Thursday, November 13, 2014
Sometimes when I’m at Club Shimsham and I’m making a twerk or doing a sick move of dance I get so immersed in my own drumbeat that I forget who I really am. Am I still that innocent, great, lovable, handsome, hilarious, chiseled guy from an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the heart of Denver or am I a sad, lonely drifter from Topeka destined to work in the sporting goods section of Walmart because I once scored a touchdown in JV football so many years ago? I don’t even know. What I do know is I can feel the rhythm of the beat from my head to my feet. Sure, I’m well aware that my next-level moves are 100% grade-A infectious and inspiring to those around me, but when I do a deeper dive, I’m wondering if I’m still that lovable, black cruise ship bartender with a million dollar smile and a ten million dollar mustache. Is he lost forever? Is he still in there? Sure hope so. But for now, I guess I’ll just keep on dancing because it feels hella good.
Monday, November 10, 2014
When I fulfill my destiny as the benevolent dictator I was born to be, one of my first action items will be to make it punishable by death for dudes to read in bars. Let me amend that: dudes reading literature in bars. If a guy is posted up, sipping a whiskey or macro tallboy and destroying a Lee Child, all cool. Magazines and newspapers are fine. Pamphlets are allowed although not recommended because that’s likely personal business that don’t nobody else need to know about. And the ladies can read whatever they want. There’s something hot and mysterious and French about a young lady at a bar solo reading Love in the Time of Cholera. And children can obviously read whatever they want although they should not be at bars by themselves. And certain dudes who can pull it off can read literature from a pre-approved list I will provide once I take office. And punishable by death is a little strong. Punishable by atomic wedgie. Basically, I once saw a guy at a bar wearing a flat cap and reading Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and I wanted to give him an atomic wedgie.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Love is a many splendored feeling, but not on facebook. When someone writes mushy junk on their significant other’s wall it makes me want to take off all my clothes and jump into a hot pit of lava. When you do this, you’re not really telling your honey boo boo that she’s the world’s biggest snugglebum, you’re telling the world that you’re the world’s biggest dingleberry. Let’s keep the pillow talk for places with pillows. And maybe the occasional “you smell like a wet puppy” as you hold the door for them. They love that shit.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
DUDE1: Hey dude, what’s up?
DUDE2: Just chillin’ LOL
DUDE1: Why are you LOL’ing?
DUDE2: Ha, what’s good with you?
DUDE1: You know, this and that.
DUDE1: That wasn’t really a joke. Just kind of a throwaway statement.
DUDE1: Like, you don’t have any more ass left?
DUDE1: So, do you have that $20 you owe me?
DUDE2: No. Hey, I gotta go.
DUDE1: I need that money.
Monday, November 3, 2014
If you ever find yourself in a position to complain about paparazzi, do us all a favor and shut it down. If people are constantly hounding you for a picture it means you have a crap-ton of money. And I’m not saying money can buy happiness, but that’s exactly what I’m saying. If you have money you can buy yourself a water slide right off your bed so you can just roll over, slide down a rad slide and be catapulted into your own private grotto with a breakfast bar and mermaids who swim around and sing magical songs. Or, ya know, whatever you’re into. So if I had to pick between that awesome scenario and nobody ever wanting to take my picture, I’d go for the morning grotto every time.