A Baby Can Go Blind If You Give It Too Much Light...

I'm not dead. I got laid off.

Judge Fabulous decided that she no longer needed a clerk, so I have been busy trying to find a new job. This was a surprise to me. It was a rainy Friday afternoon. She called me into her office, late, natch. She sat me down to tell me that she was no longer in need of a clerk (she did not add that it was partially because she hired a personal assistant whom she could make do all of the jobs she was having me do). She said that it wasn’t personal, but having a clerk was a bit of a headache. She gave me no notice. Legally, she wasn’t required to do so, but professionally she would have been less of a bitch. I have really bad luck with work.

Sandy was inconsolable and cried when I called her to tell her. A lot. She sent me a card in the mail telling me what a good person I was and inviting me for lunch at Chili’s. Like the Scarecrow, I will miss her most of all.

I am happy to leave the office since I did not find it professionally or personally rewarding, but I would have liked to have left on my own terms. I am hoping that it creates a positive change and that I can find a good new job that I enjoy and that challenges me. And where I don’t have to park the car of the laziest person in America.

I won’t say too much more about it, but on the way out of the office Judge Fabulous told me she knows things will be ok if I start to believe in God. Jigga What? Yes, when he closes one door, he opens another. In my head I responded, “How dare you tell me that, you fucking cunt (pardon my language)!” But instead I smiled, shook her hand (which is still missing the ring over which she tried to get cleaning staff fired), cleaned up my stuff and left.

If anyone knows someone who wants to hire a destitute lawyer who’s not too hard on the eyes, please let me know. I will also accept any donations and food you send my way. Thanks!

Also, thanks for all the support from friends. Someday when I am rich and famous, I will cook you dinner, too.

Otherwise, not too much action to catch you up on. Most other areas of my life are surprisingly going very well. As an aside, I am a believer (like GA) that at no time can all the parts of my life be going well simultaneously. That is, something will always be wrong. When GA ran this theory past her mother, she recommended that she see a psychiatrist. I would do that, but I have no health insurance! If my appendix bursts, I am just going to lie there and take it like a man.

I retreated to the homestead for a bit, took some time to send out resumes and get errands done. I have had lots of time to read the shit out of some fiction and get a little zen. I have frequented the gym and gone running some. Besides having no income, I am leading a pretty good life. Unemployment here I come. I dream big, and it’s always been my dream to apply for unemployment benefits by the time I was 30. I am now 27, and as always, I overachieve!

My semi-regular updates shall recommence….now.

An Apology, And It's Actually Contrite

Dear reader:

For reasons I will go into in my next blog entry (soon, I swear), it's been a busy, busy week in la oficina. So, I am sorry I haven't written more. In the mean time, please read these wonderful personal essays on flings, love won and mostly lost, in the summertime, and think of me. And the wonderful affair you and I can have, dear reader.

Thanks for letting me know I haven't written. I love the attention.

More Sandy is around the corner, as well.

To occupy yourself at work, please just meditate on this picture of me jumping on a hotel bed while wearing women's sunglasses. It's really the only way you'll ever be totally zen. Don't say I never provided you with the true path to enlightenment. That should be enough to carry you over until I am better equipped (mentally and temporally) to entertain you.

Kisses, Z

Wedding Bells, Drives from Hell, Jokes that Smell, Muscles Swell

Warning: This is an uninspired post. I am tired and cranky, but I love my readers.

I have returned from the wedding where Carrie and Marcello pledged their lives to one another forever or at least until one of them gets really sick of the other. This might have been my favorite wedding I have ever attended. They just seemed like they were having a blast. The music was fun, the dancing was plentiful and as David Brent says, the vino did flow. Plus, as a favor to the couple, they actually sent me to yell at the staff of the venue. I love having a reputation for getting things done. Also, in line with my reputation, I drank and danced tons. See photo. Nice pose, CH!

Yos, as always documented the days and nights of love and roses digitally and has posted the fruits of his labor, as it were, online.

It was downright lovely to meet Gijyun.

In between the rehearsal and the wedding, I had a nightmare scenario come to life. My car broke down in the middle lane of Roosevelt Boulevard. For those of you who have not had the acquaintance of Roosevelt Boulevard, it’s main road that helps you traverse the outer limits of hell, a.k.a. Northeast Philadelphia. My opinion might be tempered by my experience there this weekend, but Northeast Philadelphia is the god damned ugliest, most horrible place in the history of places. I felt zero brotherly love as hoopties zoomed past me, yelling horrible things about me and my Ford Focus. My car got tired; give him (my car's name is Friedrich) a break!

Anyway, Yos talked me through the whole ordeal while driving behind me with his hazard flashers on, since I am basically helpless in the face of technology breakdowns. I did not hold my hand or cradle me in his arms, but I wouldn’t have turned it down. Pray for me and my car as evasive action to repair will take place this week.

I have never been so happy to see summer rain. The heat subsides for a moment; I sigh a breath of relief. I will be whipping out my Turin Brakes record tonight in celebration.

I saw the Aristocrats this weekend. It’s a movie about the way different comics interpret what’s known in their circles as the “dirtiest joke in history.” There was lots of talk of blood, poo, piss, semen and more poo, all of which ended up on someone’s grandma’s face at some point. Well, several grandmas, including Bob Saget’s. People actually got up and left the theater because of some of the vile versions of the joke. There were some hilarious moments, but I remain, as I suspected, unenthused by poo.

Just to let you know, the Electric Slide is on the radio right now. You would be wrong if you didn’t think Sandy was trying to do the dance. You would continue in your wrongness if you thought she knew how to do it. And you would be the wrongest person ever if you didn’t think that I didn’t love this shit.

The Judge has hired a new assistant. As soon as I flesh out the bare-bones gossip I have heard about him (something about being a fake preacher!), I will figure out how I feel about him. If he reduces my workload, he’ll be my new favorite person.

In an effort to become the second weakest male in Philadelphia (currently, I am number one), I cashed in my two free personal trainer sessions at the gym. My trainer was just mean enough to me to get results but nice enough that I didn’t throw my barbells at him. Which I definitely could not have done. Anyway, my point is: I can’t move my arms above my head.

Hey look! A virtual tour of Philadelphia Murals!

WXPN needs your input about the best albums of all time. I have my list down to about 30 albums. I am wavering because there is a difference between my great albums and favorite albums (personal experiences influence opinions) and no "greatest hits" are allowed. Hmph.

See? I told you. Uninspired, cranky, etc. I am out of here, like T.O. Sorry for the scattered thoughts. More focus tomorrow.

Love Is In The Air; Find The Lysol

What’s that you hear? It’s the sound of wedding bells ringing for assclown and his lovely wife. This Friday night they will tie the proverbial knot. While I love them as a couple, I am a bit frightened by their collective judgment, as they have asked me to participate in the wedding. I will be the Master of Ceremonies for their non-traditional ceremony and reception. This is a brave move on their part, since I am sure they are aware that the last wedding in which I was asked to do a job, I told the entire reception that the groom was a closet nudist, got cut off from the open bar and basically had to be placed in the back of a limo in which some friends and I convinced complete strangers to join us to travel to downtown Washington D.C. That was not the limo’s actual destination, of course.

Then again, I can’t really question the judgment of any couple that is being introduced at the reception to the tune of “The Final Countdown.” That’s how fun this couple is. So, I may not be as bitter and jaded when they walk down the aisle as I usually am at weddings. For a brief moment, I may believe in love. But for many moments after, I will believe in the open bar. Cheers!

Quizzo victory last night. What did we learn? Agatha Christie is the all time sales leader in fiction. Waylon Jennings sang the theme song to the Dukes of Hazzard with his band, The Waylors. And the world’s largest pyramid is in Mexico.

Yesterday, my office served as the setting for what I like to call, “Attack of the Sassy Black Women.” Sandy and one of her friends were talking about an array of subjects, and I, fully aware of the sound of opportunity knocking, stopped doing all work to take notes on everything they were saying. What follows is a mind-blowing journey through a place where syntax and sense are distant memories.

Sandy, referring to a not-so-well-liked court male court officiant, called him a “jealous hearted, poor ass, trifling, black bitch.” From her stories, this description was not only apt, but also generous.

I told Sandy that I was tired, and she told me that I was full of life that Jesus gave me, and that all I needed to do was look at her to see a “beat the fuck down, bitch ass woman.” I want to make this saying into a t-shirt.

Barry White came on the radio, and Sandy and her friend were telling me about how they used to go out in the 1970’s and dance to his music. Sandy said, “You don’t even know it, baby. I was fucking hot.” I told her I believed it; I did. She continued, “I wasn’t nothing but Big Fun.” I said, “Ah, like Heathers.” She replied, “Who the hell is Heather?” I told her it’s a movie with a band in it called “Big Fun.” (I did not add that they sang the song, "Teenage Suicide [Don't Do It]). To which, she replied, apropos of nothing, “I haven’t seen a Steven Segal movie in a long, long time.”

I should let you know, by way of background, that Sandy is a huge Steven Segal fan. I didn’t know there were any, but it turns out that one of the biggest works right next to me. Jesus wept.

Sandy’s friend told us she just went to “the ugliest fucking wedding” the other day. She described it as “straight up Sanford and Son; the only thing missing was the truck.” The bride and groom wore matching FUBU outfits in yellow. Lovely.

I will spare you the women’s explanation about why men get diarrhea more than women.

And finally, for some reason, at one point Sandy’s friend screamed, “Wooo!” at the top of her lungs and then followed it up with, “It’s like an encyclopedia up in here!!!” And I honestly have no idea what she could have meant by this. Really, no clue.

Half day off today and a full day off tomorrow! My updates will be accordingly intermittent. Yay!

Help Your Boys Be Boys And Your Girls Be Girls

Blue Steel. Who loves 4 year old pop culture references? I do. Step off.

Hey, nothing’s going on in my life today, so let me hit y’all with some odds and ends.

I should have known as soon as I started making fun of the band of hoodlums painting anything without a pulse (and sometimes with a pulse- not confirmed) in my neighborhood that it was probably a worthy cause. Intrepid “True Enough For You” Asian reporter, AD, informed me the other night that the painters were doing work, filming a Public Service Announcement for the “Know AIDS” campaign. I forgive him his smugness because he cooked me dinner after showing me the error of my ways.

I should feel a bit sheepish about poking fun of the crew, probably volunteering hours upon hours of their time to inform the gayborhood about the AIDS; however, I firmly stand by the fact that they all looked like massive douchebags. That said, check out some of their legitimately creative and earnestly well-meaning work here.

Am I the only one who feels disproportionately, irrationally emotional about the death of Peter Jennings? Just asking. Look away. [sniff sniff.]

Some fun with Craig today:

First of all someone left this open ended invitation to everyone, I assume. I love the person who wrote this. He or she loves to live on the edge. Honestly, who would invite danger in this manner without being totally amazing? I would like to turn this into a field trip. Who’s game?

Meet me at the Mercer Hotel

in SoHo.Wed. August 18 @ 12:10pm.

I am so there. I hope there’s room for all of us!

Yesterday’s inclusion of “tamponhenge” created quite a stir among those readers who menstruate or do not menstruate, alike. For some more tampon art, go here. Bloody fabulous!

Everyone’s favorite group of morally superior bigots, Focus on the Family, has released a list of warning signs for parents to identify if their children are growing up homo. With the help of this list, parents can administer shock therapy to their kids before it’s too late. The guidelines include this zinger: "A tendency to walk, talk, dress and even “think” effeminately." How the hell can you tell if someone is thinking effeminately? [OK. So I may imagine that I am a supermodel every time I hear "Freedom" by George Michael. But still.]

Don’t be totally J, but I spent all of last Friday night being flanked and groped by beautiful girls at KC’s birthday party. OK, there was a lot more flanking than groping, but whatever. What did I do to deserve the company of such lovely ladies? Who knows, but the sun even shines on a dog’s ass some days. The amazing K sisters came to town and got to live out their blog fantasies; that is: hanging out with me. They deserve far more than just a shout out. See below for their incandescent beauty, but be warned, our mortal eyes are not built for so much pretty in one picture. Disregard the vodka-soaked molestor, centrally located.

Monday Bloody Monday

The other judge with whom we share our chambers got a phone call this morning from a woman who claimed she couldn’t make it to jury duty because she had her period. In her overshare of a message (which we heard on speaker phone) she said that she had a “killer headache” and was “bleeding all over the place.” I put down my bright red, berry V8 Splash and implored the gods above to allow me to start my Monday over.

Of course, Sandy had something to say about it: “Shit, this woman and her lame-ass, weak-ass excuses. I used to work at a place with all women. Shit, my boss was a lesbian, and that excuse was never allowed. What about poor Zach? Is he going to call up and say, ‘Oh, my dick hurts so bad today. It’s so damn swollen, I can’t be on jury duty.’ That bitch need help because she ain’t deep!”

I couldn’t even begin to explain what any of that meant even if I felt fully awake, never mind first thing on a Monday morning. But I do know one thing: you can’t fight logic.

Touché, Sandy. Touché.

Color My World

I need your help, Philadelphia residents. Can anyone please help figure out what is going on around the intersections of 12th and Locust and Walnut Streets? For the past week, there have been vans upon vans lining the side of the road. Out of the vans popped camera crews and a band of miscreants armed with paintbrushes and fluorescent paint. Earlier in the week, it just looked like they were painting the side of 12th Street Gym, but then as the days progressed; more and more things were being painted.

These painters and their film crews have attacked all of the sidewalks with in a block. They have painted buildings, mailboxes, and I kid you not, when I walking home yesterday I saw them painting a bus. A whole bus! I feel like if you walk slowly enough past them, they will paint you. Consider yourself warned. So much for being a peripatetic in the neighborhood.

Rainbows everywhere! We really don’t need any more rainbows. People get it. I think everyone can tell that it’s the gayborhood by the fact that there is some combination of 10 foot tall tranny hookers, a gigolo that looks like Little Orphan Annie (you know the one) or over-muscled freaks in sleeveless shirts on these corners at any given moment of the day.

I am not against art or the beautification of things in general.

I am trying to figure out why I am so enraged by this every time I walk by. First of all, everyone painting or filming just looks like a complete douchebag. I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but they just do. I have a healthy, gut instinct about these things. Also, they are rude; they wouldn’t let me walk near them yesterday. That’s fine to tell me to cross the street, but they also made some poor woman in a wheelchair cross the road so she wouldn’t be in the way. They’re making me feel bad for the less fortunate. That’s really annoying!

An insider friend of mine reports that there was a mentally challenged person who was told to walk elsewhere, he got angry and started to yell at the paint crew. The person became so agitated that he fell. While normally, this would qualify as comedy gold, it just isn’t cool when you come to my hood and dis people. I wish I had enough street cred to get away with saying that.

Another friend of mine, JC, tried to put things in perspective for me, “At first I thought it was just to annoy me, but then I realized, it was just to annoy everyone.”

I need to do some more investigation, and I will try to post pictures soon. If anyone has any information or personal stories related to the painting of the streets, please send them my way.

Random closing thoughts:

Happy Birthday KC! Even though you hate my blog.

What is it about the past year of my life and boys with connections to Missouri? Again and again.


Someone buy me this shirt.

All weekend long, America’s Next Top Model Marathon on VH1.

Nervous breakdown is back! Drink to that a la hora feliz, hermanas y hermanos!

Heat Watch 2005: Drop Your Pants To Your Ankles

My friend AB, a newly anointed PhD., sent me this joke. Since she’s a doctor of something now (Anatomy? Physiology? Neuro-somethingimportant? We can never remember here.), and you’re probably not, this joke may fly over your heads:

How many Bush supporters does it take to change a light bulb?

None. There is nothing wrong with the light bulb. Its condition is improving every day. Any reports of its lack of incandescence are a delusional spin from the liberal media. There is no shortage of filament. That light bulb has served honorably; anything you say undermines the lighting effect. Why do you hate freedom?

Also, thanks to the wonder of the internets, I have finally found the definitive guide to cornholing. Check out “how to play cornhole.” There are diagrams that involve way more throwing and an overabundance of holes than I remember from any sexual education class. Then again, my sex ed classes in high school consisted mostly of a man telling my fellow students and me that men couldn’t urinate and orgasm at the same time. And we all know that’s not true. Right? Right?!

Some time ago, a camp counselor for inner city kids called our office to see if he could bring a handful of kids here to see justice in action. We told him that we probably couldn’t provide that, exactly, at least not in this city. However, we invited him to bring what he described as “a few kids” to come see how our courtroom operates. You see where this is going, I hope.

Flash forward to this morning as someone from another court building 10 blocks away calls and screams into the phone, “We can’t operate a court with all these kids running around!” I literally didn’t have a clue what she was yelling about, so I told her to catch them and tranquilize them, a strategy that worked well for my parents. Eventually, we got on the same page and they sent 55 screaming varmints, more than “a few” by anyone’s definition, to our courtroom. Sandy sassed the little shits on a tour, and one of the kids escaped. He may still be in the building. I hope he finds the prison in the basement. Nothing teaches a lesson like some hard time.

Hey, I was in an elevator with a guy today who dropped his pants to his ankles to fix his underwear. That is all.

We won at quizzo last night by a point. Phew. Luckily for us, the last round was Full House questions. We learned that the 4 Kings in a deck of cards are based on Charlemagne, King David, Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar and that Australian girls are the most likely to sleep with you on a first date. But don’t worry, no need to get all antipodean, I know plenty of easy American girls.

Finally - finally! – there is an “Overheard in Philly” blog where one can post the audible gems they collect on their daily commutes. And one most certainly should. At the very least, one should read it. Let’s face it, stupidity round these parts is a quotidian occurrence. In fact, the motto of the site is: “it’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity.” I feel like I should use stupidity one more time. Stupidity. Ok. Here are some highlights, or lowlights if you are a stick in the mud:

*Overweight teenage girl crossing street: "Damn. Why this street so wide?"Friend: "N*gga, this is Broad Street."

Broad & Arch


*Angry man on crutches: "Where am I? The same place I been for the past 2 hours you piece of shit! I'm gonna come over there with my crutches and beat the shit out of you and your friend you fucking piece of shit!!"

Payphone outside Pathmark, Port Richmond


*Birthday girl: "I love that halter top!"Halter girl: I got you one, you didn't see it? It's wrapped around the bottle of grain alcohol."

Birthday party, RUBA Club [editor’s note: I have been to the RUBA for a birthday party, and it is amazing.]


Guy on subway platform: "I think this mayor's doing a good job. People don't knock you down in the bathroom anymore."

Subway-Surface line, West Philadelphia


Schizophrenic: "First they had Tampax, then they had Kotex, now they got discotheques! What is going on here??!!"

Park bench, West Philadelphia

That tingly feeling you’re getting down there right now? That’s brotherly love. Or maybe it’s the heat. Ciao.

The Closest Yeast Ever Comes To My Package

In an inadvertent effort to create the most white bred scene ever to appear in the Reading Terminal Market, I ordered a turkey dinner for lunch. There were mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberries. I was wearing a pink shirt with a starched collar, navy pants and a lovely tie that brought both ends together. I sat with my legs crossed and read the newspaper while I ate my meal. I could not have been more of a cracker if I were named Bradley Hawkins and was aching to get home to my new wife, Muffy. The hippies wafting of patchouli at the table next to me had visceral hate in their eyes. Sometimes I like not being the crazy pinko in a set of circumstances, but not often.

With my meal, I got to choose a big slice of bread from a variety of standard flavors. Naturally, I chose Wheat (as if there were any other choice), but I could only consume about half of it. It was a huge slice, about the size of both my hands put together, and I just couldn’t eat it all with the huge dinner I had before me. Betraying my white trash roots, I put the remainder of the bread in my pocket. I caught a snooty socialite with Lisa Loeb glasses give me a derisive look. Whatever bitch, you don’t know how good this bread is.

It occurred to me then that maybe she did know. Maybe her look was more jealousy than disgust. I thought about breaking her off a piece and throwing it in her direction, as that would be the best reaction to her mean look, whether it be envy or repugnance. Whore.

I dodged the sun under awnings all the way back to work, shielding whatever alabaster skin I hadn’t covered with a suit. I got in line for what is usually America’s least effective security check. Today the line was ironically being manned by two heavyset African American women. This was refreshing, since the male guards are more often than not repulsive to the women that walk through, especially those with tight jeans. I am not saying I am a woman in tight jeans; it's just annoying to watch them ogle disrespectfully. The women guards didn’t recognize me and one of them demanded to see my id. I couldn’t get the id out of my pocket without first removing the slice of wheat bread. With the bread in my hand, the following conversation took place:

Guard (G):That ain’t an id. That bread.
Z: Sorry. My id is in here somewhere.
G: Why you givin’ me rye bread?
Z: I’m not. It was just in the way of my id. And it’s wheat bread.
G: You know, we allowed to eat here. You don’t gotta sneak food in the building.
Other Guard: [mumbling] In your damn pockets.
Sassy woman in line behind me (SW): What’s the damn hold up?!
G: This boy got bread in his pocket.
SW: That’s cuz he need to feed his skinny ass.
[all sassy women involved laugh]
G: Alright baby, you can go. Next time bring a lunch bag.
SW: Check his other pocket for dessert!
[all sassy women involved laugh]
[Z walks away, dejected, crying on the inside, blushing, now pink as his shirt]

And…scene.

Take home lessons:
1) It’s simply futile to try and sneak food past a gaggle of overweight security guards. Guns, bombs, maybe even anthrax, but not food.
2) And a good slice of bread is worth any amount of embarrassment it may unexpectedly bring you.

Oh, and some people have been complaining that there hasn’t been enough Sandy-love on the blog lately. I couldn’t agree more. Here’s a Sandy quote of the day, regarding babies having babies, while on the phone with someone I presume is a friend (or at least someone she's met before- though maybe not):

“Bitch can’t even call WIC! If the stinky ass bitch would just keep her funky ass legs closed for one day of her life, she might not have stupid kids she got to kick around.”

I am not sure what it means, exactly, but what exquisite imagery! It kind of just tackles all five of your senses and beats them into submission, doesn’t it? Sorry enterprising marketers, Planned Parenthood has already called inquiring about buying the rights to the phrase to use as their new slogan.

I'm Funnier Than You; I Am The Wit

The Wit

(73% dark, 30% spontaneous, 5% vulgar)your humor style:
CLEAN COMPLEX DARK

You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean you're pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer. Your sense of humor takes the most effort to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

http://www.okcupid.com/tests/take?testid=17565214125862764376

It's not letting me post the link any other way.

He walks up to the closet; He comes up to the closet; Now he's at the closet; Now he's opening the closet...

It’s August! This is the month when normal plebeians take the route of the Go-go’s and vacation (FYI: It’s all they ever wanted; they have to get away). Hell, even the President takes the whole month off, right after he sneaks in a special recess nomination of a man whose professional track record even his fellow Republicans find reprehensible. Sneaky, that one.

I, however, do not get the month off. In fact, I may have to get a second job to afford all the weddings and wedding-related activity in which I must participate for the next couple months. Therefore, all posts will be written under languid protest and with little enthusiasm. Accordingly, the reader should sit at his or her desk, dejected, and read with both the verve and tenor of an airplane hostage being held at gunpoint.

That said, the last vestiges of July have left me simply exhausted. On Friday, after explaining to my long lost cousin my stale recollection of the Uniform Probate Code, so that his slighlty longer and loster brother wouldn’t steal any of his inheritance, I made my way to Bump for happy hour. The hour was truly happy, as best I can recall; I just had a cosmopolitan IV attached to my arm to avoid messy spills. From there friends and I went to Tequila’s for a classy Mexican dinner. Luckily, we weren’t allergic to oxymorons. I kid. No one loves a Mexican more than I do, ask around.

That same night I toyed with the idea of seeing a movie, but since I was too drunk to understand English and nothing was being offered with subtitles, we postponed until the next day.

The next day I saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory with KD, after hopping out of bed more bright eyed and bushy tailed than I deserved to be. The movie was cute, much different than the original and creepy enough to keep me interested. I especially enjoyed anything the girl who played Veruca Salt did. Each of us has a little Veruca inside. I like seeing movies with KD because I know we are thinking completely different things when we are watching the films. He points out cool technical things to me and probably wonders why I am laughing at things no one else in the theater thinks is funny.

That night it was time for assclown’s bachelor party. As the token ‘mo at the party, I knew it would be my job to add equal parts snarky commentary and innocuous sass. If nothing else, I know my role. We ate an amazing dinner at Ristorante Panorama (which I couldn’t find for about 15 minutes because I am an idiot who thinks reading is optional). We then went to Sugarmom’s where we made assclown walk around with a shirt that said “chicks hate me” and get it signed by all the ladies. These women were surprisingly tame, and none of them took any suggestions I gave. These included, “Why are YOU the one that bent over?”; “Thanks for all the syphilis.” And what I wrote on my most Christian friend at his bachelor party, “Sucks dick for coke.”

The two prettiest girls we ran into that night connected with me immediately. Pretty attracts pretty, you know? We really hit it off, so instead of going to the nudie bar with the rest of the guys, I got to know them. They were hilarious and they decided that we were going to hang out for the rest of the night. Needless to say, as the rest of the bachelor party stumbled out of the bar, there was more than one jealous face as it became more and more apparent that the gay dude was the one going home with the ladies. It’s just how I roll, and besides, strippers are so déclassé. We eventually picked up ZD, went to his house to play drinking games and there may have been some making out involved. I know what you’re thinking, but I have broken boundaries before. I am legion. I am legend. I contain multitudes. It was a very fun night, nothing too amazing, but I will continue to let the rest of the bachelor party think that it was mind-blowing, near Biblical awesomeness.

After some sing-along action and what may be classified as petit theft, I eventually got back to my place sometime between 5 and 6. This was irresponsible for several reasons, one of which was that I was roped into helping move people in what would be a few hours. KD volunteered me, and so, I obliged. The two of us traveled to the burbs to pack a van so tight, it would squeal like a piggy. I learned two things: 1) I am not the least organized mover in the world, as I once thought. I am not even the worst of all my friends. And 2) I am not strong. That is all.

One of my other friends was moving stuff into her new place the same day. Instead of taking the time to catch up with each other, we clearly used the time to discuss something more important, R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” video series. I described them this way in an email this morning: the brilliance of spoken word poetry with Dickinsonian slant rhyme over percussive, yet somehow smooth, moaning. No words can capture the videos’ virtuosity. If you have not seen them, you must. They are a delight, even with the lack of pissing on fourteen year-old girls. You can add that yourself at home. I did.

Finally, one more faux-celebrity sighting notch to add to my bedpost: this week at bump, I saw Trading Spaces’ Doug Wilson. Who knew he was gay?! You can’t even tell from this picture above [warning: applies only to the blind].

Happy Monday, y’all.