kill a batch of the Others. This week, the Freighter was vaporized. Kaboom.

My current prediction is that in the Season 5 finale, Sun's baby will explode, and in the Series Finale, my head will explode.

16 - From Lostpedia: "This episode features the first instance of a lapse of time during the continuous present-day narrative, notably, the caption of "One Week Later" after the life-raft crew are found by the Searcher."

I'd like to know what they did on the Searcher for that week; preparing their stories and whatnot. Furthermore, I pity the poor person who had to sleep in the room right next to Desmond and Penny. They had some catching up to do, and I bet they weren't shy about it.


("Yup, that's my dad, always ruining people's lives in the worst fashion humanly possible. Pie?")

23 - Mythbusters' Adam Savage blows the entire 'C4/liquid nitrogen' conflict out of the water:

"The 500 pounds of C4, that whole movie thing about "dummy triggers" and fake tripwires—it's all a load of crap. Nobody does that. At least that's what my friends at the FBI tell me. Would you want to set up explosives so that pretty much anything you did would make them go off? It's just like guessing and cutting one of the wires in the movies: Nobody would survive using that technique for very long, including Keamy and his crew. The whole training of a bomb tech is to work safely with explosives, not dangerously. There are too many ways to mess it up. Also, I'm pretty sure that C4 isn't conductive, which it would need to be to set up its wiring as a resistance feedback loop that could tell if you started to pull out the detonators. And if freezing the battery works, why not just disconnect it? Oh, right, the monitored feedback loop. But wait, C4 isn't conductive ... never mind."

Also, bear in mind that the monitor that Keamy was wearing could never continue to work once he descended into the rocky underground of the Orchid Station. Either communication would have been lost, or the Freighter simply would have exploded as soon as he got out of range. Of course, this is a show where we're supposed to believe that entire masses of land can disappear and reappear at will, so perhaps we're digging into a a little too deeply.

....Lost!


("Maybe the numbers would go away if I ate them?")

42 - What do you think happened to Faraday, and those who were on the raft during the Freighter explosion? Do you think they made it back to the Island before it disappeared, or are they simply floating around in the middle of nowhere, much like the Oceanic 6 were before their rescue? Personally, if they could just give me a shot, just one second of a shot, showing Daniel Faraday floating aimlessly in the ocean by himself, then this entire finale would have been worth it.

Suck it, Faraday. I'm through with you, and I'm done with Lost Monday.


(Breaking into a funeral home makes about as much sense as an Amish guy stealing an extension cord.)

And with that, our Lost journey comes to an end. When I started doing this in 2005, I had no idea it would turn into what it did, and that I'd care so much about putting it to a halt in 2008. I want to sincerely thank everyone for all of the e-mails and kind words, and once again remind those of you who only check out the CDP for Lost Monday, I'm a published author! This was just a small section of what the CDP is all about; please stick around and allow me entertain you with poop jokes and snark.

Please start the conversation in the comments section, send anything you want to communistdance@yahoo.com, and enjoy the following links to every Lost Monday...ever.

Thank you. I'm taking a nap now.


("If my beard were made of scotch, I'd totally drink it.")

Season 4 - Episode 1 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 2 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 3 Pop Crunch Recap
Season 4 - Episode 4 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 4 Pop Crunch Recap
Season 4 - Episode 5 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 6 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 7 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 9 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 10 Recap
Season 4 - Episode 12 Recap
Season 4 - Finale Edition 1
Season 4 - Finale Edition 2
Season 4 - Finale Edition 3
Season 4 - Finale Edition 4
Season 3 Preview
Season 3 - Episode 1 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 2 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 3 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 4 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 5 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 6 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 7 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 8 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 9 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 10 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 11 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 12 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 13 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 14 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 15 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 16 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 17 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 18 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 19 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 20 Recap
Season 3 - Episode 21 Recap
Season 3 - Finale Edition 1
Season 3 - Finale Edition 2
Season 3 - Finale Edition 3
Season 3 - Episode 22/23 Recap
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 23/24 RECAP
SEASON TWO - FINALE EDITION 2
SEASON TWO - FINALE EDITION 1
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 22 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 21 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 20 RECAP
SEASON TWO - CLIP SHOW EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 19 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 18 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 17 RECAP
SEASON TWO - TEMPORARY EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 16 RECAP
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 8
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 7
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 15 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 14 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 13 RECAP
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 6
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 12 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 11 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 10 RECAP
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 5
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 4
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 3
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 9 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 8 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 7 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 6 RECAP
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION: VOLUME 2
SEASON TWO - RERUN EDITION
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 5 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 4 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 3 RECAP
SEASON TWO - EPISODE 1 RECAP
SEASON 2 PREVIEW


("Thank God it's finally over.")

It was about 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon. I was at work, just about to lock the door of the private bathroom I had stepped into. I often used the private bathroom because I'm strongly opposed to defecating in the same room with someone else at the same time. There's something extremely wrong with that, and I prefer to avoid it at all costs. Even though the public stalls are 100 yards closer to my cubicle, I always make the trek for the greater good.

With the door locked, I sat down and began my business. No less than a few seconds later did I notice what appeared to be the largest spider in Wisconsin recorded history, staring right back at me from the door. It was about two feet away, clinging at eye level from my vantage point.

The bathroom itself is more like a Porta-Potty than anything. It's about 4 feet wide by 4 feet long, cramming only a toilet and sink into the cramped area. Me and Spider were trapped together for the time being, and I tried very hard not to make any sudden movements. The last thing I needed was to lose sight of this thing with my pants around my ankles. I would have had no reservations darting out of that room with reckless abandon, dangling like nobody's business while prominent businessmen and wealthy getabouts stared on in abject terror.

As I wrapped up my duties, I kept a death-gaze on the spider. I knew that he was waiting for me to turn away for a mere second to pull up my pants, and then BAM! He would latch directly onto my Naughty Place, sink his fangs in and slowly digest me from the inside-out. I wasn't ready to accept this fate just yet. Or ever, really.

I stood up ever so slowly, pulling up my boxers and khakis one inch at a time, all while focusing hard on the spider. If he would have darted in any direction at this point, I probably would have screamed and knocked myself out on the back of the toilet. He was already inside my head, and I needed to get my wits together immediately.

Up came the khakis, on went the belt, and before I knew it, I was 6 inches away from the spider, looming over it as he now skittered over to the side wall. I shivered as I saw how big he actually was. It was more like a doughnut with teeth. The kind of spider that you see in nightmares when you've had too much to drink. I had to kill it; it was the only way I would ever be able to bring myself to use the private bathroom again. The mere thought of having this thing sneak up on me in the future was enough reason to never urinate again.

Because he was on the drywall, I couldn't just step on it as if he were on the floor. Besides, he was so big, he could have probably gone for a double-underhook takedown as I was rearing up. Nope, because he was on the wall, I thought of a brilliant way to nail him with a flat-footed stomp, eliminating all chances of a near-hit or worse, a total whiff with violent spider retaliation. I decided to stand with my back to the spider, bracing myself by putting my hands on either side of the sink, and mule kicking backwards to smoosh the spider with all of the pressure on the bottom of my shoe. That way, I didn't have to monkey with it to get it onto the floor. No fuss, no muss.

One swift kick, one smashed spider, and one happy guy that just took a poop. Seems foolproof.

I turned away from him, but kept peering over my shoulder to make sure he was in the same spot. I clutched onto the sink with both hands, took a few practice kicks and started lining up. I was going to demolish this spider. Pulverize it. There was no way he was coming back from this one.

I wound up and sent a vicious mule kick towards the spider, my foot completely smashing through the drywall all the way up to my ankle. Horrified, I tried to yank my leg back out of the hole, but the tip of my shoe got caught and tripped me up, sending me head-first towards the toilet. I thrust my arms out to prevent myself from a self-administered Swirlie, my left arm grabbing the seat and my right arm plunging straight down into the bowl.

So there I was, very much alone in a tiny bathroom, experiencing something altogether new to me. My right leg still stuck inside of the hole I had just kicked in the wall, my left knee on the filthy tile floor, my left arm clutching a public toilet seat, and my right arm soaked to the elbow with poop water. The only way it could have gotten any worse was if my First Grade teacher had walked in, peered down at my sweaty face and said, "See? I told you you'd never amount to anything."

Just then, I saw it. The spider. Climbing up the opposite side wall, just inches away from my face. I was completely helpless. Stuck. Even with all of my destruction, I had actually missed the damn thing, and now he was eying me up for the kill.

"This is how it ends for me," I said to myself. I grimaced and prepared for all of the jokes and press coverage my bloated corpse would receive upon discovery.

Just then, my foot rattled loose from the wall, giving me the leverage I needed to pull my hand out of the toilet and stand myself back up. Dripping wet, my pant legs white with drywall, I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and stood before the spider. One of us was going to die in this room, and although I honestly thought it was going to be me due to my own baffling stupidity and luck, the tables had turned and business was about to pick up.

One thrust later, and it was all over. I had won this battle, but at what cost?

I spun around and surveyed the scene. One shoe-sized hole in the wall? Check. One dusty, white pair of khakis? Check. One arm completely submerged inside of a public toilet? Check. One dead spider mashed against the wall? Check and mate, bitch.

Concerning insects, I'd say that we're even now. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

(Me and the Missus at my High School graduation in 2000. I was as awkward as you'd expect me to be at 18, and the Missus was looking unbelievably hot in her Band uniform.)

Today, me and the Missus celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. Allow me to reflect upon this in the nostalgic, personal and hilarious manner you have grown to expect and appreciate from Wisconsin author, blogger and humorist, Ryan J. Zeinert.

The very first time I became aware of the Missus' existence was when I was a Junior in High School. The Missus had an older brother named Tyler that I always found intriguing and intimidating, and we shared a Business Enterprise class during his Senior year. Tyler was a pretty hardcore punk; he wore the same hoodie covered with patches every day, screamed his guts out in a local metal band and appeared as if he was constantly high (he was). This always interested me, and I was perpetually looking for ways to talk to the guy; to infiltrate his world. Now that he's my brother-in-law, he's no more than a really nice guy I see from time to time that is endlessly interested in the Civil War and has a fear of loud noises and balloons. Funny how things turn out.

Anyway, I remember one day in the Business Enterprise class, while working on the latest copy of the School Newspaper, our principal barked over the P.A. with a list of people that needed to come to the Front Office. One of the names was one that I had never heard before, but her last name was the same as Tyler's. "Could it be that Tyler has a sister?" I thought to myself. "And how fast can I make it up to the Front Office to confirm this theory?"

As it turned out, Tyler did have a younger sister; a Freshman named Celia that I had somehow never noticed until the day her name was announced to me over that loudspeaker. I immediately needed to get this girl into my life somehow, and the whole thing started rather creepily, if I may say so myself. A friend of mine gave me a photo of Celia, which I hung in my locker before even speaking to her. There's a great song by a Milwaukee band called The Benjamins which contains the lyric: "I've got a picture of you that you didn't give me. Be careful." I didn't really understand the emotional worth of that line until I became a living example of it. Chances are that I was going to push Celia away before even saying hello to her, which was my style at the time.

The first time I laid eyes on her, I knew that I was instantly in trouble. She was alluring as hell; her eyes sparkled with rebellion and intelligence, and her hoodie was also covered with patches, but for bands that I actually listened to. She seemed angry all the time, and was a National Honor Society member that loathed the distinction and shunned anything that brought attention to her accomplishments and 4.0 GPA. This girl was dangerous, and it was as if she fell out of the sky to complete me. Truth was, however, that this wasn't the first time she had this effect on yours truly.

If you recall from my legendary essay, titled 'The Homecoming Quadrilogy,' you'll remember a chapter titled 'J. Crew & The Mystery Girl.' To give you the short version of the chapter in question, there was a beautiful girl that I had never seen before at my Homecoming Dance, and while I spent over an hour attempting to muster up the courage to ask her to dance, I realized that she was actually there with her boyfriend, leaving me heartbroken and destined for loneliness until the rapture. The M. Night Shyamalan twist to this tale was that the mystery girl in question was the Missus, and I would eventually go on to see her naked and marry her. Staring at her photo every day in my locker failed to click the connection in my cloudy, 17 year old head, but meeting her in person made me realize that fate was seeing to it that we end up together.

Apart from worshipping Celia from afar, the first time we officially spoke was in the Summer of 1999. Me and my friends ran into her and her friends at a punk show in Oshkosh, and I truly became smitten with her. She was bright and funny, tentative and shy. Reserved with moments of wide-eyed astonishment. She was either very deep, or astoundingly bipolar; either way, I was going to find out. I invited her to a concert that my band was to be playing later that month, and when she showed up, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. Only problem was, she still had a boyfriend; the very same Mr. J. Crew that ruined my night at the Homecoming dance.

We all know what it's like to want someone that you can't have. It's a feeling that unites all of us in solidarity; the wretched, helpless, emotional longing and overtly-whiny pain that comes with wanting so badly to love and be loved in return. To combat this pain, you do what all teenagers (and adults) do when faced with such a cruel fate. You start acting really, really weird. You lock yourself in your room all day. You stop eating. Your poetry output increases by 400%. The Smiths suddenly become your favorite band, and you sit on your roof, shaking your fist into the night sky, wondering why God would put such a perfect human being in your life that you couldn't touch. To this day, few feelings are more dense, affecting and crazy annoying.

That night, at my band's concert, we did a cover of Green Day's 'Basket Case,' and I invited Celia onstage to belt it out. As I sat behind the kit and watched her studded jacket sway in front of about 50 of the drunkest kids I have ever seen, I felt way worse than I should have. This sucked. I wanted her.

When the show was over, I slurred in her ear, "Do you believe in fate?" I honestly can't remember how she answered, but it didn't matter. I believed in fate, and that's all that counted.


(Me and the Missus (along with two other guys) conquer Wisconsin in 2001 with the power of Punk Rock.)

After the concert, I started to develop more of a speaking relationship with Celia. I became friends with her friends, we wrote letters and may have even exchanged a phone call or two. In retrospect, it's clear that Celia liked me at this point, but she was smart enough to know that friendships are ruined by relationships, and besides, she had a boyfriend in another city that was older, handsomer and richer than me. I hadn't a chance, so I stayed polite and remained the quirky background noise in her life.

To pass the time and dull the unbelievable pain this was causing me, I tried out other relationships that were almost instantly ruined by the obvious fact that I was hurting. I wanted to be with nobody but her, and it showed. My emo phase was at critical mass, only it was real, legitimate emotion (besides, the term 'emo' was barely a blip on the radar at the time). The peak of this came while I was at a concert with Celia and her boyfriend, and I had to stand behind them for the majority of the evening and not puke all over the bar. Soul-crushing, this was.

Fortunately, the cards were in my favor, mainly because Celia's boyfriend was an absolute prick with little-to-no redeeming social values. It was only a matter of time before he shot himself in the foot, and Celia took this opportunity to get out while the getting was good. She dropped the news on me while I visited her at the supermarket where she worked (which had the brilliantly original name of 'Food Mart').

MISSUS: "Hey, I wanted to let you know that I broke up with ____."

CDP: "Oh wow, really? Gosh, I'm really sorry about that."

(In reality, my stomach had gone ice cold, as I realized that nothing stood between us. It was scary as hell, and as someone who has never been dealt a fair hand, it almost made no sense.)

MISSUS: "It's okay. I'm happy."

CDP: "Let's go out for dinner."

MISSUS: "Okay."

To this day, Celia's ex-boyfriend is one of only three guys whom I would pummel with my bare hands if I ever saw in person again (The other two will be revealed at a later date). You may think that this is due to a long-standing and completely unnecessary grudge I hold against him for keeping Celia away from me for so long. Truth is, it has to do with a verbal confrontation we had shortly before they broke up. I won't get too far into it, but the guy didn't take too kindly to his relationship fizzling out, and he did some things to the Missus that I see no need to forgive. Furthermore, it's been a long time since I've hauled off and cracked someone that deserved it, and I think that my Homecoming story deserves a more heroic ending, even if it is nine years after the fact.

That night, me and Celia went out for a dinner at the best Italian restaurant I could afford with a $6 an hour job; Fazoli's (say what you want, those breadsticks are incredible). We spent the next few hours getting to know each other beyond the music, preening, posturing and various other crap that kids do to maintain the image they want to present to others. It was that night that I became aware that me and Celia connected on a far deeper level than what bands we thought were cool. Sure, I had no idea that she would be doing my laundry a couple of years later, but I still thought it was a good talk.

We tried to stay cool about everything. We tried to pretend that we weren't becoming a couple. We tried to act like all normal friends wrote ten letters a day to each other and drove to graveyards in the middle of nowhere just to talk. Truth was, we were hopelessly falling in love with each other, and it was so effortless that I felt as if it was almost too easy. The girl that I worshipped from afar, the girl that was always just a little bit out of reach, was now calling me. Writing me. Kissing me before classes and hanging my photo in her locker. It was too good to be true.


(The Missus mocks my haircut in 2001, and I mock her choice in soda.)

The next few months were the most romantic and memorable of my life, as me and Celia took our love to the streets and became inseparable in every way. Food tasted better. I could listen to pop radio without crying. We made fun of everyone and everything in our path. Nudity was commonplace, and the sky rained down gifts of forgiveness and acceptance onto my person.

The feeling of suddenly loving someone and being loved back is the most addictive and potent feeling in the world; it's what married folks refer to as 'The Spark.' We all want to experience 'The Spark' non-stop, that's how amazing of a feeling it is. Hell, marriages end because of people jonesing for 'The Spark.' For the time being, our Spark was cresting over us like the second wave of a DMT trip, and it was unlike few things I've experienced. We had built this dream together and were standing strong forever; nothing was going to stop us now.

But there were roadblocks.

For one, I had a lot of bad habits to shake off. The women I had previously dated allowed me to get away with such obnoxious habits as wearing bowling shirts, listening to Rap Metal, not reading books and generally being a douchebag. Celia, on the other side of the coin, was prone to bouts of craziness. Many a night, I would have to sit on the phone for hours and take barrage after barrage of accusations that, in retrospect, had almost nothing to do with my moral character. Mostly, they were just because I would forget to call or something.

Hmmm...maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

I could imagine Celia's late-night revelations, while sleeping on the floor of her constantly-messy bedroom. "My God, I'm dating a.....dude! A real-life, acne-speckled, Limp Bizkit-listening dude! I'm so much better than this! I've read The Catcher In The Rye 18 times! There's a Screeching Weasel patch on my jacket! I saw the Descendents live when I was 12 years old! How could I have possibly ended up with this lowlife?"

Back at my house, I was having similar moments. "I should have known she'd be insane. I mean, look at her. She's beautiful, she's too smart for her own good and she sees through absolutely everyone. Nobody like that can stay uncrazy for long; it's impossible. It's only a matter of time before she stabs me to death with an Olive Fork, and I'll deserve it for trying to hard to acquire her. Fate is a cruel bitch, and I had it coming."

The fights we had during the first year of our relationship were some of the worst we've ever had. I punched walls. She broke antiques. I cried a little. She cried harder. The arguments were more so than any fight about money, work, time management or any other 'adult' problems we've faced since then. Teenage emotions cannot be reasoned with, and the superficial things we argued about in 2000 seemed worlds more important than the crap we shuffle around in 2008. That's the way it always is; when adults tell you that you'll look back on the things you worried so much about as a teen and get embarrassed, don't listen to them, because at the time, they're the most important things in the world. Hindsight is for losers; live in the present, and never feel bad about the things you hold dear, regardless of how big of a pansy it makes you look like.


(In 2002, the Missus was still beautiful, and I was still wearing braces. Ignore this, please.)

Anyway, me and Celia had experienced our first year of courtship, which had taken us from the top, to the bottom, and back to the top as far as our love for each other went. I graduated from High School in June of 2000, and decided to do absolutely nothing with my life until she graduated in June of 2002. During that time, I worked at the Hardware Store and socked away enough cash for us to move to Madison and go to college. Who said I'm not responsible?

Well, I'll be paying off the student loans until the end of time, but hey, we own a house, so suck it.

In the span of those two years (2000-2002), we had started a band and toured all over the state of Wisconsin. We released an album, experienced celebrity on the lowest of levels and got engaged. I began to realize that we were capable of taking on anything that stood before us, and I knew we were ready to take the next few steps into eternal adulthood: Living together, College and Marriage.

In 2002, we moved to Sun Prairie, and the rest is history, it would seem. As you're well aware, I graduated college in 2004, launched the CDP in February of the same year and married the Missus that June. I also realize that I don't have a single CDP essay about my time in college. Weird.


(In 2008, the Missus owns you, and I've done what I could to salvage my dignity.)

We've been married for four years, and we've been a couple for almost nine. I'm proud of this, and I'm proud of my wife. Never mind the fact that she buys me groceries and makes sure I don't leave the house with grape jelly on my pants, but I'm proud of what she made me. If you, the CDP reader, find me the least bit interesting, alluring or worthy of sharing a beer with you, you can thank the Missus for whipping me into shape. In tune, the Missus can thank me for turning her into a more patient and logical soul, even though I still always have to help her calculate the tip everytime we go out to eat. We're still working a few kinks out, it would seem.

I will spend the bulk of our anniversary in my garage, itemizing a ton of old clothes and pants that we've accumulated and subsequently discarded over that last decade. As I do this, I'm reminded of an episode of The Simpsons, where Marge and Homer spend their anniversary at the dump, looking for a new motor for their refrigerator. It makes me laugh, and as I look at the remnants of our past, comprised of faded shirts, CD's, books and toys, I'll do so with the comforting thought that I'm one of the luckiest guys that I know.

If you had asked me in 1999 where I'd be in ten years, I would have given you some dumbass answer that I actually believed was the truth. I would have told you that I'd be a sports broadcaster for ESPN, or perhaps still working at the hardware store, making six bucks an hour and living in my grandparent's basement for eternity. In reality, I live in a big, new house with my wife of four years, and my non-intrusive office job gives me the financial security and free time necessary to pursue my ever-evolving career as a writer. None of this would exist without the Missus, and quite frankly, it can all go away forever as long as I still have her with me.


(Taken the first day we got our iMac in 2007. We're the biggest idiots you'd be privileged enough to meet.)

This essay was more than a little masturbatory and probably uninteresting to anyone who isn't Celia, but screw it, this one's just for her. Just consider yourself lucky that I don't write stuff like this every day, because I totally could and I totally wouldn't get sick of it.

Happy 4th Anniversary, Celia. I love you more than everything plus one.

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

PART I.

As you may remember from a few weeks back, I all but whizzed myself when I heard that Polysics, The Greatest Band In The World, were coming to Wisconsin for the first time ever. I instantly grabbed two tickets, a VIP parking pass for The Rave in Milwaukee (you don't want to park too far away; it's in a punchy and stealy part of town) and I was all set.

Polysics were in America because of the ironic and embarrassingly-titled 'MySpace Music Tour,' but I was happy nonetheless. Tickets were $20 each, but after $15 for parking and $7.80 apiece for a handling fee (purchased online and printed by myself, mind you), I had broken the $70 mark to see an opening band play for no more than a half hour.

HelloGoodbye and Say Anything we co-headlining the show, and that mattered to me about as much as the surviving members of RATT getting back together; it seems like a fun idea beforehand, but the true weight of your poor decision is felt upon hearing that first, unfulfilling chord of sadness and regret. HelloGoodbye write catchy songs and they're uber-popular right now, but they still haven't figured out how not to be terrible in a live setting.

Still, I was optimistic. The Greatest Band In The World had finally brought their carnival of Japanese insanity to my doorstep, and I wasn't going to let cash and a potential mugging stand in the way. Nothing, nothing, was going to get in between me, Polysics, and complete happiness.

But, boy was I tested.

PART II.

Fate doesn't want me to enjoy things. I've known this for years now. Anything that I look forward to is almost instantly met with failure, shattered hopes and potential jail time. To combat this assurance that I'll never get what I want, I've learned to cultivate happiness from other, smaller avenues, such as Skittles commercials, or when the neighbor kid falls off of his skateboard and snaps his wrist in two. I'll take what I can get, and you would too, if even the sure things in life let you down on a minute-by-minute basis.

The first snag came when I found out The Missus couldn't come to the concert with me. She had a medical sleep study scheduled for that evening, and if she canceled, she wouldn't have been able to get back in until the war in Iran was over with. Besides, it's never good to stop breathing in your sleep, so I understood why this was more important than watching foreign people in orange suits.

"No problem," I said. "I'll just find someone else to take the extra ticket. How hard can it be? I don't even want anything for it." I felt good, knowing that I was going to give a free Polysics ticket to a friend, and have a travel buddy to boot. I quickly got on the phone and tried to brighten someones day.

PART III.

Eight people.

Eight goddamn people turned me down. I don't even have eight friends; how was that even possible? I was giving away a $35 ticket, offering to drive and pay for gas; hell, I'd even let you rest your head on my shoulder if you fell asleep on the way home. Why was this so freaking hard?

So, when the night of the concert finally arrived, I was on my own. I had to drive to and from Milwaukee (about 75 miles) alone, and worse yet, I had to attend a concert by myself. A concert in which I'd be seeing my honest-to-goodness favorite band, and having absolutely nobody to share the experience with. I cannot fully describe how sad that is.

You seem like a well-adjusted person. Someone with a lot of friends. Someone who has never had to go out to dinner by themselves. Someone who has never had to go to the movies alone. Certainly someone who has never lived a lonely enough existence to go to a concert alone, right?

Well, I'm not like you. I'm a writer with anxiety issues, I'm good at losing old friends and I suck at making new ones. Defiantly and more than a little pissed off at the world, I hopped into The Wild Stallion v3.0 (with 2 tickets), and hit the road. At least I could sing out loud in the car without anyone making fun of me.

PART IV.

I say this as someone who's been to The Rave about 60 times, but I hate that place with a blistering passion. Their security sucks, they oversell shows, they let people smoke even though it's clearly banned throughout the building, soda costs $5 a cup and it seems as if assholes are attracted to the place like a maggot to a turd. Perhaps that's just the entire city of Milwaukee in general, beats me.

Outside of the venue is no different. My friends have been mugged, we've had things stolen from us, we've had car windows smashed in and we've been hassled by bums and beggars too many times to mention. It's like they built a crack house and decided to let bands play in it. Sadly, they're one of the only games in town when it comes to bigger-name acts in Wisconsin, so I'm always there for some reason, grinding my teeth and sucking back a $5 glass of ice cubes.

I'll say this, however, their VIP parking is rad as hell. For $15, you get to park about 10 feet from the front door, right amongst the tour buses and security. Nobody screws with your car and you get to stand in the vicinity of whoever happens to be playing that night. For me, it was HelloGoodbye, which was cool, but not as cool as if it were Polysics. Now that I've seen Forrest Klein up close, I still want to simultaneously tell him he writes a catchy song whilst punching him straight in the snoot with a raised third knuckle.

So, alone and parked next to the tour bus, I walked into the venue with both of my concert tickets. I figured there would be some sad kid hanging around without a ticket, and I'd bound in and save the day like a pale, sweaty, Knight of Sadness.

No dice. It figured.

PART V.

It was pouring outside, so I wore my faux-leather jacket into The Rave, as I was pawed at by two different security guards and barked at like I already did something wrong. Even though I wasn't drinking tonight, I still got myself a wristband to show the scene kids that I was old enough to murder them and probably get away with it if they decided to give me a makeover or something.

One of my tickets was ripped in the lobby, and I was escorted into the bar area, where everyone was being corralled while Polysics wrapped up their sound check in the main hall. Through the window, I could see them tuning their instruments and rocking out like there were 10,000 people in front of them, even though the room was empty. I made a note to remember how awesome I thought that was, and I hope you do, as well. For a band that's been together for over a decade, it made me smile to know that they were still so energetic and passionate about their music. I knew I was. Even though they are one of the biggest acts in Japan, they are virtual strangers in America, and were forced to open for 3 sub-par acts and pretend that they didn't have a problem with it. Good for them.

"Wow, it's really going to happen," I said to myself. "They're really here."

Now that I was amongst about 50 sweaty kids in a stale bar, I started to get a little hot. I decided that I wanted to put my jacket back in the car. No problem, I figured, my car is just outside the door. I don't see why anyone would have an issue with--

"Where do you think you're going?" Asked a security guard that was both younger and thinner than I was. I could have picked this guy up by the ankles and shook the change out of his pantaloons.

"Um, I'm just putting my jacket back into--"

"No re-entry!" I heard, shouted in unison from three different guards, who were now circling me like I had a lit stick of dynamite. Woah.

I tried to reason with them. "Listen, I'm right outside that door, if you--"

"Forget it, man!"

"Fine," I said, suddenly realizing that I had an extra ticket in my back pocket. I decided that since I was already unhappy and they were unreasonable enough to not stamp people's hands for re-entry, I decided to screw with them a little bit.

I got right in the guy's face and said, "F*** this s***, I'm leaving."

"So long," said one of the fatter dudes. "Don't try to come back in."

"Yeah, we'll see about that," I shot back.

Confidently, I strided over to the car and threw my jacket into the backseat. I stood in the rain for a bit, watched a few cars go by and took in a breath of the night air. I laughed out loud to myself and shook my head at the bizarre way the night had begun. Then, I threw the doors of the venue back open and got back in line.

The fat guy recognized me. "Hey man, I thought I told you that--"

I wagged the extra ticket in my hand, gave him the biggest jackass grin I could muster, and said, "Hey, look what I found!"

It was almost, almost, like a Mentos commercial. If the guard would have broke into a smile and playfully shook his finger at me, it would have been divine. Instead, he roughly tossed me out of the line, tore my ticket with malice and sent me back into the bar. I was still smiling.

Yes, I'm aware that I essentially spent $35 to place my jacket in my car. Don't remind me; I'm trying to be a smug prick, here.

PART VI.

Aware of how much money I was out and how miserable I was, considering I was about to see Polysics, I made the most (ie: worst) of the evening, and I plopped down my first $5 of the night for a tablespoon of Sprite. I found the closest wall to lean against and waited for the doors of the venue to be opened. There, I eavesdropped on many conversations, watched juveniles make out and shook my head in disgust for what had happened to the scene I had loved so much as a teenager. The punks I could handle; these kids were just silly. Punk never goes out of style; these kids were purposely out of style. Whatever; at least I'm not going to look back at photos of myself and get all embarrassed at how much of a monumental tool I was at the time.

These kids think it's funny to make the same fashion mistakes that their parents made, but what they forget is that the ironic humor of the statement is long gone, replaced with the sad realization that this is actually the style you're stuck with, now. How does it feel to be the punchline of your own joke, butthole?

I'm not bitching because I'm out of touch, don't get me wrong. I'm just saying that there's a huge difference between the super-watered-down scene of the 90's, versus the super-watered-down scene of the 00's. I don't mind the music at all (I own both HelloGoodbye albums, actually), I just grow weary of people defining themselves by what they listen to, or (God help them) wear. I don't consider myself an Indie snob or anything; just a guy that has gotten over trying to project an image of himself through dress or song. IT'S NOT REALLY WHO YOU ARE. I'm sure of it; I was there and I came to that conclusion right around my 20th birthday.

A haircut doesn't make you sensitive. A t-shirt doesn't make you insightful. A band doesn't complete you spiritually. If you think they do, then you need to look in the mirror for a second without trying to snap your photograph at the same time.

PART VII.

I secured myself a spot right up front, as I now knew that Polysics would be opening the show. Next to me, two girls and guy were chain smoking and constantly brushing their patented 'MySpace Hair' out of their black eyes. The guy looked more androgynous than the girls did, and he was wearing an unfortunate shirt about dancing or 'jamming' or whatever. Like Patton Oswalt says, being hip apparently means wearing the dumbest t-shirt you can possibly find, confident that your hipster status will offset the sheer douchebaggery of whatever trash is hung around your neck. Watch that clip, it's hilarious.

I also quickly realized that the only teenagers dumb enough to smoke cigarettes that night were either skinny guys or fat girls. Interesting to me and nobody else, I presume.

Already a little upset with the fact that I was alone, broke, old, hassled by security, alone, old and alone, I got another chance to get furious when the emo boy in front of me threw his lit cigarette behind him without so much as looking, striking me in the pant leg. The girl he was with saw what happened, and she tucked her head under her over-sized trucker cap and turned the other way, thinking that I would see her as someone too cute to kill with my bare damn hands.

It looked like she told him what had happened, and they skittered and giggled like it was some inside joke that I didn't get. Apparently, they didn't think I noticed what had happened. However, when I looked up after stomping the smoke out, they noticed the fire in my eyes and got visibly scared when I stepped up to them, puffed my chest out and stared them down.

Politely, but not to be taken lightly, I said "Look next time." I made it clear that under no circumstances was I in the mood to laugh off an event like having my pants lit on fire.

They silently nodded and turned back towards the stage. They didn't look back or light another smoke for the rest of the night. I didn't feel the least bit bad.

If it would have been 1994, the kid that tossed his smoke at me would have done it on purpose, we would have gotten into a fistfight and emerged best friends. Nowadays, the guys are too fruity to even be outward jerks. They're all passive-aggressive (read: female) about it. I understand that you make yourself look sensitive and cute to attract women (worked for me), but you eventually reach a plateau where you're more feminine than the girls you hang out with, and you just become another friend of theirs. No sex, no making out, not even a glimpse of a bra, simply because you didn't know where to draw the line when it came to being girly.

Someday, I'll publish an advice manual dictating exactly how cutesy you can get with a girl before you blow your chances of going out with her. It'll be like a Jeff Foxworthy act for indie kids:

"If you're wearing her eyeliner...you just might be a blah-bloo-blah."
"If your hair takes longer to style than hers...you just might be a blee-blah-blort."

PART VIII.

Okay, so where are we? Oh yeah, the show hasn't even started yet, has it? Damn.

Taking a quick look around before the lights went down, I realized that there were probably 50 people in the entire venue at this point. It was like one of those surreal dreams where your favorite band plays in your living room, just for you. It was finally happening. After all the years, the millions of yen I've dropped for their imports, all the support and waiting, Polysics lunged onto the stage and proceeded to tear up the lower level of the Eagles Ballroom like Godzirra busting through downtown Tokyo.

It was everything I thought it would be. I wasn't bothered by anyone around me and they played with as much energy and heart as I've seen in the hundreds of YouTube clips I've memorized. Their shortened set list consisted of almost everything I wanted to hear them play, and there were around 10 other kids in the audience who were just as excited as I was. Everyone else was converted by the end of the set, feverishly clapping along and pretending they could understand what they were saying. It's an amazing thing to watch a band win over a room, but that's exactly what Polysics are doing each night of the MySpace Poop Pants Music Tour.

Good for them; I don't want them to be my little secret anymore. I want everyone to know how amazing they are. I want them to be wealthy and free to make spastic music until the end of time.

For those 30 minutes, it was all worth it. The money, the loneliness, the jerks and the hassle. I'm usually not the type of person who can set his baggage down long enough to enjoy something fleeting, but I did this time around, and it was the best decision I made all night. Polysics owned with a capital 'P,' and although I had nobody to share the experience with, it mattered not for a moment.

PART IX.

Once they said goodbye and exited stage left, I was once again alone and angered by everything around me. The douche who hit me with the cigarette earlier in the evening was exclaiming something along the lines of "Yay! Japanese people!," and I wanted to hurt him and his ignorance badly. Instead, I walked around The Rave and took in the sights.

I bought some Polysics merch that would have cost me a fortune to obtain online, told the guy to keep the change and headed back to the bar. On the way, I got a glimpse as to what entailed a 'MySpace Pedophile Breeding Ground Music Tour.' Rows of mobile computers, all set to MySpace, were there for you to go online and view bathroom mirror photos of your loser friends. On the other side of the lobby was a 'makeover' station, where honest-to-God stylists were sitting kids down and doing their hair. I breathed deeply, shook my head and got a beer. Maybe if I were drunk, I'd care less and learn to just go with it more.

As I slowly sipped, leaning against the wall as the next band set up their equipment, I realized there was someone leaning next to me. A young woman, maybe 18 years old, decked in black and sporting a cute haircut, supporting her broken leg on a pair of crutches. I glanced over to her and she smiled back; for a second, I think we both became aware of the humor of the situation.

Just then, Young Love, the second band on the bill, started playing their special blend of crap-pop. They were terrible; just the stalest, blandest, scene-est schlock you can imagine. I cannot fathom how these guys can go on after Polysics night after night, fully aware that they've just been smoked by one of the best live acts on the planet. I wondered how they slept at night, and I secretly hoped that their bus would explode.

Screw HelloGoodbye. Screw Say Anything. I'm leaving.

PART X.

I just couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take the fact that I was alone. I couldn't take the fact that the music was terrible and I couldn't take the fact that I was in a room full of people I wouldn't even consider inviting into my home. It was depressing, the money was already spent, and I'd had it. For the third time in the evening, I passed my security guard friend, tossed an ice cube at him while he wasn't looking, and hit the road. It was nice to see my car right outside of the place.

Driving 75 miles home in the rain, I thought hard about my experience, and came to one logical truth about my current state of living. If it weren't for my wife, I'd be in a serious heap of trouble.

It's no wonder that single people go out all the time; it's lonely being single! For as reclusive and secluded as I pretend I want to be, this night was sheer torture, and I wasn't about to forget that feeling. I hadn't seen the Missus in around 16 hours at this point, and I knew that I wouldn't see her again for another 20 (we've seldom spent more than a day apart in the last 8 years). I made a point to understand how it feels to live and function alone and without my better half, as to remind myself that I don't want to live that way, regardless of what my Id has to say on the subject. I need that girl with every fiber of my being.

When I got home, the house was empty and quiet, leaving me with nothing but tinnitus in both of my ears. The note on the kitchen table reminded me that yes, the Missus misses (ha!) me and can't wait to come home. It was around 10pm, and I decided to go to sleep, even though I had the next day off. I was done.

I slept in the middle of the bed with the cats, and hoped that she was okay at her study.

PART XI.

For the Missus, her night was going about as well as mine was. Her sleep study was supposed to begin at around 9:00pm, but they finally set her up at 10:30pm, which is way beyond her normal bedtime. After all the electrodes were stuck to her and the monitors were properly tuned, she attempted to settle down for a good night's sleep; at least, as good as one can have in a medical facility with people charting your every move and breath.

At around 12:30am, one of the nurses burned a pizza in the break room, causing the fire alarms to chime throughout the building. All of the subjects (including the Missus) had to be filed out into the parking lot, in the middle of the night, while the fire department showed up and assessed the situation.

As she stood alone, wearing a paper gown and still hooked up to all of the machines, she groggily said "Is this part of the study?" I can only assume she was thinking of me at that point as much as I was thinking of her back home.

They got everyone back into the building after it was determined that they didn't know how to shut off the fire alarm. The Missus tells me that she fell back asleep at around 2:30am, the shrill buzz of the sirens still echoing through the building. Something tells me that when they go over her results, they'll determine that her sleep was a little troubled. I'll be damned; I think they owe her another study.

Meanwhile, I was catching the end of Monday Night Football in my pajamas, pondering just how pathetic, fat and sad I'd be if I were single.

PART XII.

On the rare ocassions that I'm left alone with my thoughts, I get a little philosophical about my state of being (as seen in this epic rant). I always try to learn something about myself every day, and give myself some sort of daily moral to fall asleep with. For the night I had just experienced, I once again was reminded of the emotional worth placed in friends and loved ones.

When you're bad in prison, they throw you in solitary confinement. Think about that for a second. When they want to punish you in prison, they force you to be alone. Clearly, being alone is not something humans were meant to handle all that well. We're a living organism, and if we get separated from the pack, we'll wither and die. Or, most likely, go on a killing spree. I was out of my element for maybe 12 hours, and even that was enough to inspire this melodramatic essay.

I probably come off as needy in this. Clingy. Unable to be by myself. Nope, that couldn't be further from the truth. I love spending time on my own; it's why I write, it's when I read and it's when I do my deepest thinking. When it comes to sharing life experiences, however, it becomes readily apparent that experiences only matter if there's someone else to share them with.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Good memories will disappear unless they are shared. Remember that, even if it's the only thing you take from this.

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

CDP- "Honestly hun, I don't think this place actually exists."
MISSUS- "Please... don't be an idiot tonight."

Waukau, Wisconsin. According to my sister, she's driven through there on multiple occasions, seeing not a single person in the process. Her theory was that it was a long-abandoned Ghost Town; mine was that the place was just a fake front for an all-human, for-profit slaughterhouse. Although I spent my entire Saturday night within the confines of Waukau, I was unable to confirm or deny either speculation.

A friend of ours was graduating from college, so her family threw her a party at a Youth Center-style pavilion in Waukau, which was about 10 minutes outside of the Missus' hometown of Winneconne (and where I went to school for 12 years). The fact that I had never known of the existence of this place troubled and confused me; you'd think there would have been at least one night where I ended up there, perhaps a flat tire or through a friend-of-a-friend, but nope. After about a half-hour of hairpin, 5-mile-an-hour turns through thick brush and darkness, we arrived.

I put on my game face.

Me and the Missus showed up with Ben and Sherry, and I instantly got a serious headache just seconds after stepping under the fluorescent lights that had been set to 'Perma-Noon.' The Missus and Sherry started with mingling with all of their close acquaintances and the Guest of Honor, and I started wrangling up as much alcohol as I could find for myself and Ben. We eventually settled on a concoction of whiskey, Diet Sierra Mist and lime vodka that had the both of us reeling after about 20 minutes.

Add that to generous portions of cheese and potato salad we instantly consumed, and we were pretty much set for the evening. True to form, I was becoming more and more unapproachable as the night kicked into motion.

I don't know whether my ability to function properly in social settings is getting exponentially worse, or I'm just more in tune with the fact that I'm no longer good at it. Either way, it's gotten to the point where I honestly don't see any reason why people would want to sit next to me and mingle. Sure, I'm sexy enough and smell like freshly mown grass, but most of the time I just act surly and eventually offend someone until one of us walks away, never to return. I chalk it up to social anxiety, crippling nervousness coupled with alcohol, and a heaping helping of apathy to boot.

I'm on when I want to be on, kids. 'Life of the Party' CDP and 'Depressed Asshole' CDP have always been my standby party personas, but I've noticed that the more positive of the two is making fewer and fewer appearances. I could speculate as to why, but I think it's just resounding selfishness and laziness on the part of yours truly. I'm not proud of it; I'm just acknowledging that it's there.

Back at the party, a friend of the family was manning the karaoke machine, and he sounded almost exactly like Boomhauer from King Of The Hill when he spoke. On the positive side, his voice wasn't all that bad, and I didn't cringe or get uncomfortable whenever he sang a tune. He did, however, have a bag of props that he liberally dipped into from time to time (afro wig, oversized cowboy hat, etc.), and that was no good, Johnny Cash tune or otherwise.

"You know what this party needs?" I slurred over to Ben, who was just as tipsy on the other side of the table.

"Whazzthat?"

"A Wii!" I exclaimed, in reference to the latest unnecessary gadget adorning my living room. The two of us had spent the last day and a half mastering the mechanics of the latest Nintendo innovation, and I could hear it calling my name amongst the reverberations of 'Walking After Midnight' and 'Ocean Front Property.'

"Stop drinking. You have to drive us home." The Missus snapped from one chair over. She was right, so my night ended a little early; instead opting for ice water and chewing on stirring straws.

I dizzily made my way to the pavilion bathroom and spent a minute or so looking into the mirror. After accepting how God-awful I look under buzzing fluorescent lights and attempting to ignore my horrid headache, I started asking myself questions that shouldn't be contemplated in public restrooms. You know, the same ridiculous and inane questions I ask myself about every 4 months or so.

"What am I doing here?"

(Well, you're here with your wife and friends because one of them graduated from College, and that's a good thing. We're here to celebrate someone's achievements. You do know what achievements are, right?)

"Okay. Then why am I so unhappy?"

(Because you're uncomfortable and out-of-place. You probably know 6 other people there, and everyone else is wearing plaid shirts and NASCAR hats. You're worried that you don't fit in, which is why you've been making fun of everyone tonight, and deserve to be thrown out. Stop drinking, get your head on straight and don't make your wife's friends think that married a butthole.)

"I see.... So, what's my problem, anyway?"

(You're selfish. You don't know that you are, but trust me, you are. Every waking moment of your life should not be spent trying to make yourself happy, you know. Every now and again, you need to step back and just be for awhile. I don't care if there's something else you'd rather be doing; stop being a shallow jerk. Shake this lingering bad attitude and start telling jokes, monkey. Funny ones.)

Silly me.

I thought my social anxiety reached a fever pitch plateau a few weeks ago, when I had a near-meltdown at a bowling alley that almost resulted in my ass being kicked. A group of us hit the local lanes, when I was instantly reminded why I try my damnest to avoid bars, concerts or anywhere else that hoards of idiots congregate. I was instantly drowning in smoke, unbearable country music, hootin', hollerin' and various other activities that vapid losers partake in a feeble attempt to have 'fun.'

Never mind the fact the everyone should be allowed to enjoy themselves in any way they seem fit and I was just being an elitist jerk; I was being rubbed the wrong way, and my faith in humanity continued to drop through the floor.

You can only mock rednecks for so long until they start looking at you and wisen up. Of course, getting one of them to wisen up can take anywhere from several hours to days even, but it will happen eventually. They'll wipe the tobacco juice from their collective chins, take their 15 year old girlfriends off of their laps, adjust their Confederate flag belt buckles and start swinging. Luckily for me, it didn't get to that point, because my wife was smart enough to tell me to shut the hell up and pick up that 2-3-5 Spare. I swear to you, I bought Wii Sports just so I never have to go to an actual bowling alley again.

Long after everyone else forgot about it, that night at the alley stuck with me. Why was I so angered by the conflicting enjoyment of others? Why was it so easy for me to collapse based entirely on the conflicting behavior of others? Why did I hate people so much? Surely, this behavior can't be a normal reaction, could it?

I took my mom and sister out for ice cream on Mother's Day. After ordering our stuff, I refused to sit and eat in the store, as I felt there were far too many 'loud, obnoxious idiots' around (you should have seen the place; I was sort of right). Adhering to my wishes, we all ate our ice cream in my Mom's minivan. Does that sound like something you've ever done? I doubt it, yet the people around me are starting to treat this as acceptable behavior from myself. "Oh, that's just the CDP being the CDP. He's like that; it's fine."

It's not. Even I know that it's not. Let's continue.

As the graduation party moved along, my spirits were picked up by a stunning karaoke performance of 'Paradise By The Dashboard Light,' sung by Ben and Erin. Ben put on a performance for the ages, resulting in what was honestly one of the funniest things I've ever seen anyone do. Ben's a funny guy, but when he gets a microphone in front of him, he becomes a different man. I've seen it happen for 10 years now, going back to when he was the lead singer in our old punk band. They should have just shut off the lights and struck the set after that performance; there was simply nothing that was going to top it. I wanted to go home immediately afterwards; what was the point of not leaving on a high note?

For the remainder of the evening, many people were pressuring me into singing karaoke myself. Considering my physical condition at the time, coupled with my emotional state and the fact that there was going to be nothing cooler than Ben's performance short of dropping my pants and teabagging someone's Whiskey Sour, I refused until people kind of got snippy with me. Eventually, I stood on stage briefly for a rendition of 'Love Shack,' where I played the role of that one gay guy that's in the B-52's.

Then, mercifully, it was time to go home.

On the car ride back, I asked my wife if the guest of honor had a good time. She sort of snapped at me, saying something like, "How should I know? You were there too, you know." She was confused as to why I was asking her such a non-selfish question, which is exactly how she should have responded to me. I don't ask these questions because I don't care, but I was starting to realize that maybe I should. This revelation was met with anger and confusion from the Missus, who has long since grown accustomed to my selfish and egotistical ways.

I deserved it.

For the first time in a very long time, I'm really starting to be concerned about my attitude and personal outlook. I've always stated that you should be able to live whatever life you choose to live, provided it's not making anyone else's life miserable. Pretend as they may, I'm starting to think that I'm negatively affecting those around me with my Bipolar quirks and OCD-tendencies. It's nice of them to ignore the worst of me and focus on the good stuff, but if the roles were reversed, I would have thrown myself out of the Circle of Friends years ago. Something's gotta give.

So, what should I do about it? I hear there's all sorts of wonderful medication out there that destroys your creativity, strips you of any sort of emotional high and completely snuffs out your sex drive. What? You're saying that I can stop being a jerk around people, and all I have to do is give up writing and sex? Where do I sign? I should have done this years ago!

Yeah, that's not going to happen. If you know me well, you'll know that I like to combat stress and depression with harder and harder work. To me, stagnation and standing still make you as good as dead, and maybe it's this current complacency that's put my mind in this emo funk. What I need is a big project to work on, and come this Summer, I'll probably get my wish. Hell, I was supposed to finish my book a year ago; when's that coming out?

This, like all things, will soon pass. I'll get my head back on straight, my close friends will feel more comfortable around me, and vice-versa. I just need to make sure it happens before I lose everything.

Sound off in the comments section, and hook a brother up with some positivity.

22. You measure your life differently. When you were younger, you'd save your money for the weekend. For a new video game. For a party. Now (if you're responsible), you save your money for retirement. For investing. For a new home. The Big Picture has taken over and swallowed the little goals and accomplishments that used to be so damn fun. You used to plan ahead to be happy a few days from now. Now, you plan ahead to be happy 40 years from now. What happened to the space in between? Where's the fun? It's still there, right? Right?

23. You're too responsible. Every purchase requires a moment of reflection, projection and quick subtraction. For example, I'll be buying an HDTV and 5.1 Home Theater as a birthday present to myself today. You'd think it would be impossible to keep my excitement discreetly tucked away in my pants, but nope. I'm miserable, because I'd rather the money go towards my credit cards. I owe this to myself, but I can't bring myself to be happy about it. How in the hell can you be depressed when you have a Home Theater? Unbelievable.

24. You can't enjoy remakes of movies, the Nintendo Entertainment System was released over 20 years ago, and your Woodstock festival was an embarrassment. Your nostalgia is starting to become a distant reality. The 80's have been thoroughly mined for pop culture gems, and they're coming for the 90's next. You'll realize this soon enough, but believe me when I say that it was far easier for our parents to explain the 80's away than it will be for us to explain the 90's to our kids. It's a ludicrous decade, Clinton or not.

25. When you were a kid, it was as good as Christmas. Now, you're lucky if your office's 'Sunshine Club' remembers to tie a mylar balloon on the wall of your cubicle. And you'll like it, too. You'll thank them profusely and carry that stupid balloon home for your wife to see. That's who you are now, and it's absolutely hilarious, even if you do contemplate suicide hourly.

26. If you think 26 sucks, 27, 28 and 29 are even worse.

That's it for me, kids. Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day. Happy Birthday to me.

So, here it is. The big secret. The reason that I've been downtrodden, ill, douchebaggy and unreasonable all week. I'm letting it spill because there's really nothing left to lose.

I interviewed for a major promotional position at my office on Tuesday.

This position has been weighing heavily on me for a couple of weeks now, turning me into an unfocused, emotional zombie around the house and causing the CDP to slightly dip in quality (either that, or I've fallen in love; the symptoms are about the same). What better way to shake off the funk than to completely air out my problems through the very public forum I've created for the sole purpose of leaving my actual problems behind?

The advancement between what I do now for a living and what I will potentially be doing for a living is massive. So massive, in fact, that...well, let's just get right into it, shall we?

What I do for 40 hours a week now is a job. I do what I need to do, and when I get home I shake it off and live the life I want to live. The money is fair, the work is easy enough and I enjoy coming to the office in the morning. Should I get this promotion, however, it would now be a career. Overtime. Business trips. Round-the-clock suits and ties. Handshakes and toothy grins. You know, that kind of person. The kind of person that has fought his or her entire life to get to that deserving position of power, and are truly content in being remembered after death as a businessman and professional. I respect that; I really do.

I, on the other hand, have been pulled into this void through forces beyond my control. On my first day with the agency in 2004, I spent most of the day sweeping out a supply closet while wearing the nicest suit I owned at the time. From there, I answered phones, opened mail, worked the Hearing Impaired switchboard and was essentially given every job that nobody wanted to do. I was so low on the totem pole that most employees thought I was a Summer intern. When I came back to the agency after getting married, most people had forgotten who I was.

I didn't mind it. In fact, there are days where I wish I was still sweeping that closet. Days when I wish I had less responsibility, and could gracefully back out of adulthood and go back to my grandmother's basement and sleep until 2pm.

But I worked hard, made friends and got noticed. I was promoted two times in the next two years, dusted myself off and was thrown into an office. I was given more work, answered to less people and made more money. Through it all, though, I maintained the attitude I walked in with. 'Pay the bills and go home.' 'This isn't really my job,' I naively thought, 'this is just what I do so I can write in my spare time.' However, with the upcoming decision being made about the fate of my employment, this is far more than a change in scenery and duties. This is a life change that will effect everything.

I’m constantly reminded that if I get this job, it’ll all be ours. The finished basement, the tropical vacations, the retirement security, the American Dream; all of that stupid, pointless crap that I seem to care so damn much about. Had I just been content to function as a meager, struggling author for the remainder of my 20's, I wouldn't care less about that sort of hedonistic rubbish.

Truth is, however, that I'm not much for struggling, and no decent, married man would turn down the opportunity to make things better for his family, regardless of if that means sacrificing a little bit of his aspirations. In fact, I would theorize that this decision eventually dawns on every responsible adult at some point in their lives. When is the right time, if any, to set the dream aside? Everyone knows how much I oppose selling my blog out, so it would make sense to think that I'd have a moral issue with selling my life out. You'd be right, too. I've been aching like you wouldn't believe the past few days, completely unsure of everything for the first time in many years. I'm a smart guy, why is this so hard for me to understand?

The pros are as follows. This job will give me the financial security I need to advance fully into the world of successful adulthood that I was quite certain would never happen to me. We can buy the nice house, keep two nice cars in the garage, amass a hefty nest egg and lay to rest any issues we might have had in the past when it came to extra cash. Dare I say it, we may even be able to start a family. For a guy like me, that grew up kind of poor and barely graduated from High School, this is far more than I need or deserve to be happy on a superficial level. I'm extremely conservative when it comes to preparing for the future, and this position represents the harmony and peace that I've never felt when I fall asleep at night (albeit boring and lacking individual character).

Which brings us to the cons. First off, this job is hard, okay? As someone who has defied the odds and enjoyed almost every day of work for the last four years, taking a step into oncoming traffic feels a little dangerous, illogical and potentially lethal. What if I hate it? What if I can't hack it? What if I come home every day like a miserable 1950's dad, hassling his wife for dinner and pouring glass after glass of straight Brandy, counting down the seconds until I have to throw the tie back on and do it all over again? I'd hate myself, and I'd hate that I let my employment negatively effect my life at home, which is something I take pride in never doing. I can't turn into that type of person; my 1987 persona would travel forward in time to stab me while I slept, due to me turning my back on all the things that I was put on this planet to accomplish.

Furthermore, and arguably the most important on a personal level, is that fact that I will no longer have the time, resources and capabilities to continue writing and pursuing creative ventures like I do right now. The CDP will cease to exist as you know it. The creation and eventual publication of my second book will have to be relegated to 'hobby' status. In essence, I will need to put my 'real' job at the top of my priorities list, which is something I have honestly never done. I'd still write to make myself happy, but it would go without saying that most of the dream would be over. The stressors of work would have no choice but to come home with me, effectively draining me of whatever creative juices were left for the written word.

I have yet to determine what this is a clash of. Is it a clash between childhood and adulthood? Responsibility and irresponsibility? Security and pursuing your true path? Logic and heart? It's probably a combination of everything, and it's taking a far greater toll on me than I thought it would. If I get the job, this is the decision I'm forced to make. If I don't get the job, nothing changes and I'm left to wonder what could have been. I don't know what's worse.

It disgusts me that I let things like this have such emotional control over me. I think we all have this feeling from time to time, though. What was just a week ago supposed to be a nonchalant, 'we'll see what happens' interview, has now turned into something that I have absolutely no set opinion on, and will leave me with an equal amount of happiness and regret no matter what.

As I poured over my resume, cover letter and references before the interview, I listened to the Lifetime classic from 1996, 'Jersey's Best Dancers,' on my iPod. I couldn't help but to laugh at the irony of enjoying nostalgic, hardcore emo-punk from my teenage years, while prepping myself for my biggest foray into professional adulthood yet, sporting a tie and tucked-in $70 shirt. The blue-haired kid that bought this album at the age of 18 would be so embarrassed to see the 26 year old whore he turned out to be.

Then again, the 26 year old is pretty embarrassed of the 18 year old, too. He didn't understand what it meant to have a wife, constant monthly bills and increasing pressures from every corner of his waking day. He didn't know what it meant to be a responsible husband, corporate professional and a son that his mom could be proud of. How dare he step in and criticize something that he has no business attempting to understand? How dare he hold me back?

In a perfect world, I'd be a successful author. However, I'm intelligent and jaded enough to understand that I shouldn't be holding my breath. I should take what I can get. I should grasp that brass ring, accept the security and responsibility I've worked so hard for, and screw those hopes and dreams that eventually get us all nowhere. I can't do it, though.

I just can't do it.

Here's an essay I've been working on for a few weeks; The CDP's Top 15 NES Games Of All-Time. It's loaded with links, clips, pop culture goodness and various other things that will entertain you thusly if you have the patience to check out everything I've thrown into it (and if you are a child or man-child of the 80's). Please enjoy; the CDP will return when Headquarters is fully functional. Thanks, and enjoy the next few days.

It should also be noted that this is a list of my favorite NES games, not some be-all-to-end-all list that I think you'll agree entirely with. Furthermore, if you feel the need to explain in detail why Castlevania was better than Metal Gear, chances are that we're going to end up being friends anyway. Let's go.

Pre-Countdown Honorable Mentions go to: Castlevania (for being scary), Contra (for being extremely difficult without the Konami Code), Ghouls-'N-Ghosts (for being absolutely impossible), Ninja Gaiden (for the kickass storyline), Final Fantasy (for being Final freaking Fantasy) & Double Dragon II (for the Cyclone Spin Kick).



15. Super Mario Bros. 2

SMB2 is hard. Really hard. Interest-rate mortgage calculation over 30 years, adjusted for inflation with PMI included-hard, as far as this guy is concerned. In fact, I've never actually won SMB2 without the assistance of a certain Game Genie-esque device that allowed me to leap over levels and attack Wart with Matrix-style bullet-time speed. Furthermore, SMB2 wasn't even a Mario game until it was repackaged for American audiences in 1988 (and was featured in the first issue of Nintendo Power, which I proudly own).

That all being said, the music, cartoonish boss appeal and multiple-character selection were all fairly groundbreaking at the time (not to mention the bizarre androgeny of Birdo), and I put many a controller through the drywall trying to reiterate myself with the jumping scheme and new Mario features. I played this game so much as a child, that I named my cat at the time 'Meowser,' a take-off of the bad-ass SMB2 boss, Mouser.

Don't laugh, asshole, I was 7. It's still one of the more clever things I've done.

YouTube Goodness - The Mouser Battle.



14. Ring King

Where to start with the awesomeness that is Ring King? The fighters that ranged in color from Simpsons yellow to nearly-dead E.T. gray? The knockouts that could literally eject your opponent from the stadium? Or how about the most unintentional sexual act in NES history, the imfamous 'cornerman bob-n'-weave?' Ring King was a game that was simple to play (the button-mashing controls assured that first-timers could kick any seasoned pro's ass), which meant that the multi-player tournaments were always a blast.

An underrated NES party game, especially when two n00bz would duke it out for the first time. It normally looked like a Toughman competition; just two guys teeing off on the other's face until someone up and died. And what's more fun than that?

YouTube Goodness - Knocked Out Of The Stadium.



13. R.C. Pro-Am

There are many NES-related moments that we can all, as retro gamers, remember fondly. In my opinion, there was never anything funnier than watching someone attempt to play R.C. Pro-Am for the first time. The control scheme, completely impossible to explain or understand (until it became a permanently ingrained part of your central nervous system), virtually assured that the first 20 attempts at Track 1 would consist of 90-degree pinwheeling into every barrier, wall or oil slick in existence. Once you got it down, you were unstoppable, but when your friend took the reins for the first time, the epic failure was pure bliss.

Special attention goes out to the Yellow Car and its 'impossible speed' bursts in later stages of the game; one of the first examples of outright 'cheating' by computer AI. Go to hell, unnamed driver. You're the reason my trophy room is full of bronze wrenches.

YouTube Goodness - Opening Tracks & The Trophy Room.



12. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Arcade Game

I have an extremely fond memory of attending a birthday party at Aladdin's Castle in the 3rd Grade (remember when arcades used to be amazing?). Myself and my three closest friends pooled our ridiculously large amount of game tokens into a small mound under the TMNT cabinet and went to town, winning the game two times in a row.

Girls were gently patting the sweat off of our brows and assisting us with generous sips of Mello Yello as we stayed focused and united. I was Donatello; I was always Donatello. It was one of my most treasured video game achievments; I think we pumped $80 into that damn machine.

I can't even remember who's birthday it was that day, solidly proving that the best memories aren't necessarily the ones that you purposely set out to create.

YouTube Goodness - Rocksteady's Got April!



11. The Legend Of Zelda

If you ever find yourself talking to me at length about something I couldn't care less about (and chances are that you are), The Legend Of Zelda theme music is probably running through my head on a constant loop. I'm ashamed to admit that I jumped on the Zelda train a little late in my childhood, but the joy and reward was just the same. Summer nights spent in a friend's garage, drinking copious amounts of Kool-Aid and listening to C+C Music Factory on the boom box. It's what memories are made of.

Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got that C+C Music Factory tape back. I have a phone call to make.

YouTube Goodness - One Of The Best Commercials Ever.



10. Excitebike

The overwhelming frustration of overheating mere inches from the finish line. Creating a custom track that launched you directly into a wall on purpose. Tripping up opponents just before an obstacle that sent them slo-mo tumbling for fifteen seconds straight. Excitebike was one of those games that absolutely everyone had, so we're mostly united in our gaming experiences.

I was playing Grand Prix for the Atari 2600 a few weeks ago (a game that I called 'Grand Pricks' in 1988, because I didn't know any better), and it made me long for Excitebike; the image of your character standing yards away from the Top 3 finishers, head bowed in shame, is one of the more psychologically damaging moments of failure in early gaming history. They should have just showed me a picture of my mom getting kicked in the stomach by Darth Vader; it may have hurt a little less.

YouTube Goodness - Knocking Out Track 5.



9. Tecmo Super Bowl

Forget Madden. It's well-documented that Tecmo Super Bowl is the greatest football game in history. Tournaments are still held all over the nation on a weekly basis, and YouTube clips of 500-yard, quarter-length scampers are plentiful. This is the game that will keep the fond memory of Christian 'The Nigerian Nightmare' Okoye in my head forever, as the game designers simply threw their hands in the air one night and said, "You know what? Screw everything; let's just make him impossible to tackle."

That, my friends, is awesome. "No fair; you can't be the Chiefs!"

YouTube Goodness - Superman Okoye Destroys The Colts.



8. Mega Man 2

Taken from the Mega Man 2 Wikipedia page: "Mega Man 2 was named by GameSpot as one of 'The Greatest Games of All Time.' It was also honored in Nintendo Power's 'Top 200 Nintendo Games Ever' list, ranked at number 33. Creator Keiji Inafune claims the success of Mega Man 2 is what made the Mega Man series a hit that continues to spawn sequels."

I couldn't have said this better myself. Furthermore, I can't tell you how many 'Wood Man' jokes I've made over the years. Heh-heh....'wood.'

Penis.

YouTube Goodness - The Timeless Introduction To Mega Man 2.



7. Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!!

Well, here's one we can all probably agree on. The cast of characters was comedic and all-encompassing. The 'Dream Fight' code is etched in our subconscious until the end of time (right off the top of my head: 007-373-5963). The sweat-drenched survival of the first 90 seconds with Iron Mike. Trailing behind Doc Louis' bike while jogging in a pink tracksuit past the Statue Of Liberty. King Hippo. It's all here.

Punch-Out!! is one of those games that I will still be playing and enjoying when I'm 50, and maybe by then I'll get the timing down with Super Macho Man. I once had to dodge his 'Super Spin Punch' 38 damn times in a row.

As a side note, I didn't actually win this game until I was in my late teens, and as I celebrated this long-awaited accomplishment alone in my bedroom, I became acutely aware that good memories are worthless unless they can be shared. Hours later, however, I lost my virginity, so I'd say it was a pretty good day for me.

YouTube Goodness - Iron Mike Gets Owned.



6. Super Mario Bros.

I once read an IGN or GameSpy article proclaiming that "Super Mario Bros. IS gaming." This is unquestionably true; it launched a rebirth of video gaming that has been doing nothing but pick up steam and generate billions of profitable dollars from losers like me for the last 22 years. I cannot offer anything that hasn't already been said in praise of SMB, nor can I properly convey its importance to technology and global culture.

What I can tell you is that the first time I won SMB, I was horribly sick with the flu, and in my overly-hyper celebration, yodeled groceries directly into the box fan whirring in my grandparents' living room. Whatever splatteriffic result you're imagining in your head, I can assure you it was actually far worse. It still didn't deter my celebration; how could it?

YouTube Goodness - Amazing SMB Race.



5. Metroid

Metroid has been considered by many to be the greatest NES game ever made, for a number of reasons. The amazing weapons, storyline and unparalleled code system. The weeks of sleepless nights it took to finally take down the Mother Brain. The twist ending of having to escape the lair to avoid death, even after defeating the boss. And of course, the ultimate twist ending, revealing that our main character and bad-ass hero was actually a woman. That revelation alone transcended Metroid into the stratusphere when it comes to games that had a cultural impact, with endless sequels and legions of fans.

The first time I battled a Metroid, I distinctively remember yelping in terror. Those things were a goddamn nightmare, as I've always had a problem with things that latched onto other things and sucked their lives dry. Like David Spade.

YouTube Goodness - The Final Battle & Best Ending.



4. Metal Gear

The beginning of what is probably the greatest action franchise in gaming history. This one had it all: Spying. Traitors. Intrigue. Weapons galore. The glorification of cigarettes. The final twist and realization that your trusted boss has been setting you up for the fall from the very beginning, and it's up to you to take him out once and for all. My 'Official Metal Gear Map' is tattered and held together exclusively with Scotch tape and memories, but thinking back to insomniac weekends spent conquering this game is the perfect definition of childhood happiness.

This game is also noted for its 'Engrish,' with phrases such as "The truck have started to move!" and "I feel asleep!" Oh, and you get penalized if you shoot the prisoners that you're trying to capture, so try not to do that, even though they're sitting there, all tied up and pathetic. Show restraint, Solid Snake (To this day, I'm still baffled that the game designers decided to name their main character after what amounts to nothing more than an erection joke).

YouTube Goodness - The Opening Levels To Metal Gear.



3. River City Ransom

River City Ransom has received a cult following and legions of devoted fans (ironically) after being named the 'Most Underrated NES Game Of All-Time' by Nintendo Power magazine. And as far as start-to-finish, vague storyline-driven games go, this was one of the most fun games you'll probably ever play.

Follow the map, beat the piss out of every gang in River City and save your girlfriend. Rob the thugs, hit the stores to buy goods that will make yourself stronger. Nowadays, most games follow this structure; back in the day, River City Ransom was the only game in town. The music was tight, the locations were great, the weapons and violence were supreme and the replayability factor is off the charts. I still play this game.

YouTube Goodness - Basic Clip That Will Convince You Of RCR's Awesomeness.



2. Tetris

Here it is. The game that gave almost all of its fans Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. The game that actually spawned a psychological after-effect known as the 'Tetris Effect.' The game that is so ingrained into our minds and memories that we can actually fantasize about playing a game. Tetris deserves to sit right next to Chess and Poker as one of the greatest games in the history of mankind; a premise so simple and addictive that it changed the lives of arguably billions of people.

It's f***ing Tetris, man!

YouTube Goodness - You're Nowhere Near The Best Player On Earth.



1. Super Mario Bros. 3

February 12, 1990. I had just turned 8 years old one week earlier, and pooled every penny I had received as a gift and ran to Toys-R-Us. There, behind the glass, hung the greatest Nintendo game of all-time. Super Mario Bros. 3. After seeing SMB3 for the first time in Fred Savage film The Wizard the year before (and what a brilliant marketing ploy, by the way), I knew that it was my destiny to conquer this game like a five-dollar whore.

I had the strategy guide. I had the maps. I had the entire Summer to hone my craft, and indeed I did. In the Summer of 1990, I won SMB3 an astounding 100 times, something that I'd argue that nobody else has ever done. I'd get up in the morning, eat breakfast, play some basketball and win SMB3. The next day, I did the same; so on and so forth, until school was back in session.

As depressing as that may sound, it was actually quite amazing. Friends would come over and win with me. I'd win with one life. I'd win using no Warp Zones. I even won some levels by looking into a mirror. It was probably the best Summer ever.

YouTube Goodness - Mario! Mario!

Thanks for reading. Sound off in the comments section and let us know what your favorite NES games are.

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up Cake's 'B-Sides & Rarities' disk. Cake has been one of my favorite bands for over a decade now, and I wasn't about to let a collection of cover songs and throwaways slip my grasp, regardless of their previous mediocre album. One trip to Best Buy and $10 later, it was mine.

When I got home, I began tearing the CD out of the plastic as the Missus began to prepare dinner directly behind me in the kitchen. As I opened the jewel case, I was instantly hit with an almost indescribably putrid stench. It was as if a tractor tire decided to have sex with a jar of grape jam while a rouge turd worked them both over with a blowtorch and fine oils. It was hellish.

Not thinking for a second that this scent had wafted out of a compact disk case, I quickly turned around to see what the Missus was up to, and find a kind way to opt out of tonight's dinner plans.

"What...in the hell...are you cooking?"

"Nothing yet, why?"

As soon as the last syllable of the last word escaped her mouth, the molten rubber/jam jar/turd gangbang parade reached the inside of her nostrils. She recoiled, as we both stood there for a fraction of a second, completely dumbfounded and unsure of what was going on. It was only a matter of time before the accusations started to fling over which one of us had crapped in their respective pants.

Having never experienced such an unholy reaction to opening an album (with the exception of anything recorded by Something Corporate), we both cocked our heads and slowly wandered over to the open jewel case, as if it were a bomb ready to spew further noxious gas forth. I pressed my nose to the liner notes and inhaled deeply.

Have you ever been blasted with pepper spray? Well, I have, and this was as close as I wanted to get again. I immediately stopped breathing, my eyes began to water and my mouth dropped open. I was one-hundred percent immobilized; women seriously need to start carrying copies of this album around with them for protection. What in the hell was going on?

It was as if we were watching an alien being hatch from a giant egg on our breakfast bar. "This can't be happening!" I yelled. "What IS it!?!" screamed the Missus, hands pressed against her face. I didn't know at the time what had turned 'B-Sides & Rarities' into a virtual Pandora's Box of ass matter and anguish, but I also knew that it wasn't allowed to stay in the house any longer.

I grabbed a pair of tongs and threw the entire contents of the jewel case into the freezing cold garage. Whatever the problem was, it could work itself out there while me and the Missus began the slow and painful healing process back inside the house. She hit the computer and I reached for the Clorox 'kitchen cleansers.'

A few minutes later, we had determined through Wikipedia that the 'B-Sides & Rarities' album boasted a grape-flavored 'scratch-and-sniff' booklet (one of five different flavors). It is my assumption that the fine folks in Cake didn't exactly 'sample the wears' before these bad boys hit the assembly line, nor could accurately judge what the booklet would smell like after several weeks encased in shrink-wrapped plastic. No band that enjoys making money and pleasing fans could have been a part of something so heinous and wrong. Had I been driving a car when I opened that album, you'd probably be reading my obituary right now.

Still, two weeks after the incident, the case, booklet and disk continue to sit in the garage, atop a case of bottled water. Every day, I come home and give them a passing sniff to see if they had learned their lesson, and each day they continue to fail miserably. I refuse to have this...thing...touch anything inside my house or vehicle until every last microfiber of stink has been frozen out of it. I don't even care if the disk itself eventually shatters like a stick of baseball card chewing gum; it's not welcome in Headquarters until it resembles the normal and respected CD I thought I had purchased.

Each night, I wake up in a cold sweat imagining that it somehow made its way into the house, tainting my music collection, computer and office with its own original brand of Sacramento-based, grape-flavored nightmare fuel. If my iMac smelled like this album, you can bet your ass I'd be dragging it to the curb come garbage day.

Why, Cake? Why?

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

You probably already know this about me, but I'm a vegetarian. I've been meatless for many years now, for a plethora of different reasons pertaining to moral values, health and the advocating of animal rights. I'm proud of the decision I made, and I personally believe it's the right one.

The distinction I like to make, however, is that I'm not one of those vegetarians. I won't get in your face if you choose to eat meat, I won't preach if you choose to hunt, and I won't destroy your carnivorous arguments, regardless of how narrow your mindset happens to be. It's not in my nature, and furthermore, it doesn't win friends or convert people. I've known this for a long time now. Bitch to a meat-eater about eating meat, and they'll just want to eat more meat to shut you up. You'll probably deserve it, too. No sense in trying to change someone like that.

Here's how I look at it. I'm pro-choice on the abortion issue; mainly because I feel that my opinion should carry absolutely no weight when it comes to the choices a female wishes to make with her body and her potential offspring. My take on the issue is about as important as Paris Hilton's take on penile cancer. She doesn't deserve to speak on the issue; nor should I. Unless my sperm was involved somehow, my opinion is worth nothing, and rightfully so.

So, when I travel back to my hometown and view a radical pro-life protest in the parking lot of the Catholic church I was baptized in, it doesn't do much for my biased attitude when I see billboard-sized photographs of aborted fetuses. It just reminds me of a robotic, annoying band of exploitative assholes that I wish not to associate myself with. The argument they were trying to make is lost in the presentation. Had they hit me non-intrusively with a few facts, literature and business cards, perhaps I would have taken them a little more seriously. Or better yet, they could have just assumed that human beings were capable of making their own educated decisions without the further distraction of their guilt and shame-driven racket.

Back to vegetarianism.

It is this humble, somewhat-humanistic and non-confrontational attitude that has kept me opposed to the tactics and ad campaigns produced by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA). Don't get me wrong, PETA is a respected and well-known organization that gets the word out about the healthy and environmental benefits of a meatless lifestyle, along with the typically unseen horrors of the meat processing trade. What frustrates me is their standard method of gaining publicity. Shock tactics, upside-the-head brutality and public demonstrations that remind me all-too-well of the pro-life demonstrations that irk me so.

The comparison may be slightly unfair and on opposite sides of the political spectrum, but be reminded that PETA is also an organization that modeled an ad campaign after the Holocaust. Yikes. When you have a minute, do a Google Image Search for 'PETA,' just make sure you don't do it while at the office. To say that the message is lost at times is a serious understatement.

So, I'm torn. I want so badly to be a proud PETA member, but at the same time, I get embarrassed each time I turn on the news to see another publicity stunt garnering negative attention (not all attention is good, especially when you're trying to change minds through information and education). This conflict came out during my most recent interview with the Wisconsin State Journal. It reads as follows:

CDP: There have been a couple of times when I've been political or talked about pop culture where people react. I remember awhile ago I did something about vegetarianism.

WSJ: And you are a vegetarian.

CDP: Yes, I am a vegetarian. I think it's important but I don't think it's mandatory. I'm not one of those guys. I don't support PETA since I think they have a good message but their marketing is incorrect. I think they need to find a better way to convert people than these shock tactics.

WSJ: So having naked women posing with signs down on State Street is not your thing?

CDP: Well, it's just not going to convert people. It's converting people to naked women, not vegetarianism. That's not the image you want to portray. So I explained it simply to people who were thinking about it. When I first went vegetarian I had a lot of questions, I thought I'd die, I didn't think I'd survive. After awhile it made sense. I'm just an average guy, I don't work out a lot; So I just wanted to put something out there that was just an average person's guide to going meatless. I got a lot of wonderful emails.

As you can see, I didn't waver on my stance. The point that I made was the one that I always make, being that I believe PETA has a good message, but their marketing is incorrect and alienating not only potential meatless converts, but also loyal and unobtrusive vegetarians like myself. Fair enough, right?

Well, what I forgot was that the WSJ article ran nationwide, and eventually grabbed the interest of PETA; specifically one of the campaign managers. I received this e-mail a few days ago; the name has been withheld because I'm not in the business of getting sued:

Dear Mr. Zeinert,

We at PETA were thrilled to read in the Wisconsin State Journal that you’re a vegetarian and have written about 'going meatless' on your blog. However, as someone who has organized and participated in several 'naked' PETA protests, I would like to share our reasons for using 'shock tactics' in our efforts to raise awareness of animal suffering.

Before people will stop buying, for example, fur coats, they must be aware of the industry’s cruelty to animals. Getting the news out in the media therefore, is vital. Unlike our opposition, which is mostly composed of wealthy corporations, we cannot afford costly ad campaigns, and thus have to rely on getting free 'advertising' through media coverage. We will do just about anything to get the word out, even to the point of using 'shock tactics' because we have learned from past experience that the media, sadly, thrives on such shenanigans.

If I can help call attention to the animals’ side of the story in a 'naked' protest, that's a choice I’ll gladly make. We hope that you will consider supporting PETA’s efforts to end animal suffering.

It was an informative and professional letter, and I appreciate that they took the time to send it to me. It does, however, verify a few things concerning PETA and their marketing. Mainly, that they participate in shock tactics and generating confrontational images because it works and gets people talking. Furthermore, they're happy with the press attention they receive, and will do whatever is necessary to gain more.

I honestly can't argue with that. It got me talking, didn't it? At the very least, I'm glad that they actually admitted to doing what they do for the media exposure, and not as much for the intended audience. It still doesn't make sense to me from a marketing standpoint (the audience is more important than the media; regardless of all the exposure you get from these campaigns), but they were straight with me, and I appreciate that.

This was the e-mail that I wrote back to PETA shortly thereafter:

First off, thank you so much for taking the time to write me; I greatly appreciate it. I also want to thank you for explaining and defending the ad campaigns and methods used by PETA to get the word out concerning animal abuse and cruelty.

I, myself have brainstormed many ways to positively, intelligently and unabashedly get the word out about the detriment to our planet and bodies that a meat-fueled lifestyle entails. I know it's a difficult path, as ignorance and apathy cannot be easily reversed through a poster or commercial. Conclusively, I think that any group that makes it their goal to educate citizens on the multiple positive values of a meatless lifestyle is doing a service to our nation, polarizing ad campaigns or otherwise.

With that in mind, please accept my $25 donation to PETA (I just donated online), with my best wishes of further success to your organization.

Thanks again for taking the time to contact me,

-Ryan J. Zeinert

I believe I did the right thing. I stood my ground (still do), but made a point to recognize the work that these people do behind the imagery and struggle for media attention. I also wanted to subtly make the point that by reasoning with people on the topics at hand (ie: me), you could change the minds of those that you're overlooking with your dragnet publicity tactics. Nude protesters in a cage didn't change my mind, but personality, honesty and logic did the job just fine.

Or maybe, just maybe, it shows that I'll do anything I can to be voted the Sexiest Vegetarian in Wisconsin for 2008.

Sound off in the comments section and enjoy your day.

#30 - "I Can See Your Butthole."
(Originally Published July 13, 2007.)



Ladies and gentlemen, today I present to you a gift. A gift from me to you, free of charge and with no expectation of reciprocation.

Today, I will give you a new saying that you will grow to love and incorporate into your lexicon and circle of friends for years to come. A saying that, once it has become common fare on TV shows and film, you can always be reminded of where it all started.

It's a big day; I'm glad you're here.

We're no strangers to people who clearly don't listen to themselves talking. Day in and day out, we have to listen to these people ramble incessantly about things that they really have no expert opinion on. For our entire lives, we've had to politely nod and smile along with this drivel, pretending that what they were yapping about was being processed and agreed with by us. If only there was a way to get them to stop and think about how much of a douche they were...

No longer.

The next time a friend starts talking directly out of their ass, let them know that you know. Let them know that you're tired of their idiocy, and you're tired of pretending that you care.

Tell 'em you can see their butthole.

EXAMPLE #1:

Steve - "Why are you a vegetarian? Everyone knows that animals can't feel pain."

Bill - "Dude, I can see your butthole."

See? It's easy and fun! Here's another quick example:

EXAMPLE #2:

Steve - "Tiger Woods is an okay golfer, but his career will burn out fast."

Bill - "What?"

Steve - "I just mean that he's got maybe 1-2 more good years left, tops."

Bill - "Steve, I can see your butthole."

Are you starting to see proper usage? But hey, just like any good saying, you can get creative with it and make it your own!

EXAMPLE #3:

Steve - "So like I was saying, I think that President Bush should be on Mount Rushmore, because..."

Bill - "Hey, what's that down there?"

Steve - "What's what down where?"

Bill - "Oh, it's your butthole. I can see it."

Steve - "Burned again! Blast your impeccable timing and wit!"

Once you get good with it, you can start to really craft it into something special, but it's best to start at the beginning and throw it around your friends for good practice. I've been doing it for a few months now, and people are starting to say it when I'm not even around. It's going viral, and I think it can go nationwide by this time next year.

So, the next time that someone starts saying something stupid, don't try to see their side of things; see their butthole!

It has begun. Sound off in the comments section and have a great day.