Coffee Music

I never got to the end of the video game Oregon Trail. I would always find a way to either break a wagon wheel or someone got scurvy. I think one time I fed the oxen a bag of bad rice or something and one or two died.

I had a stuffy nose last night during my sleeping. Luckily the lock-in at the church was cancelled or I would be really disappointed. It started when I was a good 90 minutes or so into some movie, or rather ¾ way through, when I decided the movie sucked and turned it off. That is just absurd. I invested 90 minutes of my not-very-important time into a movie and didn’t even see the end of. I could have spent that time reading that book I started in 2005 or conjuring up ways to have the entire Kardashian family perish in a violent, fiery explosion. Watching a movie for that amount of time and not committing to the see the conclusion is akin to ordering a ordering a 12-pack of long fluorescent lights, proceeding to smash 10 of them against a brick wall and then deciding you’re not having fun anymore. It’s pretty much exactly like that. Anyway, the stuffy nose thing just blows, pun kind of intended. One nostril remains free while the other one is clogged up like an American Standard. And then when you turn over, somehow the cadre of snot and whatnot receives its marching orders and all contents shift to nostril B . . . it’s like turning over an hourglass full of swamp water, over and over and over and over.

 So. Wait, what was the point of this? Hold on. Oh, actually my only point was that it is a good feeling when you finally get that great big nose blow in the morning – the kind where you feel the portion of your brain that controls logic and reason come barreling out of your nose tunnel and land in the giant pillow of Kleenex in my calloused (right) hand.

 Which brings me to my next item: the acoustic version of an original song. While there are a few good acoustic versions of songs, most of them do nothing for me. The gym I am a member of where I train for nothing likes to keep it locked tightly on the “Coffee Shop Station”. Actually, they keep it on this coffee station in the locker room. I don’t know what they play out in the bullpen area because I usually have my Walkman on – and the foam earmuffs pretty much keep out all outside noise. But the coffee station, well, they love love love love to play the acoustic version of songs. And this seems logical since nothing gets you pumped up for some loud grunting bench press and power clings like soft rock.  I will wrap this thing up because I need to actually work on some ads, but my dumb point is that some songs need an acoustic version about as much as I need another pair of leather briefs.

I have heard the following acoustic versions on the coffee station, all true, not kidding. They all make me want to brush my teeth with a loaded 12 gauge. (a partial list . . . and the song is usually not covered by the original artist, with the exception of a certain hairy Canadian)

 

-         JUMP by Van Halen

-         EVERY SONG by Alanis Morisette

-         MONEY by Pink Floyd

-         SWEET CHILD OF MINE by Guns n Roses

-         FOOTLOOSE by Kenny Loggins

-         I LOVE ROCK N ROLL by Joan Jett

-         ANY CONVERSATION SHE HAS EVER  HAD by Alanis Morisette

 

       I’ll revisit this at another time.

       SWINE FLU!

Tyler

 

The Catalog

Hello.

I forgot my password.

The holidays are upon us. I love it. Lights. Trees. Gifts. Food. Parades. Stuffing. Wrapping paper. Families will gather around a big table for turkey and small talk. People will get drunk and cry, and then realize they gained 9 pounds and cry some more. Maybe someone’s uncle will get arrested in jean shorts and tank top for refusing to leave the property after throwing a half-burnt piece of firewood through the living room window . . . then will try to sneak back in the house though the chimney, which still has a fire burning at its base. And perhaps a nice young girl will bring her new thug boyfriend home for eggnog . . . then watch in anger as her mom rubs his leg under the table and slips him a roofie.  And everyone will have a great time until the house burns down. 

 

But it’s not just great events like this that makes me love the holidays, it’s also the small things. The memories. The traditions. The people. Just the other day I was thinking about one aspect that seems to be long gone and makes me feel really old, very irrelevant and as dated as the majority of the contents of my fridge: I  miss the days when the Christmas catalogs came out. It was awesome to get a catalog. It was always from someone like JC Penny or Montgomery Ward and was a big as a phone book. Aside from a few pages I would visit in the front part . . . which featured women scantily clad with Farrah Fawcett-style hair and 80s torpedo boobies, I immediately would flip to the back where the toys were. STAR WARS STAR WARS STAR WARS. The back had all sorts of other cool stuff like bikes and Transformers and Go-Bots and GI Joe, but all I cared about was STAR WARS. There was something about the way each action figure and ship or scene was posed just so with its name underneath, along with a brief description of the character or vehicle.  The art directors always did a fantastic job of arranging the photos to where they looked just like a scene out of the movie. Or maybe they didn’t, but this is how I remember it. We would highlight what we liked and give it to our parents, then get locked back in the damp and moldy basement. My imagination would run wild. It was cool. I waited all year to see what was going to be available. Now, just google whatever you want to see and it will come up. It kind of sucks. Or does it? I’m sure if I showed one of my nephews a catalog they would laugh at me and remind me that its never been proven that I am a blood relative, tests results are still pending.

 

I don’t know. I just remember the Christmas catalog. It was fun. It was exciting. It was something to look forward to. Thankfully the internet is just a fad and will be gone by this time next year and the catalog will reign once again.

In other news, that guy Levi Johnston needs to be drawn and quartered along with that California beauty queen who has fake knockers and is about as bright as my shower curtain. Reality TV is poisonous, but I have been enjoying the TRAIN WRECK that is Sex Rehab with Dr. Drew. The issues are absolutely unreal and its makes me feel like being a cutter isn't really that big of a deal. I am excited to go to LA next week for Thanksgiving to visit family and see old friends . . . and my SARS/Scurvy hyrbid is clearing up.

HAPPY MONDAY TO BOTH OF MY READERS!

Tyler

Tyler

Pot Luck

I had a dream last night that I got a job as a data-entry clerk at an office in Arlington, TX. Three things bothered me about this: 

1) - the idea of living in Arlington, TX. I think I would rather live in a broken 1986 Pontiac Fiero in Houston than live in Arlington. With a Fiero roommate.

2) - I had to wear pleated slacks in my dream and the computer I was using was the size of a pocket watch. And they monitored porn.

3) - my boss, Mr. Dobbins, kept sexually harassing me and pinching my ass and calling me "buns".

I was reading an article this morning in the Chicago Tribune about the fall ritual of freshmen heading off to college for the first time. I have to admit, part of me was a little jealous. College was awesome. Some of the article was about parents who get all sad and suicidal and start cutting themselves and stuff when their kid leaves the roost. But since I was the last of 4 to leave for college and my mom had essentially packed my room 5 months prior to my departure, I had a hard time relating. After driving 6 hours through miserable heat in a jet black Ford Bronco loaded to the rafters with clothes, bikes, golf clubs and assorted weapons, I finally arrived at my new dorm. And I met my roommate for the first time. A scholar from Mexia, Texas named Jeb Scarborough. I vividly recall my first encounter with Jeb: when I walked into the room Jeb was sitting in our room with a pinch of Copenhagen the size of a donkey turd in his lip, lace-up ropers, very very very tight Wrangler's, one of those cardboard dust popper shirts that contains enough starch to kill an elephant, a belt buckle that doubled as a man hole cover and a 10-gallon cowboy hat on. 

Tyler: Hey man, I'm Tyler.

Jeb: God dammit, I got a fucking roommate?

Tyler: Uhmm. Can I put my stuff over here?

Jeb: I gotta go take a shit.

I'm not kidding. That was our first conversation. And our last. I also remember Jeb had very few belongings in his corner of the room. Long story long, I unpacked my stuff, put my things away and pinned my Blossom poster to my wall. Jeb never came back in that day and I left to go meet friends. Cut to 8 hours later: I walk in my room around midnight . . . Jeb is passed out in his bed and there is a LARGE drunk fucking cowboy passed out in my bed, empty Natural Lights cans covered the floor and there was evidence that someone had been cutting the cheese. The cowboy was in my bed. NOT on my bed, in my bed and under the covers of my new Corvette sheets. The room smelled like a cross between a burnt out clutch and the bottom of a spit cup with some manure overtones. I tried to wake up Big Tex a few times but when he looked at me through his whiskey-lined eyes and told me if I woke him up again he was going to beat with a lead pipe or something, I took the bait. I ended up sleeping down the hall. I'm a pussy, but he was big. And mad. And drunk. And not bright.

The next morning, I go back and all of Jeb's crap is gone . . . and there was dirt in my sheets from the large cowboy's filthy boots. I would also venture to guess he left several of his Frito Pie-laced farts swimming around in my mattress. After asking the RA what happened to Jeb a day or two later, I was told he hadn't been in school for 2 semesters and was "squatting" in the dorms. Yes, SQUATTING. I guess they kicked him out. I never saw him again but still miss his scent on rainy nights.

And that was my first night in college. Thank you Texas Tech.

God bless you Jeb. And God bless you giant filthy stinky fucking cowboy shithead.

College still was fun as hell.

GO WORLD!

Tyler

Ice Man

Hello,

I haven't pushed out a nice steamy blog in a while. I've been doing laundry.

I was at 7-11 this morning before I got on the train - where I saw a man at the counter purchasing an 18-pack of Natural Ice. It was 8:14am. Naturally, the questions started flying out of my mouth before I could even turn on the filter.

 

Tyler: Out of cereal?

 

Man: Heh. (sandpaper like smokers laugh) Heh, huhghghhg, Heh. Shit, this is my morning Joe. But I call it my morning go!

 

Tyler: Funny. What does that mean?

 

Man: Oh you know! What's up my brother? 

 

Tyler: Nothing man. Just about to head downtown. You? Big presentation at the office?

 

Man: I'm heading to the lake. I'll pound this by noon, believe that! 

 

Tyler: I believe you. I do.

 

Man: Shit, come on down...we will all be hangin' by Belmont Harbor.

 

Tyler: Thanks, but I'm really not much of an iced beer man. And I've got stuff to do.

 

Man: Fuck that! (coughing . . . coughing) Grab your suit and come out.

 

Tyler: Well, I do have a new suit, has a nautical theme. Stripes. Blue ones. With a big conch shell on the crotch.

 

Man: Heh heh. (coughing . . . coughing).

 

Tyler: Alright man, you guys have fun my friend.

 

Man: This will help! (to the cashier) and a pack of Winstons.

 

(just then his cell phone rings. Gone are the cocky, wild musings of a man and his beer)

 

Man: Hey baby. No, just grabbing the train. I just dropped her off at day care, will pick her up at 4.

 

THE END.

Work

I have been bad about the blogging and things lately. The Swine Flu came in with no mercy and turned everything upside down. Plus my polo mallet is broken and my horse has the runs.

I had a dream last night. 

THE END

I wrote that prematurely. I had a dream last night. It was a dry dream with very little sheet thrashing and only light sweating. You know when you have one of those random dreams out of nowhere that stars someone that you haven't seen of or heard from in years and years? Sometimes like since elementary school? They just pop in there for no reason at all and it makes no sense because the only time you ever spent with that person was when you were both crammed into a tiny, filthy, itchy burlap sack in your Bugle Boy jeans and turtle beck on a 101 degree day for the potato sack race at Field Day in the 5th grade. Josh Kirby, are you reading this?

That's happened to me. But that is not what my dream was about last night. It was a flashback to my days working at the great Prestonwood Mall in Dallas, TX, at a horrid little place run by a creepy man from Jersey who wore tight pants called Everything Yogurt. So naturally, this made me recall some of my crappy jobs growing up. Bored? Click out now.

Sports Fantasy: Valley View Mall, Dallas - sold hats, jerseys and sportswear to gangsters and creeps at a dark, dingy mall Dallas. Cross Colors was very popular during this period.

Journeys Shoes: Valley View Mall, Dallas - sold Doc Marten's to young people who have lots of piercings and hate their parents. 

Everything Yogurt: Prestonwood Mall, Dallas - sold yogurt and unrefrigerated, outdated dairy products in a food court at the best mall ever that is now a fucking Wal-Mart. Got fired for grabbing a handful of gummi bears out of the container with my dirty hands.

Greenwood Hills Pool Lifeguard, Richardson, TX - slathered on SPF 250 and watched as hoards of youngsters filled the pool with their urine.

Adair Baseball World: Addison, TX - shoveled baseballs in exchange for free tokens to the batting cages. Paid in candy.

Nick's Baseball Cards: Richardson, TX - shoved into a small, cramped, hot, humid backroom to sort through thousands of baseball cards and form sets. Paid in free cards and Schlotzky's sandwiches.

Campisi's Pizza, Richardson, TX - delivered pizzas all over north Dallas in a stiffling, jet black Chevy Blazer with black interior and no working AC. The radio worked sometimes and a mix tape with the likes of Ace of Base and Paperboy was stuck in the tape deck.

Glenneagles Country Club, Plano, TX - put clubs on carts at 4:30am, 5 days a week during my summer vacation. Paid in free golf and daily belittling by snobby, judgmental, rich, lazy Plano jackasses. Did I ever rummage through their bags? Maybe.

Valet Parker Guy, Dallas - parked cars and helped myself to loose change out of ashtrays.

Zoo-Kini's, Lubbock, TX - waited tables and allowed everyone I knew to eat free whenever they pleased. The charge for 6 friends what would have been a tab of $80 in food? One Iced Tea . . . $1.25. Often times I would still get stiffed, by my friends.

Black Eyed Pea, Lubbock, TX - I was a host. And I had to wear a tie. 

There are more, but I'm late for my shift at Gadzooks.

"Work builds character." - Stuart C. Kirk

YAY WORK!

Tyler

Assholes

ANYTIME the movies 'Just One Of The Guys', 'Caddyshack', 'Roadhouse' or 'Police Academy' is on TV I have to watch it. Same goes for The Goonies or LA Confidential. It doesn't matter. I could be on my way to opening day and it wouldn't matter, I'd stay and watch. There could be a man coming at me with a bow staff and I would stay put. Which is weird because I have the majority of these on DVD. So what is it about when a movie that you already own, and can watch anytime, comes on randomly that makes me want to watch it? I can watch it anytime but for some reason it is more appealing when it comes on randomly. It kind of falls into the same bucket that your friends fries always taste better. In my case, it would be that the stranger next to me has better tasting fries. 

The other day I was watching one of those Sunday movie marathons on something like TNT or TBS and 'Just One Of The Guys' came on. Aside from all of the greatness that movie has to offer - from Budmeister hitting on anything with a pulse to Terri showing her mammies to Rick Morehouse at the prom - one thing and one thing always stands out: THE GREAT WILLIAM ZABKA. Bar none, he was one of the greatest dickfaces of the 80s. Karate Kid. Just One Of The Guys. Back To School. All great performances . . . Zabka played a great prick, and played it wonderfully and without inhibitions.

So it go me thinking of what I think are the 25 best assholes of movies.

25. Paperboy (wants his 2 dollars) - Better Off Dead

24. Willie Lopez (rapist/killer/thief/junkie/all around prick) - Ghost

23. Ivan Drago (White Russian) - Rocky IV

22. Bart Taylor (BMX prick) - RAD

21. The Fratelli Family (angry inn keepers) - The Goonies

20. Jasper Woodcock (dickhead gym teacher) - Mr. Woodcock

19. Fred O'Bannion (old high school fartface) - Dazed and Confused

18. Shooter McGavin (pompous golf champion) - Happy Gilmore

17. Tantoo (wild indian dick who scalps wagon driver and eats his food) - Dances With Wolves

16. Hardy Jenns (Corvette-driving preppy scumbag) - Some Kind Of Wonderful

15. Victor Maitlen (cokehead/art dealer/drug dealer/killer) - Beverly Hills Cop

14. Sheriff Will Teasel (bloated small town cop) - First Blood

13. Darla Marks (crabby senior bitch) - Dazed and Confused

12. Stan Gable (shithead ATOMS quarterback and Betty Childs BF) - Revenge of the Nerds

11. Ogar (stinky drunk moron football player) - Revenge of the Nerds

10. Biff Tannon (jealous bully) - Back To The Future

9. Johnny (skelton karate fucker with headband and motorcycle) - Karate Kid

8. Ernie McCracken (bolwing legend) - Kingpin

7. Emperor Palpatine (racist Snuggie-wearing Sith Lord) - Return of the Jedi

6. O'Dolye Brothers' (red haired family of adolescent buttholes) - Billy Madison

5. Brad Wesley (rich dick with Napoleon complex) - Roadhouse

4. The Sand People (Snuggie wearing desert shitfaces) - Star Wars

3. Judge Schmails (golf cheater and Lacy's uncle) - Caddyshack

2. Andy (horny lumberjack) - PeeWee's Big Adventure

1. Chet (Jabba The Hutt starter kit) - Weird Science

And a happy Tuesday to you -

Tyler

GREENPEACE

I'm not a fan of solicitation. Not at all. If there is something I need, a group I would like to join, a charity I would like to give to or something I have a bleeding urge to learn more about, I will take the proper action. I recently purchased a Google on the eBay and have all of the knowledge and resources I need right at the tips of my fingers. It works very well and comes with all kinds of useful things like news, lost & found and porn. So when I get a call, an email, a fax, junk mail, a fake tattoo or something of the like from someone I don't know trying to sell me something I don't need, my erection goes down and I get that feeling -  you know, that feeling you get when there is a little piece of sand in the bottom of your sandal that is rolling around on the ball of your foot but won't go away. I think that is what an oyster must feel like, but I produce no pearl. Just the occasional poo.

I just have no patience for it. I take that back, I can tolerate it. I don't get angry. It just bugs. I think this is why I could never excel in any type of sales. The only thing I can consistently convince people of is giving me extra *fancy kethchup* at Whataburger and free syringes. 

Which brings me to my point. The GreenPeace folks. Now, I understand that these people are out there trying to do a noble thing to help the world for future generations. And that gets an A for admirable in my book . . . but these folks, at least in Chicago, are real jackasses. They travel in packs and I pass at least one group of them on Michigan Avenue each and every morning. It is hard to miss them. First of all, they stink. Most smell like they haven't seen a bar of soap since the Reagan Administration. Second, they wear bright green panchos, making it is easy to spot them from blocks ahead. (Editors note: the panchos do nothing to quell the stench from their dreadlocks and deodorant that came from the bark of a tree. Nay, it is the bark of a tree. They want to be one with nature.) And third, they fucking stalk you and keep pace with you going down the sidewalk, not listening. Not hearing "no thanks". Perhaps just a Q-Tip would do the trick? 

And they like to play the "guilt trip" card.

I'm not kidding. Ask anyone in Chicago and they will tell you the same thing. They are a beating. They are the type of person who, when you spot them, you quickly break out your cell phone and pretend to talk to someone. Does this work? No sir. 

Yesterday:

GP: Say man, if I told you five minutes of your time would save the world, would you stop?

TK: Hi. I appreciate what you're doing, I really do. But I'm in a hurry.

GP: Of course you are. 

TK: Thanks, good luck.

GP: Well, you sure weren't in a hurry when you were destroying our planet were you?

TK: Wow. That was uncalled for.

GP: It's true. You're all the same. No time, we get treated like shit . . . just like the planet. Whatever.

TK: Darling, you approached me. And if I didn't have a lid on my coffee you'd probably hit me with a roofy or something you got at a Panic show.

GP: (trying to make conversation, a "tactic", even though her and her hair were just rude as hell) Oh, you like Panic?

TK: No.

GP: Come one man, 5 minutes.

TK: Seriously, I don't have time and the best I can do for you right now is donate a stick of gum to help plug the ozone layer. 

GP: Oh that helps. Again, nobody cares.

TK: Tell you what, I'll give you five minutes if you buy me a 5 dollar footlong.

GP: I thought you were in a hurry.

TK: I am. Deal?

GP: No.

TK: So, are we finally done?

(GreenPeace huffs, turns around and storms off . . . a cloud of dirt above her head.)

And then I gave my favorite bum in front of Wallgreens 3 dollars.

THE END.

Tyler

Sleep

I slept like a lump of plop last night. I got home from the gym all excited and aroused to watch a new episode of Intervention about a lady who had a problem with hitting herself and telling herself she was "so stupid and can't do anything right" and banging her head with a hairbrush. But after I ate dinner and got focused and ready for the Intervention to go down, I fell asleep hard, at like 7. When I woke up it was almost 10 and the self-brutality and yelling had ended. I was really looking forward to it. I was really groggy and disoriented and confused. After I finally dunked my head in a trough and got it together it was like 10:15. 

And then . . . WIDE AWAKE. It is funny the things you do when you can't sleep. For some reason it seems logical to check the fridge every 6 minutes to make sure you didn't miss anything behind the mustard and repeatedly look into the cupboard to see if the shelf had sprouted a fresh bag of Chex-Mix. Of course, in between all of these round trips to the kitchen the other rational thing to do would be to surf through the channels over and over and over and over and over and over . . . then go back and look in fridge. And just to complete the cycle, also peep into the freezer just to make sure that empty box of fudge pops is still there, cold and barren.

THEN . . . just lay there for hours and hours and hours pretending to sleep. Somewhere in this routine it is also recommended to grab your cell phone and skim through names to see who to text at 2, 3, 4am. Nobody. But it is a good plan to check every 6 minutes or so. Not much action on the Facebook during the wee hours, except for the handful of people who live overseas, so around this time is when I get out the matches and start burning things. Then I trim my toenails, followed by a trip to check on the empty box of fudge pops. Still there. 

THEN . . . Little House on the Prairie. Last night Mr. Edwards had a pet Orangutan, Blanche, who was a sweet and lovable animal who all the kids in town loved. But of course, all was ruined when that old hag Mrs. Olsen got a stick up her ass and didn't want Blanche around because she and everyone else think Nelly is a dumb whore. Blanche was taken to the zoo in Sleepy Eye.

THE VERY BEST PART OF THIS ROUTINE is when you finally fall into a deep slumber at like 6:21 and have to wake up like an hour later. It makes starting the day fun and refreshed, ready to tackle the world and kick off the day with a smile and swift kick to the nuts.

YAY!!!!!

Tyler

Tanning

To World:

I got an email the other day that went something like this:

To Tyler: Your blog is lame. Stop wasting peoples time. You're not funny.

To Angry Reader: I understand, and you're right. Seriously. This dumb blog is more of an outlet to get my thoughts rolling before I start concepting and writing for my real job, which produces even stinkier plop. But in an effort to curb your anger, I encourage you to no longer click this link, www.tylersouthouse.blogspot.com, and to also stop rubbing my knee under the table. I've also taken the liberty of removing the "T" and "Y" keys from your keyboard. No more garbage for you!   Done and done.

 - - - -

I was actually stoked to get that . . . it is proof that a set of eyes that do not belong to me actually have looked at this pile of shit I call a blog.

Moving along. I was reading the Austin American Statesman this morning on the internets, and as I was skimming the headlines, something caught my eye: "Bill: Teens would need note for tanning bed. Texans under 18 would not be allowed to use tanning beds unless they have a doctors permission and a parent present." www.statesman.com.

I think this is a great idea. Too often I see people rockin' that nuclear shade of orange in the dead of winter. It always makes me think of orange jello that been sitting in the fridge and jiggles slightly when you open the door to the fridge . . . and makes me wonder what kind of confused lava dance ritual that person's skins cells are doing under the first layer of epidermis after being fried inside a florescent coffin. Couple that with blinding blonde hair from from a cardboard box of bleach and you've got the makings for gold. GOLD Jerry, gold. And skin cancer. Add in some dark roots and you've got the makings for something very special. I suppose it is worse here in Chicago where the opportunity for catching rays is significantly less than in my beloved Austin . . . but tanning is not limited to a single place. I think 18 is a good idea. I frown when I see a girl get on the train using her Chicago Public Schools bus pass and she looks like a cross between a nectarine and an old saddle. Wait until you're 18 and then you can go lie under the heatlamp for as long as you like. I knew a girl in high school who, sadly, was referred to as "Nug" . . . a nickname for a nickname, meaning "Chicken McNugget", because she was only 17 an already a leathery mess. I saw the new Indian Jones last year and his bullwhip reminded me of her.

So, I support this idea. In addition to this bill, I also think that anyone with tribal art or frosted tips should also have to go through an intense screening process before being allowed to procreate. Same goes for every "Rock of Love Bus" participant. 

I take that back. That bus should just be driven into an erupting volcano at high speed with a full tank of gas.

Happy Saint Patricks Day!!!!

Tyler

Dream

Dear Diary,

I understand the economy is in about as good shape as Anna Nicole and the Crocodile Hunter . . . and that I shouldn't have such a dislike for the HUMMERS and meatheads of the world, but my sleep pattern has been a bit off this week. Am I eating too much salt? I'm not really understanding my dreams lately. So far this week I had a dream that I was riding a snowmobile on a beach (WTF #1) and then I rode it up a sand dune and and met my 5th grade teacher, Mrs. Nance, atop the hill for a picnic (WTF #2). Then, we went to Wal-Mart and bought Dallas Cowboys jerseys (WTF #3). Right when we were at the cash register, I woke up in a heavy sweat - screaming and going bananas like the episode of Little House where Mary goes blind. Then, last night in the midst of my slumber I had a dream that I was being chased around the neighborhood by a Cop on a riding mower (WTF #4). I woke up from that dream, went back to sleep and had another dream where I was driving a Zamboni on a frozen lake and ran out of gas (WTF #5). I was rescued by a dog sled. And who was driving? The Cop from the riding mower (WTF #6). 

The only thing that can make me feel better is this: http://dallas.craigslist.org/dal/cto/106709452.html.

I'm not getting it, diary. What does all this mean? I'll cut down on the salt and am seeing a specialist about my fear of the olive loaf, but aside from all this I don't know what else to do. Is this pattern going to continue? I'll admit, driving the Zamboni was fun. But I didn't care for the chafing I got as a result of playing in the sand. 

Throw an 8 iron and a quart of 10W-30 into the dream sequence and we'll talk.

And where are my jumper cables? I already checked that old leather doctors bag . . . did Velvet take them home?? I need them for game night tonight.

Until next time.

Tyler

Hair

To You -

ATTENTION: If you are a subscriber to HBO, I highly urge you to watch a new program called 'Eastbound & Down'. A washed-up baseball player. Mullets. Booze. Drugs. Lying. Cheating. Jet Skis. Broncos. Stealing. Lakes. Bars. Strippers. Fighting. Cussing, lots and lots of cussing. Violence. Destruction. Sports. Steroids. And REDNECKS! This show has all of the trimmings for something very special, like a delicious Thanksgiving dinner where Uncle Dan gets drunk and lights the couch on fire. Tune in. The Sopranos is over.

Hi. How are you? Good. So, yesterday something happened that got me thinking. And like all of these really dumb blog things, this is equally, if not more important. I had just got done swimming at the gym and when I got out of the pool I felt something intertwined within the fingers of my left hand. It was a hair. A 4-inch random hair that I had apparently picked up when I was looking for spare change in the pool. Just a hair. Nothing else. Not a tampon or a syringe. Just a hair. And since I had been in a pool one can only assume it was a clean hair . . . what with the chlorine and what not. Well as I felt it on my hand and then noticed it, I went into a bit of a wild panic in order to get rid of it. Like when a moth if flying around your head. A random hair can sometimes be like a cobweb . . . you know it is there and pull furiously to get it off, but you can still feel it. Finally I got it off. And as my heartbeat began to slow and after triple checking for more stragglers, I sat down in the sauna and poured a whiskey. Breathe . . .

You see, I hate hairs. Wait. Let me correct that, I hate random hairs. I really do. I have a fear of them. The random hair sits right up there with spiders and ear wax. But it is just hair . . . which when you think about it, is very odd. It is not a dirty diaper or an old pair of old, stinky UGG boots. It is just a hair. I have lots of hair. Every second Monday when I take a shower and shampoo my hair, I don't find myself going crazy. When I go to get a haircut and walk into the mecca of random hairs, I do not swallow a bottle of Advil and chase it with the blue liquid that the combs are sitting in in order to numb the pain. When I see a hairbrush - flush with a family of dead hairs tangled in a sea of dandruff and lice - I don't reach for a razor blade. It is just a hair. Gross, sure. But why the freakout? It doesn't make sense. One would think if a single random hair would make me freak, a million would make for a complete meltdown. But it doesn't. I once got intimate with a girl. As we were making out in the Whataburger Drive Thru, I ran my fingers through her burlap hair. Then the car honked behind us and we had to move up and my Snow CD skipped. But, when I was there with a fistful of hair and in my hand and happiness in my pants, I didn't go crazy. No, I didn't. It felt nice. I didn't go bananas. And I have no fear of petting a dog or of dental floss. 

The elusive, stray hair. The one that got away. A mystery.

I don't like poop. So naturally if you add a bunch more and throw me into the bowels of an outhouse, into the doo-doo of doo-doo, I'd freak. More plop = more freak. That makes sense.

More hair = less freak. Weird-O-Rama.

Goodbye.

Tyler

Change

Hi World. Thanks for the rash. Where is my gun?

I think I might actually have a point to make today . . . bare with me. I am writing this dumb thing today on an electronic computing machine. I am listening to some fucking ROCKING jams on my electronic tape player. I am getting text messages from my parole officer on my super fast electronic cell phone thing. Plus, I watch all of my old Kids Incorporated videos on a miniature electronic movie theater.

So. The other night I was downtown at a party with people who pretend to be my friends. It got late and I needed to make the trek back to Lincoln Park from Wicker Park. Being that I was tired from it all, I decided to forego the traditional February car jack and opted to take a taxi cab. I flag down a cab and get in the car.  Well, I tried to get in the front and sit extra close to the driver on the bench seat just to make things spicy, but he insisted I get in the back, or . . . no ride. I complied. We get all the way back to my my area and I tell him to drop me off at the corner near my hovel. He told me the fare and when I gave him a credit card his head spun around and he went into a fiery temper tantrum. He didn't want to take my card. Here is a summary of the transcript:

Driver: "Eleven twenty five."

Tyler Guy: "OK. Here you go." (hand him PLATINUM Visa Debit Card)

Driver: "No. No. What? No, you got to pay cash."

Tyler Guy: "What? Why?"

Driver: "Cash only."

Tyler Guy: "But there is a credit card machine right there." (I point to the card machine thing in the back seat, convenient for passenger use)

Driver: "Cash only. Cash only. No card."

Tyler Guy: "Well, I don't have cash. You wanna take my card or not."

Driver: "Mucky Blangada Vinceteo a Mucky Flipourin---Ivan Drago." (foreign expletives, lots of finger pointing and wild saliva spitting)

Tyler Guy: "I don't know what you just said, sir. But I don't want any trouble. Stay here and I'll ATM at this 7-11."

Driver: "Yes. Go."

So, I go into the 7-11 and ATM 20 bucks - then I buy a Slim Jim and head to the cashier to pay. As I am completing the transaction with the nice 7-11 man, I decide to get creative with my change. I told the story of what was happening and the man was happy to help.

As I return to the cab, I stand outside and hand the driver a bag of money. $11.25 in this manner.

14 rolls of pennies.

12 quarters.

10 dimes. 

5 nickels.

Driver: "Fuck you you fucking prick fucking boy."

Tyler Guy: "Cool man. Keep the change. Oh wait! It's all change. I'll walk from here."

My Point? It's an electronic world. Get with it or jingle. 

THE END.

Love Always, 

Tyler

Too . . . There . . .

Dear World -

Today I would like to take a moment to discuss two groups of words: the "to's" and the "there's". If that is kind of confusing I will break it down further into teams:

The Bluebirds: to, too and two.

The Irons: there, their and they're.

Now, I am not a scholar. I have not written any dissertations, my favorite book  is Goodnight Moon and I am not good at building things. Having said that, I am somewhat familiar with the laws and regulations regarding grammar and words and things . . . and thought I'd take a moment to delve into a little matter which people seem to get confused more often than not. Folks can't seem to use the correct form of "to" and "there" when writing. I find these words important in our language and deserve more respect. As such, I thought I'd create a guideline for the appropriate ways to use these two teams of words.

Following are correct and in correct ways of using these words.

THE BLUEBIRDS -

To:

Good Way: "I am heading to the east side to get my balls waxed."

Bad Way: "I have been a cutter for to years now."

Too:

Good Way: "That chick has eaten way too many donuts in her day, but I'd still hit it."

Bad Way: "The nice priest at church told me not too say anything about us playing hide the dart."

Two:

Good Way: "Uncle Dan hit mom in the head two times with a broken bottle."

Bad Way: "Anna Nicole took way two many drugs for lunch that day. She dead."

THE IRONS:

There:

Good Way: "I put the gag ball over there."

Bad Way: "Every time I go over to there house, I wake up with a sore fanny."

Their:

Good Way: "At least their trailer has heat."

Bad Way: "I think she went over their to pay her pimp."

They're:

Bad Way: "They're the nicest couple. I hardly noticed his wooden leg and lazy eye."

Good Way: "I think they're is only one good way to steal his kidney."

Please use this source for reference at any point.

GO WORLD!!!

Tyler Britain Kirk I

Baby Encounter

TV: Sober House is no Intervention, but it is another option to make you feel better about yourself.

Moving along. Lets talk for a moment about kids. I love kids. I have four nephews that all share my last name, all look kind of like me and all speak English. They are hilarious, smart, enjoy being on earth and don't have to pay rent. Plus, they really appreciate the greatness that is Whataburger. 

Having said that, I'd like to address one thing in particular that continually makes me somewhat uncomfortable. Ready?  When you're sitting at a table, or on the train, or in line buying your liquor and gorilla glue for the morning and the lady next to you - or in front of you...or to the side of you - is holding onto a cute little tike who, for whatever reason, finds you unbelievably fascinating. Fascinating to the point that the little fella stares holes through you as the puddle of sippy cup infused mucus flowing onto mommy's shoulder grows into a pond. Now, that is not a problem. Kids are curious. The problem really gains momentum and increases from a canter to a gallup when I begin to try to talk and interact with the little titan. I like to talk to them and try to get a giggle from them. FAIL. The whole process usually transpires in 7 stages. Perhaps you can relate. This happened to me this morning.

STAGE 1: Eye Contact. I notice two plate-size eyes beaming in my direction. Quickly, my attention is diverted from pocketing a pack of Top Cigarette paper to the issue at hand. A smile is cracked as I fake a cough and put the tobacco paper in my pocket. Success.

STAGE 2: Facial expressions. Now knowing that the game is well underway, my immediate impulse is not to realize that I am looking at a cute little raisin who has been on earth for less time than my rash. No, instead I believe the best move at this point is to completely ignore the beams being shot at me by the mom and instead, not make any noise but contort my face and dome into various shapes and expressions that the child can only process as being frightening and somewhat disturbing. The big smile, the tongue out, the confused muse, the constipated bellow, etc. At this point in the game, I am losing. 

STAGE 3: Baby talk. Since my impression of a stroke victim has done little to entice the youngster, my next move by instinct is to begin to create words that have no meaning and no place in the English language. All sorts of unknown creations are being uttered at this time, such as "hoooola hi-eeeeeeeeeeeee" and "a boooga, booooga". Now, these noises in conjunction with my expressions that can be best described at what it looks like to squeeze an empty beer can on your forehead, do not bode well for the child. The kid continues to stare with little or no expression. I also like to point at random things.

STAGE 5: Judgement. After all of the previous stages have been thoroughly explored, the baby at this point has little choice but to stare and judge me. It is an uncomfortable exchange for a few moments because at this point I know the baby is thinking what a moron I am and how glad he is that I fall nowhere in his blood line. The mother quickly gets in on the act as she does a slow once-over of me from head to toe, then grimmaces and says something under hear breath. More judging. The she fakes a smile and pretends to check her BlackBerry.

STAGE 6: Small talk. My only move at this point - as the tike continues to judge and stare - is to say something to the mom. Something really funny and witty . . . something like, "I love kids. I'm good with them. Is it yours? Really, fun." FAIL.

STAGE 7: Sedation. As my ego plunges from judgement and failure, my last chance at redemption is to undo the vice grip the child has placed on the Sponge Bob sippy cup and fill it with whiskey. I am now smarter and better.

THE END.

Have a great weekend!

Tyler

Character Reference

Hello Folks.

Some lady squeezed out bonus 8 kids in California. Have fun with that. I defeated Scurvy once again and Anna Nicole's Show is still on hiatus. 

Moving along . . . I was asked to write a character reference recently for a friend. And I use the term "friend" very loosely. Not because I don't like this person, I like him fine. I say that because I have only known this person - who I shall call "Leonard" - a few months through acquaintances. I really don't know him that well and am still puzzled as to why I was the one he asked to write this letter. Having said that, I have come to learn that Leonard, although relatively harmless and a thoughtful individual, is not the brightest bulb in the bunch. The only times I have met him are when I meet up with some friends for college football or happy hour, so I know him through them. But he has always been nice to me so I am going to do my best to draft some sort of letter on his behalf. 

Here are a few things I do know about Leonard: no high school diploma, jail time, multiple DUIs, drug charges, unemployed, lack of stable employment, lack of stable apartment, potty mouth, smoker, poor personal hygiene, warrants for his arrest, no bank account, drinking problem, pot smoker, loud, obnoxious, often forgets his wallet.

Knowing this handful of personality traits, I will do my best to draft a letter for Leonard while at the same time being completely honest. Here we go:

Dear Sir or Madam, 

My name is Tyler Kirk. I am a copywriter at an advertising agency here in Chicago. I am happy to write a character reference for Leonard McConnaghey. I have known Leonard for a few months and think he is a really good guy. He has always been very nice and is really nice and friendly and things. I have met up with him on three or four occasions at local watering holes in the Chicago area and he is always good for a laugh, many a fist bump and an absurd amount of high-fives.

In regards to Leonard's character, I would say he consistently portrays many of the traits of a solid individual. For example:

- SELF STARTER: Leonard is always up for beers and is often the first one at the bar getting a head start on the evening. Sometimes hours before the appropriately alloted time. 

- RELIABLE: he will be at the bar when he says he will and, like clockwork, will consistently blackout and call a stranger a "dickface", sometimes throwing a bowl of popcorn at a neighboring table.

- PASSIONATE: Leonard can sing the lyrics to every Motorhead  and Asia song. Leonard also has collected a large amount of Camel Cash and has the Joe Camel lighter to prove it.

- THINKS OF OTHERS: Leonard will drink all day and then offer to drive you home.

- RESOURCEFUL: Leonard has a knack for forgetting his wallet, yet still drinks the night away on someone elses dime.

- CULTURED: Leonard spent 18 months in the Cook County Jail and speaks fluent English.

- HONEST: Leonard has had 3 DUIs and will tell you all about them...including but not limited to the time he drove to Wisconsin to watch the sun rise and drove his station wagon into Lake Michigan. He also tried to "borrow" a pizza delivery man's car once. Again, he will tell you all about it. Over a beer. Over and over again.

- GOAL ORIENTED: Leonard is going to start a record label.

- CREATIVE: Leonard has the ability to fabricate any story into a 3-hour trilogy, complete with piss breaks. Many times the story lacks the appropriate "arc" format, but he makes up for it by creating 4 alternative endings to one story. In one sitting.

- ORGANIZED: Leonard has 4 compartments in his velcro wallet for storage of anything from numbers and business cards to half-smoken cigarettes and packets of Equal.

- DRIVEN: Leonard is determined to be dead by 2012.

If you have any further inquiries regarding Leonard, please don't hesitate to ask. I am happy to help.

Best -

Tyler Kirk

The Buffington's

Once upon a time, in a lush meadow cradled by a stream, lived a lovely family of Portuguese Pigeons named the Buffington's. The Buffington's had lived in the meadow along the stream for eight generations. The patriarch of the family, Roscoe Buffington, had escaped from the cage of a magician named the Amazing Letdown when he was just a youngster and had barely sprouted his wings. He learned to fly on his own and had done his own laundry since he was an infant. Over the years, the Buffington clan had multiplied tenfold into a tribe of sweet, strong birds who took care of their own and respected the land. They regularly socialized with the other singing birds, deer, snakes and even humans who shared their land. It was well-known throughout the area that the Buffington's were outstanding in flight. They had evolved into an amazing family of strong fliers. A cousin named Roosevelt Buffington had created a school of bird Aviation in the 1970s, and still today they use the same methods to teach their young the art of flight.

One day the Buffington's woke up to the sound of the gentle stream and the beautiful songs of the other birds chirping throughout. Today was a special day; it was time to teach the younglings how to fly. As the family gathered at tip of the tall Oak by the stream, all of the birds' little hearts began to putter with anticipation and excitement. They knew today was their day! Today was the day they learned how to fly. When Papa and Mama Buff arrived, they all lined up, as they already knew the drill - and one by one, the delicate and cheerful kids were pushed from the branch of the mighty Oak and forced to fly on their own. And one by one, their instinct took over and in no time they flew with ease. Everyone cheered and joy spread throughout the tree. Even the family of grumpy turtles, named the Schmicks, came out to see this special occasion. 

Finally, when the whole family had gotten their wings, it was time for the family to take flight together for the very first time, a Buffington tradition. And they did. What a wonderful sight it was, the whole family in formation. The sky was theirs, and the sky really was the limit. The sun was shining and the gentle breeze lifted them higher and higher. 

Then, as Papa changed course due west to fly over the park, a Boeing Jumbo 757 roared out of nowhere and sucked all of the Buffington's into the bowels of its Micon A640 Turbine engines, spitting out nothing but a couple of feathers and a broken beak. The Buffington's were dead.

THE END.

Sales

From time to time I get out of the office and do my writing and concepting at Starbucks or take it to the beauty parlor and sit under the big helmet after I get my hair braided. I think it is funny that Starbucks has become the unofficial place for salesguys and salesgals to gather and plot together their plans to make fortunes. It is fantastic people watching and eavesdropping - just take out the iPod machine and put the ear buddies into your ears and tune in. I can take it for minutes, maybe hours. I like hearing a salesguy call being made and the details scribbled out on a the back of the sports section. And just so it's known, I am not ragging on people in sales. I have lots and lots of friends in sales and I couldn't do it. First, I don't like phones which is grounds for an immediate conflict of interest. From what I know it is pretty essential to be a good phone person to be a good sales person. And I think you have to have tough skin and be a self-starter . . . two other things I lack. In addition, the whole part about being passionate about what you're slingin' . . . so, for instance, selling industrial plumbing supplies would warrant another roadblock for me. I don't think I would get a pants tent about selling copper wire or awnings either. Leather goods is a different story. 

So, aside from these things and other problems like quotas, goals, quarters and productivity reports and things, being a selling man isn't in my cards. Having said that, I still think it is funny to recall the conversations I have overheard here and there. Just this morning there was a girl "recruiting" a potential new hire and getting her all jazzed up about the infinite possibilities that come with selling time shares. 

Here are a few snippets from the convo. Although millions are being made, there is a hint of exaggeration. See if you can point out the misleading takes:

- "people hear timeshare and immediately lean toward yes. It's a fact. Like air."

- "no health insurance but with all the money you'll be making, you can buy your own hospital!"

- "sometimes I wear pant suits. Sometimes I don't, like if I am at home in my pajamas."

- "I won a trip to Canada but used the money to fix my bumper."

- "my goal is to sell one a day. Ever seen The Secret?"

- "wait, let me take this. "Well shithead, you were asleep when I left.""

- "I've got my eye on a Benz. Right now? A Dodge Neon."

- "It's gonna be a banner year! Good economy or bad, banner. Watch The Secret."

- "You can find leads anywhere. Paper. Magazine. That man right there, lead."

- "The Excalibur. Sometimes Circus Circus."

- "Just split it down the middle."

Not very bright.

GO WORLD!

Tyler

Snow Day

It seems cold, snowy weather has taken over the majority of the country. I love the snow. I always have. There is something about seeing your surroundings transformed into an ice and snow-lined compound that makes it feel like you are in some sort of alternate universe. Everything moves at a different pace and even the ugliest, trash-littered street becomes beautiful. And now that I live in Chicago, I get my fair share of it - which suits me fine. It is supposed to be chilly in the winter. It is not supposed to be 80 and humid. 

I heard from my brother that school is cancelled today in Dallas. I'm jealous for my nephews. Snow days were the best. It was different from a weekend or a school holiday in that it just sort of crept up on you like jock itch or a restraining order. One minute you're eating dinner and altering your report card and then next thing you know it is morning and everything is covered in ice. So awesome. I remember on snow days everyone being huddled around the radio listening KRLD do the announcement of school closings while my mom hurried around our brown 80s kitchen giving my oldest brother a list of "to do" things for all of us and telling him where the key to my cage was located. Because that was the great thing about snow days, parents still had to go to work. My dad was an early riser and gone at 6am, so it was up to my mom to tame the crew, feed Molly Brown, our Basset Hound, and Sterling, our cat, before she got in our brown 80s station wagon and took to the icy streets. And as soon as that wagon was out of sight it was a free-for-all. My oldest brother would immediately depart, leaving myself with my other brother and sister. And in only a matter of moments the house was filled with friends from all over the neighborhood. Following is a fairly accurate schedule for a snow day in the Kirk house:

8:15 - school cancelled

8:28 - mom leaves

8:30 - Cham leaves

8:44 - Price Is Right

9:00 - CHiPS

9:14 - GIANT bowl of cereal spilled on couch

9:34 - wreck blanket fort my sister and her friend made

10:00 - friends come over

10:01 - me and friends begin rifling through my dad's Playboys

10:47 - brother catches us

10:48 - temper tantrum

10:50 - Lee and friends rifle through Playboys

11:05 - take Molly out to take a dump, sans leash

11:06 - Molly runs away

11:07 - yelled at for losing dog

11:08 - 2nd temper tantrum

11:29 - put Red Barron pizza in oven

11:51 - forget about pizza

11:54 - me and friends begin rifling through oldest brother's things

12:09 - smoke alarm goes off

12:11 - yelled at about smoke alarm

12:12 - 3rd temper tantrum

12:16 - resume rifling through brother's things

12:30 - oldest brother comes home, catches us

12:31 - my friends told to leave

12:34 - go running out the door screaming "nobody likes me, I'm running away!"

12:40 - get 3 blocks down the street and realize nobody is chasing after me

12:58 - pouting on street corner gets old, decide no to run away

1:06 - back in house and pout in front of brother, sister and their friends

1:14 - rifle through sisters things

1:30 - tease cat

1:45 - pinned down and farted on by brother and his friends

1:46 - 4th temper tantrum

1:50 - run away again

2:00 - return home and nobody is there

2:00 - 5:00 - neighborhood chaos with my bike gang

THE END

Words of Wisdom

"It's easy to grin

When your ship comes in

And you've got the stock market beat

But a man worthwhile

Is the man who can smile

When his shorts aren't to tight in the seat.

OK Pooky, do the honors!"

 - The Honorable Judge Smails

The Good Gig

Was C3PO gay? It's worth a discussion. 

So. I am, without question, convinced that Barack Obama'a mother-in-law, Marian Robinson, has landed the best gig in the history of gigging. What a deal. And I don't mean that in my usual dim-witted and sarcastic manner. Seriously, that is pretty radical and quite cool. It is said she is coming along continue to help raise the Obama girls, as she did on during the long campaign . . . the one that was fought against a well respected Vietnam Vet and an all-knowing block of yellow ice. Nobody likes a know-it-all. 

At any rate, Marian Robinson got the good deal. A beautiful house to live in and surrounded by family and high-powered automatic weapons. Imagine at anytime, day or night, you have at your disposal cooks, butlers, servants, gimps, pilots, jesters, juggling clowns, doormen, bakers, chimney sweepers, maids, sweat shop workers, bowlers, baristas, sawyers, cobblers, masons, carpenters, pimps, elevator operators, blacksmiths, juicers, reverends, rabbis, priests, cult leaders, hall monitors, librarians, carpet cleaners, electricians, plumbers, astronauts, pastry chefs, lunch ladies, VCRs, doctors, dentists, herbal healers, photographers, quilters, free loaders, climbers, cement contractors, eye glasses specialists, ticket brokers, tattoo artists, writers, fishermen, hunter & gatherers, ninjas, squash farmers, whittlers, outdoor survival specialists, zoo keepers and someone to tell you if you have any missed calls. 

That is a good deal. Think about it, having all of the trimmings of living in the big house that is white with none of the pressure. You're not the kids in school. You're not the first lady. You're not the President. You're not an aide. You're not a worker of any sort. And you're not the gardener. You don't have to hear the news of the day if you don't want to and you get your own bedroom with a stripper pole. You can completely have free reign of the joint and can walk around naked . . . because it is your house. You can do as you please. You can order a pizza any time you want. You can get the nice, soft toilet paper at no cost. You can spill your drink on the floor and not have to hide it by covering it with an end table. You can can liberally use the term "not my problem" and not feel bad about it. You can punch a hole in the wall and not have to cover it with a Baywatch poster. You can sleep out in the pool house. You can "pants" Raum Emanuel in front of the press and get a good, innocent laugh. You can ride your Hoveround up and down the halls run over people who are on the White House tour. You can sleep in any day of the week. You can drink all the boxed wine you want. You can stink up the bathroom all you want. You can make blanket forts. You can take Marine One to bingo night. You can whore around all you want, cuz you're single. You can throw a mean 4th of July Party up at Camp Dave and not invite your in-laws. You can slingshot marbles at HUMMERS from the White House roof. You can wear jorts around the house. You can burn the toast. And you can always use the excuse, "They aren't my kids" when you get lazy on the job.

Not a bad gig.

Love Always,

Tyler

Bad Breath

Hello.

Lets get down to business.

I had to go by the glasses store this morning to pickup my new glasses. I really like them. I also really like how the sign on the window says, "TWO PAIR FOR $99!". I knew it couldn't be, no way. However, I like the feeling you get when you're riding a sliver of false hope as far as it can go . . . just waiting for rug to be pulled out. It's kinda like pretending to find a fantastic deal on a tropical vacation, getting all oiled-up and packing away the Speedo and electrical tape . . . when you really know damn well you're just taking the Greyhound to Galveston for the night. I still sometimes pretend I am about to open the mail and get my perfect SAT scores, only to be knocked down and kicked in the balls by an eviction notice or a birthday card for a past tenant, which I still keep and post on the fridge. 

So anyhoo, I go into the store and am immediately greeted by a kid with a belt buckle the size of a standard F-150 engine block who was radiating the breath of something that cannot be created by man alone. I seriously had to stand a good 5 feet away. I felt bad for him until he spoke and I realized he was a real cocky and arrogant, a real prick. So, I seeked helped elsewhere and I came to find that essentially the deal for two pairs for 99 bucks pertains only to the small rack of prison-issued brown goggles in the corner next to bad breath. Out of luck. But, that 5 seconds of project letdown were well worth it.

Uhmm. I totally lost my train of thought. 

I guess I just wanted to tell everyone I got new glasses.

THE END.

usman

It is snowing here today. I love the snow. Plus I found my iPod, the one I didn't know I had lost. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Moving along . . . from time to time I get these silly little emails from some A-hole in Africa or somewhere who tries his or her best to solicit money by presenting some kind of elaborate, or in this case not elaborate, scheme. I don't know what kind of person - a person who has enough brain power to open a bank account - would fall for this kind of plop. But, according to a recent Dateline NBC investigation, there are many people who do fall for online money transfer parties and schemes. If this applies to you, go read a Highlights magazine

When I get these emails I usually delete them or just reply with something short and sweet like "hold me now". But sometimes I like to toy with them a bit. I had one guy going for a good 6 months last year . . . I have a blog somewhere about it and will try to dust it off and post it, complete with email exchanges. He was fun - I dangled that carrot in front of him for months and months. But much to his chagrin, I always left out a single digit or something to which he was so so so close to getting the transaction going, but never seemed to materialize. This kept our interaction alive and our relationship *spicy*. I actually got to know this dirtbag pretty well. He told me all about his fake kids and pretend college degree (ATM Corps of Cadets???), and I told him about my intimacy problems, the restraining order and multiple bouts with Scurvy. Then, just when we were about to do some real business, I kindly replied, "I changed my mind." He didn't like this. He threatened me and called me the X-rated version of a Banana Head.

So, I got another one of these this morning. And in light of the circus that is Illinois politics and in honor of our respected Governor and his dome, I went a different route. Below you will find our email transactions. 

Tyler

---------------------------------------------------

Hi usman. Thanks for the note. That's weird, I am in fact a "U.S. Man", and your name is usman. Cool. Why don't you capitalize your name? Weird.

I read your note and am interested. Very interested. I like money. I am sorry to hear about the guy who left the money and died and is all dead and stuff. Did he die of a disease or in a crash? Stinky. 

So anyway, please give me more information on how to get the ball rolling. I have filled out your form below. I am in and out of the office these days tending to other business and selling refurbished office furniture, so getting in touch might take a few tries. BUT PLEASE, be persistent. I get a lot of messages on a daily basis, so just call and call.

Looking forward to it,

Rod Blagojevich

-----------------------------------------------------------

From Mr usman salif

Bill and Exchange Manager

Bank of Africa (B.O.A.)a

Ouagadougou Burkina Faso.

West Africa.

Sorry to distract your attention, I am Mr. usman salif bill and exchange manager in the bank of Africa Burkina Faso.

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The Legend of Ray

Happy New Year. How are you? How was the break? I enjoyed the festivities of the holiday very much. My family is great and I got to see new strip malls in Dallas. The traveling side of things was a bit frustrating. Being smart and things, I decided it was a good idea to fly on a buddy pass during the holidays. Bad idea. Upon my connecting flight to Chicago on my return, Midway was shutdown so I was stuck in Tulsa, Oklahoma. It had been a long day already, so at this point I had little energy and nothing but the clothes on my back and a pair of boxer shorts riding very high. After locating a hotel near the airport, I went to check-in. Below you will find an accurate depiction of the events that occurred from the time I arrived at the hotel to the time I left. It was odd. Very odd. On top of the inconvenience of being laid up in the home town of the rock band 'Hanson' of Umm Bop fame, I was greeted at the hotel by a very flamboyant gentleman named Ray who was extremely concerned about my diet and overall daily caloric intake. 

8:14 pm: I check into the Tulsa Airport Holiday Inn. 

Ray: "Hello. I am Ray. (looks at my distressed passenger itinerary) Oh, I'm so sorry about your flight, sir. I mean Mr. Kirk. Unfortunately, our kitchen is closed for the holidays . . . but as you can see we have quite a fruitful and delectable selection of goodies and even a few trinkets like playing cards and Sudoku puzzles (waves hand over display case in a Price Is Right 'Barker Beauty' sort of way) ...even though I just don't understand it. What is Sudoku, some kind of Chinese crossword? Shhhhhh, I shouldn't say that."

Ty: "OK. Thanks. I'll probably just order something. What room, 228?"

Ray: "Are you sure, Mr. Kirk. It's been a long day, I'm sure. You look parched. Weak."

Ty: "No. I'm just tired as hell."

Ray: "Oh, bless your heart. You should eat something."

Ty: "Thank you, Raymond."

Ray: "OK. Ooh, it looks like it's going to rain. I just love storms."

Ty: "Goodbye Ray."

8:24 pm: Inside hotel room. Phone rings. *Ring Ring*.

Ty: "Hello."

Ray: "Oh, hi Mr. Kirk. This is Ray at the front desk. How is everything? Getting settled OK?"

Ty: "Great. Thanks."

Ray: "OK, because I wanted to tell you that I just talked to my friend Steven across the street at the Embassy Suites, and the dining room is open. So, you know, you could go over there to eat. It is very pleasant."

Ty: "Sounds good."

Ray: "Shall I call over and let them know you're coming?"

Ty: "No."

Ray: "OK. Well, it's there if you need it. It's great. And Steven is working and everything, so he will make sure you get everything you need."

Ty: "Alright."

Ray: "I'd also be more than happy to go through our concierge service and with you. We have it all on the computer here. You can come down and take a look."

Ty: "That's OK."

Ray: "Well. OK then. Call if you need anything. I'll be here."

Ty: "Goodbye, Ray." Click.

8:39 pm: Inside hotel room watching Cheaters and the Great Joey Greko. Phone rings. *Ring Ring*.

Ty: "Hello."

Ray: "Hello, Mr. Kirk? This is Ray at the front desk."

Ty: "Yes Raymond."

Ray: "I wanted to tell you we also have a collection of takeout menus from local eateries. It is mostly Chinese and pizza, but a very nice selection, if I do say so myself."

Ty: "OK. I'm good, but thanks."

Ray: "Shall I send them up?"

Ty: "No."

Ray: "OK. And just a reminder that we have lots of snacks in the lobby and there are also vending machines next to the ice machine in the stairwell."

Ty: "OK. Thanks."

Ray: "Is there anything else you need?"

Ty: "I didn't need this, Ray."

Ray: "I see. Well, just wanted to make sure you know there are many options for food and nourishment. You can also take a taxi to the Chili's or the Mexican place."

Ty: "I appreciate it Raymond. But I just ate the bar of complimentary soap, so I am good."

Ray: "The soap, you what? What?"

Ty: "Goodbye, Ray."

8:51 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not asnwer.

9:05 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

9:19 pm: Knock on the door. A pause. Another knock. Phone rings. *Ring Ring*.  A stack of menus is slipped under my door.

9:25 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

9:28 pm: I go over my list of enemies.

9: 31 pm: I order a pizza.

9:41 pm: Phone rings. *Ring ring.* I do not answer. Red message light flashes. I don't check it. 

9:44 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

9:49 pm: I make use of the Holy Bible in the bedside stand. 

9:50 pm: I become frightened . . . I wipe down everything in the room with sanitary napkins and Fabreze. I burn the bedding in the bathtub and make Holy Water.

10:10 pm: Pizza arrives.

Pizza Man: "What's up with the desk guy?"

Ty: "What do you mean?"

Pizza Man: "He was all weird, wanted to bring this up here instead of me."

Ty: "Did he get anywhere near this pie?"

Pizza Man: "No."

Ty: "Promise?"

Pizza Man: "Yes."

Ty: "Seriously dude. He didn't touch it? Was he wearing lipstick?"

Pizza Man: "No, you're good. Have a good night."

10:39 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

11:01 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

11:02 pm: I make certain room is double bolted and the chain is secure.

11:03 pm: I move entertainment center in front of door.

11:04 pm: I tie sheets together in case the need for a quick escape from the 2nd floor arises. 

11:07 pm: I take down shower curtain and make a spear, sharpening it one end with various television parts.

11:17: I concoct a sort of home made mace...a mixture of complimentary mouthwash, shampoo and crushed red pepper.

11:26: pm: Go to sleep fully clothed.

11:32 pm: Phone rings. *Ring Ring*. I do not answer.

6:00 am: I awake. Leave through sheet escape and sprint to airport.

11:30 am: I arrive in Chicago. My bags do not arrive in Chicago.

Two Days Later pm: My bags arrive at Midway. Since I flew on a buddy pass the airline will not deliver them.

THE END.