If Bowling is a sport, why don’t bowlers use steroids?

I am the most directionally-challenged person in the world.

That is all.

I rarely have dreams when I sleep and when I do I rarely, rarely remember them. However, last night I had a dream and I actually remember it. Why does this concern you, my faithful Xanga readers? Because I can’t think of anything else to blog about. Begin dream sequence!

I’m shopping at a huge store of some sort. I come across an aisle with assorted items and a huge framed poster of yours truly. That’s when I remember, “oh yeah…my college dorm used to be right here.” Apparently, the store had been built on top of my dorm and forgetful me had forgotten to pack up all my things before moving out. The store, naturally, kept my things and was now trying to sell them.

A cute-as-a-button employee walks by and I explain to her my situation. I tell her about how my dorm used to be here and how I had left that poster behind. I asked if it would be okay for me to take it back. She smiled, completely unaware we were in a dream and what I had just said made no sense, and said she was going to make sure it was okay with her manager. After she leaves, a blonde walks up to me, smiles, and says something to the effect of, “hey, that’s you in the poster!” Since it was a dream and my sarcastic powers evidently do not work in dreams, I respond not with a “no duh!” but a “yeah, my dorm used to be right here.” She smiles, nods, and mentions her dorm used to be a few aisles over.

End dream sequence!

The saddest part about the dream is I did not get any closure. What happened to the poster?

Originally posted on August 16, 2006 at my Xanga.

If I had a size 25 shoe, would I be pigeon-holed into a job as a clown? That doesn’t seem fair. What if I wanted to be a dancer?

If you ask a little boy what he wants to be when he grows up, he will more than likely give you the cliché answer of a fireman, a policeman, a cowboy, or an astronaut. When I was a child, I had ambition and did not want to limit myself. So I decided I wanted to be a space cowboy that roamed the galaxy fighting crime with a fireman’s axe – the opportunities are endless.

Like Alton Brown of Good Eats, I’m not a fan of uni-taskers. Why have a cell phone that can only make and receive calls when you can have one that’s also a music player and camera? Why have shoes that only go with khakis when you can have shoes that go with khakis, jeans, shorts and speedos? Why go to a dentist when you can go to someone that specializes in dentistry, rhinoplasty and cuts hair on the side?

As multi-taskers go, Hugo Boss cologne isn’t too shabby. This past weekend, a spider was crawling on my ceiling. With no bug spray around, I grabbed my Hugo Boss and gave the spider a couple sprays. It took several hours before the spider died, but in the meantime he smelled quite nice.

In college, I had an annoying dormmate who ate tuna every single day. To drown out the tuna smell in our dorm, I would spray my Hugo Boss cologne. Besides masking the tuna smell, it had the added benefit of causing my annoying dormmate to have an allergic reaction. You haven’t experienced true comedy until you’ve heard someone who sounds like Lurch from the Adams’ Family say, “your Hugo Boss is burning my skin.”

My other experiments dealing with the versatility of Hugo Boss cologne had mixed results: Hugo Boss cologne as a mouthwash? Bad idea. Hugo Boss cologne as pepper spray? It burned my neighbor’s eyes quite nicely. Hugo Boss cologne as a salt substitute on food? Rest in peace, hobo/guinea pig. Hugo Boss cologne as an overly expensive form of fuel? I’ll let you know the results as soon as my neighbor’s car gets back from the mechanic.

All in all, Hugo Boss cologne didn’t meet my expectations as a true multi-tasker. However, as a cologne and college dormmate repellent, I have to say it’s pretty good.

Summary: Giving annoying dormmates rashes is funny. Barbers who dabble in rhinoplasty and dentistry are bargains. Do not drink Hugo Boss cologne. “Speedos” is a funny world. The smell of tuna reminds me of how much I hate tuna.

Rating:

I have been giving it a lot of thought and, for various reasons, I have decided that racial profiling is a good thing. I think it has revolutionized the way we hunt and capture terrorists, before they strike. I think it is such an effective tool that we should incorporate profiling to other classes of people.

For example, I believe we should start profiling midgets. This will revolutionize the way we hunt and capture leprechauns. It is only being mildly observant to notice that all leprechauns are of a certain stature. I, for one, will assume a midget is a leprechaun until proven otherwise. If some “little guy” is walking by me singing about the “lolly-pop guild,” I’m going to punch him in the nose, and tell him to take me to his pot of gold. In this manner, I may uncover many Keebler elves, goblins, and underwear gnomes, but I only need to be right once to be one pot of gold richer.

In this plan, we will not only stimulate the economy with a surplus of gold, but we will, perhaps, stifle any uprising the leprechauns, or any small person, may be planning.

If I could pick any song to be the theme song of my life, I would pick 80′s hit “Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles. I think that song fully encapsulates my life’s desire of walking like an Egyptian.

Do you ever envy deaf people? I just got home from a two-hour bus ride filled with teenage girls “singing” every annoying radio song from the past five years. And when I say singing, I mean screaming. And by screaming, I mean they verbally assaulted my ear drums in a manner so horrific I actually prayed for the sweet release of death at one point.

I‘ll never make fun of Billy Corgan (lead singer of Smashing Pumpkins) ever again. I would listen to ten straight hours of him singing covers of Backstreet Boys’ songs in a southern accent and a lisp before I would endure a repeat of tonight’s hell on earth. Compared to them, Billy Corgan’s voice is angelic. And by angelic, I mean slightly better.

In the beginning, man would put bumblebees inside of seashells in order to shave. The results were about what one would expect from such an invention. Thankfully, in time, technology improved. Seashells begot boiling your face in hot water; hot water begot setting your facial hair on fire; and fire begot putting honey all over you face and waiting for a grizzly bear to walk by, which was the common practice until 1998. That’s the year Gillette’s Mach 3 Razor hit the scene.

Thanks to the Mach 3, men began to enjoy a life that wasn’t dependent on the availability of honey and grizzly bears. Honey could be used as food and bears as house pets – just as nature intended. Truly, mankind was living in a golden age. However, this age of bliss would be short lived. Gillette, Schick, and Bic were about to overwhelm the male population with an endless stream of new razors. The age of confusion and poor math skills was at hand.

Three years ago, Schick’s Xtreme 3 made its debut. Gillette initially responded with their Sensor 3 and Bic with its Comfort 3 razor. Men now had several shaving options available to them with three different razors having three blades. How was a man to choose? “Give them aloe,” the ad wizards at Gillette commanded. The Mach 3 Turbo was born. “You know what number is bigger than three,” the masterminds at Schick asked no one in particular. “Four.” And so began the epiphany that would one day become the 4-blade Schick Quattro razor. “We can count too,” responded Gillette before the debut of the Fusion razor that featured 5 blades, two aloe strips, and replacement blades that cost about as much as a Ford Taurus. Bic, apparently unable to count, responded with its Comfort 3 Advance razor.

If all that weren’t crazy enough, now batteries are being added to every razor. There’s the M3 Power. The M3 Power Nitro. The Quattro Power. The Fusion Power. The good Lord only knows when the geniuses at Bic are going to throw their hat into the ring and announce the Comfort 3 Advance 2, which will be powered by gasoline. I’m not exactly sure why having a razor powered by a battery is a good thing in the first place. “It vibrates.” Right, but a vibrating razor blade doesn’t sound very safe. In fact, it sounds like something The Three Stooges would have invented.

When is it going to end? Five blades will inevitably turn into six blades. Six blades will become seven. Seven blades will become eight blades, and so on. Five years from now, the Saturday Night Live spoof of a 14-blade razor called the Platinum Mach 14 could become a reality.

About that time, I imagine Bic will be announcing plans for an “innovative” 4-blade razor with aloe.

Summary

Rating: 3.5 Mullets (out of 5)

The Good: Five blades is one more than four. It has pretty colors. Honey tastes good. Two aloe strips. Bears make great house pets when properly sedated.

The Bad: I’ve never actually tried the razor. It has a bad attitude. The Flintstones was an overrated cartoon. Replacement blades cost a fortune. Bic has horrible math skills. Bears make poor razors.

Final Thought: You know what number is bigger than five?

If people were made out of gingerbread, would cannibalism be more socially acceptable?

I propose a new “celeb reality” tv show. Anyone who has ever appeared on a reality television show or has played a hand in the creation of a reality television show will be placed on a deserted island. Then a nuclear bomb will be dropped on the island.

Possible names for the show are, “Exploding with the Stars”; “But Can They Dodge a Nuclear Bomb?”; and “Today is the Day Your Dreams Come True, Kevin.”
Edit: It’s been brought to my attention that if this proposal of mine were picked up, technically, I would then have played a hand in the creation of a reality tv show and would therefore be required to set up residence on said deserted island. A valid point, but allow me to retort: Shut up.

A precious family member, Teddy, disappeared at the end of last week. We have turned the house upside down searching for her…she was found inexplicably under her “kitchen” set, a fairly small unit in her room. I am amazed at this, because I actually moved that thing out of the way and back into its spot to look at the precise location where she was found today. I told Jill that an angel must have put her there, because I honestly have no other explanation for it. – Steve & Renee

I have a theory. I believe an angel, of sorts, did indeed bring Teddy back into the fold. The one and only Smokey escaped from my parent’s home the day before Teddy was found. Here is how I believe it went down:

Smokey heard of the family’s plight when Renee called Lauren Monday morning to talk about Teddy. Pretending he was asleep on the nearby kitchen table, Smokey heard every word of the conversation. A caring and sympathetic soul, Smokey decided to take action. He waited for my mom to open the back door. Even though my mom is always on guard to prevent Smokey from escaping, he flew past her as soon as she cracked open the door. It was like taking candy from a baby.

Once outside, Smokey ran to the nearby CVS Pharmacy. In the parking lot, he searched for a truck with a Perry High School sticker in the window. Knowing Steve and Renee live in Perry, Smokey surmised that anyone with such a sticker on their vehicle probably lived in Perry and would, eventually, drive there. Once he found his mark, Smokey hopped into the back of the truck. Two hours and one detour to Macon later, Smokey arrived in Perry.

Once in Perry, Smokey hit the streets. He talked to all of his usual informants. Each of them kept coming back with the same name: Timmy Jefferson. Timmy, age 5, had a reputation as a Teddy Bear thief. On the playgrounds, in the parks, at McDonald’s; he was always looking for a Teddy he could swipe. Smokey decided to pay him a little visit.

Perched outside Timmy’s bedroom window, Smokey saw an army of Teddy Bears. The kid had obviously been at this for a while. On the floor, he saw Timmy playing with a black Teddy Bear in a pink dress. In the far corner, he saw Teddy. “Showtime,” Smokey thought to himself. He began to claw on the window and meow sweetly in order to get Timmy’s attention. “Kitty!,” Timmy squealed after looking up and seeing Smokey in his window. Timmy walked over and opened his window to let Smokey inside. Smokey greeted him with a roundhouse kick to the head, Chuck Norris style.

After dialing 911 so the authorities could come and break up Timmy’s Teddy Bear ring, Smokey grabbed Teddy and hopped out the window. It was time to bring Teddy back to her rightful owners. Amidst the chaos of trying to find Teddy, Smokey was able to sneak inside Steve and Renee’s home and gently set her under the kitchen set in Jill’s bedroom. His work done, it was time for Smokey to go home.

Of course, if you asked him about it, Smokey would probably act as though he didn’t know what you were talking about.