Happy new year or something

Sucks that I have to work tonight. I hope everybody else has a good time, though. (not really). Sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I had several drafts of a post about the guy who dressed up as santa and then barged into his former in-laws' party and killed some people. He killed eight, I think and also shot a little girl in the face. There was a good bit of fucked up humor in that, but my conscious got the best of me for once and I decided to scrap it.

Anyway, I'm working on a super group of bloggers. We started a new blog here. Check it out and maybe throw some encouragement out there 'cause we're all kinda lazy fucks in our own way. It may not look like much now, but it's going to be amazing. I promise. This isn't like the 400 others I made and promptly deleted. Two more people are supposed to join, but one is in Rhode Island, and apparently they don't have computers there or some shit. The other is busy making sure people don't die. I can't respect that, I guess. Also, he's probably using Netscape Navigator on Windows '95 or something.

Pip, I've failed you...

My follow-up visit with the angel in scrubs didn't go exactly as I planned. The day before I went, I decided to take Pip's advice and I talked myself into asking her out. It was going to happen and it was going to be great. A strange feeling came over me. I searched the internet for this feeling, and after several hours on wikipedia, I determined it's called "confidence." Weird.

I figured we'd go out to some nice restaurant. The finest Nacogdoches has to offer (Arby's), and we'd have great conversations. She tell me about how she was a doctor and stuff, and I'd tell her about that one time on the Sims when my dude reached the top of the medical career track. We'd high five and probably make out not long after that. (After we ate our beef and cheddar sandwiches, of course.)

After our delightful dinner, we'd come back to my place and relax on my man-mat. Things would probably get pretty hot. She'd show me where babies came from, and I'd pretend to have already known where they came from. As we drifted off to sleep, shed whisper, "Dale, I can only sleep if Tool is quietly playing in the background." I'd turn slightly to the side as I walked to my computer to conceal the giant bo-bo in my pants which no doubt arose from the fact that a naked woman mentioned the greatest band ever assembled. We'd fall asleep in each others arms to the gentle tones of "Prison Sex." Maybe she'd get some ideas from it. Maybe she wouldn't. Either way it would be the best day ever.

I had this all planned out. The most amazing day was coming up and I was excited.

That morning in the shower, I carefully groomed and scrubbed the ol' triplets like they were baby penguins after an oil spill. If they were to make another appearance, I wanted them to not only be impressive, I wanted them to sparkle!

I got to the doctor's office and went to the back almost immediately. I depantsified myself and put on my super-sweet gown to await the arrival of my delicate chrysanthemum. A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked the beautiful snowflake with big boobs that is my knee doctor.

She went right to work, making small talk as she gently caressed my wounded knee (Ha! Like the Indians! What happened there anyway? Like a peace treaty or something?) I had a brief mental conversation with my penis. "Stay put," I said. "She's not ready for your magnificence. Not yet." He complied and didn't cause a scene.

As I was trying to think of some hilariously witty remark about the fact that I wasn't wearing pants, I looked down and saw the mountain of a ring that was on her left hand. Holy shit. I think at least a hundred immigrant workers died during the construction of that ring. It was massive.

"So stupid!" I thought to myself. How could I have missed another wedding ring? I'm so bad at this.

I sat there, dejected as she finished her doctorly duties. Her diagnosis was that my knee was still slightly sprained and I should take it easy for a few more days. My diagnosis? A broken heart.

I guess it's for the best. I didn't want her to feel like a trophy girlfriend/wife. It's easy for women to feel that way when they're with me. I don't wanna brag or anything, but I am pulling down wal-mart truck unloader money.

I've since moved on to other unobtainable girls, but there will always be a special place in my heart for Dr. Whateverhernamewas. We'll always have that time she saw my balls, and no one can ever take that away.

Crazy dreams

I had a dream a couple days ago that I met a sexy journalist at...wait for it...a party at Angela Lansbury's house. I dunno why I was dreaming about Angela Lansbury. My mom is a big "Murder She Wrote" fan, and I've probably seen more than my fair share of episodes, but other than that and the occasional "change of pace" masturbation, I haven't even acknowledged Angela Lansbury's existence in a while. So I dunno what's up with that. It was a nice house, though. Apparently she's been doing well.

The journalist lady was there to write a story on this party. I was there to apparently show her around because for some reason, I knew the nooks and crannies of the Lansbury Estate.

I think some lucid dreaming kicked in in this dream. I noticed that the hot journalist had a wedding ring on, but I somehow made it disappear. How sad is that? That I even dream about being attracted to women in relationships.

So in the dream we all sat down to dinner. This is when I was going to make my move. What my "move" was, I'm not quite sure, but I remember thinking that this is when I was going to make it. Everything was going well until I looked across the table and saw Jerry Seinfeld. Not sure why I was dreaming about him either. Anyway, every time I tried to talk to the journalist, he would interrupt and basically talk shit to me. At one point, he was making fun of me for not knowing how to use a tiny fork that looked like a garden rake. Finally I stood up and said, "Your show was stupid and FUCK YOU!" Then I woke up.

So what does this say about me?

Issues with being ridiculously attracted to unobtainable women (more on that later...maybe)? Anger issues? A tiny fork fetish? I dunno.

I think the worst part of being crazy is the fact that I know I'm crazy.

Thoughts?

Richard wins

I posted awhile back about the space above our fireplace and how it needed to be filled with some sort of decoration. Well, Richard saw to that. Here it is. It's his take on the Stepbrothers movie poster.

It's some pretty funny shit and will probably make anyone who enters our apartment immediately think we're homos. We're not, though, ladies. Straight as an extra-straight arrow.

The Blogger Dilemma

Every blogger comes to the point where they must make a tough decision: To post or not to post. Most of the funny things that happen to me are the result of my own frequent and sometimes self-induced misfortune. For example, the events of yesterday, after the sting of rejection goes away, will be pretty hilarious. But do I post it? People who read this blog were involved and I don't want anybody to be mad at me or embarrassed. Then again, do I really care? Comedy is comedy. It's this dilemma that made me a shitty journalist. I don't want to hurt feelings or upset people in any way.

So what do you do in these situations? I almost scrapped this blog this morning and started an anonymous one, but I don't have the energy for that.

For no reason at all, my new favorite site: Explosm.net

I think I'm in love

The other night at work, I was pulling a heavy ass pallet of fire logs when some 800-year-old lady decided it would be a good idea to just go on ahead and walk out in front of me. I tried to drop the pallet really fast, but of course the handle was broken, so I had to try to stop it myself. I'm pretty sure the pallet was well over 1,000 lbs, so needless to say I didn't do a very good job. Basically the only way to do it is to try to push it back the other way. When my left foot planted and I absorbed most of the weight, I felt/heard a popping sound in my knee. Then it swelled up to about the size of a softball. Being the super awesome manly man that I am, I went ahead and worked for another two and a half hours until I finally decided I should report it just in case I really fucked myself up.

So the next day, I went to the company's (it rhymes with schmall-schmart) doctor. They set me up with an appointment for this morning with a physician's assistant named Amanda. Since it was my knee, I had a pretty good feeling that I'd have to take my pants off at some point during the exam. I was excited.

For some reason, I expected Amanda to be the same old lady that saw me the day before to give me my drug test. She was not. She was pretty hot. Sorta looked like a brunette Kellie Pickler with an adorable beauty mark on her cheek. She had a pretty awesome southern accent. Not a dirty, Texas accent, but one that you would associate with Georgia or something. She didn't say "lack" instead of "like" like most girls from Texas do. That was a good thing.

After the initial checkup, she said, "ok, take your pants off, put this gown on and hop up on that table for me." The most romantic words I've ever heard. She left the room while I depantsed myself. I hopped up on the table, but something didn't feel right. There was a draft. I looked under my robe and noticed that the ol' triplets were kinda hanging out. No matter how I adjusted by boxers, there they were. Just hanging out. I couldn't really get off the table 'cause I figured it'd hurt like a bitch if I landed wrong on my leg. I just had to go with it.

So every time she bent down to look at my knee, I'm sure she saw snap, crackle and steve staring back at her. If I would have known that they'd be making an appearance, I would have done something different with their hair. Maybe parted it or something.

As I was leaving, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm really concerned about your blood pressure. You don't want the problems associated with this. You're too young for that." Hand on my shoulder! That's what we in the biz call "kino." Wink!

So anyway, my knee isn't that bad. It's sprained and I strained my left calf muscle. Other than that and my 190 over 110 blood pressure, I'm healthy as a horse. The good news is that I get four days off. The bad news is that I have to be a people greeter for a week until I'm cleared to go back to doing grunt work. I guess it could be worse. Well, not really.