Because I'm Not Cool Enough to Understand Twitter

This is what I have been up to..

Sweet Dreams are Made of This

I had a dream that I met Tina Fey. I was so nervous, the only thing I could think to say was, "Uh... Do you want to go to a Coldplay concert some time?" Even in my dreams, I am the least smooth motherfucker on the planet. In case you're wondering, she told me she only likes me as a friend.

Medical Mysteries

I had a doctor actually say the following words: "Hold on, let me Google that..."

Moving On Up

I just moved into a brand new townhouse. Despite my wishes to call it The Pimp Pad, The Bachelor Bungalow or simply The Estate, I was threatened permanent social banishment by every friend I have tested the names with.

The Worst Accidental Pun Ever

I was at work one day, talking to the receptionist (who happens to be black). We both see the UPS guy come into the office (and he also happens to be black). When he gets to where we are standing, she turns to me and says, "Don't you just love UPS?" Without realizing the alternate meaning, I blurt out, "Oh yeah. I am totally down with The Brown." Awk-ward.

The Day My Legs Got a Man Fired

TRUE STORY: For no specific reason, I got to work early today (9:45am). As I approached my workstation, I noticed that my office neighbor's desk was completely cleared out. No computer. No personal possessions. No spare change or loose bills in the second drawer. Nada. Our desks are connected and separated by a thin partition, so I got a pretty good look at the void.

Yet it wasn't an hour later that I saw him - let's call him Maximillian Raffenbauer of Morrisville, North Carolina. And let's pretend he isn't from Luxembourg. So I spot Maximillian Raffenbauer walking around the office. Now this I found quite curious. So curious, in fact, that I found myself thinking, "Hmm. This is rather curious."

As I watched him pass, his manager approached him with strict determination. I continued to observe/notice/eavesdrop.

"Umm.. Hey, Max. Did you... move your desk this morning?"

He replied, "Well... yeah. I did."

"You know you can't just do that, right?"

He started to turn in my direction, then stopped. "Can we talk in private?"

I am not exactly sure what all happened in this top secret discussion. But I know it started off with him saying, "Joe shakes. He shakes. All day long his legs are twitching. It's nonstop. My monitor is literally in constant motion. It gives me terrible headaches. I couldn't take the ridiculous distraction anymore so I moved."

I also know that this private conversation escalated quickly and ended a few hours later with him emptying his newly-inhabited desk and being escorted out of the building.

The conversation where this was disclosed was private and fully confidential. So of course everyone in the office knew about it within minutes. Before me even. In unparalleled consideration and professionalism, they all started calling me "Earthquake Joe." But I've been given this nickname before. Just for different reasons. Mmm-hmm.

When I learned the details of his involuntary departure, I was dumbfounded. The situation plagued my thoughts all afternoon. This man was unemployed because of me. Here one minute. Gone the next. Because of my actions, I drove someone to the brink of insanity and tormented his work life. And I was totally unaware of it the whole time.

After some deep thinking, I determined what had to be done. If I actually put some effort into this, I can really start some shit. By my calculations, I can up my caffeine intake enough by drinking just two more cans of Red Bull each day and piss off enough people to have my very own corner office by September.

The Fix

"So I think you should date my friend. You two would get along sooo well."

Crap. The setup. Never a good situation.

"Yeah? I don't know..."

"Oh c'mon. She's cute. Smart. Funny. Look, next time she's in town I want you to meet her."

"In town? Where is she usually? Some backwater mountain village?"

"No, nothing like that. She's just out of state."

"Out of this state? We're not exactly close to any other states. How far away are we talking?"

"I don't know. Like 8, maybe 9 hour drive. But once you guys start dating, then we can get her to move here and I can hang out with her whenever I want."

"So you're just pretending to help out your friends when really you're just thinking about yourself."

"Basically."

"That I can respect. She's not slutty, is she?"

"No way! Such an angel."

"Forget it. I want the next one to be a whore."

"Don't be an idiot. So let's take a road trip out there. It'll be great! But we have to go when her stupid boyfriend is out of town. I hate that guy."

"Boyfriend? Like, an ex?"

"No. The guy she's with now. Such a tool."

"You're trying to set me up with a girl who lives 9 hours away and is currently seeing somebody?"

"Technically they live together."

"Oh, only technically? Jesus. You're worse at picking out girls for me than I am. Well, almost."

"Great. I'll give her a call."

Numb Luck

I thought I was being proactive. Everyone else in my family has had their wisdom teeth removed. And my mouth is crowded enough as it is (I only seem to have a big mouth when I speak), so there was simply no real estate left for the four molars lying dormant in my jaw. They had to go.

continue...

The Boy Who Cried Appendix

The Journey
It was my first business trip. And it went as bad as any trip could go. For starters, I was in St. Louis. Second, I ended up having emergency surgery.

Day One had gone well enough. I flew in and was at the office by 11am, just in time to shake hands and go to lunch - paid for by the clients. We came back, got to know one another, they gave me the lowdown on the project and then it was time to check into my hotel. I dropped my bags in the room at 5pm and headed to meet my hosts for dinner. Charged to the company credit card.

Total expenses thus far: $0.

continue...

Snow Day 2007 #2

The weather called for 1 inch of snow falling between 6am and 6pm. When I awoke at 7am, my roommate was up and celebrating as the news announced school closings. They don't do coded letters here. They just say "all" or "none." Today, they said "all." She sure as hell wasn't going to work today and pleaded that I do the safe thing and just stay off the roads. I scoffed and got ready to go to work.

It started to flurry as I was on my way to work around 8am. Traffic was scarce as the only people confident enough to leave home were those driving SUVs or pickup trucks. Though as the first flakes dropped, I did see a disabled Volvo on the side of the highway, which had its tires wrapped in chains.

At 9am, I joined the other two coworkers who made it in to "go outside and see what the snow is doing." Even though I had a pretty good idea that what the snow was doing was "falling," I didn't want to ruin the surprise. We went to the parking lot and scraped all the snow off of a four cars to make 1½ sickly-looking snowballs. It wasn't so much a snowball fight as a snowball incident.

At 11am, one of the few supervisors came into the lab and said, "Guys, I understand if you're concerned about getting home safely today. We appreciate you coming in today. But if you're worried about the roads, feel free to just go on ahead home. Might want to pick up some bread and milk on your way, if there's any left at the stores."

As I walked out of the building at two minutes past 11am, a light rain sprayed my smiling face as I could no longer contain my laughter.

The `Who ARE You?` Hookup

I was pretty drunk by the time we got to the house party. Correction: I was pretty drunk by the time we got to the 3rd house party of the night. I had done more than my share of beer-ponging, flip-cupping, keg-standing and 'seriously this is the last one'-ing. But I swear: I wasn't that drunk.

We entered a house we'd never been in through the kitchen at around 1am - an act that can only be pulled off as long as the house inhabitants are more drunk than yourself. About fourteen people we had never seen before huddled around a flowing beer keg as if it were a campfire in the dead of winter. Another spent keg sat unattended in the corner. The drops of condensation on its body looked more like tears of neglect.

We spent the next two hours doing most of the things you do when you don't know anyone at a party. We clung together and made fun of everyone else in the room. We made fun of people we knew but weren't there. We let pretty girls go ahead of us in bathroom and keg lines, certain that our acts of chivalry would pay off. How original.

Normally, I would feel guilty about my slacking effort to meet people. But this wasn't my school. It was just a weekend visit to see some old buddies. I'd be gone by lunchtime the next day and would never see any of these people again. I was free to make a fool. Tell unfunny jokes. Get as drunk as I please. You know, like a typical Monday morning at work.

The expected events of the night took a turn when a cute blond in a pink polo shirt came up to talk to me.

"Hey."

"Well, hey!" So far, so good - minus the upturned collar of her shirt. But we all have flaws. I'm proud that I could look past that. Well, not past. Just a few inches south.

"Umm... Jodi wants to talk to you. She's out on the porch."

I had no idea who Jodi was or why she would want to talk to me. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever met anyone named Jodi before.

"Huh?"

"Jodi told me to come get you. Go to the front porch."

Despite my utter confusion, I wasn't about to question being sent to a girl requesting my attendance.

I made my way through the living room to the front door, expertly navigating a floor covered in bodies passed out, making out and smoking up. I opened the extra-wide door and peered outside.

I boldly stepped out, my feet quickly landing on cement and without thinking I closed the door behind me. Mom would have been so proud. However, my confusion only grew as there was no light to help make sense of who or what awaited me. I could see no more than a faint outline of a person sitting on the porch swing some 15 feet away. Or was it a lamp sitting on top of an old speaker?

"Hey you. Come on over."

As I sat down, I couldn't see past my nose into the chilly November night. Twelve inches away, I couldn't even tell if this girl actually had a face.

And that's when it started. It just came out - like a confession that had just broken free of immense pressure to hold it within. Rapid. No order. No sense.

"Look... I like you. And I really, really want to kiss you. And I really had fun with you tonight. It's just..."

As soon as I heard her voice, I was certain: I had never spoken to this girl before in my life.

"... hold on. Let me just get my thoughts together." Uh. Me too, honey.

It was then a few partygoers spilled out of the front door and a small beam of light shown on to her face. Yup. Total stranger. But my back was to the door, so my face was still a mystery to her. The backlighting effect really seemed to further the mysterious air I was unknowingly casting. And didn't she say something about kissing? Let's get back to that.

"Okay. It's just that I just got out of a really long relationship - like I told you. And my head is still spinning. It's been so hard. Like crazy. I just can't get my heart broken again, you know? And then he showed up tonight and it was so awkward. I mean, is it a crime to have fun? I just don't think I'm ready... for anything. It's too much right now. I'm so sorry. Please don't be mad at me."

Maybe it was her sincerity. Maybe it was the shock of it all. Nah. It was the booze. I was completely lost and my brain stuck on one word: more beer.

At that moment, my friends called out to me from the street. Over the sound of a running car engine I heard them yell, "Come on, man! We gotta go!!"

"Umm... we... gotta go. Bye?"

I stepped off the porch and moved towards the car, a Pink Floyd song screaming out the windows. Her immediate silence suggested that she was just as confused as me. A yard shy of the sidewalk, I heard a shout from behind.

"Wait!"

She ran off the porch and stopped in front of me, pointing her head to the ground just as I turned to face her.

"I know I'd hate myself and always wonder if I didn't do this."

She closed her eyes as she looked up and leaned towards me. Gently resting her hands on my chest, she stood up on her toes and kissed me. This was, of course, received with raucous cheers from my awaiting comrades.

After a few moments, she pulled away and made a little laugh; at once embarrassed, yet proud of our observed performance.

Ditto.

"Well, I'll see you. Soon I hope?"

"Umm... right. Take care?"

"Byee."

Even through the pitch dark, I could sense a wide grin on her face. I got in the car to the expected teasing of my buddies.

"Duuuuude! You work pretty quick in foreign territory! Who was that?"

"I... have... nofreakingcluewhothatwas. So where's the next party?"

The Opposite of the Reason I Moved

The number one reason I wanted to move south was to avoid another Philadelphia winter. This body was not made for the cold. It also isn't made for manual labor. Or jury duty.

And yet here I am. 7 hours south of Philadelphia, opening the blinds this morning to see cars and trees frosted in bitter, white snow. It seems that traveling 400 miles towards the equator only warms things up by about 3 degrees. So as usual, God continues to toy with me for his own amusement. Touché mon frer.

On the other hand, my boss did call and tell me not to worry if I couldn't make it in today because it is "so messy out."

You'll notice that there isn't actually any snow on the ground. And yet the whole county is given off with pay for these "horrendous conditions." Maybe this was a good idea after all. Maybe God does love me. Yay God.

Don`t Read This; Wait for the Movie

Ironically - yet somewhat unsurprisingly - my early retirement has come to a premature end. When I first moved down to North Carolina, everything was great.

My mornings typically started out around 2pm, where I would greet my roommate's puppy Chihuahua with the words, "And so we meet again... Herr Puppy." After losing a best of seven staring contest (usually 4 games to 1) with said canine, I would then grab a hammer and screwdriver to prepare a healthy breakfast of Spaghettio's with meatballs (we don't have a can opener). The remainder of the day usually consisted of less interesting activity.

Eventually, this routine grew dull and my bank account totals sank below my IQ. Homeless people on the street started offering money to me. It was time to get a job.

I soon found myself the newest employee of a major bookstore franchise (not that one, the other one). And truth be told, I've had a great experience. But I'd be denying that I'm a yankee cynic at heart if I didn't relate my experiences with sarcastic condescension while completely ignoring any positive aspects.

A common statement shared between bookstore employees is the somehow complimentary fact that "if you were normal, they wouldn't have hired you here." The staff consists of a variety of characters: Graduates with English degrees who recite poetry unprovoked. Others who oft find Lady Inspiration beckoning them to speak with an air of Olde English prose. Or former hippies who have finally given into the Man. Or maybe a socially awkward person who just loves to tell jokes about coleslaw.

And then there's me. I do my best to fit into society. But sometimes my selfish amusement gets the best of me.

Me: Good morning. Did you get a haircut? It looks good.

Female coworker: Oh! Now he's nice. Remind me; who was it that insulted me three times the first time we met?

Me: Geez. Knowing you, that could have been just about anybody.

There's also an elder employee who some call "extremely dedicated." I call him a selfish bastard. Dedicated? For coming to work when he's sick? Every four minutes he coughs and hacks something awful. The kind of cough where you know something came up and went back down behind the hands covering his mouth. And without a thought, he'll then take cash out of unsettled customers' hands and return to them their purchased material. Groooooooss. Under the Patriot Act, I'm pretty sure that classifies as bio-terrorism. And jackassery.

My time with customers has taught me that roughly 50% of the world's population is completely miserable.

Me: Good afternoon, sir. Did you find everything you were looking for?

Pleasant Customer: Whatever.

Me: Alright. Your total is $69.26.

PC: Fine. Wait - what!? Seventy bucks for one damn book?! Are you serious? This is ridiculous. What's wrong with you?

Me: I'm sorry sir, I don't set the prices.

PC: —whole world think that I'm made of money?! Gas?! Insurance?! Ballet shoes?! BOOKS!!

Me: Miss- I mean, sir. Would you like me to cancel the transaction? I can put the book back on the shelf for you.

PC: Oh - no, no. I want it. It's actually the best collection of Siamese cat photography out right now. Oh and could you put the receipt in the bag? Thankyasomuch.

Me: I can also gift-wrap that for you if you'd like.

PC: Oh I bet! And how much are you stealing for that little scam?

Me: Actually, it's free, sir.

PC: Oh. Free you say? Think I might go home and grab a few things. I'll be back.

But I have my little ways at getting back at the nasties and keeping myself entertained.

Me: Good evening, sir. How are you?

Douche-bag: Just ring it up.

(Joe picks up the phone and gets on the PA system)

Me: I need a price check on the latest issues of- let's see... Penthouse Letters. Hustler. Guys and... Guys?. Oh, and Better Homes & Gardens.

If I get really pissed, I just start asking for photo IDs from every customer who pays in cash. 9 times out of 10 they don't think anything of it:

"Nothing to worry, Pastor. Just making sure everything checks out. Now can you tell me the last 17 digits of the serial number on the 10 dollar bill you claim is yours?"

Or if the customer is an attractive young fem that wants to pay with a credit card, I ask for her license and then say, "They're getting so good with fake IDs these days. You'd better give me your phone number. Just to be safe." Since I started working, I've got more digits than a calculator. (yeah, that one was real bad)

Though phone numbers have caused their share of problems for me. More than once I've had a customer approach the register shouting something like, "436. 29. 82."

Me: Pardon me, sir? Is that your high school locker combination or tonight's winning Lotto numbers?

Ass: It's my phone number. Look up my account so I get points or miles or coupons or whatever.

Me: Oh, sure. I'm just used to starting conversations with words instead of numbers. But that was a nice change of pace. Thanks.

And don't mention the words "area code" to the people of North Carolina. They never use them here and I suspect many don't even know what one is.

Me: What is your area code, please?

Ass: Code? There ain't no secret codes. It's a telly-phone number.

Whatever you say, Hee-Haw.

And what's with people who wear sunglasses indoors? And at night? And because their future is so bright? These are generally the same people who are legally obligated to go door-to-door every time they move to a new neighborhood.

There are also customers that prefer to be less overt and more offensive in their immaturity. For example, relocating all the Dr. Phil books to a restroom stall. Or putting a stack of Holocaust books in the Fantasy section. Or buying a Cher CD. "It's for a friend," my ass.

So far I've only encountered one case of theft. As I casually passed through the Sexual Experimentation section, I noticed an empty box that used to contain an audio book, the wrapper in shreds at my feet. The title? Questions of Faith & Morality. Since I know that there is a God and he has a wonderful sense of humor, I have full faith that the disc starts off with "thou shalt not steal," followed by a lecture on the definition of irony. Salvation does not come without a price, my friend.

I've already begun to notice how this work experience is changing me. I find myself acting in a completely unnatural way. Being overly pleasant and using that annoying retail voice.

"You have yourself a super day. Now you promise to come back and visit us again soon. I can't wait to hear how that Atkins/Yoga/Pilates/Amputation diet works out for you. I bet I won't even recognize you. Buh-bye." (cue shit-eating grin)

OR

"This book is exactly what you're looking for if you want to take your craft to the next level. It's been flying off the shelves lately. To be honest, I've always been fascinated by crocheting, knitting - any kind of needlework really. I just wish I could dedicate the kind of time an art like this truly deserves."

OR

"Oh yeah. This is definitely my favorite Danielle Steel book. It's got to be her best yet. So much... love. And passion. You should really buy it."

But working in any retail capacity has its benefits. For example, I get to listen to toe-tapping, booty-shaking music all day long. Time just flies while I'm serenaded by rocking artists like Bette Midler. Barry Manilow. Josh Groban. And I get it to hear it over. And over. And over. And over. And over. Kill me now.

But my employers made a fatal mistake. They assigned me to the music department a few times a week. One of the benefits being I am the soul responsible for choosing the in-house music. That's right; joey is DJ'ing at the bookstore. From the windows, to the walls, baby.

I wasn't expecting it, but in hindsight I'm not at all surprised to find a mega-bookstore corporation to be as overly sensitive to political correctness as all other businesses.

I was assigned to reorganize the holiday greeting cards as after every two hours, it starts to resemble the ball pits at Chuck E. Cheese. A customer approached me and politely asked, "Pardon. Do you have any cards that say Merry Christmas? Anywhere on the card, I don't care what it looks like."

Was she serious? There were currently 300+ boxes of holiday cards on the two enormous tables in front of us. I quickly scanned, prepared to throw 295 of them in her face and cackle at her ignorance.

However, she indeed had the upper hand. Not a single box of cards had the word "Christmas" anywhere on it. Sure, there were sayings like, "Happy Holidays." "Good Tidings and Cheer." And pictures of wreaths, candy canes, Santa Clauses and baby Jesus blessing a tractor. But no Christmas.

It apparently seems too risky to acknowledge the word "Christmas" in a business setting. But there's nothing with putting the tiny Hanukkah display way off in the back corner of the store - right in the heart of the business section. I kid you not.

And something I'm still trying to figure out is how Native American music is filed under International. Is there anything more domestic than the Native Americans?

But the truly touching part of this job is having the honor to grant the gift of books, of imagination to so many. There's just nothing that compares to the feeling you get when an 8 year-old child smiles at you as you hand him his very own copy of Pet Sematary . It's enough to bring a greater man to tears. Fortunately, I am not a greater man.

Debauchery on the High Seas

If you've never been on a cruise before, here is the simplest way I can summarize it for you:

• everyone is your new best friend
• constant drunkenness
• partial nudity is expected
• at the beginning they just give you a little plastic card and say, "Use this for money. We'll worry about who is going to pay for it later."

It was exactly like college.

As for the company I was with on my journey, I found myself with one acquaintance and eight strangers for the duration of the cruise. It was a complete random assortment of characters and yet it was somehow a recipe for some of the funniest, most outrageous and raunchiest fun I've ever had. Here are some of the highlights...

Throughout the course of the trip, our friend Matt was granted sexual immunity simply on the basis of being gay. This allowed him to touch any one's anything under the justification that "It's okay. He's gay."

On an unrelated note, I learned a new word. Apparently, the word "twink" means an attractive young man targeted by older gay men. For some reason, I heard that word used a lot.

MON
Within 2 hours of the cruise beginning, we met a nice older woman named Kathy, who was kind enough to lend her daughter Christy to us for the duration of the trip. We adopted her as our own and affectionately renamed her Princess. Even after we were shown her license, passport and birth certificate we were still convinced that she was no older than 17 years old. At an apparent 22, she was the youngest member in our troupe yet still outdrank and outlasted us each and every night. I now call her "The Rock Star."

The first day of our cruise was marred by news of the passing of a beloved pop culture icon, Steve Irwin, The Crocodile Hunter. I was able to find a didgeridoo to play a moving rendition of Amazing Grace. My initial sympathies later turned to resentment as his tragic death inspired alcoholic toasts every 10 minutes or so. Don't judge me. You try drinking every time someone says, "Crikey!" and see how you feel the next day. I vaguely recall taking off my pants during the classy, sit down dinner. At 6pm.

It was at this dinner that my new friend Katie shouted, "Where's ma boooooze?" as if she had just checked out of the Betty Ford Clinic. For the remainder of our trip, her hand was never free of alcohol. I noticed that whenever her drinks were close to empty, some body part of hers would "accidentally" fall out and at least two of us guys would run off to fetch her a refill. I like her style.

Later in the night, we passed a unisex bathroom and someone cleverly called it the "U and I sex room." This joke would be repeated for the remainder of the trip as there were several multi-person excursions for some "U and I sex" in said public restrooms. You'd think it would get old but it actually doesn't - as long as you're drunk, horny and me. I guess that's sort of redundant. Twice.

TUE
We spent most of the day at the onboard art auction... heckling the auctioneer. Why? Was it because she was poor at her job? Was it because the art sucked? Both were true, but we had a better reason. In fact, a GREAT reason. Unlimited. Free. Champagne. No explanation necessary. I think my favorite piece was Mother and Child Sitting on the Beach While Dad Runs to the Car and Never Comes Back Again.

Later, it was formal night. Tonight proved that you can dress it up, but it will still get silly drunk and make a mess. We attended multiple happy hours. "Every hour is a happy hour" was our slogan for the night. This was also the night we encountered our heroes for the trip. Amongst a sea of formally attired individuals strolled a couple who looked as if they had just come from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. The woman held in her hand a gallon sized mug of some alcoholic beverage (moonshine?), topped with a penis-shaped straw. We dubbed her Cockstraw and she was never far from our thoughts.

I know at one point that we ended up in the Karoake room. I don't recall it, but there is photographic evidence of me stripping off my shirt and simply rocking a tie bare chested while TJ, David and Paula performed.

At some point during the night, we met a man named Jimbo. Everyone on the boat knows Jimbo. He looks like Jimmy Buffet at age 178. He was our entertainment. He was our mentor. He was our friend. He was also the guy passing out penis shaped straws. Good man. My only complaint is that we had to reintroduce ourselves to him and become reacquainted every day. It was like Groundhog's Day.

WED The cruise stopped into Key West from 9am to 3pm. Our group decided it was the perfect time of day for a pub crawl. Amazingly, it ended up being one of the best times of the trip. I wouldn't know. I didn't make it off the boat for Key West. My memories of the island consist mostly of paying for the previous night's sins by hugging the toilet bowl. Needless to say, I hate Key West. Damn you, Steve Irwin.

I'm told the highlight of the pub crawl was TJ's record-setting 4 lap dances given to middle aged women. Actually, I'm not sure if they can still be considered lap dances if they are not requested, not paid for and result in some sort of legal action.

THUR
Through strong determination the night before, I managed to stay sober enough to make it to see Nassau the next day. We had a great time swimming with the dolphins, despite the fact that the trainers were uncomfortable with how close I became with Goomba, our playful marine mammal. When I picked up my picture in the gift shop, the clerk gave a nervous laughter as he told me my picture would be hung up and I would be denied future attendance.

I also learned important survival lessons. For example, if someone in your party gets stung by a jellyfish on his privates, it is okay to pee on his junk. If he is so drunk that you are able to falsely convince him that his genitals were stung by a jellyfish, you must pee on him.

Thursday night probably provided the most raucous and out of control events of the trip. The word "understatement" has now been redefined. You'll understand this if you ever find yourself saying, "Señor Frogs. That place sounds fun." We went from 0 to drunk in about 7 minutes.

Imagine a constant stream of free shots being poured into your mouth while touring the pub via conga line. Kickass old school music. And tribal, island-style fun where anything goes.

We're talking 62-year old playboy bunnies. Richard Hatch look-a-likes. Mixed drinks served in glasses 3 feet long. Did I mention the conga lines of free shots?

Since the cruise was leaving the Bahamas at 10pm, we were forced to cut our fun short as we drunkenly raced back at 9:45. Fortunately, as soon as we were on the boat again, we were able to answer the age old question: "How many drunken assholes can you fit on an elevator?" In case you were wondering, the answer is always "too many."

Not surprisingly, upon returning to the ship, I stripped down to my underwear and ran around the ship - so everyone would know that we were back. I remember being tackled and prodded but I also remember tipping whoever did it. Paula, was that you?

FRI
Friday... Friday... It sounds familiar but I can't quite place the name.

SAT
We disembarked around 10am and headed for home. Somewhere near the Georgia border, Matt realized that he had left a bag of duty free Vodka and his passport at the curb back in Jacksonville. I'm not sure which he was more worried about losing.

After reclaiming Matt's right to travel and drink without paying taxes, we were on our way home in his brand new hybrid, a blueish, purpleish Toyota Prius. I did tell you Matt was a liberal hippie gay, didn't I? As we ran out of gas somewhere along I-95 in South Carolina, I am pretty sure that oil executives everywhere got an erection.

I was dropped off in Raleigh around 8pm and was fast asleep by 8:15. I didn't wake up until 4pm Sunday.

QUOTE LIST

• "So the first stop is in Key West? Let me get this straight, you took a cruise... to America? Way to go. I live in Lauderdale, I can drive there in, like, 3 hours."
• "I did THAT?!"
  --- NOTE: digital cameras are GREAT for blackmail
• "If it really hurts that bad, you should just let Bo pee on it."
• "Oh don't worry about him. He's gay. He's just being friendly."
• "I don't even KNOW these assholes!"

my new favorite assholes

snowboreding

I don't care who invented snowboarding. I don't care what sort of doped-out hoodlums enjoy it as a pastime. What I want to know is how the hell I got tricked into thinking that it was some sort of cool, non pain-inducing activity. I'd like to blame hallucinogenic drugs or Nazis, but I haven't had contact with either for some time. So it seems I can blame only myself.

The only thing I don't have a complaint about is the fashion. I love snowboarding fashion. Those huge, obnoxiously colored boots and snow outfits? Fabulous. Unfortunately, I quickly found that fashion self-esteem is not enough to shield you from pain.

That’s because snowboarding is probably the only activity that you don't care if you fall. You don't even care if other people see you fall. That's because everyone falls and falls all the time. That's right; repeated failure is not only acceptable, it's expected. It’s like public high school. More often than not, falling now is preferred to falling later because you're only going to pick up speed. And when you eventually fall - and I as I said, you will fall again - it's only going to hurt more. So you might as well clench your fists, heave your body to the ground and taste artificial snow. Tastes like confetti.

So fall I did and I fell early, often, late and everything in between. With each fall, a new part of my body ached. It got so bad that I hurt in places I couldn't identify on an anatomy chart. Eventually, I ran out of organs to hurt and eventually started hurting in phantom body parts that evolution had discarded from the human form thousands of years ago.

After one of the many, many, many meetings between my face and the mountain, one fellow (probably a pedophile) offered some advice - which incidentally included no help whatsoever: "Hey. No pain, no gain. Right, buddy? Hehe. Keep at it."

Ha... ha... haha... Ha. In case you can't tell, that laughter was both sarcastic and insincere. No pain no gain? Call me crazy, but can't we just leave it at 'no pain'? That would be preferable for me. Given the choice of pain and no pain, I'd probably lean towards no pain 75% of the time.

And gain? Who the hell cares about gain anyway? No one says what kind of gain is expected from the unspecified pain. Gain isn't necessarily a good thing. You could gain a brain tumor. You could gain a reputation for being a sexual deviant. You could gain a 15-year prison sentence and a cellmate named Trent/Debbie. I'm no lawyer, but I simply can't agree to this no-pain/no-gain clause until I am assured the amounts and details of both pain and gain.

Probably the most insulting sight was that of a child of 10 weaving his way down the mountain like Betsy Ross on a Singer. As if I needed any further frustration: it did very little benefit to witness a fetus tackling the task with great ease while I tumbled down the mountain to the sound of my own cracking bones.

Nature helped my endeavor very little as well. My supposed friends and I picked to hit the mountain on a day with 20mph winds... which were blowing UP the mountain! The longest I stayed up all day was when a particularly strong gust slowed me to a halt and then blew me back up the mountain for about 15 feet. Even though this is probably the exact opposite of achieving the goal at hand, I still felt proud of the achievement: "You snowboarded 15 feet up a mountain?" That's right. Jealous?

As if submitting to gravity weren't hard enough, I think I found greater difficulty in trying to move around on level ground - i.e. from the end of a run to the ski lift and from the ski lift to the beginning of a run. Imagine that you were a duck; attach a wooden plank sideways to only one foot. Step onto ice. Now walk 50 feet. Good luck.

Dejected and battered, I hobbled into the lodge to sulk where I found an acoustic duo that was playing Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer." Oh yes, my friends. The fighter still remained. As I sat at the bar, my Disney-saturated upbringing left me half-expecting a quiet stranger to appear out of nowhere and impart words of infinite wisdom upon me. As the afternoon passed, no one appeared, but my confidence was steadily increasing. Then again, it may have been due to my four rounds of Samuel Adams, the closest thing to a silent stranger I was going to find.

I found myself surged with newfound energy as the chorus of a Chumbawumba song thumped in the background: "I get knocked down... But I get up again... You're never gonna keep me down... I get knocked down..." Mostly that last part over and over again.

Fortunately, I didn't seriously injure myself or anyone around me, but the ski lift looks to be out of commission for some time. In my drunken state of mind, I somehow switched up the proper order of operations. Specifically, when you're supposed to ride the ski lift and when you head down the mountain. To put it in a more positive sounding light, I learned the lesson that a snowboard should not be used as a grappling device when attempting to hijack a downhill moving ski lift chair. Yeah. Musta been the booze.