I’m sitting here watching re-runs of Glee, sipping on finger-quote sweet tea. Welcome to Tuesday night.
You see, I made an attempt at sweet tea last night. For those of you who are living vicariously through my blog, I hope you are getting at least a couple of servings of vicarious vegetables a day because I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. On the contrary, you might struggle to find a worse cook. Though I can’t say I suck at it because I generally avoid trying it. It's like saying I suck at having a colonoscopy - I might be good at it, but we'll never know.
When I moved into the house, I had the genius idea to buy cheap food that would keep a long time in order to make my cabinets appear full and to have stuff in the house in case someone came over who could cook. Included in that purchase, were 100 tea bags and 5 pounds of sugar. Last night I put them to not so good use.
While I cooked the frozen chicken tenders [Note: This time I got fancy and put them on a salad.], I decided to make tea. I read the tea bag box which had directions for making one quart of unsweet tea. Turns out, I needed a gallon of sweet tea. It was at this point I started the process. With a call to Mom. She got me started, but I made the critical error of sounding semi-confident on the phone and asking specific questions. Therefore, as soon as I hung up, I had more questions and had abandoned enough of my independence for one day.
So I pulled up Google. 3 queries later, I all but threw in the towel. I was 15 seconds away from trying to calculate fluid ounces to non-fluid ounces so that I could use a Gatorade bottle to measure the sugar when I finally found something with a measurement on it. Sure, it was a piece of Tupperware that was previously home to leftovers from Mom. And yes, my dear mother, I do intend to keep that until you specifically ask for it back.
When it was all said and done, I had made drinkable tea. Honestly, it’s not great, and I have no idea how to improve the process next time, but I count it as a victory nonetheless.
So, to my future wife [Because I know you’re reading this… Well, know is a strong word.], don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll mow the yard and change the air filters, but if dinner is left up to me, we’re having Hot Pockets. I love you.
Now if I could figure out how to get my freezer to stop auto-defrosting my ice cubes, I could really pull the wool over the south’s eyes, fill up my Mason jar glasses with some sweet iced tea, and make them think I was from around here. The Mason jar glasses were courtesy of my grandmother... A meal really is a team effort around here.
Finally, I know Glee isn’t real, and some of you may not consider it cool [which is ironic, considering the glee club itself isn’t cool at McKinley High], but Quinn Fabray, if you’re reading this and have ever wanted to go to dinner with an auditor who has a low-traffic blog, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I promise at as many real dates as you want prior to Hot Pockets.
12.12.2010
B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets
Disciples of Tebow have Jorts. Girls who wish to appear as though they’re wearing pants without actually wearing pants have Jeggings. Consider this post the introduction of the concept of Jet Pants… or Jets. They’re the sweatpants that look like blue jeans.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
Sure, those of us who have entered Corporate America know the excitement that comes with the rare opportunity to wear jeans to work. But what if you could appear as though you were wearing jeans, when, in actuality, you were wearing sweatpants?
Honestly, I don’t see that much difference in the comfort of jeans as opposed to the comfort of khakis (what a ridiculous word, when spelled out) or slacks (am I the first person under the age of 60 to use that term?). The one obvious benefit is that you don’t have to use a napkin when you wear jeans.
Take a minute and think outside the inseam: do we really live in a world where you can’t wipe your hands on your pants and feel like you’re legs are surrounded by a cuddly polar bear? Hannah Montana could make this happen – it’d be the best of both worlds. Of course, she’d have to stop taking rides on the reefer rocket first.
In reality, I don’t want Miley as the spokesperson for Jet Pants. I want Mike Vitar. Who’s Mike Vitar, you ask? Benjamin Franklin Rodriguez. Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez. Think about how much faster Benny could have run away from the Beast if he had been wearing Jets instead of jeans. I guarantee Jet Pants would have made enough of a difference in his range of motion that the Beast would have never gotten close enough to nip at Benny’s haunches, and, as a direct result, Benny would have never yelled the first curse word I remember hearing. [I believe that to be a reasonable claim. I would have been 8 when watching this movie. Frankly, I don’t remember much before age 8 anyway.]
Seriously, you’re already picturing the commercial in your head, aren’t you? Well, that doesn’t entitle you to the copyright. This little blog is time-stamped, sucker. My extensive knowledge of Business Law indicates that when I prove it my was my idea first, I win. Anyway, in the commercial concept I have guided you to, you are picturing Benny the Jet Rodriguez outrunning the Beast while Sir Elton John is wailing in the background, “Oh, Bennie she’s really keen. She’s got electric boots and a mohair suit.”
When someone produces Jets (and after I start getting royalty checks), be sure to get a pair for yourself. Then stop pretending to drown… because Wendy Peffercorn will be all over you, Squints.
12.07.2010
Skip to the Bottom for Christmas Gift Ideas
A brief excerpt from my life… Last work trip I took, I returned to the Nashville airport, walked the 4 miles through long term parking construction to my car, loaded my suitcase in the trunk, climbed inside and turned the key. It was at this point I was welcomed home by the reality that my car was as broke as Andrea Bocelli feeding quarters into an arcade trying to beat Galaga.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
After I remembered I had roadside assistance through my recently acquired new car insurance, I soon found myself waving down the tow truck driver. He had a normal name, so, naturally, we’ll give him an alias. So Gus pulls up and asks for my insurance card. Actual conversation to follow:
“This your wife’s card?”
“Nope. I’m Loren.”
“Huh... You a Johnny Cash fan?”
Easily the greatest conversation I’ve ever had with a tow truck driver. A few minutes later, I learned that the airport still charges you for parking, even when you try to sneak your car out on the back of a tow truck.
Gus was nice. I hope he didn’t like me asking him to repeat everything he said because it was hard for me to interpret his twang with the windows down. Anyway, all worked out wonderfully, but I figured if you clicked looking to catch a glimpse of life as me, I should give it to you.
As I type this, G6 is on. A word of warning for all you young, malleable minds (malleable - Wordly Wise level 9 word), no matter how fly you are feeling or how numb you are from popping bottles on ice in a blizzard, it is never a good idea to sip scissors.
Here I thought kids were just huffing rubber cement, which, I learned at church last week, requires a paper bag. It appears we live in a society where everything Billy Madison used to make his blue duck and pass first grade is now used by kids looking for a high while dancing around on a glittery floor, listening to Ke-dollar-sign-ha.
Who needs urban dictionary when you have East Nashville church kids? Not this guy. Even if we don't have Jesus on our neck-uh-lace, you don't want to mess with South Historic Inglewood.
Finally, for those not-last-minute-but-clearly-not-first-minute Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa shoppers, stop reading this and go buy your kids some Pogs. They're quacktastic.
11.29.2010
With A Little Love and Some Tenderness...
Well, I promised I would have an amazing day today. I think I was fairly successful in that endeavor. It started off well – took my car to Nissan because if there was ever going to be paradise, I didn’t want it to be by the Check Engine light. The Nissan guys were in good spirits, laughing and whatnot. Little did I know that was all just to loosen up my purse strings. This isn’t supposed to be about my car, but let’s just say there was enough wrong with it that Nissan asked to sleep on it.
In exchange for my 2004 grandma colored Altima, they gave me a 2010 slate colored Altima. Slate might be the coolest color name outside of orange, and that’s only because you can’t eat slate. Slate you glad I didn’t tell an orange joke?
After they verified I knew how to operate a push-button start, I drove away to discover that the guys at Nissan had set all of my presets for me. Let’s just say 107.5 was the closest any of the six stations got to country. In lieu of hunting for stations, I decided to live it up.
In a perfect world, I would live every day in a musical like the Scrubs musical. Today was close to perfect in this regard.
Midday, one of my friends managed to get Tender Tennessee Christmas stuck in my head for at least the 6th time this year. That sentence wasn’t meant for humor, or even to tell you about my day. It was more to remind you that they say in L.A., it’s a warm holiday, it’s the only place to be. But it doesn’t matter. Give me the laughter.
While living it up this afternoon, James Brown informed me that Santa Claus goes straight to the ghetto. I can’t think of anything that says two days before December like thinking about Saint Nick in the hood.
A few songs later, I had the privilege of hearing Akon and Michael Jackson’s new song. This made me wonder a few things…
One. If Michael Jackson were still alive, would he do a song with Akon? As screwed up as he was, MJ had one of the most impressive voices in culture, pop or otherwise. Akon’s voice has never been heard. There weren’t a lot of words in “Hold My Hand”, but even without any blowfish, I enjoyed that 4 minutes… Glad Konvict Muzik purchased the rights to Michael Jackson's leftover syllables.
Two. How long do we have to wait for MJ, Tupac, and Elvis to release the most impressive single ever to hit the airwaves? Seriously, gentlemen, make it happen. Life on that island must get boring. I don’t know if there’s room in your mouths for me to put words, given the coin in there for Charon the Ferry Boat Man, but this could happen. “I’m Starting with the Man In the Ghetto Gospel” – there, that should give you some common ground to start on. Feel free to go in whatever direction you choose… I trust the Decomposed Amigos.
Three. If I had to choose between being blind or def, I’d choose blind in a heartbeat. Sure, there are tax incentives for being blind, but also, if you were def, you’d never get to hear Nelly’s "Just a Dream". But those of us who were blind would get to hear it every time we turned on 106.7. I am excited to live in a world where Nelly is back on the radio, but the number of times that song gets played per day is St. Lunacy.
Well, in case you can't tell by the volume of hyperlinks, I have full internet now. Lookout, world.
In exchange for my 2004 grandma colored Altima, they gave me a 2010 slate colored Altima. Slate might be the coolest color name outside of orange, and that’s only because you can’t eat slate. Slate you glad I didn’t tell an orange joke?
After they verified I knew how to operate a push-button start, I drove away to discover that the guys at Nissan had set all of my presets for me. Let’s just say 107.5 was the closest any of the six stations got to country. In lieu of hunting for stations, I decided to live it up.
In a perfect world, I would live every day in a musical like the Scrubs musical. Today was close to perfect in this regard.
Midday, one of my friends managed to get Tender Tennessee Christmas stuck in my head for at least the 6th time this year. That sentence wasn’t meant for humor, or even to tell you about my day. It was more to remind you that they say in L.A., it’s a warm holiday, it’s the only place to be. But it doesn’t matter. Give me the laughter.
While living it up this afternoon, James Brown informed me that Santa Claus goes straight to the ghetto. I can’t think of anything that says two days before December like thinking about Saint Nick in the hood.
A few songs later, I had the privilege of hearing Akon and Michael Jackson’s new song. This made me wonder a few things…
One. If Michael Jackson were still alive, would he do a song with Akon? As screwed up as he was, MJ had one of the most impressive voices in culture, pop or otherwise. Akon’s voice has never been heard. There weren’t a lot of words in “Hold My Hand”, but even without any blowfish, I enjoyed that 4 minutes… Glad Konvict Muzik purchased the rights to Michael Jackson's leftover syllables.
Two. How long do we have to wait for MJ, Tupac, and Elvis to release the most impressive single ever to hit the airwaves? Seriously, gentlemen, make it happen. Life on that island must get boring. I don’t know if there’s room in your mouths for me to put words, given the coin in there for Charon the Ferry Boat Man, but this could happen. “I’m Starting with the Man In the Ghetto Gospel” – there, that should give you some common ground to start on. Feel free to go in whatever direction you choose… I trust the Decomposed Amigos.
Three. If I had to choose between being blind or def, I’d choose blind in a heartbeat. Sure, there are tax incentives for being blind, but also, if you were def, you’d never get to hear Nelly’s "Just a Dream". But those of us who were blind would get to hear it every time we turned on 106.7. I am excited to live in a world where Nelly is back on the radio, but the number of times that song gets played per day is St. Lunacy.
Well, in case you can't tell by the volume of hyperlinks, I have full internet now. Lookout, world.
11.26.2010
Time for Giving Thanks Has Passed
I was far too preoccupied yesterday with dressing to be thankful. The food group dressing, not the act of putting on clothes. As such, I shall be thankful tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for a lot of nouns (you know, persons, places, things, and ideas), but tonight I choose to focus my finger calories on the nouns I am thankful for, but would also be interested to live without for a short amount of time…
Cell phones. It’s nice to be able to reach anyone anytime. It is not always so nice to be expected to be reached at any time. Plus, rotary phones way more reliable than an iPhone.
Marching bands. No disrespect intended to the band geeks out there. Drumline is one of my top 4 movies of all time. However, if there were no marching bands, there would be far less Rocky Top.
Cars. They’re supposed to fly by now, you know. Plus, mine currently has the check engine soon light on.
Social Media. Ironic, I know. I love a good tweet as much as the next guy, but I have no interest in the airing of your proverbial laundry on your facebook wall. Nor do I have an interest in you flaunting your literal laundry or lack thereof on said facebook.
Toenails. I’m sure they serve a purpose, but why must they grow? And collect sock gunk in their corners?
Electricity. To be blunt, humans are soft, and fire is fun. In immediate retrospect, I may be more thankful for electricity than I thought.
Whales. They’re majestic creatures, truly. However, if there were no whales, there would be no Whale Wars on Animal Planet. On the other hand, Willy would have never been in captivity and that cool Native American guy wouldn’t have blazed the pop culture trail wearing his puka shell necklace. [Ironically, per IMDb, that guy’s name is August Schellenberg.]
Seven seems like a good enough number for this category of thanks. I could go on, but really, seven's plenty.
A quick rundown of things I’m thankful for and thankful that I don’t have to live without (in no particular order): Hot Pockets, family, Glee, church in the hood, TSA agents, blankets, Mom's lasagna, Sean Connery movies, Memorial Gym, you (inasmuch, not leaving you out), adjectives, good drivers, flannel sheets, and “chocolaty goodness”.
To close motivationally, per usual… A portion of tonight’s [Note: I wrote this a couple of days ago and was inhibited from posting] Thanksgiving Wednesday night devo thought made me ponder [I may be going out on a limb when I say the percentage of crossover between the audience reading this and the 47 people at church tonight is relatively low]… “Live life, just as you have it... Smile, even if you have no idea what’s going on.” Tomorrow’s over/under is set at 5,400 calories. [Editor's Note: If you took the under, please make your payment accordingly. I will accept PayPal.]
Crank up the Christmas music.
Cell phones. It’s nice to be able to reach anyone anytime. It is not always so nice to be expected to be reached at any time. Plus, rotary phones way more reliable than an iPhone.
Marching bands. No disrespect intended to the band geeks out there. Drumline is one of my top 4 movies of all time. However, if there were no marching bands, there would be far less Rocky Top.
Cars. They’re supposed to fly by now, you know. Plus, mine currently has the check engine soon light on.
Social Media. Ironic, I know. I love a good tweet as much as the next guy, but I have no interest in the airing of your proverbial laundry on your facebook wall. Nor do I have an interest in you flaunting your literal laundry or lack thereof on said facebook.
Toenails. I’m sure they serve a purpose, but why must they grow? And collect sock gunk in their corners?
Electricity. To be blunt, humans are soft, and fire is fun. In immediate retrospect, I may be more thankful for electricity than I thought.
Whales. They’re majestic creatures, truly. However, if there were no whales, there would be no Whale Wars on Animal Planet. On the other hand, Willy would have never been in captivity and that cool Native American guy wouldn’t have blazed the pop culture trail wearing his puka shell necklace. [Ironically, per IMDb, that guy’s name is August Schellenberg.]
Seven seems like a good enough number for this category of thanks. I could go on, but really, seven's plenty.
A quick rundown of things I’m thankful for and thankful that I don’t have to live without (in no particular order): Hot Pockets, family, Glee, church in the hood, TSA agents, blankets, Mom's lasagna, Sean Connery movies, Memorial Gym, you (inasmuch, not leaving you out), adjectives, good drivers, flannel sheets, and “chocolaty goodness”.
To close motivationally, per usual… A portion of tonight’s [Note: I wrote this a couple of days ago and was inhibited from posting] Thanksgiving Wednesday night devo thought made me ponder [I may be going out on a limb when I say the percentage of crossover between the audience reading this and the 47 people at church tonight is relatively low]… “Live life, just as you have it... Smile, even if you have no idea what’s going on.” Tomorrow’s over/under is set at 5,400 calories. [Editor's Note: If you took the under, please make your payment accordingly. I will accept PayPal.]
Crank up the Christmas music.
11.15.2010
If You're Lost , You Can Look...
So, North Nashville recently got a new Super Wal-Mart. By North Nashville, I mean Madison, specifically Dickerson Road. Yes, that Dickerson Road. However, even on this infamous Nashville roadway, the Super Wal-Mart crowd is 47% less sketchy than the regular Wal-Mart in Rivergate. All that to say, I bought some new sheets.
When I was little, I always had a favorite part of wintertime, outside of the obvious gift-receiving. There was the time that I thought I would have fun and help out by breaking the ice off of the sliding glass door, only to have my father inform me that the ice was in fact the outer pane of what used to be a dual pane sliding glass door… But, alas, that wasn’t my favorite yuletide of my youth event. Nope… that title was reserved for when Mom determined it was time to put the penguin sheets on my bed.
Baby blue sheets full of vibrant penguins living the dream. The best part of the sheet change? Those punderful penguins were made of flannel. Flannel sheets make a man think that Al Borland had it right all along. To draw a terrible and disgusting analogy, flannel sheets are a grown man’s womb. But instead of going through the awkward process of taking a wrong turn and wandering off into some dark fallopian tube, a man can simply peel back the covers and climb into the warmth and security of a good set of flannel sheets.
Some relatively young adults might be more inclined to seek out high thread counts to impress their overnight visitors. Those folks are seeking the warmth of a woman. Or an STD... Me? I’m seeking the warmth of the Wal-Mart sheets I got on sale for fifteen dollars. That included two pillowcases, a flat sheet and one of those physically unfoldable sheets. And, one day, I’ll marry that mountainwoman that will climb in those flannel sheets with me. We can save the Egyptian cotton for summertime.
So, let’s close this out with a little motivation… Maybe you can easily remember your favorite part of childhood. Maybe you don’t want to remember your childhood. Hopefully, your best days are ahead of you. A wise man once told me if these were the best days of my life, I should kill myself. Don’t go that far, but do take the time to do something that makes you truly happy.
Find your flannel.
When I was little, I always had a favorite part of wintertime, outside of the obvious gift-receiving. There was the time that I thought I would have fun and help out by breaking the ice off of the sliding glass door, only to have my father inform me that the ice was in fact the outer pane of what used to be a dual pane sliding glass door… But, alas, that wasn’t my favorite yuletide of my youth event. Nope… that title was reserved for when Mom determined it was time to put the penguin sheets on my bed.
Baby blue sheets full of vibrant penguins living the dream. The best part of the sheet change? Those punderful penguins were made of flannel. Flannel sheets make a man think that Al Borland had it right all along. To draw a terrible and disgusting analogy, flannel sheets are a grown man’s womb. But instead of going through the awkward process of taking a wrong turn and wandering off into some dark fallopian tube, a man can simply peel back the covers and climb into the warmth and security of a good set of flannel sheets.
Some relatively young adults might be more inclined to seek out high thread counts to impress their overnight visitors. Those folks are seeking the warmth of a woman. Or an STD... Me? I’m seeking the warmth of the Wal-Mart sheets I got on sale for fifteen dollars. That included two pillowcases, a flat sheet and one of those physically unfoldable sheets. And, one day, I’ll marry that mountainwoman that will climb in those flannel sheets with me. We can save the Egyptian cotton for summertime.
So, let’s close this out with a little motivation… Maybe you can easily remember your favorite part of childhood. Maybe you don’t want to remember your childhood. Hopefully, your best days are ahead of you. A wise man once told me if these were the best days of my life, I should kill myself. Don’t go that far, but do take the time to do something that makes you truly happy.
Find your flannel.
11.08.2010
Cute Girls on the Short Bus
I'm about to get my Natalie Merchant on...
So I’ve been doing this blog thing for a little while now… This is post number 20 in fact. A milestone of sorts. I don’t have any intention of being the guy who writes for a little while, finally gets a following, and then forgets about the folks that got him there. This is for you guys… It’s easy to get on the bus when the going is good, but you all started on the bus. Sure, it may not be a big bus yet. But the people I want reading my blog are the people who are willing to be the first ones to hop on the short bus on a cold morning.
I want this to be as enjoyable as possible for you guys. I want you to get rewarded for being first on the bus – not only by getting the back seat where you can spend the ride imagining what would happen if you opened the emergency door, but while you’re back there reading the instructions on how to open the door, the cute girl comes and sits beside you… Not the cute girl from your grade, but the grade above you.
Allow me to say thank you. Thank you to the folks in Denmark who keep looking at this thing. And thanks for starting to tell your friends in Sweden... Canada, the UK [Is The United Kingdom like The Ohio State? Additionally, while watching The Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader a while back, they tried to tell a guy there were only 3 adjectives in a sentence. However, there were two additional “the”s in that sentence, bringing the grand total of adjectives to five. Sure it’s an article, but an article is an adjective] , Mexico, Germany, Singapore, Israel and Pakistan, I see you too. Like ZZ Top, this blog is bad and worldwide. Probably more the former than the latter.
Thank you to my second leading source of volume, the high Simmons. [First hyperlink of my young blogging career]. Mile high. Taking the occasional break from studying the laws that govern the greatest country in the world and shaping the young to become President so that they can go to any sporting event they want, the Skeets have been kind enough to let some of their loyal readers stray off the path and into the rocky soil.
And there are a couple of more groups I need to thank. First, thank you to the people who come here by clicking the “Next Blog” button. Sure, you’re probably looking for some creepy erotic blog, but, alas, you stumbled upon this creepy non-erotic blog. Thanks for stopping by.
Lastly, thank you to the creepers. I know your kind. You claim “Hey, he’s putting it out there, he doesn’t need to know I’m reading it and taking notes on his life.” And you’re right. Lurk away. You’re an important part of society. Without you lurking, I wouldn’t have to worry about staying true to my blog. It’s you who is going to call me out about anything contradictory to something I posted on here. And it’s to you that I promise to never again use the phrase “stay true to my blog”.
Remind me to remember you all again in a few years when Mark Zuckerberg, Jay-Z, Rosie O’Donnell, Bruce Willis and Taylor Swift are on my blog's board of directors.
I want to thank you. Thank you.
So I’ve been doing this blog thing for a little while now… This is post number 20 in fact. A milestone of sorts. I don’t have any intention of being the guy who writes for a little while, finally gets a following, and then forgets about the folks that got him there. This is for you guys… It’s easy to get on the bus when the going is good, but you all started on the bus. Sure, it may not be a big bus yet. But the people I want reading my blog are the people who are willing to be the first ones to hop on the short bus on a cold morning.
I want this to be as enjoyable as possible for you guys. I want you to get rewarded for being first on the bus – not only by getting the back seat where you can spend the ride imagining what would happen if you opened the emergency door, but while you’re back there reading the instructions on how to open the door, the cute girl comes and sits beside you… Not the cute girl from your grade, but the grade above you.
Allow me to say thank you. Thank you to the folks in Denmark who keep looking at this thing. And thanks for starting to tell your friends in Sweden... Canada, the UK [Is The United Kingdom like The Ohio State? Additionally, while watching The Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader a while back, they tried to tell a guy there were only 3 adjectives in a sentence. However, there were two additional “the”s in that sentence, bringing the grand total of adjectives to five. Sure it’s an article, but an article is an adjective] , Mexico, Germany, Singapore, Israel and Pakistan, I see you too. Like ZZ Top, this blog is bad and worldwide. Probably more the former than the latter.
Thank you to my second leading source of volume, the high Simmons. [First hyperlink of my young blogging career]. Mile high. Taking the occasional break from studying the laws that govern the greatest country in the world and shaping the young to become President so that they can go to any sporting event they want, the Skeets have been kind enough to let some of their loyal readers stray off the path and into the rocky soil.
And there are a couple of more groups I need to thank. First, thank you to the people who come here by clicking the “Next Blog” button. Sure, you’re probably looking for some creepy erotic blog, but, alas, you stumbled upon this creepy non-erotic blog. Thanks for stopping by.
Lastly, thank you to the creepers. I know your kind. You claim “Hey, he’s putting it out there, he doesn’t need to know I’m reading it and taking notes on his life.” And you’re right. Lurk away. You’re an important part of society. Without you lurking, I wouldn’t have to worry about staying true to my blog. It’s you who is going to call me out about anything contradictory to something I posted on here. And it’s to you that I promise to never again use the phrase “stay true to my blog”.
Remind me to remember you all again in a few years when Mark Zuckerberg, Jay-Z, Rosie O’Donnell, Bruce Willis and Taylor Swift are on my blog's board of directors.
I want to thank you. Thank you.
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