The Endorsement: Things I'll Never Do Again

I say this neither snidely nor lightly. Don't be surprised if you hear a dial tone when talking to me during conversation because that just means I'm off the hook. whatwhat!

Which is why your mom loves me. She fancies my aural grin, manly timbre and winking inflections that smack of wicked wit and outrageous charm.

But it pained me to use a your mom joke today because I realized that I had completely exhausted its utility for the last 10-15 years of my life. Not to mention, it's no longer trendy to use it in common conversation if you are older than 5 and are able to read and write. I'm beyond your mom now.

I beat it like the dead horse that it truly is. Wrung it dry, milked it for all its worth. Forced laughter from people despite their determined grit to not laugh. I had a good run with your mom (jokes that is) but our time has come to an end. I will never use a your mom joke. It's just an easy way out of coming up with something more complex and witty. Nevermore, bitch ass mom jokes.

Responsibility. I like it, but don't exercise it nearly enough. So the next time I walk into the bathroom at work and there is a giant log of shit coiled in the commode, sitting there because its unsuspecting owner sneaked out when he realized there was no way the mammoth turd was going to flush, I will NOT sit there and try to flush it myself. It is not my responsibility to tend to bastard shits seeking foster parents to take care of them by flushing. Because as soon as I walk out, unsuccessful, the next person who walks in will begin a rapid fire vicious rumor about that work in the toilet belonging to me. FUCK that. I'm announcing it to everyone the next time that shit happens. Literally.

I will no longer strike with the speed and alacrity of a stealth puma when it comes to eating BBQ at smoke-impregnated rib houses. Eating/inhaling faster than chewing only leaves you with an unsatisfied feeling that creates magma-hot 'oh-no' juice in your stomach that exits your body in quasi-vomit form as you burp and sigh and writhe in pain.

I will no longer roll my eyes at the happy car consumer and environmentalist who feels a bit more morally superior because he/she owns a Prius, sips soy lattes, and cradles a snooty waft of air on a pretientious veranda. Why? Because it's everywhere in Austin now. What the hell. Time to find a new hip city to call home maybe?

Next, drinking six days in a row. Perhaps when I was 22, I could drag my liver through the mud and safely afford to not attend every/any day of the week without consequences. Not any more. Last week was a rude awakening and I promise I will not douse myself with beer in a gross attempt to magnify the sun's rays on my body.

I will never tell a girl that I am a journalist. Instead, I will tell her I am a hard working junior analyst and she will realize that I am the 30k millionaire douchebag incarnate that we all hear about in West 6th Street. I fucking hate that area.

Nap schedule permitting, I will no longer stare at work tasks with a crushing indifference and slip into a staggering sleep while at work. Speaking of work, I will be less glib too.

Word.

Keg Ball Debauchery

Posed with the juggernaut duties of maintaining the integrity of offering only decent comments when under the influence of alcohol, I invoked my inner iron to rid my wrinkled words before I spoke and slurred some nonsense.

But thinking before speaking proved to be a futile effort.

I suspect my trenchant tongue could taste the humor-laden comment that shot out and I viewed it as a fitful prelude to good times, laughter and donkey-punching drunken kickball fun. Which it was.

Girl on other team that I did not know said: "I suck at catching balls."
Me: "That's what she said"

And thus, 'Team That's What She Said' was born. The most awesome, rubber ball kicking, non-athletic assemblage of beer guzzling dope asses ever.

Keg ball is kick ball, only there are kegs for bases and everyone must hold a cup of beer during play and if you drop/spill it, your play doesn't count.

Fairly simple. Right? Hells naw, yo.

There was no water (but lots of beer) and it was mad hot, with the sun beating down relentlessly. The temperature climbed over 100 and because I particularly enjoy uneven farmer tans, I employed the use of a tank top to unequally distribute shades of brown to my body. To

I hate myself for that move today.

We started at 3 p.m. and we were greeted by people who already wreaked of alcohol and lawn mulch. I'm not quite sure why they smelled like lawn mulch though. But after playing the first game, downing a couple beers hit me hard.

And I gathered through painstakingly dull logic, that drinking more beer would cool me down and offer a jump start to my team on the field of play.

Beer was my Gaterade.

So I had consumed enough beer to keep me steadily breaking game action every ten minutes to urinate and shuffle, stumble and stagger back to the diamond. Not to mention inform everyone how amazing my experience answering nature's call truly was. Enlightening.

The sun wasn't wrecking my world anymore, and I began to draw connections to the game and what was at stake.

In my mind, a lot. I evoked my competitive side. I've never been so impressed with not only my own, but others' timely 'that's what she said' remarks.

I kicked balls into outer space. And even even washed myself with warm beer as I crossed home plate repeatedly and obnoxiously moonwalked back to the dugout. I'm so dope at kickball it's vomit inducing.

Dude, you and your blog are waaay douchey

I'm confident in saying the name of my blog speaks volumes about how uncool I truly am, but for the sake of argument, my blog's name contains trace elements of hip hop and neat slanguage that can not be sourced from a Webster's Edition Dictionary.

So effectively, my newly created blog is sagging in its grammatical fashion, grabs its crotch habitually around the ladies and speaks in an urban narrative that aptly articulates my ability to ball outta control. Not to mention, it will navigate you through the dull drab of your day. It's a lot like going to the bathroom and reading stories on bathroom stalls, only slightly more absurd.

It's also noteworthy to mention that the content found on this blog is only about 90% true and 10% fiction. That means there's room for embellishment, and/or Jello ... case and point, I considered blogging about my chance encounter with someone unpleasantly sozzled the other night who jumped on top of a bar table and did a horrible Bill Cosby impersonation ... and then urinated on herself and asked for cotton candy repeatedly.

That said, this blog will be complex, contradictory, and capable of great intelligence but equally subject to great stupidity. It's safe to say it will be far more stupid than humanely possible.

Don't believe me? I know it's difficult to imagine me actually penning something that sinks below the brilliant literary threshold I am held to, but wrap the shit storm of mind-blowing cocksuckery around your brain and you might get a sense of what it's like to be dope.

What exactly is "dope" you ask? Fine question. Damn fine question. But if you have to ask, then you simply don't know. And if you don't know, then I can't tell you. But since it's my blog and I'm a really nice guy, I'll tell you.

Some other time.

Not now. I just wanted to introduce this blog to everyone (all three of you who will read it).