Did we really need that?

Last night, I went to the mall for dinner around 8:30.  When I got there, I remembered that I had a couple paychecks that I hadn't had a chance to deposit.  (It's the Summer...I don't have a lot of free time, and I have no free time when banks are open).  There's a Capital One bank with ATM machines there, so I grabbed by paychecks, as well as another check I had, and made a plan to deposit them after dinner.

So, it's around 9:30 when I finally make it to the bank.  It's obviously closed, but the ATMs are still open, so I figure I'll just fill out a deposit slip and put the checks in the envelope at the ATM.

I head right for the little table and start filling out the deposit slip when Danielle sees a sign on the ATM that you don't need to do it that way anymore.

You see, in my day, we told the ATM how much money we were depositing.  Then we put that money in an envelope and the machine processed the deposit.  However, now we're apparently in this amazing future world where instead, I just put a stack of checks in the ATM machine, it scans them, and tells me how much they add up to, then I confirm the deposit, and a new generation of people that don't know how to add on their own can be created.

So, my first impression is "Wow, that's awesome.  It's the future!!"

Then I put my stack of checks in, the machine sputters for a bit, then returns them and says that it can't make the deposit at this time.

Perhaps, a minute later is when this stupid POS will start doing its job, so I try it again.  Sputter, delay, returned checks and another slip saying it can't make the deposit.

"Maybe it can't read them?  Maybe just try one" Danielle suggests.

Makes sense, let's give it a try.  Or maybe it's just this machine.  I'll try the other one, since there's another machine right next to it.

So, I go through the whole process again, which includes inserting my ATM card, entering my PIN, pressing the button for 'deposit', then 'to checking', the 'confirm' that I'm ready to insert my checks.  This time I only put in one check. 

Again, it sputters.  Then I get this error message:

"We are unable to return your check at this time."

Then the machine goes black.

I'm not even shitting you.  This seriously happened.

I was not on TV.  No wacky host jumped out to tell me I was punked.  No horns went off that I was the big winner of some bizarre ATM game. 

Nope, the machine took my check, told me to go fuck myself, and went to sleep for the night.

So, I'm left without a check.  Without a receipt of any sort stating that it took my check.  And no indication whether it actually counted the deposit.

I ended up having to insert my ATM card three times, enter my PIN three times, push the series of buttons to choose a deposit three times, and the super scanner failed all three times.

Technology...you suck.  And did we really even need that?

Painting a Nursery

You ever see those lovely commercials, where a husband and wife are playfully and lovingly painting a nursery for their soon-to-be new arrival.  Well, here's the reality:

• Your wife is not gonna be there, because the fumes from the paint are "harmful to the baby."
• It's gonna be like 100 degrees in the room because it's hot out and you need the windows open, plus there's no blinds because you needed to remove them in order to paint.
• Because it's so hot, you're only wearing a pair of shorts, but you're still sweating your ass off
• Paint is getting everywhere because the roller spits little mists of paint all over your hand and face.  And somehow you got paint on your toes, and left a bunch of marks on the floor?
• You know after covering half a wall that you're going to have to put on at least a second coat, which means when you're "done", you're at best halfway there.
• You're already 3/4 of the way through the only can of paint your wife bought you and you're still not done with the first coat, so guess who's going to Home Depot...on a Sunday...to get more.
• And after you complete all of this painstaking labor, you know the little jerk is gonna piss, shit, and draw all over the walls in crayons or something all before he's three years old.

Where's that commercial, Behr???

Top 10: Having a Baby

My posts have been few and far between over the past couple years, but I'm hoping that as a journal to myself and other expectant fathers, to be posting more over the next year or so.  And yes, you read that right, the J-Man is expecting a little baby boy in August. 

So, in light of this incredible news and some changes around the house that I've been noticing, I give you a new Top 10 List.

The Top 10 Way You Know You're About to Become a Dad
10.  A "crib" is no longer a cool term for your house.
9.  The 20% Off coupons you get from Bed, Bath, and Beyond in the mail are now like gold, to be treasured.
8.  You even know that the Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons work at Buy Buy Baby
7.  After years of praying, your wife's boobs, are in fact, growing
6.  Instead of glancing at the attractive woman pushing a stroller at the mall, you're looking at the stroller to see which kind it is.
5.  You know that Graco and Chicco are not new late night hot spots.
4.  Your wife has gone from not farting in front of you, to telling you that she hasn't pooped in four days.
3.  A sonogram picture is your facebook profile picture...wait, no, please don't ever do this.
2.  You know EXACTLY when your wife's last menstrual period was.
1.  It's Saturday afternoon, your wife is out of town, your friends are at a bar watching sports, and you're painting a nursery.

And now, back to painting.  Ugh.

A New Era

So, while starting this blog back when I did was a bit ahead of the curve, I have finally crumbled under all the talk and jumped on the backside of the curve that is Twitter.

I'm not really sure exactly how it works right now, but I made my first tweet, complaining about how they put "Washington" into songs on the local radio stations. It truly irritates me, and while I'm actually a big fan of "The Good Life" by OneRepublic, I find myself shutting off the song when it comes on the radio because I know they really don't have "friends in Washington", they're in LA...and I'm fine with that. Don't change the song, radio stations. It's stupid.

But I digress, back to the point at hand.

So, since I have found myself becoming more and more lazy when it comes to writing full blog posts, perhaps my future is in writing little tidbits about the stuff that cross my mind, right when it crosses my mind. My hope is to get something along the lines of my "Brain Farts" but broken down into individual one liners. We'll see.

For those that know how to use twitter, I'll try to hashtag some of my funnier ones, and probably some of my not-so-funny ones as well, with #dirtyfilter or #brainfarts. And when I'm just bitching, like the radio thing, I put #angryjew.

It's a new era, I tell you. Let's see how long this one lasts. I even put a link button the site.
#thishasepicfailwrittenalloverit

Rapture?

So, apparently the world was supposed to end or something yesterday. At least that's what I saw on the internet and throughout people's facebook statuses, etc. And that got me to thinking...who makes these predictions? And what makes their prediction worthy of growing to the point where millions of people were talking about it? Did they pick Animal Kingdom to win the Kentucky Derby last week, and as a follow up to their predicting masterfulness, decide that yesterday was the end of the world? The streak apparently ended at one there.

In any case, I felt that since the world didn't end yesterday, I would let you know when the world is actually going to end. I know, I know. How do I know? Well, that's very simple. You see, I once predicted the Kentucky Derby winner three years in a row, and I also predicted that the world was not going to end yesterday. So, since I'm on a bit of a streak, I figured I'd go with it. To add some credibility to it, I also happen to watch a lot of Nat Geo and History Channel, and seem to pick up on patterns pretty easily. And what's the world but a bunch of complex patterns being repeated, over and over again.

So, without further ado (and sorry, this is not a funny post), I will inform you that the world is going to end:

Slowly over the course of the next 19 months.



You see, it's foolish to believe that anything catasclysmic will occur that will wipe out the Earth at one set time short of a meteor of substantial size hitting the planet. Instead, the Earth will slowly adjust to the alteration of the gravitational pull of the Universe aligning over the next 19 months with a series of earthquakes, volcanoes, superstorms, and other natural disasters until the world as we know has been altered and the climate system and axis of the planet is changed.

Based on what we've been seeing over the past year or so, it would seem that Japan, Iceland, and the Caribbean will likely be the ones first affected by the shift, with all adjacent areas affected by the resulting tsunamis, ash clouds, and superstorms created by all the molten ash and heat sent into the atmosphere.

My recommendation would be to look to the past in order to realize where is a safe place for refuge. And where did there appear to be great civilizations in the past that are mysteriously vacant and the land seems inhospitable? Nazca in Peru, Egypt and the surrounding desert area, and of course, the predictors of the next alignment, the Mayan areas of Mexico.

My reasoning is if there has been any realignment in the past, it would have wiped out large areas or buried them under the sea. These areas have not had this occur, instead, the land just become inhospitable, turning to desert or extreme jungle. When the shift occurs, assuming it's a cycle and not a lineal adjustment, then we can assume (or hope) that these places will return to being fertile areas under the new climate, and will also be safe from flooding since they have remained above sea level.

So, there's my prediction. As I have mentioned earlier, I did predict that the world would not end yesterday and I also once predicted the Kentucky Derby winner three years in a row. I also predict that I am going to get out of bed now and brush my teeth to begin my day. So, I'm on a roll. Sorry, Earth, 17 months is it. Start moving, people.

Don't Mind Me

So, in a perfect segue from my last post, I thought I would share this tale of "a pain in my ass" since, despite its embarrassing aspects, ends in a humorous exchange.

A couple Fridays ago, I went to go see the Dan Band in concert. Great show, it was actually the second time I've seen them perform. If you don't know who they are, they're the "Total Eclipse of the Heart" guys from "Old School." In any case, I went with a large group of friends, and the show started at 8 PM. Yeah, I know...who does that? We followed up the concert with a trip to a bar in Adam's Morgan, and next thing you know, I've been drinking pretty hard for a stretch of 6 hours.

At my advanced age (well, guess it always was this way), all this alcohol means one thing, I'm gonna have the shits. And like fine clockwork, I'm three shits into the day by noon on Saturday. It's getting raw downtown (sorry to get graphic, this post's only gonna get worse) as I proceed to take two more in the next couple hours.

I bounce back nicely with some Gatorade, and going about my normal day, but the following day, I'm out playing in my football game and my ass is seriously itching me. The itching continues, and sure enough, looks like I have a hemmorroid.

Now, I've probably gotten three hemmorroids in my entire life, and most of the time it's just a mild itching or irritation that I deal with and eventually it goes away. So, I figured this would be the same situation, and just lived with it the rest of the day. And Monday. And Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon, it's actually hurting to move around, which was new, so I decided to pull the old Austin Powers and determine if, in fact, Preparation H does feel good...on the hole.

Sadly, not the case.

Instead, we've got blood!!! Oh shit, what the F is going on with my ass!!???

I quickly stop using the Prep H and pray for a miracle. But I continue to bleed. By Sunday of the following week, I'm starting to freak out (don't google medical ailments, there's a lot of crazy shit out there) and I do what I rarely ever do, I schedule to see a doctor.

And after all that lead-in, here's the funny part of the story.

So, I head to the doctor on Tuesday morning, and tell her (yeah, that's right) of my symptoms. She decides she's gonna need to take a look so we go to a different examination room. Since she can't apparently be unsupervised with her hands on my ass, another woman in the office is called upon to join the show. Swell.

This other woman appears to be something like a receptionist, but at this point, I really don't give a damn. The doctor instructs her to show me to the room, which is towards the end of the hall. As I walk into the room, there's a second door on the wall to my right and a third door on the back wall that leads to bathroom. In the center of the room, there's a long table, and next to that is all the doctory stuff and tons of lube. Swell.

The doctor tells the "receptionist" to lock the other doors from me, and then tells me to undress and put on a paper blanket, that's folded on the exam table, then she heads out of the room to go do something. The "receptionist" walks over to the door on the right and locks it, then awkwardly fiddles around before exiting the room and closing the door we all entered behind her. Alone in the room, I look towards the open bathroom door and wonder why the doctor said "lock the doors," yet the "receptionist" only locked the door on the right. It's just a bathroom, so I just go about my business, drop my pants, and sat down on the table with the blanket over me.

It's really thin, so my junk kinda showed through, so I tried to lift my legs up a bit, but the blanket was kinda small, so my ass and balls were likely showing. After fiddling for a few minutes, the doctor knocked on the door, I angled to the side keeping most everything covered for the time being, and in she walked with the "receptionist."

After some banter, I lay on my side for the inspection, in a borderline fetal position, with this tiny loin cloth dangling over me as best it can. It is at this moment that I realize why the doctor said "door(s)".

I hear a door opening sound from the bathroom, which is currently wide open and directly in front of me. Within 2 seconds, there's a 70+ year old woman with gray hair, that I remember seeing in the waiting room standing there, looking at me. Unsure what to do, I did what came naturally, I waved and said:

"Hi there, you can go and close that door."

Thankfully, that awkward moment passed without too much incident. Meanwhile, the doctor begins berating the "receptionist", I'm still sprawled out on the table, and with a flush of the toilet, the old woman nicely reopens the door, before exiting the bathroom through the other door she entered.

Oh yeah, don't mind me.


(That's the end of the story. So as not worry anyone, I'm fine-ish. I ended up going to a surgeon on the doctor's request later that afternoon to have a bloodclot removed and biopsied from my ass. If you never have this type of procedure done in your life, consider yourself the luckiest person in the world. I have never taken so much Vicodin, and still I felt pain. A true pain in my ass)

Your Standard Late Night Genetalia Humor

I know it's been forever, but I had a few funny moments in the past couple days that I wanted to write down so that I wouldn't forget them and so others could read/hear them.

And what else would these final lines have to do with, but genetals. It seems that any respectable night out drinking with friends, this time to celebrate someone's farewell from the DC area, always finds a way to turn to talk of boobs, butts, balls, and bulges. (I know, it was a stretch, but I had a nice trend going).

So there's a bunch of us, all sitting around when someone brings up whether anyone has ever felt fake boobs and how they feel compared to real boobs. Despite my wife sitting right next to me (yes, I'm married now. It has been a long time), I decide to field this one, having had the privelage of feeling two and a half sets of fake boobs in my life (not counting strippers). You're probably thinking to yourself, "a half" and you're just gonna have to keep guessing.

But I digress, after a quick description, and some cross looks from the ladies in attendance, I felt it best to throw out what I felt was a great metaphor, though it was lost on most of the people since we were about 4-6 drinks in by this point...thus my poor decision to field this question in the first place, but I'll get to that. So here's my metaphor:

If someone gives you a glass of orange juice and a glass of apple juice, you can quickly tell that while they're both juice, they're not quite the same. And you can also tell very quickly which one is which. So if someone asks you to compare them, you really can't. I can tell you that this orange juice is better than other orange juices I've tasted, or that I prefer orange juice to apple juice, but you really don't directly compare them.

And that, my friends, is the difference between real boobs and fake boobs. And it is also the original derivation of the term "compare apples to apples."

So, despite this brilliant metaphor being lost on most of the people in attendance, what was not lost on my wife was the fact that I described what fake boobs felt like. She did not find this humorous in the least, and countered that I would not appreciate hearing about her feeling one of her exes penises, to which I countered:

Um, if you hooked up with a guy who had a prosthetic or otherwise enhanced penis, I most certainly would want to hear about that. That's freaking crazy. You only hear about that in porn.

Again, she was not amused.

Moving forward in the night, we somehow get onto the topic of male grooming habits. And from there, it naturally segues into the topic of "manscaping."

For those of you that don't know what this is (and I only recently learned this term after I was confused by the Dos Equis commercial where he doesn't know what this is), manscaping refers to trimming of your pubes in some way shape or form. I haven't figured out if it means shaving it, sculpting it, trimming it, or what, but it has something to do with cutting it in someway. Anyways, I've surprisingly had several friends throw out in passing that they shave the business or otherwise clean up down there, and my immediate response is always, "Why?"

And once again last night, the same answer was given to me:

"Oh, it makes your dick look bigger."

And to that, I had this reply:

"Exactly how big were your pubes??!!!"

And this one pretty much ended my night. A metro ride and some sleep later, and it still amuses me.

Fast forward to this evening and I'm driving with my wife when she apparently scratches herself on her inner thigh. I catch this out of the corner of my eye, and we have this exchange:

Me: What you doing scratching your junk?
Her: I'm not scratching myself and I don't have any junk anyway.
Me: Sorry, what are you doing scratching your junk drawer?

And we laughed. Because you see, well, you put your junk in the...well, you get it. It's just your standard genetalia humor.

A Christmas Story

Sorry for the extreme gap in writing posts. I would imagine this is gonna be the case for my blog, if I even continue writing in it at all, but when some funny stuff occurs, I'll try my best to put it up.

So let me take you back to this past Christmas Eve. I spent the week up in Western PA with Danielle's family, which was a first for me. This would also be my first Christmas away from my immediate family.

Having grown up in a predominantly Jewish household, our exposure to Christmas was primarily through our grandmother, who was Methodist, and through "Santa Claus" visiting when we were children. Over the years, we figured it was easier to exchange gifts on Christmas Day as well, even when Santa had gone the way of the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny.

Nonetheless, Jesus and the religious side of the Holiday was never a part of our celebration.

And so this Christmas Eve, when Danielle said it was a family tradition that she and her parents go to church for midnight Mass, it was going to be another first for me. My first time at a non-Jewish religious event.

So there I am, sitting between Danielle and her father, about six rows back from the front, and the ceremony begins. A rousing rendition of some song is played using only bells, and the mood is quite jovial all around.

The pastor begins to speak and begin the ceremony by lighting the five candles. Forgive me for my ignorance as to what exactly they mean, but I am certain that the final candle he was to light was called the Christ candle, symbolizing Jesus Christ.

He lights the first candle with an aim and flame, and then proceeds to light the other three surrounding candles using the light of the first candle, much like my typical Hannukah lighting. And then he goes for the Christ candle to complete the act.

But it doesn't light.

He tries again, but to no avail.

And then once more, before exclaiming that we are having technical difficulties.

He places the lighting candle back into its spot and reaches for the aim and flame, hoping for better results.

Alas, the results are the same.

And that's when I look down at Danielle. And she looks up at me. And I point to myself, and mouth the words, "It's my fault."

We laugh silently and as I sit there, uncomfortably aware that the Christ candle would not light on this the night of his birth, I play out the scenario, that I am glad did not occur, in my head (though I could easily see occurring in a Ben Stiller movie):

The priest looks up from his stand, aim and flame still in hand, frustrated by his inability to light the sacred Christ candle to begin the service. He addresses the congregation, and asks simply and sternly,

"Excuse me...Is there a Jew among us?"

A Truly Shitty Week

So, our story starts this past weekend with my trip to Dewey Beach. Danielle and I had been there for one entire day already, and on a nice Sunday afternoon, we made our way back out to the beach. We found a good spot somewhat close to the water and after being out for a while, Danielle headed inside to use the bathroom, leaving me alone.

Within a few minutes, two women carrying a baby and a car seat carriage thing (I don't know what they're called, but it's like a baby seat with a canopy over it...you get the picture) make their way to about 5 feet in front of me and decide to plop themselves down, blocking my view of the ocean. I immediately pick up on the fact that they are not American from their accents, but it becomes even more apparent as they put the baby one was holding, down on the beach...and he is not wearing any clothes.

Naked baby is initially funny, as I assume they just changed him and are about to put his new diaper and swimsuit on, but they don't seem to be inclined in such a way as he starts waddling towards the water (yes, he's old enough to walk). He makes it about 30 feet, with one of the women following after him before he gets close to a second family, that have one kid of about the same age (though he has a swimsuit on) and another that's maybe 13 years old as well. The 13-year old immediately sees Naked Baby and turns to his mom, like "what is up with this Naked Baby?!!" They're keeping it lowkey and say nothing to the woman.

At this point, Danielle comes back and sits next to me. I inform her that there is a naked baby in the group in front of us, which she at first shrugs off. Baby. Naked. Ok, whatever. But after about 5-10 minutes, she turns back to me and is like, "uh, I don't know why, but this is terribly uncomfortable."

You're probably sitting there reading this, thinking to yourself, much like Danielle did, that a naked baby on the beach is nothing crazy. Yeah, naked baby on the beach. It's just a baby. But trust me...a naked baby (that can walk!) on the beach is awkward and uncomfortable for everyone around. So awkward that a woman took her young daughter and left the area. And another couple to our left repeatedly looked over and shook their heads. And yet, no one said anything.

Even as Naked Baby threw sand in the air. And then as Naked Baby sat his naked self next to the family with the other young boy and started to play with their toys. And then it happened. The mother from the other group stood up, walked over to the two women and said it..."I think your baby just pooed."

Yes, it went from bad to worse as Naked Baby shat in the area where the kids were playing, and as his mother?? grabbed him by his wrists and lifted him away, only to dunk him into the ocean to clean him off, I realized the key reason why babies should not be allowed to wander about naked.

But is it just babies???

So, fast forward to last night, and another high brow establishment, Nissan Pavilion. Hinder has just finished their set, and the sun is still visible as a crowd of people are making their way to and from the consession stands in anticipation of the featured act, Nickelback. Danielle and I have done the same, having just gotten two more beers, and are making our way back to our seats when we see the crowd dispersing slightly in front of us.

The scene is pretty surreal as four security guards are carrying a girl face down out up the walkway. I've seen this before...too much to drink...too hot in the mosh pit area...it's a shame she's gonna miss Nickelback. But then they get closer and I see that not only is she experiencing the shame of being carried out, but she's wearing a dress and it has unfortunately made its way up her back, exposing her and her thong to everyone in the area. Again, this is nothing new for a concert. We saw several boobs as the night went on, what's a bare ass here or there too?

And then, it got weird.

It all happened very fast and I was already 24 oz. of beer and minimal food into the evening, but the looks on the faces around us helped tell the tale. As we watched her bare ass go by, I realized, this girl was not passed out at all. In fact, she was struggling and writhing to free herself from the security guards' grips, jolting her ass and legs up and down, drawing even more attention to herself...and to the fact that she had most undeniably shat down her leg.

Was it just mud from falling??

That was my initial thought. But there was just something that didn't seem to fit that story. And as the shocked faces of everyone around us, and the hushed words from everyone, including the security that takes your tickets for the section, began to grow, I knew that we had seen our second shitter in less than a week.

39 Reasons I Needed a Shower

So, it is 10:44 PM on Monday night, and I just took a shower on this glorious Memorial Day evening. The last shower that I took was on Saturday at approximately 3:30 PM. Since that time, I did the following tasks:

1. Played video games
2. Masturbated
3. Participated in a beer pong tournament
4. Took the metro
5. Walked from the Woodley Park metro stop to Adam's Mill
6. Participated in multiple games of flip cup
7. Danced...poorly
8. Hailed a cab
9. Watched my cabbie get pulled over by a cop at the Grosvenor Metro, after he dropped us off, while I drove past him, thoroughly intoxicated
10. Passed out
11. Drove to my parents' house to drop off my dog
12. Filled my car with gas
13. Ate a chili cheese Big Bite at 8:30 AM (yes, seriously)
14. Drove to Ohiopyle, PA with three women (thankfully I did not fill my car with gas a second time, if you know what I mean)
15. Put on a random life jacket and helmet
16. White water rafted for 2 hours
17. Ate a sandwich on a rock by a river
18. White water rafted for another 2 hours
19. Set up a tent
20. Played ladder golf (you know, that game with the three bars that you throw nunchucks at)
21. Peed in the woods
22. Grilled burgers, hot dogs and chicken
23. Shat in a port-a-john
24. Sat by a camp fire
25. Slept in a sleeping bag in a tent
26. Drove to West Newton, PA to visit with Danielle's family
27. Held Danielle's 3-month old niece
28. Ate another sandwich
29. Drove to Breezewood, PA where I stopped at KFC and got 3 chicken strips
30. Slept while Danielle drove to Hagerstown, MD
31. Went shopping at the outlet mall and bought some shirts at Banana Republic and Guess
32. Filled my car with gas again, and got a car wash with it
33. Drove to the Safeway in Germantown, MD to pick up some groceries
34. Drove to my parents' house to get Chloe
36. Finally arrived back at home in Rockville, MD
37. Unpacked my car
38. Washed the clothes I had worn to go white water rafting and camping
39. Made and ate pasta salad, and pineapple dipped in chocolate caramel fondue we had leftover from Friday

So, I would have to say it was a very successful Memorial Day weekend. However, if I contract some bizarre disease over the next few days, please print out and provide this information to my doctor in case I am unable to speak and/or communicate.

Top 10: You Might Be a Douchebag

So, today, Danielle and I went to Tysons Corner mall so she could do some shopping. As we wandered around the mall, I couldn't help noticing how much all of the men's clothing stores seem to be selling clothing that would make you look like a douche. Is this the new look going into the 2010s? In any case, it got the two of us to talking about what really classifies someone as a douche. And so after some thought, along the lines of 'You Might Be a Redneck', I present to you the:

Top 10 Ways To Tell You Might Be A Douchebag
10a. You intentionally wear pink: There are about 1000 different colors available out there, I think you can do without this one.
10b. And you pop your collar: Are you protecting your neck from harmful UV rays?
9. You wear a trucker cap sideways: So you'll protect your neck from the sun, but only one side of your face. Huh?
8. You update your facebook status to tell everyone about all the "awesome" things you're up to throughout your day: We get it, you're windsurfing with Kate Beckingsale while I'm sitting at my desk at work. You are awesome, I am pathetic.
7. You make less than $30,000 a year, but still drive a BMW: It's just not that impressive when you drive your 7-series back to your home at your parent's house.
6. You write a blog that virtually no one reads: I thought I'd beat all you wiseasses to this one.
5. You root for the Lakers, Celtics, Yankees, Red Sox, Cowboys or Patriots even though you have absolutely no affiliation to any of the home states: Why are you a fan again?
4. You cheer outloud like you did something amazing after you finish a jagerbomb: Uh, what's the big deal? Are we supposed to be impressed? It tastes like...candy.
3. You only drink coffee if it's from Starbucks: Everything about Starbucks screams douche, but if this is the only place you'll have coffee, you probably have your pink shirt collar up and your crooked hat on too...don't you?
2. You wear underarmour shirts even when you're not doing something athletic: Is it really necessary to have added wicking action when you're going to Starbucks?
1. The amount of hair gel you put in your hair exceeds the amount of semen you will put in a woman later that night: I actually read this one on another site, so props to that guy. Nothing screams douchebag like all that hairgel. "Fucking skanks!"

Car Shopping

So, a couple weeks ago I got a postcard type advertisement in the mail from Infiniti. It said they were offering deals for up to $8000 off, $1000 above Blue Book value for your trade-in and a $500 Coach gift card (no, I'm serious). Then two weeks ago, I got my registration renewal from the MVA and they want $120.

Let's see, new car with lots of discounts or same old crappy car, with squeaky brakes, broken interior lights, discoloring rear fender thanks to random Spanish repair guy, and a new bill to go along with it. Seemed like a no-brainer. It's time to get a new car.

I searched the internet to find out more about some cars I was interested in. Having driven and loved my G35 Sedan, I was intent on getting something comparable to it, so that brought me to narrow my search to the new G37 Sedan (and all those savings!!!), the Nissan Maxima, the Lexus IS250, and the BMW 3-series. And then I remembered that I hate BMW and all they stand for. Try growing up in Potomac with the popped collar yuppies and their "beamers" and you'll relate to my hatred. But I digress.

My mom already owns an IS350 that my brother bought and pawned off on her, so I eliminated that one quickly, as who really wants to drive the same car as their mother, so the decision seems to be making itself for me. And then there were two.

So, Easter Sunday rolls around, and I haven't really gotten a good look at Maximas. I drive up to the Nissan dealer in Rockville and as I'm looking into the Maximas that are on the lot I realize, this place is actually open!!?? So, hell, let's test drive and get some pricing on this puppy. After driving the Maxima with a sports package and feeling how stiff it is, I'm reminiscent of my 350Z that I turned in after less than 2 years on my lease as it made my back hurt (yeah, I'm old now). I decide that maybe the premium package would be better and the guy lets me give it a drive as well. Definitely smoother, plus it's got iPod interface and heating and cooling seats. Nice.

I've decided what I like, now let's see what it costs. Why is it that it takes like an hour to "determine" what the best price the dealer can give you is. He's gotta consult with his manager, and the financing guy, and some random woman, and a midget with one eye, I mean, what the F!?? At what other retailer would people stand for this kind of service? It's like this is completely expected and therefore acceptable. If it took the butcher at the grocery store an hour to find me a steak, I'd eat chicken. But, there I sit until I get my price. And then I did what every prudent car buyer should do...I left.

Two days and four calls from the Nissan dealer later, and I'm on my way to the Infiniti dealer to see what he can offer. Long story short, the dealer is a big dick, leaves me sitting without any semblance of him wanting to move things forward for nearly an hour, he helps two other people, then offers me a monthly payment that's almost $200 more per month than the Nissan for a sale price that's only $2000 more expensive. Then when I mention that, he miraculously drops the price by $100...like immediately.

OK, now onto another ridiculously accepted standard in car purchasing. Where else can the price fluctuate by 20-40% merely by what you say? If I'm at a restaurant and the lobster tail is $50 and then I say that I can get it at another restaurant for cheaper, I'll leave if they change the price. That usually means one of two things...I'm gonna get "the old one" or I'm gonna be eating pubes. Then again, I never order lobster anyway. Who am I, Ted Turner?? So, I didn't want the car with pubes on it from this cock head, so I bounced.

And you're probably wondering about the $8000 off and the other deals that started all this craziness. Yeah, they don't really exist. You mean you didn't see that it said "up to" in front of the $8000? I can show you a car that can have $8000 off...but that's not the type you were interested in. Oh, my bad...shady...very shady.

Day 3 is Wednesday, and I'm off to the Nissan dealer in Germantown. I was OK with the deal the Rockville guy offered me on Sunday, since it was definitely a better deal than the Infiniti, but let's compare apples to apples. I'm armed with a favorable price, the fact that I've been to Infiniti, and the fact that my mind is numb from having sat at car dealerships for more than 4 hours total thusfar. And then the battle begins.

I wanted a black car. They only have a navy blue car with the premium package on the lot. I didn't want to pay for the navigation system. The navy blue car has navigation. Will I settle? Yes, but it'll cost them. And that's the angle I'm using.

An hour of bullshit and waiting later, and they're gassing up my new navy blue Maxima with the premium package and navigation system. It's got a price tag $2000 more than the one I test drove at the Rockville dealership, and the monthly payment is $40 a month less. It's got 10 miles on the odometer and my coveted iPod interface...which is exquisite.

And the next day, I'm driving it with my parents in the car...and the sunroof cover breaks.

Which leads me to my final gripe with car dealerships. New doesn't always mean good. And when a new car isn't good, they don't give you a replacement. Instead, they give you a Nissan Xterra. No, I didn't get another new car, it's the rental car they gave me while they fix the problem in my new car, which they took yesterday and will hopefully have for me tomorrow.

Perhaps I should stop reading advertising post cards.

My Life, the Movie

As I've often joked with many of my friends, sometimes it feels like my life is like a movie. Bizarre things seem to occur around me, crazy people seem to want to always talk to me, and for the most part, things that you think would only happen in a movie, seem to happen to me. For those of you that have missed some of the finer points, here's a couple:

• While waiting with Jaclyn at the Metro Center terminal after seeing Stomp at Warner Theater a couple years back, a random older black man walks by, having passed everyone else standing there. He randomly stops, looks at both of us, and in the wise, old man style, he says, "You hold her because you love her." Several months later, our relationship is cut short because she moves...to a Caribbean Island.
• I'm walking back to my car after grabbing some Chipotle, and a random Spanish guy is standing there with his son. He informs me that he does car repair work, pops his car's trunk to show me the tools, and says he can fix the dents in my car right there. I'm like, why not? Two hours later, he's done and it looks halfway decent. Two years later, and now I'm trading in my car because the whole area he repainted is turning a bronzish color.
• A couple years back, I'm on a trip to Disney World with my ex-girlfriend Amy for a Pool & Spa Convention. I've rented the cheapest car available and reserved a standard room at the Disney Swan Resort. When I go to grab the car, the guy at the desk looks at us and is like, "You know, I've got a convertible out there that no one else has rented. You guys can take it, no extra charge." This in itself is probably not all that special, as I'm sure this happens to people often. But then we make it to the Resort and the lady at the desk looks at us and is like, "You know, I've got a suite that's overlooking the lake that no one has reserved until Monday. You guys can take it, no extra charge."

Seriously, am I being taped? These are some completely random and somewhat bizarre circumstances that have crossed my path over the years.

So, yesterday, it's more of the same.

I start the day off with a plan to go to the TLC Laser Eye Center to get a preliminary look into getting lasik surgery. My appointment is set for 10 AM, and after sitting in the waiting room for a couple minutes, I'm taken to the back for all the tests. They take pictures of my eyes in this one machine. Then they scan my eyes in a machine that looks like those retro spirals or hypnotic spinnie things. And last, the tech gives me a full eye exam where I read off the letters as they get smaller. He finishes the test, and says he's gonna give the results to the doctor and he'll be in to discuss my options. Five minutes later, an older gentleman comes in and introduces himself as the doctor. He then sits down in the chair that's in the room I'm in, and in a sarcastic manner like we're old buddies, he asks me, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Confused as to what he means, I'm hold up my glasses and tell him, "I'm not wanting to deal with wearing these anymore." He then informs me that my vision is too good (yet not good enough to not wear glasses), and that they, and probably anybody, wouldn't want to do the surgery. In his words, "It's just not worth your money to take the risk."

So, yes, I got denied Lasik eye surgery. Now you know someone.

Fast forward to last night. I'm sitting at the Wizards game with my buddy Eric; my brothers are also at the game though they have seats in a different section (yeah, we kept trading in our package tickets and eventually all backed into the last game of the season). It's probably around the middle of the 3rd quarter and the standard "Kiss Cam" comes on where they put the camera on different couples in the audience and they kiss for the whole audience to cheer on. It always ends with the camera focusing on two of the opposing players, and hilarity ensues. On this particular night, however, it starts with my ex-girlfriend Lisa, and her new boyfriend.

It's on them for a while as they don't realize they're on the screen, so I turn to Eric and say, "isn't that Lisa?" As he confirms it is, we both watch on as they open mouth kiss. Yep.

While this would have been even more like a scene from a chick flick about 8 months ago when we were first broken up, it is just another bizarre and wonderful story that is my life...and...ACTION.

Top 10 Worst Times to Have to Poop

So, last week I had the unfortunate pleasure of going up to Danielle's family's place in Western PA for the funeral of her grandfather, who passed two Saturdays ago. With any trip and especially those when you're visiting people you don't know all that well, a major concern always pops up: What if I have to poop at an inopportune moment?

Thankfully, my poop timer was in rare form this past week, allowing me to drop off the kids before my drive up there, make my second deposit the next day when I awoke and prior to the viewing, and dump the final load while her family handled the last of the final preparations after the funeral.

However, I have been unfortunate in many past situations, and upon further reflection on the subject after my most recent successful trip, I have now developed what I believe to be:

The Top 10 Worst Times to Have to Poop
10. When first arriving at a new location where you don't know the owner's of the house that well: It's always awkward meeting new people, but it's even worse when one of the first things you do is excuse yourself to go destroy their bathroom. I had the unfortunate pleasure of pulling this one off last Halloween when after a long drive through the mountains we arrived at Danielle's friend's cabin, and I needed to cut some fire wood.
9. While on an airplane: I have thankfully never had to pull this one off, but I have even more unfortunately been the victim of someone else unleashing this terror. It's a cramped space to begin with, you know everyone knows when you walked by, and when the smell permeates, everyone is looking for the oxygen masks to drop.
8. At the movies: It's bad enough that you just paid $14 to watch a movie, but if you have to leave in the middle of it to take a dump, it's a disaster. Good luck finding your seat again without being that douche who calls out his friend's name. And then filling in the gaps you missed is likely not going to be a quiet exchange.
7. At a job interview: Nothing says "hire me" like disappearing for a bathroom break in the midst of several critical first meetings and discussions. Or worse, you could try to fight through it, risk the possible farting, or suffer through the stomach pain.
6. On a first date: Much like the interview, nothing makes a first impression like an extended departure from the dinner table. Women have the prefabricated "freshening up" excuse, while every woman knows exactly what you were up to if you're gone for more than 5 minutes...and that usually doesn't segue well into a second date.
5. At the beach: Sure you can piss in the ocean, but taking a dump is a whole different puzzle. Having no desire to even attempt this, you're forced to make the hot dash up the sand, possibly packing up your towels and stuff so they don't get stolen, only to walk a couple blocks (it's rare I stay on the beach) back to wherever I can safely release. And then if your slightly damp from the ocean, cleanup is a disaster. Plus the sand...don't get me started.
4. Stuck in traffic: You're in your car. There's no where to go. And there's literally no where to go. At least you're not moving around and can try to keep focus on not shitting yourself as you slowly creep along.
3. On the metro: This one falls along the same lines as the traffic, but it adds an extra degree of difficulty. For one, you're with a bunch of people. And second, you're gonna have to walk around long before you'll be anywhere near a usable bathroom. I was in this unfortunate situation one time, developed the urge around Metro Center, suffered through til the Bethesda metro stop, where my car was parked, and by the time that I made my way through the crowd, up the long ass escalator and to the parking garage where my car was parked, I had already made the mental decision that if necessary, I would shit my pants, remove my underwear, and throw it on the ground in the parking garage, driving home commando style. Thankfully, I fought through and made it home, with only intense pain and sweating (yes, sweating) as my casualty, underwear still in check.
2. While playing a sport - Imagine getting all your football gear on, hearing the cheer of the crowd as you storm onto the field, and then dealing with the pain in your bowels as you are forced to withstand an entire half before any chance of shitting will arise. Oh yeah, and you need to run as fast as you can, and there's a great chance someone is going to collide with you. Not good times.
1. At an outdoor festival - If you have any doubts that this is the number one worst place to poop, I dare you to go to Shamrock Fest next year, wait in the ridiculous lines for the port a johns, listening to the drunks heckle anyone who takes more than 2 minutes to get out, and then feast your eyes on what is in the bowl once you enter the coffin of feces. Thankfully, I have never had to experience this. I hope I never do.

Top 10 Reasons I Love March Madness

In the spirit of the NCAA Tournament, which sadly does not feature my alma mater and last year's Cinderella, Davidson, I thought I would put forth this newest Top 10 List.

Top 10 Reasons I Love March Madness
10. Thanks to "the office bracket," the majority of women are actually interested in sports for a short period of time.
9. If you decide to take a Thursday or Friday off to watch sports at any other time, people would look at you like you're some kind of freak.
8. I actually look at the Over/Under bets and think to myself...yeah, let's do this.
7. I have never watched Cornell play a game of basketball in my life, but I am spouting off that they don't have much depth and will therefore run out of steam late in the game.
6. There's nothing more pleasing than drinking a couple beers, watching 8 games of basketball, and then walking outside to see the sun still up.
5. I find it ironic that bars probably have their best daily sales while people that legally can't come into their bars entertain their patrons.
4. At no other time will you see a guy hit a three pointer as time expires and hear a whole bar scream, even though the final score is 71-55.
3. I enjoy yelling at people I don't know through the TV and I've stopped watching the Real World.
2. I'm $100 richer today than I was yesterday and that's all thanks to the University of Missouri. Yes, the University of Missouri. I'm not even sure what city that's in. And I couldn't name one player on their team. Well, there's dread locks guy.
1. Because moments like March 28, 2008 can happen. Davidson 73, Wisconsin 56. I can't tell you a day I was more excited and proud of where I went to school.

So, I've got $50 on UConn (-10) over Texas A & M. At least I've seen UConn play before. Let's go Huskies!

J-Man: Snow Dork

Today I headed back to work after a nice day off from work yesterday, as we finally got our first sizable snow of the year...albeit it took until March to get it.

So on Sunday afternoon, the forecasters were giddy like they always get when a snow storm is coming, constantly cutting in to the normal programming to give you updates on the progress of the storm and what to expect. Topper Shutt even giggled like a small child on Monday morning when he could blow the snow off his weather perch with an air blower.

Well, seeing as this was the first snow storm of the year, and I'm sort of a big fan of snow (I work on pools...I have nothing better to do than enjoy the snow this time of year), I decided that I too would get giddy with the upcoming holiday.

The plan would be set in action. Danielle and I decided if we were going to get snowed in, we had to have cool stuff to do. First, we needed to take a trip to College Park to grab snow gear from her place and then it was off to the Target. The last time it snowed, we met up with my brothers and their dogs in the park around the corner only to end up sledding down a hill on a storage bin top. Feeling it was time to upgrade, my brother had bought a saucer sled, so we thought we should get some ourselves.

The last time I remember riding on a saucer type of sled was back when I was in high school and we had that big ice storm after a snow storm, so you could just go and go and go on the ice. We took our sleds across the street to Avenel Golf Course (that's where I used to live) and just picked a direction and went. Tons of fun, until I hit a sand trap...which was a fun drop, until I hit the other end of the trap. That's when I slammed into the lip, flew in the air and landed with a thud. It was a while back, but I do remember my arm being sore for a couple days and perhaps being unconscious for a couple seconds. Ahhhh, good times.

Back to the present. We make it to Target, are unable to find any sleds (since it's March!!) and instead end up grabbing a blue and a pink inner tube. (The blue matches Danielle's eyes, so I went with pink...huh?). And then it happens. In typical Target fashion, we are pulled in by the sheer number of things around and find ourselves wanting to buy stuff other than what we came for. I don't know what it is, I can't walk into Target and not buy something. A couple weeks ago, I went in to look for a Wii recharging station, but didn't like the one they had, so I bought a book. WHAT??!! Not a book about Wii's. Just a book. The book section is right across from the Wii stuff and I was in Target...so, why not? Now, it's sitting on my night stand waiting for me to finish Angels & Demons, The Choice, and Twilight (yeah, I caved) first.

So, on Sunday, we walk by the toy department and see that games are on sale. Oooo. Games are good for a snowy day. Never mind that I have 19 other games (I just counted) including a version of Cranium and a Monopoly that I still haven't opened. So in goes Battleship into the cart. I mean, when was the last time you played Battleship?? They even changed the board...you share a central board. And they changed the shapes of the ships...not just all long lines. And there's a man you "save" now. It's still the easiest game to cheat at...some things never change. B7?...uh, nope, another miss (ships move in real life, duh).

But that's not all. What's this? Puzzles? A puzzle would be fun on a snowy day. Set it up in the basement, light a fire, that's sounds pleasant. Throw it on into the cart. 200 pieces? Seems too small. 500? I have no clue. 1000? Sure, why not?

So, I went to Target to get a sled...and walked out with two inner tubes, Battleship and a 1000 piece puzzle of an underwater scene. All because it is going to snow the next day.

But we're not done. Off to the Giant to grab some food. Gotta have food on a snowy day. It appears as if everyone has this idea, as the place is crazy. It's gotta be the old "must have eggs, milk and toilet paper for a snow day rush." Why do they always show people buying these things to "prepare" for a snow day. My friends and I always joked about this, wondering if most people just sit at home eating omelets and shitting all day. Why would you just want those things?

We have higher expectations, and grab ingredients to make a chicken and rice dish for lunch and a crab dip with baguette for dinner. And to try and keep it healthy, we also buy some oranges and Fuji apples (they're the best) for shits and giggles.

Finally, I'm ready.

And now that it's all over...and the storm and cleanup have passed, I have this to show for it: We played one game of Battleship on Sunday night at around midnight, like kids on Christmas, and haven't touched it since; I overcooked the chicken because the rice took longer than expected; we took the inner tubes to the park and got a total of maybe 12 rides (one on the pink one) before my brother's dog popped them; I have a 1/3rd completed puzzle sitting on my downstairs table; and I was curled up in a ball from the incredible gas that I got from eating a crab, cream cheese and cheddar cheese dip at 9 PM for dinner.

Can't wait til the next snow storm!

Let's Get Physical

Wow, been almost three months since I last put up a post on here. Sorry for the slacking but I just wasn't all that motivated, as slow times at work lead to me becoming increasingly lazy, which in turn leads me to spending most afternoons and evenings sitting on my couch or in my bed, watching Tivo'd episodes of House.

This is a good thing and a bad thing. The good thing is that I am getting very well rested (like a bear "rests" in the Winter) for the upcoming swimming pool season. The bad thing is that if you watch enough episodes of House, you start to believe that perhaps you may have one of the conditions on the show. I'm lethargic. I get a headache on occassion. My throat's a little scratchy. My arm itches. Oh crap, I have sarcoidosis!!! Have you ever watched House? Everyone on that show at some point is believed to have sarcoidosis. Is this a common ailment? I almost didn't believe it was a real illness until I just googled it to make sure I spelled it right. And crap, I have sarcoidosis!!!

In any case, you watch enough sick people and it makes you decide perhaps it's best you get somebody to look at you, just in case. So, I checked my records to see when my last physical was (i.e. thought about it) and it looks like I haven't been in for a physical since July...of 1995.

Let's see, since then, I went to college, drank more alcohol than water for four years, ate lunch and dinner regularly in a fraternity house for three years, lived with some bizarre roommates, including a crazy German girl and a drunk, visited numerous Caribbean islands and Mexico (twice!!), tredged through sludge on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras, woke up next to numerous suspect women, bummed some random drugs off a complete stranger at a concert, handled "hazardous" chemicals for 10 years, had surgery to reset a broken jaw, ate Chinese food or sushi at least twice a week for 8 years, bought a dog, and walked around in Pittsburgh. If you don't see some red flags in that list, then I think you need to evaluate exactly when was the last time YOU had a physical.

So, I decided it was time to schedule my doctor's appointment, since three Presidents have been in office since I last had a physical. And last Thursday, I followed through on my appointment and made my way to the doctor's office for my physical.

First off, I don't have a "regular" doctor, so I went to the doctor that my parents go to. She's very nice and I actually went to see her about 5 years ago when I got a rash on my stomach. My stomach!! (Don't judge me, I'm not lying. I work by pools, it's a moist area. Whatever, screw you.) Unfortunately, this doctor has switched over the years from general family practice to predominantly OB/GYN. So I park my car, walk on in and sign my name on the sign in sheet. The girl behind the counter finds my file and comments that I haven't been there in 5 years (good thing she doesn't know how long it's been since my last physical) and I fill out some paper work since my address and info. have changed since then.

Meanwhile, a young girl (maybe 16) and her mom walk in, as does a second woman in her 40s. So there we are sitting in the waiting room, plenty of Vogue and Cosmo magazines to go around, waiting for our names to be called. It is during this wonderful, not awkward in the least moment, that I see the girl lean over to her mom and ask why I'm there. It's a small waiting room and I'm like five feet from her, did she really think I wouldn't hear??? Thankfully, I'm saved from this awkwardness by the nurse calling my name and I make my way to the back.

After a quick trip to the scale (weighing in at 189...less than a hibernating bear, so I'm feeling good), we're in the examination room and she's taking my blood pressure and temperature. She tells me my blood pressure is a little high, but I'm gonna blame that on the girl in the waiting room, and then the nurse gets up to leave. She hands me a robe and a blanket and tells me to take off all my clothes and put these on. This is a move I'm wondering why I never tried with the ladies back in the day. "Yeah, I'm gonna head to the bathroom real quick. Why don't you just take off all your clothes and put this on. It'll make things a lot easier when I get back. Bras can sometimes confuse me after a night of drinking."

Within minutes, my bare ass is sitting on the table with this table cloth loosely draped over me, and in walks the doctor. She goes through your typical questions and background crap, taps my knee with the hammer, listens to my chest, looks up my nose and in my ears, and with the grace of a pro, pulls out the table extender and asks me to lay down and turn on my side.

Ah crap. I knew this one was coming. After a brief description of the likelihood of prostate cancer developing in men, some dinner, a glass of wine, and some Barry White playing in the background, she checks my prostate mid-sentence, as if nothing has changed. Uh, lady, your finger is up my ass and you're asking me about swimming pools. I think I'll wait this one out before I answer this question for fear of developing a connection between the two and pooping myself everytime I visit a client's house.

Having never been a part of a gynechological exam, I can only imagine that it must be a real chatty affair with her hands all up in there. "Oh, how are the kids?" "Just great." "And your husband? Still busy at work?" "Oh, you know Steve." "Ha, ha." But I digress.

So, we get that all wrapped up and move on to the ball grabbingly great hernia and testicle examination. I swear I called a doctor, not a hooker. She asks me a few more questions, I mention that my arms go numb when I sleep with them above my head (apparently that's not normal), and she makes me an appointment for an MRI. She also schedules a standard blood test, so after no visits for 14 years, I'm already penciled in for two more in two weeks. Grand.

I get dressed and make my way out of the examination room. And as I make my exit, and the nurse jokingly says that I should come by a bit more often, I reply, "Oh yeah, I'll see you again in about 10 years."

She laughed.

Crazy Bitch

As I mentioned a couple posts ago, this past weekend I took Danielle to go see the Wizard of Oz, which was showing at the Warner Theater. I also bought my older brother and his wife tickets and we all got together and had dinner at Tenpenh in DC beforehand.

Overall, the food was great and the performance was OK. The show was obviously tailoring to a broad audience, and having just gotten back from Disney World, I was kind of sick of the child-friendly performances, but I can't complain. There were a few new things that differed from the movie I remembered, including the poppies (the flowers that make Dorothy fall asleep) having their own dance number, and the Wicked Witch referring to her servant guards as winkies. This was humorous to me as that was the term we used instead of "penis" back when I was a kid...and they were wearing round purple helmets. he he. I know, I'm basically twelve.

In any case, that was probably the "dirtiest" moment of the evening up til that point, so I was having some good old fashioned wholesome fun.

And then Danielle and I left the company of my brother and his wife to continue our evening at Rocket Bar for my friend's birthday. And that's when the G-rated evening ended and the R-rated moment occurred.

If you've never been to Rocket Bar, it's a relatively large, though somewhat hidden sports bar in Gallery Place, across the street from Verizon Center. It's a good place to get drinks, play shuffleboard, play pool, and watch random chicks rub themselves while singing a song that's playing on the jukebox. Wait...what!!???

Yep, so we've been there for about an hour before I go to grab a second (or fourth...who's counting) round of drinks. As I'm making my way to the bar, the last song ends and "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry starts playing. I'm a big fan of this particular song...and apparently so is this chick at the end of the bar.

As I'm waiting for the bartender I glance over to see this girl kneeling on the bar stool next to a guy (her boyfriend/man of the evening?) gyrating up and down while singing along and rubbing all over her stomach and chest like a stripper. Mind you, she's got all her clothes on, but she has a tight shirt and big boobs, so not much is left to the imagination. What makes this such a priceless moment is the fact that she is singing along to this song. For those of you who aren't familiar with it, here's an excerpt of the most often repeated lines:

Hey, you're a crazy bitch
But you fuck so good, I'm on top of it.
When I dream, I'm doing you all night.
Scratches all down my back to keep me right on.

It always amazes me how women love songs that denegrate women, and will sing along to them as well. I remember when I was in college, playing DJ at my fraternity parties, and one of the songs that would get the biggest reaction of cheers from the women was "Gimme that Nut" by Easy-E. I swear to god. Women would be screaming like it was freakin "Dancing Queen" or some shit, all the while singing along to such memorable lines as:

Now my dick's on hard ya know what I'm thinkin'
Took tha panties off and the pussy wasn't stinkin'

and:

Okay back back to the fuckin' basics
You got yours and mine ya want tah taste it
Open wide oh no don't 'cha waste it
Oh shit all over ya face kid

I'm pretty sure if that song had come on, this girl at the end of the bar would have been all over it and likely would have taken her top off and swung it 'round her head (like a helicopter) as well. It didn't, and I grabbed my drinks and left, happy to have seen not one, but two shows this particular evening.

One starring a wicked witch, and one starring a crazy bitch. But they both probably ended with some happy winkies.

Stock in Curry

These are tough financial times we're living in. Many banks have been bought up, including my bank, Chevy Chase, which just got bought by Capital One; stocks dropped at alarming rates and continue to show no signs of recovery. The housing market is in shambles. And unemployment is rising to points not seen in over 30 years.

And so too, is the J-Man seeing these problems at home. My stocks in my retirement and savings funds have dropped almost 40% this year. My savings account APY is down to like 1%. ING Direct isn't doing me much better. My house just got reappraised for 2% lower than what I paid for it 4 years ago (and I'm actually thankful it was only that). And at work, I had to lay off more guys than usual for fear that business may drop off next Spring.

So in times like these, where should we be putting our money?...in Stephen Curry. While all these other investments are dropping or barely gaining, the money in my sportsbook.com account has increased by 1300% since March, mostly on the back of Davidson basketball and Steph Curry. And just yesterday, as Curry lead the Davidson Wildcats past WVU in the Jimmy V Classic in NYC, my "portfolio" increased over 9%. Why do the odds makers continue to undervalue this stock?

Davidson was ranked 22nd coming into the game, West Virginia was not ranked. Curry is the top scorer in the nation despite not scoring in the retarded defense game against Loyola (MD). And Davidson was a 2-point underdog?! The money line was paying +110, meaning for every $100 you bet, if Davidson wins, you win $110. Seemed like a no-brainer. Like asking an ugly chick if she wants to go home with you at 2 AM. Or asking your fat friend if he wants to grab McDonalds.

Now, don't get me wrong, I was cursing at the TV as Curry fired up brick after brick early on, but what any good investor will tell you is, don't look at a stock during the day, it's gonna go up and down. You're in it for the long haul. And the long haul ended with Davidson, and Curry, coming back, dazzling everyone with some clutch threes, and pulling out a 3-point win.

This is probably how those dirty people I see wandering around Atlantic City get started, but Curry hasn't let me down thusfar. Relax, I'm not gonna throw all my money into Davidson bets and end up like them. But for now, there's no better bet out there than Steph Curry. Man, that kid is good.

Next up, Chattanooga...I'm guessing we'll be 14 point favorites. I'll take that.

Changes for the Holidays

There's a strange phenomenon that occurs as you get older around the Holidays. The status quo of family getting together for Thanksgiving and Christmas doesn't stay as the status quo any longer. Over the past few years, these two Holidays vaguely resemble the Holidays that I remember as a child growing up. Instead of my parents, my grandmother, and my brothers gathered around a Thanksgiving table or in my parent's living room opening the slew of presents my grandmother usually brings, there's someone missing.

This past Thanksgiving, my older brother and his wife were in Massachusetts. My younger brother and his fiance were in attendance, but only after the pleading of my mother. Last Thanksgiving, I was down in St. Kitts with Jaclyn, and now Christmas is up for a giant overhaul this year.

You see, the past three years, my older brother and his wife have celebrated Christmas with her family, as they have experienced the losses of her father and brother over this same time, and it just seemed right for them to be with the remaining family. Not wanting to miss out on Christmas all together, they would put together a pseudo-Christmas a couple of days beforehand, have the rest of the family over, cook a dinner, open just their presents and give out all the presents they had bought.

That was once again their plan for this year. But now my younger brother has indicated that he and his fiance will be at her family's place in Dunkirk for most of Christmas day. That would leave a four person Christmas as my parent's house. Not quite the merriest of times.

However, this is to be expected. As a half-Jewish family, Christmas has been of slightly less significance than it would be for my brother's wives' families, who are Catholic. When push comes to shove, they've got the trump card...his name is Jesus.

But I think this is the case for all families. At some point, a transition must be made. Hell, my grandmother comes to my parent's house every year. At some point, a shift occurred from having it at her house, like my mother had done since she was a child. But now it's a bit more complicated, because there are three sons involved, instead of one daughter. And of course, there's my dad, who's Jewish, and wants no part of Christmas from a religious standpoint.

So, what can be done?

We're moving Christmas.

Yes, sorry, Jesus. I know you were born on December 25 and all (at least that's what I think is the case...I was raised Jewish), but that just doesn't quite work into our schedule. How about we squeeze you in on the 21st? You see, I don't want to give up my Saturday night, so let's shoot for a Sunday?

Obviously, my grandmother is having fits over this, but here's the reality of it. Christmas for my family has been about getting everyone together. We don't sing Christmas Carols. We don't say prayers or go to church. We don't even mention Jesus.

However, we do open presents at a feverish pace, climaxing with all the men collapsing on the couch with piles of wrapping paper strewn everywhere, dogs fighting over their new chewies, and my grandmother going on and on about how we're tough to buy for now, and we can return anything if we don't like it, as she's left the gift receipts in the boxes. Then we eat pigs in a blanket, watch basketball, and eventually gather for a dinner highlighted by a Honey Baked Ham. (Yes, ham...I told you, we're half Jewish)

So, if that's what we do, let's just do it on a different day, so that everyone can be a part of it.

And that's our plan. So, on December 21, while you're sitting at home watching the NFL on TV like it's any other Sunday, or en route to your own parents' house for the holidays, we'll be making a mess of my house (yeah, we're switching venues too...it's closer for my brothers and I've got a real tree we just decorated on Friday), yelling at dogs, and eating two separate products made of meat from a pig. All the while, saying Merry Christmas.

Yeah, it'll be the wrong day, but for the first time in a couple years, with all my family there, it may just feel like the way I remembered it.

And then I'll light the menorah for the first night of Hannukah, send my grandma into a fit of anger, sparking an argument with my dad, and my mom will start crying.

Yep, sounds like Christmas.