Reaching Pi

Reaching Pi
I had a friend in college, let’s call him Dirk, who; like most of us; used to get blind stinking drunk on a fairly consistent basis. Dirk and I were great friends, and even shared the same birthday, although this fact escaped us for nearly an entire semester until around mid-December while making plans that hinged on being blacked out drunk for New Year’s…and beyond.
Now Dirk loved his beer; probably not any more than anyone else, but it had a profound effect on him. Whilst in college, there are people who are dubbed with the unfortunate moniker of “Three Beer Queer” and it becomes very difficult to live down. Dirk wasn’t exactly a TBQ, but the tasty suds still had a pretty strange effect on him. After drinking three beers, Dirk would be fine and still able to do those things like carrying on a conversation or maintaining his balance, that we sometimes take for granted. Upon taking the first sip of his forth beer however, he became a lunatic, often feeling the need to take his shirt off and dance in front of the large bay window in his room, while blasting Easy E’s “Gimmie that Nut,” DJ Assault’s “Ass-n-Titties” or Fleetwood Mac’s “Everywhere.” Being able to walk the fine line between being cooler than you are and sick nerd who likes Star Trek, I decided that it took Dirk approximately 3.14 beers to get completely wasted. And amazingly, no matter how many more beers -or shots of Jack, for that matter- he had the rest of the night, he never got any drunker. Watching the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde like metamorphosis that would take place when Dirk would reach Pi is one of my fonder college memories; although it’s interposed with one of the most objectionable…the half naked, drunken dancing.

Land Manatees

Last night I was able to witness a Land Manatee, in her natural habitat – a Mexican Cantina, shovel fajitas in her mouth like the beef was from the last cow on earth. I had been trying to enjoy a wonderful evening, sitting outside while working up a decent buzz and although quite repulsed, I was unable to turn away. (Don’t get me wrong, I think food is awesome, I enjoy cooking and being cooked for; however, I have something in my brain that tells me “maybe you should draw the line at two cupcakes, whadda ya think?”) Like being stuck in traffic next to a train wreck; complete with twisted metal, shattered glass and broken limbs I was appalled, but unable to turn away, amazed that she was able to carry on a conversation with her companion, while skewering hunks of beef, mounds of guacamole and epic proportions of sour cream, rice and cheese, folding these into an unsuspecting tortilla and forcing the entire atrocious amalgam into her maw. Salsa? No thanks. Lettuce? No thanks. More sour cream? Absolutely! I tried to tough it out as long as I could, but after about fifteen minutes I went back inside just happy I didn’t catch her at a McDonald’s.

Stop Naming Your Daughters Kelly

Open Letter to the Parents of Unborn Children

Stop Naming Your Daughters Kelly

Please, for the God, Pete & the FSM stop naming your daughters Kelly; enough is enough already. Seriously, stop it.
I meet, on average, at least one new girl named “Kelly” every week. So the problem invariably arises when I’m sitting around with my friends and start a sentence, “so I was hanging out with Kelly the other day…” only to have my friends look at me like the RCA dog. I would wager (and this is of course only a rough estimate) that among my immediate circle of friends we probably know 147 girls named “Kelly.” Oh sure, at first it was cute; “how funny, another girl named Kelly.” We used to laugh about it, “what does that make now, thirty?” But now my head is spinning; now, I’m meeting girls, and find myself putting names in my cell phone with titles like, “Other Kelly” or “Blue Shirt Kelly” or “Tight Jeans Kelly,” it’s really getting a little ridiculous.
Honestly, after you dub one girl “Kel” and possibly another “Kels” how many more ways can you really doctor the name? You just can’t, it’s like the naming your kid Elmer.
Don’t get me wrong, “Kelly” is a great name, really; I like it a lot; but the whole Kelly over-proliferation is getting a bit out of hand. So please, Mr. & Mrs. John Q. So-and-so, when the guy with the latex gloves and white mask says, “congratulations, it’s a girl,” don’t name her Kelly.

Sometimes I wonder...

Ever wonder where the expression, “shit or get off the pot” comes from? I mean, if you think about it, the first activity is just going to lead to the second one, right? It’s just going to take a little while longer. Not to mention, if you get off the pot, not having shit, aren’t you going to be heading right back a few minutes later? I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but this is how my mind works. This is how I can be walking down the street, see a woman walking a dog bigger than Cujo and end up wondering how many varieties of pickles there are…