Andy Rooney’s town is frackin’ great! And no, you don’t get to live there…

28 10 2009

As you are probably all aware, Andy Rooney is a correspondent for “60 Minutes” who has become famous for his end of show, home-spun, opinion segments.  Rooney generally veers wildly in his rants from being, at best, lame and irrelevant, to being, at worst, borderline racist and homophobic.  He is, in brief, hilarious.  I mocked one of his columns in an earlier MySpace blog entry, “Dear Mr. Rooney…” It was both a fun and easy time to write.



Why so sexy, Andy Rooney?


So it was with great excitement that today, while idly surfing the internet, I discovered that Andy Rooney has a weekly column!  And they put it online!  Holy shit, this is like Christmas, your birthday, and finding out your girlfriend isn’t pregnant all wrapped in one!  I will never complain about not having any material for this blog again.

(Tim pulls up a comfortable chair, makes himself an orange juice and vodka, and kicks his feet back.)  Okay, Mr. Rooney…hit me with some crazy!

Some towns in the U.S. have good names and some do not.

Andy Rooney’s calling you out, Butte, Montana.

I have a home in a great town, and I’m not going to name the town for fear that everyone will want to come there.

Aw, c’mon, Andy Rooney!  Please tell me where you live, so I can rush out and by a twenty-acre property right now!

I like my homes and although I grew up in Albany, I don’t think of it with great affection. Albany is near towns like Troy and Cohoes, which I dislike for no better reason than I like Albany. The great thing about Troy for me was the fullback on my high school football team came from there.

It’s from him that I learned the simple beauty that can ensue from a man’s physical love of another man.

Albany doesn’t get much attention, considering it is the capital of New York State.

What, no “CSI: Albany?”  Andy Rooney calls bullshit!

The capital building itself is magnificent but Albanians don’t pay much attention to it. To its neighbors, it’s just another building in the way. I grew up as an “Albanian,” but my dictionary defines this word as “a native of Albania.” I am not a native of Albania. I’m a native of Albany, and for a part of the year I live in a town 35 miles from there. I wish this town (which I am not going to name) had been called something else, something easier to spell, but it wasn’t.

Still not going to tell us the name of your precious town, eh, Andy Rooney?  You big cock-tease…

I also go through Lake George Village on my way to our cottage on the lake. The lake is 32 miles in length…and what a beauty. I think many years ago the town’s politicians added the word Village to the name because the lake is better known than the town. Again, I won’t say the actual town where my home is because it’s great and I don’t want everyone to come there.

FUCK YOU, ANDY ROONEY, YOU FUCKING COCK-CHOMPING ASSHOLE!  WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KEEP RUBBING YOUR SUPER SECRET TOWN IN MY FACE!  Hey, look everyone, Andy Rooney’s town is great!  Apparently Butterfinger Blizzard flavored ice cream flows from the taps, and a member of the Spice Girls is available at every corner to give weary travelers a hand-job.  God damn it, Andy Rooney, you WILL tell me the location of your super secret awesome town.  Perhaps this torture droid will loosen your tongue…

Now, you might not be interested in this fact, but I make coffee using water I scoop up from the lake and then boil.

You might not be interested in this fact, but I wipe my ass from back to front.  I find it saves me an average of .07 seconds per wipe.

A lot of people have summer cottages away from the city where they visit all year long. It’s increasingly more difficult to find an out-of-the-way, beautiful vacation destination. If you are able to find a good place that doesn’t have many people, it doesn’t stay that way for long. Of course, we’re all part of the problem.

And by “we’re all” I mean “everyone who isn’t Andy Rooney.”

I don’t know what we’re going to do about overcrowding. There’s just no doubt that there are too many of us for the limited number of good places we have to go on vacation.

Good thing Andy Rooney is here to point out the most serious consequence of the planet’s over-population: Rapidly depleting vacation spots.  Jesus, people, throw a condom on that thing!  Andy Rooney doesn’t want to look at your pale, ugly kids while he’s trying to enjoy a mai tai on the beach.

I think apartment living is underrated. So, even though I love going to our summer homes for vacation to get away from our daily life, I think sometimes I would be better off staying home.

Andy Rooney’s home life is so fucking great, it’s a vacation in itself.  So even though he’s rich enough to own a big summer home, he might not even use it.

I’ve said this before, but I’d like to encourage everyone — and I include myself — to start a movement called “Stay-at-home-on-vacation.” The nightly pictures on the news of people on vacation flocking to our beaches are enough to keep all of us in our backyards, if we have a backyard.

I’ll be sitting in mine, shotgun cocked and aimed, ready to turn anyone I see into 150 lbs of raw beef…

Vacation spots near the water are clearly in short supply.

My bathroom toilet is currently taking reservations, Mr. Rooney, whenever you’re ready.

I was at my lake cottage the past couple of weekends, and so was everyone else. Next year, I’m going to stay home and sit on my apartment terrace. That’s where I’m going on my next vacation.

MY NAME IS ANDY ROONEY, AND I FUCKING HATE PEOPLE!  Stay away from me and my awesome town, unwashed masses!

Bringing it in under the deadline…

3 07 2009

My attempt to do a blog every day this month is off to a rocky start.  Family, alcohol, and rockband conspired to take away all blog writing time today.  But a post is a post, so I guess I will just take this opportunity to tell you the GREATEST SECRET YOU’VE NEVER HEARD!!!!

Okay, here it is…ready?


Oops, I’m out of time, I have to post now.  Sorry.


6 06 2009


If 50 is the new 30, then by my math 30 must be the new 18.  Right?  Am I right?

I think I’m right.

Random thoughts from the “Green Felt”

26 05 2009

If you are someone that knows me remotely well, you will know that I am an avid poker player. Love the fucking poker. Except for one thing: if you play a lot of poker, you have to play it with mostly men. There are females who play poker, but if you go to your local card room, chances are you will find yourself in the middle of a sausage-fest that rivals that of even a monster truck rally or strip club.

After visiting the local card club today (and notching a satisfactory final table appearance), I felt compelled to riff on some random things that caught my attention:

Guys stink (literally)

It occurred to me, as I was sitting at the table at the start of the tournament, virtually holding my breath, that I hadn’t been to the card club once in the past dozen times, where I wasn’t sitting next to someone who stank like the depths of Hell.  I used to think I was just unlucky, but now I have come to the conclusion that men just, as a general rule, smell awful.  What’s up with that?  Why do guys smell so much worse than girls?  Both sexes are perspiring the same substance, are they not?  Is it a hygiene issue?  Whatever it is, it kills my soul.

Just a general rule of thumb: if you are leaving your house, and you know you will be sitting at a table with a group of relative strangers, in close proximity, for significant amount of time…maybe you wanna throw on some deodorant, or cologne, or maybe just hang one of those pine tree car air fresheners around your  neck.  Something, anything…I’m dying over here!

Guys stink (figuratively)

I don’t want to be one of those stereotypical self-hating men, but god, men say some disgusting things when women aren’t around.  Here is a dozy from today.  One guy, an obvious insecure, manly, jock type, was discussing his wife being pregnant, when he said this awesome statement:

“Yeah, I told her she could have one more, and that was it.”

Now on the surface I know this may sound like a pretty innocent, casual statement.  But let’s break it down:

“…I told her she could have…”  So…she’s having the baby?  Not you?  I mean, you’re only the FATHER for Christ’s sake, so it’s not really your responsibility.  The moment I heard this, I knew without a doubt this is one of those men who is sitting on the couch, beer in hand, while his newborn son or daughter is bawling, and yells at his wife who is busy doing 900 other things at the moment, “Hey, for Christ’s sake, get in here and take care of your kid, will you?”  Vomit.

“…one more, and that was it.” Oh, well, thank you, your Highness.  How nice of you to bestow so generosity upon your wife, that you let her have the honor of bearing one more of the children that come from your white-trash seed.  You know what your wife should do?  Tell you she’s on the pill, but not take it, and see if you STOP STICKING YOUR DICK INSIDE OF HER.  And then we will see which one of you really controls if it will be “one more” or not.

Fucking men.

Speaking of men being assholes…

If you can’t lose with class, can you at least lose with intelligence?

Here’s the deal for those of you considering taking up the beautiful game of poker, or those of you that play just casually.  It is, without question, the most important rule of playing.  Here is the rule:

Never criticize other people for how they play.  (EDIT: Unless that person is my brother-in-law, Jeremy.  Criticize him all you want…he fucking sucks.  Wins one tournament at the Venetian and thinks he’s so great…)

Just don’t do it.  And in the interest of full disclosure, I haven’t always followed this rule.  I have been guilty of breaking this one, and I always feel like a shit after I do it.  Even if you think you are being friendly, trying to give a little advice…just don’t.   It is never, ever, okay…

That being said, the only thing worse than criticizing other people’s play, is criticizing other people’s play and BEING WRONG ABOUT IT.  Seriously, you really look like an ass when you try to point out others flaws, and you are actually dead wrong yourself.  An example that I was on the receiving end of today:

With blinds at 300/600, I am sitting in the big blind, and the first player to act makes the minimum raise to 1200.  Quick No-Limit Hold ’em lesson: a minimum raise is almost always a bad idea.  It puts no pressure on the people to act after you and allows them a cheap look at a flop that might let them catch up to you.  So…

First guy min raises, everyone folds to the small blind who also calls.  At this point, I am probably calling with any two cards, as there is now 3000 chips in the pot (Initial raiser + small blind + my blind) and I only have to call 600 more.  The chance to win 3000 chips, plus possibly more after the flop, for an investment of 600 is always a great deal, and it’s even more inviting when I look down at my cards and see that I have 97, both of clubs (sooooted).  Listen, I am not a poker expert by any means, but I can tell you unequivocally that there is not a professional poker player in the world that is folding in this spot.  Never, ever, ever.

So I don’t either.  The flop rolls off Jack, 7, 7.  Sweet.  I check to the initial raiser, who makes a pretty strong 4000 chip bet into the pot.  Small blind folds, I move all-in, he snap calls, I say “I have a seven” and he says, “That sucks,” and shows pocket kings.  After the turn and river blank off, he shakes his head, and in a way that was semi-friendly, but clearly meant to be a dig, says “You called a raise with 97?  Nice call.”  (The subtext of this line: What a crappy call.)  As he walked away from the table, he was still muttering angrily about how someone can call with 97.

Well let me inform you now, good sir: it was not a good call.  It was, rather, a STANDARD CALL.  Which you would know, if you had a clue how to play.  Which you don’t, like 90% of the people that play in these tournaments, which is fine, but here’s the thing: If you don’t know how to play, SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT HOW I DO.

Incidentally I saw at least three more instances (none that I was involved in, though) of this exact scenario before the tournament ended…someone pissed about how bad someone played, when what they did was, at worst, a little unusual, and often times, totally standard.

This leads nicely to my last point…

Holy crap, live poker players are mind-shatteringly bad

There is a persistent, but pointless, debate in all online poker forums about whether so called “live” poker players (that is, players that play primarily in card rooms and casinos) or “internet” players (players that primarily play on the internet) are, overall, better than the other.  Now, I am a hobbyist playing for peanuts poker player, so I can’t speak on the higher limits, but I can say with zero reservation that at the lower levels, internet players are so much better that it’s not even funny.  I could give example after example of some of the ludicrous plays I saw today that, just from a simple, elementary math perspective, are awful, and you would never see online.  However, instead I will just tell this one awesome story, that I think encapsulates everything.

Now, even if you have never played poker in your life, you probably are aware that one of the fundamental components of poker is hiding your emotions so that other players can’t tell what you have.  That’s where the term “poker face” comes in, right?  I mean, isn’t this just stupid, simple, obvious?  Apparently not…

When we were down to 16 players, a hand came up at my table where one player raised, but still had more chips left.  It gets to this other guy (another, I must point out, jock looking faux bad-ass), who looked at his cards, and I am not even making this up, says “I’m all in,” pushes his chips excitedly in this middle, then leaps out of his seat, claps his hands, high fives his buddy, and starts celebrating like he already won something! It was the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen.  I didn’t say anything, obviously, but inside I’m thinking: “Okay, either this guy has pocket aces, or this is the most elaborate, best acted bluff I have ever seen.”  But I know acting, and this guy wasn’t acting.  He obviously had aces, maybe kings.

The original raiser tanked for a surprisingly long time, but finally folded.  As soon as he did, Excited Guy proudly flipped up his pocket aces for the table to see, as if he had done something incredible.  I guess if there is any sort of point I am getting to with this story, it’s this: If you are someone who has an interest in poker, but have been too afraid to play because you felt like everyone else would be better than you, or you don’t have a good enough “poker face,” let me inform you that there are people who play in casinos who literally jump up and down and clap their hands when they have a good hand. Again, I’m not a poker expert, but I believe that would be considered a “tell.”  So come on down and enjoy this great game!

Just please remember to wear some deodorant.

At the ICU Movies (part 2)…

30 03 2009

Two quick notes about my previous post:

1) I just reread it, and the grammar and spelling was atrocious.  I have gone back and edited it.  Please bear in mind I was under heavy chemical influence while writing.

2) Although it makes me inwardly cringe something fierce to sit and  explain the “logic” of one of my jokes, there seems to be some confusion about a passage in my last post that I need to address.  After relating a dream I had about a movie recently, I wrote:

…when I woke up my sheets were all wet.  Also, my cat was pregnant.  My cat’s a boy.

Apparently, some of you interpreted this to mean that in my excitement over this dream movie, I myself had impregnated my cat.  This was not my intention.  So to make clear: my sheets were wet because I wet myself over the excitement of this movie, and my cat spontaneously, and independently, became pregnant because the movie idea was so awesome.  Got that?  Two separate, independent events.  I’m not gay for my cat.

I’m  not.

Let’s take a look at a few more movies I (didn’t) see while laid up in the ICU:


K-Bell was kind enough to make me a little “hospital basket” before my stay, and included a DVD copy of Ice Cube’s seminal film work, Friday, which unfortunately I never felt well enough to watch.  It’s still sitting here next to me, in the plastic wrap, so I figured I’d do what Roger Ebert does, and just review the DVD case.  Here it is, for those of you who haven’t seen it:

Friday the movie

All in all, I have to say this might be one of the better DVD cases I’ve seen.  The main picture summarizes what I imagine to be the plot of the movie perfectly, with both Ice Cube and a pre-Rush Hour Chris Tucker posed into a classic “Daaaaammmmn” formation.  Clearly there is some wack shit going on to their left (our right), and the DVD case entices the viewer to see what crazy hijinks are causing such a hilarious take from Cube and Tucker for themselves by watching the movie.

Also, the back of the case refers to Christ Tucker as a “box office superstar,” which is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever read in my life, ever.

Hard Candy

I actually watched this the night before my stay in the hospital.  And all I have to say about it is: stay away from my balls, Ellen Page.

Also: Stay Away From My Balls, Ellen Page would be a great name for a gangster rap group.

Crazy Bruce’s Liquors Commercial

And finally, by far the best movie I saw while in the hospital, and perhaps one of the greatest movies…nay, one of the greatest anything, I have ever seen: this late night commercial for Crazy Bruce’s Liquors: (to give credit where credit is due, I found this on FilmDrunk.)

You didn’t actually watch the video, did you?  It’s okay, I usually skip videos when people put them in their blogs, too.  But seriously, it’s 33 seconds, and you need to see this.  Go back and watch it now.  I’ll wait.

Done?  Okay, now here is my question about this video: was the “woo woo woo” thing part of the shooting script, or improvised by Crazy Bruce? (Or the actor playing “Crazy Bruce,” whichever the case may be.)  Because honestly, just the possibility that this conversation occurred during the shooting of this commercial warms my heart:

Director (after a seventh mediocre take): I don’t know, Crazy Bruce.  I mean, it’s good and all…love the singing, love the dancing, but it just needs…something.

Crazy Bruce: Hmmm…well, I could whip my pants off and rub my balls on the camera.

Director: Nah, Larry’s Discount Mattress Emporium did that for their commercial last week.  What we need is some sort of sound effect…something to really put the “Crazy” in “Crazy Bruce.”

Crazy Bruce: A sound effect!  I think I got just the thing for you…

I love life.

Until next time, movie fans, the ICU movie theater…is closed!

A tribute to my lesser known Facebook “friends”…

21 03 2009

When I started using MySpace, and later Facebook, I made it a point of pride that I did not accept as “friends” on these sites people whom I did not consider genuine friends in real life.  I wasn’t going to be accepting my co-workers cousin, my old babysitter, or random people who just happened to share keywords in the “Interests” section of my profile, just to bolster my friend count.  As time has passed, my standards have laxed incredibly, as I’ve just started accepting just about any and all friend requests, not so much because I care about having a lot of friends on a social networking website, but just because I always see the request, shrug my shoulders, and say, “Why the hell not?”

My downward spiral into extreme Facebook friend whoring hit a nadir last week, when I accepted the friendship request of “R.H.”  I have stared at his profile for a solid ten minutes straight now, and for the love of Jebus, I have no fucking clue who the hell R.H. is.  He graduated from my high school the same year I did, apparently.  Did we have classes together?  Were we best friends and I just blocked it out? (Not inconceivable, as I have intentionally blocked much of high school from my memories.)  Who are you, R.H.?  And more importantly…why the hell am I your friend on Facebook?

In my experience, Facebook friends come in three standard varieties.  They are:

Type I- Flesh & Blood Friends: These are your friends on Facebook that you have regular contact with in the “real world.”  Ironically, you very often will communicate with these friends the least on Facebook, due to your real world interactions with them.

Type II- Hurray!  I reconnected with _____ Friends: These are people who you were probably once good friends with in real life, but due to pesky physical world circumstances (moving, marriage, graduation, prison sentence) have no contact with in the real world anymore.  However, you still care about these people, and are excited to use the Interwebz to be able to socialize with them again.  These are the Facebook friends you will probably spend most of your time messaging, IMimg, wall-vandalizing, etc.

Type III- Oh, hey…it’s you.  I sort of, kind of, think I remember you.  Oh, you want to be Facebook friends?  Um…yeah, okay, I guess I don’t see any reason not to…Friends: You have friends like this on your profile, don’t try to deny it.  It’s okay, we all have them.  It’s nothing to be ashamed about.  Lately I’ve noticed I have many more of these friends than I ever would have imagined.  I literally have “friended” people that I have not sent one single piece of electronic correspondence with.  So, as a tribute to my Type III friends, and everyone’s Type III friends everywhere, I present to you a poem: “The Ballad of Tim Gage’s Lesser Known Friends”*

*Yes, poetry nerds, I know that technically a “ballad” is a poem that tells a story, and this poem does not.  But I like the word “ballad” and if you can’t handle that, please direct all your complaints to Free Time’s sister site,

The Ballad of Tim Gage’s Lesser Known Friends

A Facebook Poem

In alphabetical order,

I’ll take them off my list,

and with some solemn prose

admit that they exist.

We start out with J.A.

I don’t think we’ve had chance to talk.

But according to some who know you,

you’re a bitch to all that walk.

H.C., I made you famous

when I quoted you in a blog.

Your constant right-wing status updates

make me want to kill my dog.

The next is a girl from high school,

I may have sat next to her in class.

K.D. I remember three things about you:

Nice face, great tits, C- ass.

As I mentioned in the intro,

R.H. to me is a stranger.

Are you the guy I introduced my prom-date to,

and when I used the restroom tried to bang her?

S.J. I do remember,

a sweet girl back from high school.

According to your profile you like camping, snowshoeing, and the outdoors.

That’s all I know about you.

H.K. is the daughter

of a guy I did a show with.

If she doesn’t stop sending me “Lil Green Patch” requests,

she’s getting un-friended with a quickness.

I’m getting tired now, so double time:

L.N., you had a crush on me, back yonder.

K.B., you’re friends with Nikki W.,

Y.T. you’re friends with Amber.

It’s strange to call people “friends”

with whom you never even speak.

I guess I can always hit “Decline.”

I think I’ll start…next week.

Can we get someone on this, already…

17 02 2009

I’d like to take a moment to address the world’s scientists and inventors, if I could.

Hey guys.  How’s it going?  I realize you guys lead a stressful life, what with everyone expecting to solve all the worlds super hard problems.  From climate change, diseases, and natural disasters, to automotive safety, communications, and entertainment, we, the regular folks, look to you to discover creative new solutions to all of life’s hardships.  And these problems are ridiculoulsy tough.  I mean, I have a college degree, and I’ll be honest, I only barely understand how electricity works.  Yet we all expect you guys to use electricity to not only power my car and television, but operate my pacemaker so I don’t die of heart disease at 31 and shit?  Tough gig.

So, understanding how tough your workload is, I’m not here to ask for much.  In fact, the rest of that crap can get put way on the back burner, as far as I’m concerned.  Global warming?  It’s freezing in my room right now, let that shit heat up!  Cure for cancer?  Take your time.  Flying cars?  I’ll ride my bike.

But could you please…please…PLEASE create a Taco Bell hot sauce packet that doesn’t PROJECTILE SPRAY THE SAUCE AT A 90 DEGREE ANGLE WHEN I TRY TO PUT IT ON MY BURRITO SUPREME.  Seriously, it’s annoying.  I can’t eat Taco Bell anymore without covering everything in a 2 foot radious around myself in hot sauce.  My poor laptop has been on the receiving end of more spicy-flavored money shots than a porn star’s ass.  I just want the sauce to go…gently…from the packet, to the tip of my burrito.  That is all.

Thank you.

Warning: Contents Under Extreme Pressure!

Warning: Contents Under Extreme Pressure!

Fun search engine phrase of the day…

22 01 2009

These are the terms people used to find your blog:

"tim gage" asshole

My cover is blown.

The impossible dream…

28 12 2008

Don’t you absolutely hate it when someone comes up to you and wants to tell you about the dream they had last night? The dreamer always thinks their dream is so God-damn interesting, but it’s really just a bunch of vague nonsensical images that have no relevance to the listener, and it’s a giant waste of everyone’s time. Don’t you absolutely, positively, hate when people do that?

Too fucking bad.

So last night, I had this dream. I was at the Water Park of America, which is “…America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!” (according to them). I was there by myself, for some reason. I mean, not like I was the only person in the park, but I wasn’t there with any friends. I was alone. Which is strange since I can’t imagine just going to a water park by myself. But anyway, I am going down the inter tube slides, because I hate the body slides…the water splashes so far into your face you feel like you are drowning by the end of it…but every time I get to the end of the slide, I lose my tube. For those of you who have been there, you know this is a big problem…rubber tube’s are a precious commodity at Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!).

But somehow, even though I keep losing my tube, a new one magically appears from under the water just as I am about to get to the edge of the pool. So I am having a great time, tubing down the slides by myself, when suddenly it is time for Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!) to close for the night.  Bummer.  So I float in my tube that I haven’t lost this time towards the exit, when I see the owner of Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!) standing there.  The owner is a very ancient and wise looking Chinese man, like you always see in the kung fu movies who advise the hero.  Sort of like Mr. Miyagi, but more grizzled.  Also, this very ancient and wise looking Chinese guy is super tall, or maybe just floating.  And he says to me in that very ancient and wise way, “Tim, would you and all your friends like to stay the night in my hotel, and play in my water park, for FREE!”

Well as it just so happens to turn out, I would like this.  Very much.  So I say, “Yes, Ancient-And-Wise-Super-Tall-Or-Maybe-Just-Floating-Chinese-Guy.  I would like that very much.”  So the owner tells me I need to call Nikki W., who for some reason is staying at another hotel with all my friends, and get her and the whole gang over here.

(It’s important to note at this point that I’ve actually met the REAL owner of Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), and he is neither Chinese nor very tall.)

Yep, that’s him.  From my dream, I mean.  Not the real owner.

So now I need to call my friends, but I have to put my clothes on first, for some reason.  And you know how when you put on clothes, and you are all wet, and it takes forever because the cling to you?  It feels like I am putting my clothes on in slow motion, and I am panicking because I need to call Nikki W. before the place closes.  So I get my clothes on, and I get my cellphone, but it’s not my cellphone.  First of all, it’s fucking gigantic.  Like, bigger than any cellphone has ever been in the history of the universe.  It looks like an over-sized prop from a Benny Hill sketch.  Also, for some reason, I have to plug it into an electrical outlet for it to work.  And if you’ve ever tried to find an electrical outlet in an indoor water park, you know they are sort of hard to come by.

So instead I take my giant ass cellphone to the restaurant, and use one of their plug ins, and I get a hold of Nikki W.  But Nikki tells me I am supposed to be at the theater, because apparently I am starring in “Man of La Mancha” and it has already started without me.  So I race over to the theater, which by a happy coincidence is right by the Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), and I get inside the theater, except is sort of looks like my old apartment, but the show is going on and I get there right in time to sing “The Impossible Dream,” which I think is weird since I might be the most God-awful singer in existence, and I maybe know 30% of the lyrics to that song.

BUT!  I am awesome.  I sing a perfect rendition, and I am expecting all my friends to be in the audience, but they are not.  However, the cast of the TV show “Friends” are there, and they think I am fantastic!  Well, except for Lisa Kudrow, who thinks I was a little “pitchy.”  I don’t know what pitchy means, and when I ask her to explain it, she tells me not to be such a smart-ass, but suddenly she is still Lisa Kudrow but she’s also sort of my dad.  And my dad is telling me that I should have picked a song that is in my “range” and I still don’t know what that means and I am trying to tell my dad that it is a musical not a karaoke bar, I don’t get to pick what I sing, and THEN my old college director shows up and apparently she was directing this show and she tells me that, yes, I could have picked to sing whatever I wanted, and I’m all like, “What the fuck?” and then I wake up.

Awesome, huh?

And now, some interpretation, courtesy of


To dream that you are alone, indicates feelings of rejection. You may be feeling that no one understand you.

Oh,  You know me all too well.  It’s true.  I’m so misunderstood.


To dream that you are on or see a waterslide, suggests that you� are being swept away by your emotions. You are slowly exploring the realm of your unconscious. Alternatively, the dream suggests that you are going with the flow of things without any objections or resistance.

Wow.  Super analysis, there.  So, I’m either being swept away and am out of control, or I am relaxed and going with the flow.  Yep, it’s definately one of those.


To see something old in your dream, suggests that there is something in your life that you need to replace or get rid of.

So long, showering regularly!  You’re out of here.


To dream that you are wet, suggests that you are drenched or overcome with your emotions. It also signifies a spiritual cleansing, rebirth or renewal.

Could also signify that I have just been dreaming about water slides for the past 15 minutes.  Maybe?  Possibly?  Just a guess.


To sing in your dream, represents happiness, harmony and joy in some situation or relationship. You are uplifting others with your positive attitude and cheerful disposition. Singing is a way to celebrate, communicate and express your feelings.

Blah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!  Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…ha…ha…ha ha…ha…ha…ha…ha…ha………ha…….ha……<gasps for air>….AH ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha….


To see your father in your dream, symbolizes authority and protection. It suggests that you need to be more self-reliant. Consider also your waking relationship with your father.

…ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa HA ha ha ha ha ha….ha….ha….ohhh….oh boy….ha…ha.  My favorite part was when I was “uplifting others” with my “positive attitude” and “cheery disposition”.  Good one.  Now what’s the about my dad?

Unfit to lead…

1 11 2008

The election is now less than four days away(cue ecstatic cheering from fed up people), and though of course I am very interested in the Presidential election, I have to be honest and say the election I am much more interested in is Al Franken versus Norm Coleman for Senate.

I’m not going to lie to you people…I fucking love Al Franken. Not Al Franken on SNL…he was okay on that…but political Al Franken. His books are incredible, and I honestly believe NO ONE should be allowed to vote until they have read “The Truth.” It doesn’t matter where you are politically, the book is an eye opener.

However, here is the problem…Al Franken isn’t going to win. Unfortunately for him, he was a comedy writer in his past job, and still is a very straight talking, funny, sometimes sarcastic, passionate guy. Which means there is TONS AND TONS AND TONS of awesome quotes to be taken way out of context from him to make him look horrible. Also, he’s running against a guy who is in training to be the primary Republican attack dog, and is basically a standard, sleezy, all-round snake-oil salesman type politican. So needless to say, he is getting hammered in ads that make him look like a porno-writing, women-hating, serial-raping communist. Oops.

This issue got me to thinking: I could never run for political office. Not that I have any plans of ever wanting to, but if I did, I’d be screwed. Forgot about careless things I may have said when someone was recording or paying attention, my blogs alone are FILLED with material to be taken out of context and made to make me look sleazy. For fun, I went back through my old blogs and pulled out the quotes I imagined would be used against me in a heated political campaign. Accompanied with each quote is a link to the blog it is from, so you can see how it looks in context.

“I sort of wish some more people my own age would get cancer.” (Stuff and stuff and stuff and stuff…)

“The cost of the drugs I am taking…is at least $1,000 a night.” (Never a dull moment…)

“It’s business as usual for me from this point forward: bangin’ bitches, drinkin’ beers, and chewin’ gum.” (I’m not dead…)

“I’m a giant slut.” (What would Daniel Day-Lewis do?…)

“I got caught up in the random little distractions that make life such a joy…burying the random hookers body…” (This is where your free time goes to die…)

“I won’t work with the black guys.” (Sitting duck…)

“…my real passion is training dogs to rip each others faces off.” (Let’s talk about…)

“…theories as to why God made the I35 bridge fall…and perhaps ideas about other structures God can collapse to punish gay people for their horrible, dirty, sinfully arousing ways.” (Reunion…)

“They hate us because they hate our freedom…to have sex with a gangly, semi-creepy looking white guy…” (If you don’t have sex with me, the terrorists win…)

“…have Tom Selleck masturbate into the blender…” (Piss off, LeVar Burton…)

“I’m…saying it’s a good thing to take advantage of a passed out female…” (Drunk…)

“I knew I should have just had sex with the T-Mobile guy…” (SWM writer ISO friendly, inquisitive myspaces for NSA blog reading…)

“…I laugh about the midgets.” (Joy…)

“I have a liquidy substance that shoots out of my penis during sex…” (Stuff about things…)

“I can’t think of a better way to recognize Jesus’ death and resurrection than by chucking a 15-pound steel ball down a narrow, wooden path and into a mass of tightly grouped, curvey-cone shaped objects over and over again.” (Celebrating Christ’s love…WITH FIGHTING!)

“Fuck dying AIDS children.” (Chick flick…)

“…I’m going to surf the internet for porn and free music downloads.” (Cruise control…)

And then of course, there is this picture, back by popular demand:


Yes, I’m sure someone will find that very useful in a campaign against me. But to be fair…my legs look GREAT in that shot.

Also it’s important to note…these are just a few quotes I managed to get skimming only half my blogs. I’m sure I missed many gems that a more diligent campaign manager could find and pull out against me.

Sorry, Al.