Take that Logan's Run.

So, yah, I turned 31 the other day. I'm older than I've ever been and now I'm even older and now I'm even older and now I'm even older . . . . this is from a They Might Be Giants song . . . I think I wrote the exact same thing last year, but I'm to lazy to check it out and to lazy to add the proper number of "o" to my adverbs. Such is old age; I didn't take enough fiber today.

This is also my blog's 600th post. Thanks to Joe for being around the longest. Most of my other longtime commenters have kind of faded off into the glory of history. Or refuse to encourage my inanity with feedback. For a while there it was a running dialogue between Alan and I. That was cool, but I get that in real life.

So, let me misuse a term and say that it's apropos that I've turned 31 and the blog turned 600 posts. Even though 600 is an arbitrary number and I might as well have been excited about post 572. Come to think of it, age is just a number, slightly less arbitrary, but only a numeric.

Wait. I just slipped a disk.

i love eating green peppers grown exclusively in horse shit as much as the next guy . . .

but paying 8 dollars per pound for the pleasure? I can't roll with that.

a few things

• Cleveland still rocks: Walking in this morning I spotted three discrete vomit locales. I'm a little ticked you didn't tell me Wednesday was the new Saturday. But, all the same, that's some impressive binge drinking for a school night. Take that Cincinnati!


• "Cute pet, what's its name?" "Dramatic chipmunk.": This has been all over the tubes lately, but it's hilarious and I laugh every time.


• There might be bugs on some of your mugs, but there ain't no bugs on me: The dog has a point, but he could probably stand to lose the scarf.

new weight-loss plan

Ok, this is really simple. The new plan is for it to be 85 degrees F (about 30 deg. C, for my Canadian peeps) throughout the night. I sweat profusely for about 6 hours and then I get up, having to take a shower, despite showering the night before immediately prior to bed.

Further possible enhancements:

Wrapping myself in garbage bags (preferably sans garbage).

Eating chicken wings whilst sleeping (still trying to iron out the kinks on this one).

Sleeping in the tub to ease next morning clean-up.

Actually lighting myself on fire (might be other considerations here).

Anyway, feel free to appropriate this weight-loss plan for yourself. It's yours for the taking.

theMonica's wedding music spreadsheet.

Just kidding baby! I have to make sure you still read the blog every once in a while.

That being said, leave your song suggestions in the comments. No lame tunes please (I am the sole arbiter as to what is/is not lame). We're not doing the chicken dance or Electric Slide (boogiewoogiewoogiewoogie) or the Charlie Brown song . . . RS2 was particularly hateful of Old Time Rock-n-Roll.

So, what say you, fuzzy britches?

chair today

I had bought my breakfast and returned to my desk humming some pleasing tune. My chair was rotated to the proper angle for me to place my ample ass upon it and enjoy my oatmeal/fruit-and-yogurt/Diet Dr. Pepper breakfast (but not mixed together).

Sometime after the initiation of the sitdown process, my hip hit the chair. I was already descending as the chair decided to take a short trip away from my derrière. Trouble this. Both my hands are occuppied, not situated in a position to easily drop their contents on my desk. My options? Few. The only I could discern was the reverse locomotion into the chair, hoping to drop somewhat down on the seat thereby minimizing the chair's reverse momentum (that is to say, momentum in a direction away from me). Physics considered, I acted.

Two choo-choos back I pushed down. 60% of my delectible can caught the chair. I staggered, rotated, make a weird grunting noise and turned in the chair until it stopped when my chest hit the desk. Safety. Snickering? None. I had pulled it off without any witnesses. Success is mine!

i'm as happy as a little girl

I know approximately 98% of you couldn't care less, but the Cleveland Cavaliers are in the NBA Finals.

If you're looking for detailed match-ups or intriguing subplots (or solid sentence structure), you've come to the wrong place. I'm only concerned with how this makes me feel personally - in a word, vomitty. Raw nerves coupled with saccharin-sweet anticipation, presaging the promise of profuse profanity.

The Cavs are in the NBA Finals - fuck yah!

all that you know is at an end

I'm not too into comic book movies, but the Silver Surfer looks bad-ass in the 5000 promos I've seen for Fantastic Four Rise of the Silver Surfer. (I keep wanting to type him as "surver," whatever that is).

Since I wasn't a Fantastic Four fan during my comic-book days, I didn't remember if he was a good or bad guy. At first I thought it was Iceman in the promos. But then I noticed Silver Surfer wasn't leaving all those annoying ice ramps everywhere. That shit might fly in LA, but in Cleveland those things would be standing for 8 months at a time, messing up traffic, kids playing on them and cracking their skulls, rampant frostbite - bad news all around.

Then I realized it was the Silver Surver (tired of correcting that) and he kind of scares me.