Friday, March 31, 2006

Don't call me Shirley.

If you're not reading Paul Shirley you need to be. On the off chance you don't know who he is, he was the 12th man for the Suns last year who never played. He was asked to write a little journal (a blog, if you will) during a one week road trip last spring to be posted on

He needs to go find the person who asked him to write that thing and suck his dick (I mean "suck his dick" in a completely non-gender-specific kind of way). Before that, he had no writing experience or aspirations and didn't know he was good at it. His little blog got him a job writing for, a book deal, and a fucking sitcom producing job. Read all about it in journal #20, 21, and 22.

I find this to be completely awesome. That's all.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006


There was a time when shoe shopping was a joyous occasion. Every six months or so, Mom would take us to the mall to get new shoes. When I found a pair I liked that met Mom's approval, we would put my old shoes in the box so I could wear the new ones home. Also, up until about age 7, I would sleep in my new shoes. New shoes kicked more ass than anything.

Now shoe shopping is a damn chore. Ms. Brick has informed me daily for the past several months that she was "embarrassed" by the state of my dress shoes. I can't blame her, they were pretty banged up. I just despise the act of shopping so much that I put it off as long as possible. Just like I do with haircuts. Actually, come to think of it, I like to put off everything as long as possible. Isn't April 14th coming up? I feel like I have something I need to be doing on April 14th.

So a few days ago, we made the trip out to the Discount Shoe Warehouse. It was a lot less painful than I thought it would be. It usually takes about five shoe shopping trips before I find something I like that Ms. Brick also likes. It only took one trip this time. Awesome.

I walked into the store, and saw a pair of shoes I thought I liked. I tried them on and showed Ms. Brick. She informed me that I did not, in fact, like them.

Her: "They're too fat."
Me: "What the hell does that mean?"

I decided to put them back, because I didn't need her reminding me that she hated my shoes every time I put them on.

I found another pair that were pretty much exactly like the ones I was replacing, and they met her standards, but I decided to look some more. I found a pair of gay Rockports:

Her: "I don't like the rounded front."
Me: "But they're gay Rockports."

I liked the fact that they were only a little bit gay but not totally gay. They would give me just a little bit of gay street cred without completely emasculating me. I have no idea what I just said. I also don't get why Ms. Brick didn't like them, because it seems whenever we go shopping for shoes, she finds the gayest shoe in the store and wants me to try it on. Something like this, for example:

I would then laugh at her and tell her to put them back.

To quote Adam Sandler: "If I wore something like that I'd have to kick my own ass."

So, I find it inexplicable that she didn't like the Rockports.

I walked around some more, went back to considering the first pair of shoes she didn't like, and the gay Rockports, and the other ones that she actually did like.

I got the ones she liked.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Bats in the belfry.

The sunlight peered through the window and I was aroused from my slumber. I made my way down the corridor to the kitchen to prepare my morning meal of Cheerios and berries. I opened the refrigerator to retrieve the milk when out of the corner of my I saw a small, dark object; an object that did not belong...

I turned and stood face to face with the furry, winged, fanged, pointy-eared beast. My mouth opened and I spoke a series of words that I never imagined I would half to speak:

"Honey, there's a bat in the dining room."

My significant other screamed in terror and ran to the opposite end of the house:

"OMG! OMG!" (thump thump thump thump thump SLAM! click)

She had locked herself in the closet, leaving me to die. I was left alone to face the creature.
My mind raced: "How the fuck did a bat get in the house? I'm sure glad I saw the movie The Great Outdoors starring John Candy and Dan Akroyd back in the summer of '88 so I am properly trained to handle this situation. But seriously, how the fuck did a bat get in the house?"

I grabbed my trusty broomstick. The bat glared at me and hissed while it dangled from the trim at the top of the wall. It swooped down with its fangs bared, the blood of its previous kill still dripping from them.

"AAAA! It's a scary, scary bat! AAAA!" I screamed as I flailed the business end of my broom at it. The bat retreated. "This is going to be harder than I thought," thought the bat, "this guy's got a broom!"

The bat went back to its original position at the top of the wall.

Me: "Honey, get on the computer and tell me what to do!"
Her: "OMG! OMG! I better call my sister and yak with her about this!"

While Ms. Brick and her sister exchanged thoughts regarding their preferences in the field of tablecloth colors, I realized that I was, indeed, in this alone.

The bat swooped down again. It began circling the dining room, mocking me. I inched closer and observed its pattern. I would have to time my move just right. I held the broomstick above my head, and swung it downward, smashing the bat to the floor in the process. As the bat writhed in pain I hit it repeatedly with the broom:

Me: "AAAA!"
(whack, whack, whack)
Bat: "Squeak! Squeak, squeak, squeak!"
Me: "Take that, bitch!"
(whack, whack, whack)
Bat: "Squeak! Squeak, squeak, squeak!"

I placed a wooden box over the squirming bat before it could recover and take flight once again. Why was a wooden box readily available, you ask?

Well, fortunately for me, Ms. Brick had been working on a craft project involving several of these:

The project in question had been sitting untouched on the dining room table for several days.

The threat was now contained. I slid some paperboard beneath the box and released the creature several hundred feet from our residence.

It flew away like a little bitch.

The end.

Now please enjoy my illustrated version. The part of Brick will be played by Samuel L. Jackson. The part of the bat will be played by a bat. The part of the broom will be played by a lightsaber.

starring Samuel L. Jackson

"What a glorious day! I shall now have some Cheerios!"

"ARRR! I'm a scary bat!"

"AAAA! There's muthafuckin' BATS in the muthafuckin' HOUSE!"




"Eat this, bitch!"

"ARRR! Bring it!"

"Oh, it's already been brung!"


"That's right, bitch!"

"You got me. Arrr."


Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Yellow and blue box.

On Friday night, Ms. Brick asked me if we could go to IKEA. It went kind of like this:

Her: "Can we go to IKEA tomorrow?"
Me: "How much complaining am I allowed to do while we are there?"
Her: "None."

I don't know if I have covered this yet in this here blog, but the reason I couldn't just say: "Just go by yourself," is because Ms. Brick lacks the skills and credentials to operate a motor car.

So the next day we made the trek out to the suburban wastelands to visit IKEA. It was a good idea because we really don't have enough crappy particle-board furniture.

Actually, I did need a new desk, and real desks are way too expensive. I got my current desk at Target as a temporary solution. That was four years ago.

We got there and wandered around for a bit. While she looked at candles, I went off to check out the desks. On my way to the desk section I stopped by the restaurant section to get my Diet Pepsi fix. I was hopeful that free refills would be provided. I was also hopeful that the free refills would be the self-serve kind and not the kind where you have to ask someone to refill your cup for you. I hate those kinds of refills because I am opposed to human interaction. Also, I planned on refilling the hell out of that thing, and when someone else is involved in the refilling process it starts get embarrassing at around the fifth refill.

I was not disappointed.

I went up to the counter...

Me: "Can I just get a large Diet Pepsi, please?"
Her: "We only have one size. Refills are free."

She proceeded to place an empty, 20 oz. cup in front of me. Oh happy day.

Her: "60 cents."
Me: "Excuse me?"
Her: "Your total is 60 cents."
Me: "You mean to tell me I can drink all the Diet Pepsi I want while I am in this store for a one-time fee of 60 cents?"
Her: "Yup."
Me: "What is this magical place?"

It was going to be a good day. I decided that the reverse-Disneyland effect effect. You see, when you're at Disneyland, a 12 oz. Coke costs $4.95 and there are no free refills. They know you will pay $4.95 for the 12 oz. Coke because you paid $80 to get in and you're not going to leave to buy cheaper Coke and you are thirsty right now.

At IKEA, you don't have to pay admission, and if they tried to overcharge for food, you would just say: "Damn, this is too expensive, let's go somewhere else." And then you have left the store and probably aren't going back. However, they choose to set the food prices to 20 years ago (hot dogs were 50 cents for chrissakes) so you say: "Hey, let's get some hot dogs and then after we are finished eating the hot dogs we can shop for more crappy furniture. Whoa, only 50 cents? Damn, IKEA rules..." So the cheap food puts you in a good mood and makes you want to buy a shitty coffee table, while expensive food would just piss you off. At Disneyland they already have your money so they don't care if you are pissed off.

Being at IKEA all day sucks way less than being at Disneyland all day. It still sucks, though. Just less. The endless Diet Pepsi supply certainly helped.

I filled my cup with Diet Pepsi and went over to the desks. I took a good long look at the FLÖKTÖRP but I decided to go with the KLÄÄNKGÄÄRD. I'm just kidding. I didn't buy any desks. They didn't really have what I was looking for.

At about my third refill I went looking for Ms. Brick. She was by the pillows.

Her: "Which pillow cases do you like more?"
Me: "I could not possibly care less about either one of those pillow cases."

We ended up spending about three hours there. I have no clue how one can spend three hours at an IKEA, but Ms. Brick manages to do it every time. She would probably stay there longer if she was with her sister instead of me. They would be free to ponder the selection of napkin holders without me standing there bitching.

She spent $158 on flower pots and candles. I spent $3 on a set of steak knives.

I refilled my Diet Pepsi 13 times. One of those times I filled it with regular Pepsi. It was like heroin. I should know better than to be experimenting with regular soft drinks. That leads to harder stuff like Sobe and Redbull, and before you know it I'm injecting pure Coke-syrup into my arm.

I survived, though. I'll try to exercise better judgement in the future. Have a good day, please.

Friday, March 10, 2006


I am having a joyous day here on the the 22nd floor. I decided it was time to go get some food at about 12:14 PM. I got on the elevator and hit the "1" button. It stopped at the eighteenth floor and someone got on.

He hit the "17" button.

While he completed the arduous task of pressing that button, I noticed that he owned a pair of fully-functioning legs.

After cock-punching this douchebox for taking away 13 seconds of my life, I walked across the street to the Subway. The following is an actual exchange I saw between a Subway patron and a Subway employee:

Sandwich artist: "Cheese?"
Sandwich eater: "Yes, havarti, please."
Sandwich artist: "This is fucking Subway, not Fancy Cheese Town."

Okay, she didn't say that. But it would have been way cooler if she did. All she said was the standard: "We don't have havarti."

Seriously. Havarti. In what bizarro universe would you expect a place like Subway to offer havarti as a cheese option? It doesn't hurt to ask, I guess. The next time I'm in there and the guy says: "cheese?" I'm going to say "cottage." I wonder what kind of confusion that will induce. Yes, I did steal that from Mitch Hedberg.

I lied about cock-punching the one-floor elevator taker. I just cock-punched him in my mind. I assume I have been the subject of many a mind-cock-punching throughout the years.

I had a six-inch grilled chicken on wheat with jalapenos and mustard.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Free tunes.

I would like to begin with this PSA:

If you have a studio apartment, and you have a futon that serves as both your couch and bed, and you have some people over, and one of them gets drunk and falls asleep on your couch, you are shit-out-of-luck, my friend. Unless you want to be a dick and kick your friend to the floor. Luckily for me, Matt is not a dick and he slept on the floor.

Sorry, Matt. Watching me down a 24-ounce can of Natural Ice while pinching my nose was pretty funny, though, wasn't it?

Yes it was.

And it only took me five days to get around to writing about it.

I was sitting at my computer the other night, like I do every night, and I was thinking to myself: "Hey, remember that song from a couple years ago? The reggae-ish dance song where the guy says: 'Let's get it on til the early morn' over and over again?"

Me: "Yeah, who sang it?"
Me: "I don't know."
Me: "What's it called?"
Me: "I don't know."
Me: "I want to hear it."
Me: "Don't worry I'll find it."

Three minutes later I had my own copy of "Get Busy" by Sean Paul. I am awesome at the internet. Actually, Google did most of the work. Sure, I could have just paid .99 for it, but that's not any fun. I also found that high-pitched guy James Blunt's "You're Beautiful" by complete accident. That was good because I couldn't get that song out of my head a few days ago. Before I passed out on Matt's futon I made sure to tell him: "You're beaUtifU-UL!" several times. Then I passed out and totally forgot about it. Now I have it.

If downloading music is so fucking illegal, then how come, armed with nothing but a six-year-old laptop and Google, was I able to find what I wanted in 2.2 seconds? Also, how come right now in one tiny corner of my mind I am afraid that the Download Police are going to hunt me down? I am dumb.

While doing this illegal downloading, I did some illegal DVD copying. I was just passing the day's Netflix arrivals through DvdShrink on my other computer. I am such a badass with my blatant disregard for copyright laws. What's interesting is on a lot of new DVDs, when you start them they have this anti-piracy commercial. It basically amounts to: "You wouldn't steal a car. Stealing movies is the same thing."

When I first saw this commercial, it was on my burned copy of Fantastic Four (Jessica Alba is hot). I thought it was going to end with: "Ha ha, your copy didn't work. You suck." and then the DVD would end. I thought: "Hey man, that's cool." But then it just went to the main menu and I thought: "That was gay." Then I watched Fantastic Four.

It was gay.

In news that no one cares about but me and no one will read past this sentence, the Suns play the Spurs tonight, putting their 11-game win streak on the line. This is one of the rare games I get to see them because it's on TNT.

Also, I probably should have said: "ending their 11 game win streak," because the Suns are going to have about six players in uniform.

Below is a list of the players that are out and why:

Amare Stoudemire - knee
Steve Nash - ankle
Shawn Marion - flu
Kurt Thomas - foot
Brian Grant - knee
Nikoloz Tskitishvili - sucking
Tim Thomas - LOL

I guess they are going to need 43 points each from Boris Diaw and Leandro Barbosa. Now please enjoy this picture of Steve Nash:

Never drink Natural Ice.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Jessica Alba is hot.

Jessica Alba was on the cover of Playboy. She is pissed. I guess Playboy got hold of a publicity photo from Into the Blue from Sony Pictures, who gave them permission to use it.

She claims that it implies readers will think they will find a nude pictorial inside.


The first thing I thought when I saw that cover was: "There's no fuckin' way Jessica Alba posed nude."

And I was right. There is, in fact, no fuckin' way Jessica Alba would pose nude. She played a stripper in Sin City and didn't even give us any side-boob.

I guess readers just voted her "Sexiest Star of the Year" or something, and that gave them an excuse to put her on the cover. Yay.

What got me, though, was this comment by a Playboy spokesperson:

"Many celebrities have appeared on the cover of Playboy, but not nude, including Claudia Schiffer, Paris Hilton, Goldie Hawn, Raquel Welch, Barbra Streisand, Brooke Shields and Donald Trump."

Yeah, I still remember when that Donald Trump issue came out. I saw it and got all excited. I brought it home, got out some hand lotion, opened it up, and...

Not even a side-boob.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


Okay, I'm going to fucking write something.

It seems I have been unable to complete a thought these past 10 days as my list of blog entries is riddled with incompletes that I haven't posted.

So whatever I come up with right now is what you get.

I went food shopping on Monday night. Ms. Brick was supposed to come with me but The Bachelor was on. I can't believe she watches that crap. Also, I don't see what the problem was, because The Bachelor is #2 on the priority queue, second only to Dancing with the Stars. Of course, the system is not completely reliable, as it chopped off the last half-hour of last Thursday's episode. For some reason Dancing with the Stars just seems to be Tivo averse.

I guess Ms. Brick just prefers to watch shows as they come on. If nothing good is on, instead of deferring to the Tivo, she just checks to see if a re-run of CSI: Tulsa is on. Although we are stocked with fresh re-runs of Trading Spaces, Divine Design, Designed to Sell, Design on a Dime, reDesign, Xtreme Home Designs, Designing for Idiots, Thrifty Interior Designs, Designated Designing, as well as CSI: Tulsa, she just prefers to channel surf. I don't know why I'm wasting my hard drive space with that crap.

Know what else is funny? Ms. Brick, like every other red-blooded American female, enjoyed Sex and the City. So, over the course of a few months, a rented all six seasons from Netflix and copied all of them. That's right, I illegally own all six seasons of Sex and the City. However, the only time Ms. Brick watches Sex and the City is the censored re-runs they show on TBS every night. She just prefers it with commercials inserted and the swearing and minimal nudity removed.

Sometimes when I want some time to myself, I'll start up one of the DVDs. That usually keeps her occupied for a couple hours.

So I went food shopping. Ms. Brick asked me if I wanted to go and I gave her the usual pained groan with eye-roll that I always give when she asks me to do something. I don't know why I do this. We seriously needed food. I was down to eating spoonfuls of frosting. I made Ms. Brick a cake for Valentine's Day. I am now eating the old, leftover frosting for sustenance.

I agreed to go and at about 7PM I said: "So, you wanna go?"

Her: "Can you go?"
Me: "Uh, okay. Don't you want to come with?"
Her: "Can't you just go?"
Me: "Okay."

She didn't tell me about the imminent broadcast of The Bachelor at the time and I didn't ask. I just went. I decided to make it a Target, Best Buy, Jewel trifecta. That's good because there is a shopping center with a Target, Best Buy, and a Jewel nearby. I didn't really need to go to Target or Best Buy, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Nothing eventful happened at these two locations, except I noticed that the Gillette Fusion has landed.

I decided to contribute to the degradation of society and purchase one. I decided I better get the one with the battery in the handle and I took out a second mortgage on the house to pay for some replacement blades. I must say: Damn! That's one smooth shave. It makes shaving with the Mach3 Turbo feel like I'm rubbing broken glass on my face. Of course, my Gillette Fusion is only good until the Gillette Fusion Xtreme Nitro Black edition comes out next week.

I'm just kidding. I didn't buy the Gillette Fusion.

I purchased nothing at Target or Best Buy proceeded to obtain groceries. I am food shopping impaired. We had no food in the house and I had no idea what to buy. I was in there for thirty minutes and my cart had six cans of tuna and a 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper in it. It reminds me of back when I lived with Scotty Win and we would go food shopping. There was a Mexican produce shop across the street from the Jewel. Scott would go there to get vegetables and I would go to the Jewel to get non-vegetables. He would come by twenty minutes later to see if I was done and I would be standing there, holding an empty basket, staring at the bread.

This time, I refused to resort to calling Ms. Brick like I have done in the past. I was going to make it on my own. I wandered the aisles attempting to make intelligent choices. Usually on our food shopping trips I just walk around and get bored while Ms. Brick shops.

I ended up with bananas, broccoli, bread, peanut butter, frozen pizza, carrots, cous-cous (I'm serious), kidney beans, turkey breast, some Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill (for the ride home), and, of course, Diet Dr. Pepper and tuna. I think I did okay. Then when I got out to the car I realized I didn't get eggs. I didn't know what our status was as far as egg ownership was concerned, but I figured eggs were just some essential thing you should always get when grocery shopping so I ran back in and got some. Good thing I did. We were down to our last egg.

On the way home I decided to channel my inner Scott and stop by KFC to sample the Buffalo Chicken Snacker. You see, every time Scott sees a commercial for a new fast-food item, he has to run out and try it. (Sweet! Wendy's has a new burger where they put the ketchup under the cheese! Let's go!) I saw the commercial and it sounded good. It was good. It's a chunk of fried chicken on a bun with buffalo sauce on it. It had the perfect level of spicyness. It could have used some ranch or bleu cheese, though, because I'm on a diet. I'll have to bring my own next time.

That's the end of my ramble. I hope you enjoyed it, because who knows when I'll be back. Also, for those readers that happen to be my future wife, please don't remind me of the time when I used to post every day. If you recall, most of those posts amounted to: Last night I played poker for 3.2 hours and lost $7. I'm pretty sure all concerned parties would prefer one post like the above every week instead of seven poker status updates.

Bye now.