Some of my best friends...
I have known my friend T for about 15 years. Yesterday she told me about her butt crack and boobs. Now, I hate the phrase "too much information," because I think it is overused, and regardless, your brain will find a way to store that information, or it will be automatically sent to the mental rubbish bin. So, instead of saying "tmi," I will just say that I don't know how to file those new facts about my friend's derrier and breasts. Should it go under "trivia," "science and health," "friend facts," or "grab bag?"

I hate to be a stickler for details, but...
There is no such word as "nother," as in "a whole nother level." Take out the "n," please.

I'm straight. But like my hair, I have my own idea of straight. Not the common notion of what straight is. For example, I wouldn't mind bringing a date to a gay dance club. Why? Because they have great music, I don't have to act all macho, and my date wouldn't get her ass grabbed by some drunk frat guy.

I am so not ghetto fabulous. I'm not a ghetto superstar. Hell, I'm not even on the ghetto B-list.

I finished writing my play. Yay. My brains are now leaking from my ears. But I'm done. Now, for the re-writes! Sheesh.

Pootie Tang is one of those movies you have to catch from the beginning, or you'll miss all the character development and story arc.

When you spend your Saturday morning swinging from a trapeze, making sure you're positioned right so you don't rip any muscles or dislocate your shoulder, the rest of the weekend seems so easy.

On warm nights like this, sometimes I just wanna jump in my car (dammit, I wish I still had my motorcycle) and drive out to the middle of nowhere with the sunroof open and a U2 cd blasting, just because I can. But then I think "my bed looks really, really comfortable."

Goobers

There is much joy when you are in a rush, looking for something in the mall, knowing exactly what you want because you don't like spending lots of time in the mall, looking through stuff in the store, when one of the sales ladies says "you want some chocolate covered peanuts?" and you say "sure" and she pours a bunch of Goobers in your hand, and you finally find it (a small leather money clip/credit card holder thing), and they tell you it's 75% off, and you end up spending like $2.50 for something in a big, expensive, fancy-schmancy mall store. Yay for candy. Yay for sales.

Every morning there is a battle between me and my alarm clock. I usually win. Which, I'm sure, pisses of my co-workers at the Morning Job.

I SO hate war. But George W. seems to LOVE war. So can't we compromise and say "o.k., SOME war?" Like "War Light?" With half the bullets and no blood? Less killing, tastes great? Hello? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I'm the type of guy that has to return to his apartment maybe three times before actually leaving because I forgot something. Because I'm kinda stoopid.

Please explain why you know how to hypnotize a chicken, Kennedy
OK. You see, when I was in the Boy Scouts (yeah I was a Boy Scout - to this day, I always have a flashlight with me) some friends taught me how to hypnotize lizards. I'd forgotten that I had that skill until a few years ago. So, out of curiosity, I tried to look it up on the internet, but the only thing I found was about chicken hypnosis, and how it was similar to lizard hypnosis (I guess because their brains are similar). So I thought, "Cool! I can hypnotize both lizards AND chickens! Woo-hoo!"

Anyway, I don't tell people about that particular talent because usually it's at that point when they think I've lost my marbles. And it's pretty hard to prove it because (unlike the Philippines) lizards and chickens are hard to find in L.A., especially when you really, really need one. I'm eagerly waiting for the day when someone will say "Well, I just happen to have a chicken right here! Now let's see it, mister smarty pants!"

Now, if you really, REALLY think about it, it is one of the most useless skills in the known universe. I mean, I don't think there was ever a need for lizards or chickens to not move for several minutes. I don't think it is a skill that was ever in demand at any point in time historically, or, most likely, EVER.

Soooo...I just went to my first trapeeze class today. Yeah, the flying kind. Man, was that fun! My first day, and I was already learning how to be caught on the other side! Oh, god, I think I'm hooked.

Okay. Now just wait. I saw that Vin Di*sel movie, that three x movie. Now just wait, OK? Hold on. I would just like to say right now that Vin Di*sel is the worst actor in the world. He must have signed a contract with the devil because he just plain sucks. The movie itself would have been silly, mindless explosion fun, but whenever the guy walked on screen, the whole movie turned into shit. Really. In the scenes he wasn't in, the movie was almost tolerable. Why does that man have a career?

This is the actual inner monologue that went on in my head when I woke up this morning:

"Hmmm...what day is it? Oh, must be a weekday, the alarm clock is going off...where am I, a hotel? A house? An apartment. Whose apartment? Hmmm...that's my shit in a pile on the floor, I guess it's mine...how am I paying for this apartment? Oh, shit! I gotta go to work!"

I just can't wait for when robots will be doing all our dirty work for us. That'll be the life. But before then, we'd better get some kick-ass programmers to make sure that whole Terminator shit doesn't happen. Yeah, who's laughing at De Vry graduates now?

I hate being competent, because people expect you to do shit, and be all responsible, when all I want to do is lie on the couch and eat red licorice.

Oh, for god's sake, would someone sign my damn gestbook for once? Wish me happy new year? Something? Hello?