- Dr. Seuss might be my favorite author. And, yet, I feel like I could write those in my sleep.
- Los Angeles isn't as bad as I thought it was. I guess it depends on the company you keep.
- I miss Todd Packer on The Office
- My fantasy baseball team is suddenly struggling. Not good times.
- School loans are NOT sweet.
- Whoever gave the greenlight to "The Bill Engvall Show" that I keep seeing commercials for should be fired. By a firing squad.
- It really bugs me when people use the word "nite" - it can't possibly be correct. Why is it accepted?
- You know it's bad when you side with PETA - Why DO jockeys still whip racehorses?
- And why can't they figure out how to save horses that break their legs instead of just euthanizing them?
- How long do you suppose it takes to break in a pair of new basketball shoes? The blister (really, it's now an open wound) on my toe really hurts.
- I'd like a daily massage. Just putting it out there.
- Hillary Clinton is a selfish bitch. I was kind of neutral on her before. No longer!
- Dude. Seriously. Chicken salad? So damn tasty.
- I don't care what you say, Jeff. I think Andy Bernard is funnier than Michael Scott.
- But Dwight is the funniest of all.
- The Epic Question of Our Age: Robin or Lily? I'm not into redheads, but Lily almost makes me choose her. Robin is sometimes bloated or something. I'd go with Stella over either of them, but I guess I'll maintain my longtime redheadhatred and go Robin.
- Indiana Jones - if you didn't like it, I don't like you. Not really. But I don't get it. Look, have you SEEN the old Indiana Jones movies in the last fifteen years? They are cheezy and they have horrible dialogue, "I HATE snakes!" "No time for love, Dr. Jones!" etc. etc. They are hokey. George Lucas has got to be one of the worst dialogue writers of all time The Stars Wars films have absolutely terrible dialgoue. But we saw them when we were 8, and we loved them, because they were fun films. If you can't go to see the new Indiana Jones and pretend like you are eight years old again, I feel sorry for you. I had a blast, personally.
- I try and get into soccer, I really do. I want to like it. I especially want to like international soccer...I like the passion and nationalism involved. So yesterday I decide to watch the U.S. play England. What happens? The same thing that happens every time I watch the U.S. soccer team play (at least, every time since the 2002 World Cup) - they play lazily and get their asses handed to them 2-0. It should have been like 6-0.
- Why can't I shake the feeling that Hillary Clinton is going to somehow connive her way into the nomination? This Florida/Michigan shit is getting ridiculous.
- On my dentist's recommendation, I flossed today. Ow. My gums are all sore.
- Seriously, have these been the worst NBA Playoffs in recent memory? What a letdown. I thought the West playoffs, especially, would be EPIC. Instead, we've had like 2 good games. There have been very few close games. And other than the first day of the playoffs with that double-overtime game between the Suns and Spurs (which I didn't even get to see because I was at a wedding), there has not been a single "one-for-the-ages" type game. The media tried to play up last night's Celtics/Pistons game. Sorry. That game sucked.
- Alright. The album "In Our Bedroom After the War" by Stars is one of the best albums I've ever heard. I can't get enough of it. No homo.
- CBS is showing How I Met Your Mother twice a week this summer, starting with the beginning of Season 2, to try and build the fanbase. I like that. I wish they'd start with Season 1 and go 3 times a week, though. Season 1 is one of the greatest season's in TV history. Yes, I said that.
- One thing I always liked about sports was the descriptive terminology. For example, a wounded duck in football. What a perfect way to describe the thing it describes.
- Crap. I have been neglecting the book I'm reading, even though it is very good.
- Hey did you hear? The LOST season finale is tonight! Aren't you excited??? Yeah, me neither.
- Just for kicks: "It's a Wonderful Life" - and it is!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Thinks I Think
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Great Moments In the Life of: Pat O'Brien
*The first in a continuing series...*
The Tale of B.J. Cohen and His Capgun
When young Patrick Liam was just a wee lad, a kindergartener in fact, we were roaming around our neighborhood, as children are wont to do. We were with this half-retarded* kid named Alex Detarr ("Detarr's a retard!"), and we came across this older, grossly overweight dude named B.J. Cohen. His name is B.J...enough said.
B.J. Cohen is 3 years older than me and thus 5 years older than Pat. B.J. lives behind our house, sorta, and we are over near his house when he comes walking up. B.J. is carrying a capgun! Guns weren't really allowed in our house, and certainly not capguns. Oh, those liberal parents! Pat and I ask B.J. if we can shoot his capgun. B.J. considers this for a moment and says that we can shoot his capgun only if we climb this tree we were standing next to.
Keep in mind. This is a freaking pine tree. And the Lake Tahoe area was in the midst of a long drought, so many trees were dead or dying, and all were very dry and brittle. You can probably tell where this story is going at this point, but I shall forge on.
Wisely, I pass on the offer. Those are little branches, and I was a muscular 2nd grader:
Pat, however, did not have my foresight. And after ignoring my repeated warnings, Pat begins to climb this pine tree, determined to get his hands on the capgun**. Pat was a feisty little kid, and he got pretty fuckin high, truth be told. I'd say he was a good 20 feet up. Maybe 25. I dunno. I mean, I was like 8. But it was really high! I kept telling B.J. that Pat had gone far enough. "No, he has to go higher," B.J. kept repeating.
Suddenly, Pat takes a step and *SNAP*
And down comes Pat. Wisely, although painfully, Pat has the wits about him to hug the tree. Had he fallen backwards, he perhaps would have died had he landed on his head or something. He definitely would have broken bones. Unless he'd landed on that fatfuck B.J. Cohen. That would have been like jumping on a waterbed.
So yeah. Pat is sliding down the tree, hugging it with all his might. Was he shirtless? I don't remember. But his entire torso and thighs are torn up by the time he gets to the bottom. He's like 5 or 6 and he's bloody and crying. Like any good brother, I tell Detarr the Retard to run and get my parents whilst I hoist Pat into my arms and begin carrying him like Forrest carried Bubba.
Oh. And of course that douche bag B.J. Cohen ran home instead of helping me. So Alex, the retard he is, slowly moseys his way ahead of me to my house. My parents would later say that when he got to the front door, he knocked half-heartedly, and slowly said, "Pat got hurt." My parents run out the door and The Retard points them in the right direction. By the time they are to the sideyard, I have carried Pat's bloody, lifeless*** body all the way to the house. My dad grabs Pat out of my arms and I sorta collapse, exhausted from carrying that dude over 100 yards.
Check that scale. A good 100 meters or more! Pat goes to the hospital where he is cleaned up and whatnot. I am given a Congressional Medal of Honor for being such a Good Brother, and B.J. Cohen probably overdosed on cocaine at age 20. So all is right with the world!
*Note: He wasn't actually half-retarded. He was just one of those idiot kids. You will see what I mean as the story unfolds.
**To this day, I am convinced that B.J. Cohen was such a fat asshole that he would not have let Pat shoot the capgun, anyways.
***Ok, not lifeless.
The Tale of B.J. Cohen and His Capgun
When young Patrick Liam was just a wee lad, a kindergartener in fact, we were roaming around our neighborhood, as children are wont to do. We were with this half-retarded* kid named Alex Detarr ("Detarr's a retard!"), and we came across this older, grossly overweight dude named B.J. Cohen. His name is B.J...enough said.
B.J. Cohen is 3 years older than me and thus 5 years older than Pat. B.J. lives behind our house, sorta, and we are over near his house when he comes walking up. B.J. is carrying a capgun! Guns weren't really allowed in our house, and certainly not capguns. Oh, those liberal parents! Pat and I ask B.J. if we can shoot his capgun. B.J. considers this for a moment and says that we can shoot his capgun only if we climb this tree we were standing next to.
Keep in mind. This is a freaking pine tree. And the Lake Tahoe area was in the midst of a long drought, so many trees were dead or dying, and all were very dry and brittle. You can probably tell where this story is going at this point, but I shall forge on.
Wisely, I pass on the offer. Those are little branches, and I was a muscular 2nd grader:
Pat, however, did not have my foresight. And after ignoring my repeated warnings, Pat begins to climb this pine tree, determined to get his hands on the capgun**. Pat was a feisty little kid, and he got pretty fuckin high, truth be told. I'd say he was a good 20 feet up. Maybe 25. I dunno. I mean, I was like 8. But it was really high! I kept telling B.J. that Pat had gone far enough. "No, he has to go higher," B.J. kept repeating.
Suddenly, Pat takes a step and *SNAP*
And down comes Pat. Wisely, although painfully, Pat has the wits about him to hug the tree. Had he fallen backwards, he perhaps would have died had he landed on his head or something. He definitely would have broken bones. Unless he'd landed on that fatfuck B.J. Cohen. That would have been like jumping on a waterbed.
So yeah. Pat is sliding down the tree, hugging it with all his might. Was he shirtless? I don't remember. But his entire torso and thighs are torn up by the time he gets to the bottom. He's like 5 or 6 and he's bloody and crying. Like any good brother, I tell Detarr the Retard to run and get my parents whilst I hoist Pat into my arms and begin carrying him like Forrest carried Bubba.
Oh. And of course that douche bag B.J. Cohen ran home instead of helping me. So Alex, the retard he is, slowly moseys his way ahead of me to my house. My parents would later say that when he got to the front door, he knocked half-heartedly, and slowly said, "Pat got hurt." My parents run out the door and The Retard points them in the right direction. By the time they are to the sideyard, I have carried Pat's bloody, lifeless*** body all the way to the house. My dad grabs Pat out of my arms and I sorta collapse, exhausted from carrying that dude over 100 yards.
Check that scale. A good 100 meters or more! Pat goes to the hospital where he is cleaned up and whatnot. I am given a Congressional Medal of Honor for being such a Good Brother, and B.J. Cohen probably overdosed on cocaine at age 20. So all is right with the world!
*Note: He wasn't actually half-retarded. He was just one of those idiot kids. You will see what I mean as the story unfolds.
**To this day, I am convinced that B.J. Cohen was such a fat asshole that he would not have let Pat shoot the capgun, anyways.
***Ok, not lifeless.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Ode to an Old Friend
"Earlier this week, I started putting stuff in a box. And that box was labeled 'Stuff I Have No Use For Anymore' ...Maybe you belong in that box."
-Theodore Evelyn Mosby
From the first time we met, years ago, we got along famously. You weren't glamorous or shiny, but neither am I. We just fit each other. Since that day, you have been there for me through so many ups and downs, so much sweat and so many tears. Trusty, comfortable. You never let me down. Well, maybe once or twice. But we recovered and together did our best to make things work. Long after others would have cast you off, I kept you around. I didn't care what people said. I ignored their questions about why I continued to keep you around. We had a bond that I hoped would never be broken.
But that day finally came. I kept putting it off longer and longer. I made excuses for why I should continue to keep you as a major part of my life. But...you became practically dangerous. I'm still not embarrassed by you, on the contrary... your foibles are endearing. I know all your little peccadilloes. "People call these things imperfections, but they're not. Ah, that's the good stuff."
Nonetheless, I cannnot in good conscience keep you as part of my daily life any longer. You are, quite literally, a threat to my health. The buffer you served to protect me from the outside world has grown too thin. So, yesterday, I finally found your replacement. It pained me, but it had to be done.
Do not fret. I won't throw you out on the curb. As the song goes, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold." Though the harm to you has been irreparable, I'll keep you around. We can say hi every so often if we bump into each other, and I'll fondly remember all the time we spent together. But for now, you've been replaced...sadly.
Goodbye, old friend.
-Theodore Evelyn Mosby
From the first time we met, years ago, we got along famously. You weren't glamorous or shiny, but neither am I. We just fit each other. Since that day, you have been there for me through so many ups and downs, so much sweat and so many tears. Trusty, comfortable. You never let me down. Well, maybe once or twice. But we recovered and together did our best to make things work. Long after others would have cast you off, I kept you around. I didn't care what people said. I ignored their questions about why I continued to keep you around. We had a bond that I hoped would never be broken.
But that day finally came. I kept putting it off longer and longer. I made excuses for why I should continue to keep you as a major part of my life. But...you became practically dangerous. I'm still not embarrassed by you, on the contrary... your foibles are endearing. I know all your little peccadilloes. "People call these things imperfections, but they're not. Ah, that's the good stuff."
Nonetheless, I cannnot in good conscience keep you as part of my daily life any longer. You are, quite literally, a threat to my health. The buffer you served to protect me from the outside world has grown too thin. So, yesterday, I finally found your replacement. It pained me, but it had to be done.
Do not fret. I won't throw you out on the curb. As the song goes, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other's gold." Though the harm to you has been irreparable, I'll keep you around. We can say hi every so often if we bump into each other, and I'll fondly remember all the time we spent together. But for now, you've been replaced...sadly.
Goodbye, old friend.
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