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  • Roc-co Bal-delli!

    It sounds a lot better when you sing it. To drop some Melissa Etheridge debut (her finest) disc on y'all, Like The Way I Do.

    To all of you in the fabled Red Sox Nation, I believe the venerable Bob Barker summed it up best in the immortal classic (as far as Adam Sandler vehicles go) Happy Gilmore:

    The (David) Price is WRONG, Bitch!

    To paraphrase. See above. Nice at bat against J.D. Drew, though. Remember when the latter was relevant?

    Actually, I ain't hating, merely trying to score me some badly needed hate mail on this one.

    Whither art thou, Troy Percival?

    Actually, I'm of the agony and the ecstasy on this one. I was flipping back and forth between watching my beloved Seattle Seahawks get smoked by the TBay Bucs (um, god (or whoever), only ONE TBay squad needed to win Sunday...just saying) and the ALCS, and while I was crying in my coffee (I don't drink anymore, long story, as most of mine are) watching Jeff Garcia (former local boy, now married to a Playmate, and here we always thought he was gay) pick Lofa and the boys apart; I was also happy for the Rays, even if they did exorcise their own personal Devil.

    As someone who still has the occasional Mexican Standoff with his own demons, I kinda envy that.

    I was happy and relieved to see this a.m. that Bucs WR Ike Hilliard's injury wasn't serious or long term.

    AND I also got to catch a rerun of Two and a Half Men that I hadn't seen before, so it was a good night.

    I am, however, kinda torn with regard to the World Series, not that I'll be able to watch any of the games or anything, unless there's one on Saturday or Sunday night. 25 years ago, when Joe Morgan, Mike Schmidt, Pete Rose (you'll always be in MY HOF, Pete, he said in a completely hetero way) and the boys were taking on the Baltimore Orioles in the 'Series, I was a total mark for the Phillies. In fact, if memory serves (instead of, as usual, being my master), I wore a burgundy Phillies cap most of that year.

    I kinda miss that hat.

    Anyway, years have passed (as they do), and passed me by (see previous), and I haven't really been a fan. Of baseball in general. Although I do still recall the sheer joy I felt when I first dropped $10 on Baseball Mogul 2004 for this fucking thing, popped it in, and proceeded to trade every overpriced member of the Devil Rays expansion roster for prospects, until only the aforementioned porn star monickered Mr. Baldelli remained. Good Times. I must've played that silly game for hours daily for about 6 months. Built me a decent squad, too. In fact, I may fire it up again later.

    Why, yes, I totally AM an unrepentant geek. But unlike most, I do, in fact, have a GF. So, in the words of the Bard, fucking blow me.


    Some completely random:

    Is it a tribute, a sign, or a Cry for help when you have a near wet dream experience in your GF's bed? I am, of course, asking for a friend of mine. Who tells me that her Aunt Flo was visiting at the time (sound it out, it'll come to you; I might, too), and the dream was about 3 orally inclined shapely young adorables simultaneously.


    I like Christian Slater's TV series My Own Worst Enemy. Hell, I'd like it even if Saffron Burrows and Madchen Amick weren't in it.


    I'm happy I didn't draft Baron Davis or Deron Williams. I did, however, take Tracy McGrady again. Repeatedly. However, in my own defence, I got him at less than market value.


    The happiest of belated birthday wishes to Denise and Dugmain, who have the misfortune of knowing me back in the world. To drop some Every Vietnam Movie Ever Made on y'all. What can I say? I'm kinda all over the fucking place.


    It troubles me greatly that I couldn't remember the name Friedrich Nietzsche for like 3 days last week. Nietzsche! It's not like it was fucking Smith or Wong or some such. Of course, now, I can't get the name out of my pretty little head.


    Speaking of which, I again find myself needing to get out of my head. And into YOURS. Wait for it, it'll come.


    Imagine the possibilities of a Tina Fey/Sarah Palin sandwich. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to talk politics.


    I can't shake the feeling that a couple of friends live, like, a BLOCK away from the GF. It's hard to say, though, as I've only been to their crib a couple of times, and haven't had contact with any of that crew in probably a year. So, Tamara, if you happen by hereabouts, what's your address? So I can, you know, sleep again and shit.


    And yes, I really am hating on Jeff Garcia this dark and dreary a.m. But it'll pass. I don't like to put that kind of negative Karma out into the ether for too long.


    I really like the 70's tune We Gotta Get Right Back to Where We Started From. Nope, NO idea who sings it or what it's really called, but I'm gonna have to go out and purchase me another timeless classic, Slap Shot (R.I.P. Paul Newman), just because of it. Every time I hear it on the Muzak at work in the wee smalls, I usually dance around to it, singing along. Loudly and off-key. See above.

    And god (or whoever) have mercy on the souls and eyes of whoever witnesses said little spectacle.

    And yes, it's Our Song, as far as I and the geophysicist go.

    I know, Awwwwww. Or is it Gaaaaaa? Whatever. And ever, Amen.


    Somebody was foolish enough to trade me Steven Jackson and Aaron Rodgers and somebody else in one of my 2 FFB pools. For essentially chump change. And yes, I did actually have SJax dressed yesterday. Yay, me!


    If you haven't read Matthew Berry's TRUM and/or Fantasy Sports chats at least oncet in your life, we're totally Broken up. I want my DVD's back. You can keep the cat, I always hated that fucking cat, anyway.

    And yes, the TMR is totally right about Anne Hathaway. And not just because he shares my love for all things 90210, either. Although that don't hurt.


    It troubles me that I no longer have time to perpetrate one or more of these little crimes against humanity daily. I miss those halcyon (or was it Halcion? you decide) days of yore. I also miss having time to read actual, you know, books and shit. Instead of pro sports previews, work related materials (although I do earn roughly $5 for every online course I complete), Pick Up newsletters and materials and the occasional E-mail. And, of course, all things fantasy sports.

    And I used to read a lot. Damn near everything.


    I found myself watching Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj, like twice yesterday. I'd been meaning to for a while, and then, since my pops was out visiting, we ended up checking it out early yesterday. And then, I was so smitten with the rack of Sadie (and whoever was playing her) that I caught some of it again later in the day.

    Damn. I repeat, Damn.

    If it comes on again today, I may watch it again. And I need to revisit the first, also.


    And whatever became of Tara Reid, anyway?

    To revisit a theme, hopefully 9 or 10 guys at once.


    And on that cheerful note, mostly because I'm tired of beating this dead horse...until wheneverish.

  • Montana

    No sales tax. Yeah, that pretty succinctly summarizes things. But more to come.


    I usually just say no to drugs (weed is for selling or using to score chicks; real men do Heroin), but I'd smoke up with Ricky Williams. I wonder, if we smoked enough, would we be able to see actual dolphins?


    I think I have narcolepsy. There I'll be, just chillin' (like the proverbial villain, even!) with the GF, and, straight out of left field...I'm Gone. Passed out. Off to Sleepytime. Snoring away blissfully. And not just for a tick, either. For the duration. The count, even. Of the 5 days I've been off work (I go back tonight), I've likely slept half. Good Times! Although I did ruin the GF's B-Day (Happy Birthday, baby!) by passing out at about 8:30 that night. Until 5 a.m.

    What can I say? I'm a class act. Don't hate the playa, hate the Game and all that business.


    If you stay at the Islamabad Marriott, you:

    a) need to pistol whip your travel agent; either with your cock or a genuine, you know, gun

    b) deserve whatever transpires as a result; complimentary breakfast or no.


    Speaking of which, the comp at the Holiday Inn Express (I voted for the Motel 6, but it was her B-Day, so I let her win) was aight. The cinnamon buns were flaky, rich cinnamony goodness. And warm, too. And did I mention free?

    And yet, no, I certainly don't FEEL any smarter. And obviously ain't writing any more smartly than usual. Sorry. Send hatemail.


    In a futile, vainglorious attempt to regain my Christian readership, I came up with this whilst taking a leak in the middle of last night:

    Okay, so Heaven and Hell and all the rest of it are about polarities, n'est pas?

    Well, from all I've heard, god (or whoever) is allegedly this immense, unknowable force.

    Which would, presumably, make the Devil this tiny little leprechaunish imp that not only should we not fear, we could likely step on.


    I'm not really seeing what all the fuss is about.

    Although I'm reminded of a joke involving Hell, a hot blonde, some chump, and an eternal blowjob.

    Truth be told, damn near everything reminds me of a story involving a hot blonde and a blowjob, but that's just me.

    Or brunette. Redhead. Asian. Nubian. Eskimo. What have you. I'm also equal opportunity.


    Big thanks to Milt and Ellen for taking such good care of us at the Kalispell IHOP. The wife picked a good location, pretty much across the street from said IHOP (the prices were cheaper than in Vegas, AND no sales tax!), our beloved Target (again, the Target Date, it NEVER fails), the local Cineplex (we didn't go, but we totally could have), a Best Buy, a Borders, a Costco, and a Starbucks (although you could go damn near anywhere and be across the street from a Starbucks, so that doesn't really count). Even if the hotel was non-smoking.

    Fucking fascists.

    $10.99 (and no sales tax) for an 8 oz. steak, corn (which the GF kept sneaking), mashed potatoes (see previous), a big-ass salad (yeah, I know, but it was included, I HAD to eat it) AND all you can eat shrimp. Which, as those of y'all unfortunate enough to know me in, you know, reality and shit are aware, meant almost 2 hours of sustained eating. And yet, I never seem to gain any weight.

    Okay, you can hate me for that. Most folks do.

    And I think I scared the young chick what said she wanted to get a tat and asked about the one on my neck. It means self-immolation (it was that kind of day almost always back then), but I told her self-destruction in the hopes she'd know what I meant. M told me afterwards that I should've said it meant something whimsical and happy. Yeah. That's me all the way.


    I like the new Knight Rider. Even if the male lead irks me. I've been using the term Urkel to describe such folk. I think it'll catch on. Anyhoo, I like Val Kilmer doing K.I.T.T.'s voice. The female lead is fine and has already been in her underpants. In a totally non-contrived, believable sort of way. And the Knight 3000 is totally tricked out.


    Jessica Stroup. I think that's what we'll call her fan club. Sound it out, it'll come to you. Or else, I might. And, if you don't know, ask somebody.

    Like the new 90210, too.


    Big ups to Amazon.com for finally making the timeless classic all-too-soon-cancelled TV series Profit available for purchase on DVD. Hopefully, my copy will arrive soon. For those of y'all looking to get ahead in the business world, check it out, it's chock full of helpful little hints.


    When did David Schwimmer start directing? Why couldn't he just gracefully fade into obscurity like the rest of the Friends' cast?

    And yes, hopes still remain high for Jennifer Aniston to do porn. Remember kiddies, start slow, with girl on girl and then escalate into gonzo random passersby blowjob and gangbang videos.


    Girl on girl kissing on the Tyra Banks Show yesterday, so I clocked it briefly. Alas, it was nowhere as classy and dignified and, you know, interesting as it should've been.


    After watching The Love Guru, I think Justin Timberlake should totally take on some sort of Shakespearean tragic hero as his next acting role.

    And yes, I still say Joey carried the band.


    If y'all happen through the Applebees in Kalispell, you may see a picture of the GF and I. Something along the lines of don't let these folks sign up for the all you can eat entrees. Okay, mostly me, but she helped with the fries and was totally my accomplice.

    $9.99 (and no sales tax, still can't get over it) for all the chicken strips and fries I could handle. And I did. Maybe that's why, after watching Bee Movie (what? it was on HBO, and we were chillin') later that evening, I was done. Again, sorry, baby.

    Our hostess was hot. Actually, most of the waitressi lived up to the Applebee's standard.


    I'd never been to T.J. Maxx before. Scored me a Perry Ellis belt and some Nautica shorts for $20.


    But it was all about Target (pronounced Tar-jhay). 5 hours of wandering around on a Saturday afternoon, soaking in the consumerist beauty of my favorite retailer.

    But I digress. I do that. Deal.

    I still have no idea how I managed to blow 2 bills (you're welcome) on a TV DVD, some sheets, 2 sweatshirts, an I'm Bringing Grumpy Back t-shirt, a long sleeved shirt, some sweatpants, cold remedies, sleeping pills, acne treatments (don't even get me started), and food. Nope, don't care. Money's not a huge deal for me right now.


    Happily, I managed to appear in only 2 pictures taken by the GF all weekend. Sadly, yes they were happy couple-type poses. What can I say? I love her. Yeah, I know.


    R.I.P. Paul Newman. Always loved me some Butch and Sundance.


    I'd totally vote for Sarah Palin. She's kinda cute. Ish. Or maybe I'm just thinking of Tina Fey (love the AMEX ad). I often do.


    Please cease, desist and refrain from sending me vote for such and such-type e-mails with regards to Dancing With the Stars. I neither watch, text, nor care.

    Paris Hilton's BFF, on the other paw...nope, don't care about that, either.


    I was totally in line to coach the Raiders, but wanted more input in player personnel decisions. And an autographed photo of Justin Fargas' pops, Antonio 'Huggybear' Fargas. Who knew that would be a dealbreaker? Fucking Al Davis.


    I've rambled on enough. Enjoy your Humpday, y'all. Use it as it was intended.