Ain't I the Sunshine of Your Life?

Giving the finger to the laws of physics, Brian Campbell fired Umberger of the Flyers at a 90 degree angle into a higher dimension altogether. I have not seen a hit of this magnitude since Peca flipped that twat Tie Domi completely over in playoffs long past. Meanwhile, Jay McKee scored a goal. The hockey gods have more interesting things in store, many of which they’ve asked me not to divulge, but they have given me permission to offer previews of a few events. So, expect to see Gaustad put nine goals on the scoreboard in the third game, and don’t be surprised when Max Afinogenov does a handstand from one end of the ice to the other – and scores. Also, look for a Vaudeville show at intermission performed by Ryan Miller, and try not to cringe when Thomas Vanek swallows his own head for no reason at all and burps a shy little girl’s burp.

Gas is up over the $3 mark again, and shocking in it’s complete lack of surprise. I suspect we will continue to see the stupidity of the American consumer (myself included), and there will be no consequences at the pump, the gas companies will get richer and more powerful than ever, and mediocrity will continue to break out everywhere. Speaking of the stupidity of the American consumer, they’re not even trying to offer us good reasons for the price raping anymore – they’re just smart enough to know how hopelessly stupid we are. The Buffalo News said there were “several reasons” for the hike … they then gave TWO, the second of which was fear. FEAR!! It is fear, they said, presumably straight faced, though of course we weren’t there to see their opportunistic rat-like journalism faces which, I suppose, might well have been twisted in horrible laughter … but it is fear, they proclaimed, that adds $.30-.40/gallon all by itself. This sort of doggedly persistent flies-in-the-face-of-every-limping-shred-of-truth-that-may-be-left-in-the-galaxy horseshit makes me ask when we can expect to see violent upheaval. Soon, I hope. I want to see oil companies smashed like carpenter ants (the ones in my kitchen), and I want to see that Creeping Evil (the CEO who just resigned with a severance package worth a few hundred million dollars) personally fed inch by inch to starved killer whales. I want things to burn, and I don’t care for how long – just so much as the final result is gas that costs less than $2/gallon. When I’m reading about families eating cans of soup for dinner, and another guy winding up in the hospital because he had to choose between gas and heart medicine … and on the other hand I’m reading about some puffed up devil taking that kind of dough into retirement … well, it makes me dry heave, which isn’t good because I’m at work right now and it does nothing to solve the already questionable perception my co-workers must have of me. I just had to go sock one right in the mug for muttering something about “Sherry dry-heaving again, weird fucker” to another of my co-workers.

I have a cut back in the dark recesses of my mouth’s furthest caverns, and it hurts every time I talk, eat, or drink. It has done this for four days now. And tonight the Old Lady has beseeched me “Come home!” for spaghetti dinner. I’m delighted to have her delicious American housewife version of Italian food, which is the best you can get … but I am in mortal terror of the ravaging acidic tomato sauce will inflict on my crumbling mouth. I’ll keep you posted, this is a good one.

(Update – since the above was written, I have indeed returned to the golden streets of Orchard Park and partaken in the Old Lady’s delectable spaghetti dinner – which hurt my mouth, but not near as badly as I had feared. So it was, all in all, a happy ending. This coupled with Buffalo’s 8-2 trouncing of the bumbling, cheap-shot Flyers … well, I wish more nights went as smoothly as this one did.)

August 15 – Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers come to Darien Lake with special guest The Allman Brothers. Wish it were August already.

I recommend you all start shaving your heads. I’ve been shaving mine for about two months now, and it works great on all levels. You lose a little something aesthetically, but not much. On the other hand, you save time making it look good, you save concern about making sure it stays good, and you save money because you never have to pay for a haircut. If I had to assign a random number to indicate the stress in my life, and that random number was 800 (I picked it by looking around my desk and using the first number I saw, which was 800 from a 1-800 number), then my stress has gone down to a 632 since I’ve lobbed off the mane. Give it a try. Girls too!

I do a lot of bitching about how much I hate yuppy life. I’m aware of this, so don’t think I’m just a clueless negative whiner that doesn’t even realize how much bitching they do. People’s response to my pissing and moaning is usually a pseudo-helpful “Well, what do you want to do with your life?” So here … let me indulge you and answer that question by describing an ideal day in the fantasy life of non-yuppy Sherry:

1. Wake up the very second the sun rises and leap out of bed full of energy and no hang-over.
2. Start drinking a bottle of good red Cabernet and read the Sports page, scoffing at the Bills’ never-ending folly, reveling in the Sabres’ continued year-to-year dominance of the NHL.
3. Sit on the edge of my in-ground pool, reading a good book, and petting my Doberman named Dino, and my Pug named Milloy. Continue to drink good Cabernet.
4. Put the Cabernet down briefly to grab a turkey sandwich prepared by my 5’9”, thin, blonde, indescribably gorgeous girlfriend who thinks everything I say is funny, and always tells me how talented I am, and has a name like Brittany or Roselea.
5. Take Dino and Milloy for a long walk downtown, or in a park or something.
6. Play a late afternoon gig with my band – named “Dominion of Blue” – at a bar, mostly oldies covers, and flirt with the cougars.
7. Stay at the bar and drink a lot of draft beer for free, because they like my band and want me to keep coming back.
8. Head home to get back into the Cabernet and do a lot of dirty things to Roselea.
9. Head back out to play a game in my bar league, and score my usual four goals – never more, never less.
10. Do a few shots of tequila at the bar with the team to celebrate our narrow victory.
11. Come home and get back into the Cabernet and do a lot of dirty things to Roselea.
12. Drink Cabernet and work on my novel, which will be proceeding brilliantly and without the slightest hitch.
13. Sit outside staring vacantly into the night sky and smoking a shamefully expensive cigar – drinking Cabernet.
14. Dirty things to Roselea.
15. Fall asleep reading.
16. Wake up the very second the sun rises and leap out of bed full of energy and no hang-over.

So there’s that. For all you people who say “Stop being so picky and just accept that you gotta work a shit job to get through in life,” I’d like you to notice how simple my ideal day is. Nothing glamorous. Nothing too exceptional. Just the basics, and I’m happy. Oops! I forgot to eat dinner. Oh well, you get the point … Roselea would be keeping me well fed, and constantly liquored up.

I’ve got this deviously clever scheme I’ve worked out for breaking in my new cars. The sheer genius of it makes me giddy with glee (yes, even the most bad ass of blog writers can experience moments that can only be described as “giddy with glee” – or even, at even rarer moments, “giggling girlishly” which also has a nice alliterative ring to it, but is nothing to do with business, so back to the blog, right?). With the truck, the plan was to drink two liters of whiskey in less than 36 hours and drive it straight into a telephone pole. Plan went off without a hitch. With my Impreza, I took a more subtle approach – the kind of thing that comes with experience, and combines action with quiet finesse. What I did was this. I parked it, left it in neutral, forgot to put on the safety break, and came back hours later to find it across the parking lot, dented and scratched. Yes, it seems, according to the police, it had rolled into another parked vehicle. All according to my design!! I now have three years to think up an even more devilishly brilliant fate for whatever my next car turns out to be. I hope it’s enough time to think up something to top this last one.

By the time I got around to writing this, the Sabres lost to Phili in Phili. Miller, once again, broke my heart, and, in my opinion at least, cost us the game. The goal he let Savage score – you know, the one from thirty five feet out, outside, low percentage shot, no screen, no deflection, clean look, that Miller missed completely … yah, that one – that goal he let Savage score was exactly what Hitchcock said it was … “the most important goal of the series.” Way to go, dousch bag. We’ll still get ‘em though. We’ll come out extra fast on Friday to drive a point home. And how about those Phili fans booing Dumont off the ice when he got injured? Class acts, those guys.

Well, I hammered home a big five-load deal for the month of May at work. What did the grizzled old chairman say? Good job, Mike? You’ve made me a lot of money, Mike? Your hard work for a week paid off and made a lot of folks happy, not just here, but at Wisconsin and Ohio as well? You’re a hell of a guy, Mike? Take the rest of the day off and go to the ripper’s with this money I’m handing you, Mike? No. I’ll tell you what he said. He rolled his eyes and said the margins were thin. THE MARGINS WERE THIN!!! The company is selling this for a total of $92,000, and he’s going to make $10,000 straight profit off, and he says the margins are thin. Well, if I was the man I’d envisioned myself being at 23, I’d have slugged him right in his 77 year old mug. Then again, if I was the man I’d envisioned myself being at 23, I’d either be dead or in jail, which defeats the purpose, so …

Alright, chums … one more hour left to go in this hell hole, and I’ve run out of things worth writing about. Leave a message!!

A Presto

Procrastination Usurpation

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go flying past.”
- Douglas Adams

I have this thesis I’m supposed to be working on. Actually, I’ve been supposed to be working on it since May of ’05. All I have to do is write the damn thing and I have my Masters in English. Instead, I find other ways to pass the time. Sometimes it’s music frenzies … I spend hours each day listening to music (typically the Stripes, Petty, or Floyd … recently the Strokes and the Black Keys have gotten their fair share of time) and playing the acoustic. Sometimes it’s reading. Lately, in fact, it’s reading. Here’s a list of the books I have ordered, or have on order awaiting shipment, just in the last three weeks:
1. Saucerful of Secrets: The Pink Floyd Odyssey - read
2. No Country for Old Men (Cormac McCarthy) – currently reading
3. The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams) – read “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe”, currently reading “Life, The Universe, and Everything.”
4. Schrodinger’s Cat Trilogy (Robert Anton Wilson) – in transit
5. “The Book of the SubGenius: The Sacred Teachings of J.R. 'Bob' Dobbs” (J.R. Dobbs) – in transit
6. "THUNDERSQUEAK" (Ramsey Dukes) – in transit
7. “Nausea” (Jean-Paul Sartre) – in transit
Because in the end – why do the responsible and desperately necessary thing? Why not get out of your lame, purpose-of-life defying, spirit-crushing cubicle job and come home pissed off to rebel against the thing that might actually help you? The hell with you, thesis. I don’t need you! Makes sense, don’t it?

On the subject of books, I had to take all mine down off the bookshelf so I could put said shelf in the living room now that the Eternal has fled to Carolina. I needed something to take up wall space and serve as a decorative object. So now the books are sitting on the floor in my bedroom in massive piles stacked against the wall. It’s amazing how much perspective changes with the packaging. For instance … while sitting on the bookshelf there seemed to be a large but manageable number of texts. In piles on the floor, however, there seems to be a Barnes and Noble in the making. It’s a mountain of books – which brings me to another problem I’ve been dealing with. This apartment, while immaculate, beautiful, expensive, and beyond anything I deserve to be living in, suffers from a bad case of squatters and freeloaders. These has always been tan colored spiders, and now that the weather is getting warmer I’m dealing with ants as well. How this ties in with books is that I discovered an ant struggling up the southeast face of Book Mountain the other day. I had to pause out of respect for this brave insect as he fought courageously to scale what was a particularly steep and dangerous wall – one of the lesser advised routes to undertake when climbing Book Mountain. He was quite the adventurer, and I gave credit where it was due. Then I called him a mother fucker and killed him with a tissue and flushed him down the toilet. His epic struggle won’t be one for the ages on account of his easily extinguished mortality.

Speaking of these freeloaders, I killed two more spiders last night.

Here’s one for the record books. I’d be willing to bet good money that in the 60-year history of the company I work for, they’ve never been asked to sell their scrap plastic to a New York fashion photographer who planned to use it in a shoot for Vogue. That’d be a safe bet, and I’d be likely to win some money if anyone was silly enough to take me up. Until now! A girl named Morgan called me from New York City with the aim of purchasing several hundred pounds of brightly colored plastic pellets for Piers Hammer, a bigshot photographer doing a photo-shoot for Vogue that somehow revolved around shoes, but required junk cars, boxes of recycled paper, scrap metal … and yes, recycled plastic as well. I’ve gotta get this one past my employers, but I am prepared to go to any lengths necessary to get this deal done. Simply put – I want the bragging rights. Guess what, plastics veterans … your stats might be better than mine, but when was the last time your material was featured in Vogue? Oh, it wasn’t? Strange. On top of this, I plan to get a copy of the specific Vogue so I can hang the photos up in my cubicle. And I will incorporate this into my resume as well. Job highlights: Sold material to major NYC fashion photographer for spread in Vogue.

There’s a marketing angle there, too. My company will be the only plastic compounders/recyclers that I’m aware of who can say their material was aesthetically pleasing enough to be used in a fashion shoot. It might be a potential segue into a whole new business … raw materials as fashion statement! My company could be pioneers in leading a total revolution of art, spitting on old mediums like paint and photography and literature, and making it hip to simply walk around with a handful of water clear polycarbonate injection grade V-0 pellets. I could be a billionaire art mogul someday, and you’ll see me on TV talking about “in those days plastic recycling was a dirty game run by the suits. We didn’t dig a world where paper pushers were in charge of re-using the earth’s resources so we jumpstarted this plastic revolution, and, man, it really took off. We had indie bands doing long jams about polypropylene regrind, and these cats would do freeform solos symbolizing whether it was homopolymer or copolymer, and punk choruses just screaming out what the IZOD was over and over. And, man, we’d organize these rallies where we’d stand outside a compounder’s facility and just throw handfuls of prime virgin high-density polyethylene at whoever walked in and out of the building, and we’d all shout things like “Stuff yourself in a gaylord box, suit!” or “Extrude this, yuppy!” It was wild times, man, and things really took off when we got them to start building entire cities from high-impact polystyrene. Turns out nobody wanted to live there, but, man, the spirit of it was the victory. And, man, you know what? The victory was the spirit.”

You laugh. Don’t. All artistic revolutions start out as unlikely oddities. I’ll show you all.

Thank Fire that the Sabres will be playing Phili in the first round. Horror had me choked almost to the point of bucket kicking at the merest hint that we might have to face New Jersey in the first round. I won’t mind playing them so much if we meet in the second or third round – at least then we’ll have a series or two under our jock strap. But for now we’ve avoided that death trap, and the league’s hottest team, backed by the league’s hottest goaltender, will probably be making short work of the overrated Rangers.

Before reading the following, please re-visit “deadlines” epigram…

Petty was supposed to have his tour dates announced last week, or so it was written. In keeping with the whole theme of this “Highway Companion” era … deadlines were not met, information was not relayed, fans continue to wait patiently. Rumored album, rumored tour, nothing tangible. I grow weary of this, but still I wait. I’m starting to wonder if that Tom Petty is Dead website wasn’t on to something.

And now, for completely non-existent reasons, I give you an unsolicited “Top 5” list of the ugliest celebrities.
5. Hillary Swank – mannish features, and a swirling maelstrom where her mouth should be are NOT becoming aesthetics.
4. Julia Roberts – A swirling maelstrom of her own.
3. 50 Cent – glazed over eyes that scream “brain is not home” and teeth that put horses to shame.
2. Oprah – The woman’s head looks like somebody stuck a tire pump in her mouth and had at it.
1. Molly Shannon – A square face that not even God could love. May it perish in fire.

In summation, we have seen, then, how Mike’s thesis continues to be pointlessly delayed, and additionally how Book Mountain has proven a dangerous and even deadly obstacle for reckless climbers. Moreover, we have examined how recycled plastic can and likely will have a significant society-wide impact on contemporary culture, while giving thanks to Fire for its deliverance of the Flyers as our first-round playoff opponent. Ultimately, while lamenting Petty’s continued inability to deliver new product and examining aesthetically disappointing celebrities, we left open the questions of Supermassive black holes as they relate to baby ducks and the various usages of amphibious vehicles including as potential conveyers of sustenance to the elderly (meals on amphibious mechanisms!) or even as paid archeologists. Perhaps next time, chums.

A Presto

The Sage's Tongue

The circle is complete, as they say. Peerless Price left town a pompous goon, beefed up on his own sense of unjustified relevance and basting himself in his own diarrhea as he prepared to emerge a well cooked, crisp and tasty meal of superstardom. The staff of Dominion of Cool predicted his pending demise, and we are pleased to announce that our vision has proven more correct than even we could have imagined. Price now returns to Buffalo a deflated laughingstock, stinking of his own fecies and holding his helmet firmly in hand as he begs forgiveness. He shall receive none from this blog. Continue basting yourself, Peerless … mercy is something in short supply among this staff.

Car shopping is complete. No Eclipse (have to wait til next time I guess). No Charger (my only solace is that the commercial sucks anyway). No G6 (don’t care). No Mustang (I’m more of a sporty car guy than a muscle car guy in the end). “Stop keeping us in suspense, Sherry. We don’t care what you didn’t get … we want to know what you GOT.” Well, I’ll cut to the chase, my impatient boon-fellows. I now drive a Subaru Impreza. Now, Subaru is something that never – NEVER- would have occurred to me. When the dealer I was working with brought it up, I dismissed it with a wave of the hand and said “Bah!” He told me it’s what he drove, and before he took me over to West Herr Ford he said he’d let me check it out. “Spare me your foolery, salesman,” said I. “I care not for your trifling wheels.” But it turns out I was wrong. His car was very sporty, very affordable, and a stick-shift to boot. This got my interest, and after a test-drive I was sold on it (or rather leased).

Now don’t go rushing to the website to look it up. I don’t know what picture they’re using, but it’s lame and deceitful. The car looks nothing like it. It’s rather sharp looking, and I’m psyched as all getter-out to be driving a standard again. I’ve put 170 miles on in less than two days, and I still have half-a-tank of gas left!!! I’m simply unaccustomed to this considerate usage of fuel, and I’ve thanked my car – dubbed “The Silver Gizmo” – many times so far.

And yet it was depressing to see them drive the truck away. My first personal conveyance, sent out of my presence. Well – RIP Blue Rig. Seriously though, the timing of this was perfect. The breaks on the rig were scaring the shit out of me for about two months now. It’s not fun creeping up to a red light jerking back and forth like the damn thing is about to explode into a zillion pieces with you in it. Still – RIP. You’ll make your next owner very happy, I’m sure. Maybe I’ll pass you somewhere in the Silver Gizmo and you can smile and nod knowingly to me. Whatever that means.

Word is the Bills may not be long for Buffalo. The staff of Dominion of Cool is not impressed. They’ve said that for years and years and it’s yet to happen. We’ll believe it when we see it. On the other hand, if they do pack up and head for warmer economic waters, this staff couldn’t care less. The organization has done every shred of every last thing it can possibly do to isolate the fans and stomp on their devoted little hearts. Ralph Wilson Jr. is a great old man, but he’s hired spider monkeys to run the organization for about the last decade. If they go it will be one less chunk of stress in our collective Buffalo lives.

Not having cable is working out great so far. It’s tough sometimes when you want to fall asleep to Futurama or catch the new South Park, but A) it saves a bit of money each month, and B) it keeps you focused on other extremely meaningful and personally gratifying pursuits like wandering around the city aimlessly with your iPod on, or reading away messages on AIM over and over and over. On the other hand, I was feeling lazy and spaced out after a long stressful car-shopping week and dreading the return to plastics brokering on Monday – so I dashed about in the silver gizmo Sunday night looking for some South Park DVD’s to rent. Blockbuster I – no South Park for rental, only box sets of the individual seasons to buy at $40 a pop. Blockbuster II – same purchase option, and as far as rental they had a couple DVD’s with four episodes apiece – WOWEE! Neither was there Simpsons or Futurama available at either of these locations. Also, I continued my weeks-long failure to find a copy of “Ice Harvest” at Blockbuster, as both I and II were again sold out of it. Angry, confused, bitter, and hopelessly distraught, and only a Spot hot chocolate (tall) to show for my efforts thus far, I decided to give Hollywood Video a whirl. Here’s an inventory of what I found there:

1. Several Simpsons DVD’s, including Seasons 2,3,5 and 7. These have around 22 episodes a crack. I went with Season 3.
2. Ice Harvest in bountiful supply. A veritable bevy! You could rent as many as you needed. I only needed one.
3. A large selection of previously viewed DVD’s on sale for 3 for $30. This is the second time I have taken advantage of this offer. The first time I wound up with “Constantine”, “Van Helsing”, and “Batman Begins.” This time it was “Walk the Line”, “A Beautful Mind”, and “Wedding Crashers.”

I think I’ll give more of my business to Hollywood Video in the future, even though it’s a longer drive. The gizmo can handle it. Plus I got to see some middle aged weirdo yelling at his twenty-year-old girlfriend for making eye contact with another guy.

Elmwood is a great area for those of us who enjoy walking simply for the sake of walking. A joy, it turns out, which is significantly compounded by the availability of an iPod. Now that the weather is growing tolerable, I’ve been trekking off for about 40 minutes to an hour every day. Up Elmwood, back down in, in and out of it’s innumerable winding sidestreets. I love it. Well … except for the bums that ask me for money. I don’t love them. Anyway, rumor has it that the Professor of Funk Jeff Buss will be stopping over after Tuesday classes at Buff State to join me on these journeys … so check his blog for reviews.

And check this out while you’re at it … davesbu.livejournal.com.

I enjoy responding to all reader requests, if my readers are decent enough human beings to leave a message. It’s my commitment to my fan base that I will express in writing any issues you would like addressed. With that, thank you to the Effervescing Bob for asking me to discuss “irreligiosity.” I am happy to discuss my thoughts on heaven and hell, but first let me preface this by giving the story context for my readers. The discussion actually began over insanely hot medium wings at Duffs while the Sabres got trounced by Phili thanks to Ryan “Dumb Tit” Miller’s inability to tend goal at the professional level. While Major League Lisa argued that certain St. Bonaventure alumni (Bob and myself) were doomed to go to hell for their role in a photographed crucifixion wherein a drunk Indian (Mumbach) was duct taped to a wooden cross with a handle of dry gin and a cigarette while the masses shouted “CRUCIFY HIM!” As members of our Duff’s party debated what God’s reaction to this might be, Bob suddenly piped in with “The joke is going to be on us when there is no heaven or hell and we’re just dead in the ground.” Fair enough. Judging by several horrified reactions, however, not everyone dug this sentiment. So, with that introduction, on to “irreligiosity.”

What are my thoughts on heaven and hell? Heaven, I think, is a democratic place, meaning that majority rules. So whatever most people want heaven to be, that’s what it is. Consequently, heaven is a nightmarish, detestable, totally unacceptable swamp of bad taste and obnoxiousness. Hell is a place where you realize your worst fears were fairly mild exercises in poor imagination, and that, in comparison, you’d actually be perfectly comfortable in an atmosphere where your worst fears were manifested – such is the unfathomed horror of hell’s reality. Specifically, hell is West Virginia and Kenny Chesney is Satan. Take a wild guess what the soundtrack for hell consists of.

“So where are you headed when you die, Sherry?” Well, I was a shadowy, fringe character in life, and so shall I be in death. I’ll be hanging out in that gray area between vulgar heaven and country-western hell … probably strumming my acoustic, smoking cigars, and staring at big ol’ ghost tits as they pass by on their way to one horror or the other.

By the way, did you ever notice how girls pronounce the word “boobs.” It’s inexplicable sabotage they perform when they instead say “bewbs.” I don’t get it, and I don’t like it. Please stop saying it.

Well, here’s hoping Kenny Chesney slips on a banana peel and breaks his head open. Cheers!!

A Presto

More Odd Writings from the Beginning of Time Itself

Well, Miller keeps fooling us. Every time we think he's hit the ground and splattered after his long free fall, we find he's still falling. I'm beginning to suspect this may not be an earthly sky dive - bound to end at some point - but more of a plummet through some celestial other-wordly abyss that never ends. My thought is that the Sabres organization - always looking to seize any oppurtunity to shake its players' confidence - undermined Miller's role as the unquestioned starter and current/future star/backbone of the team by keeping Biron as a "safety valve." The sad old argument was "Well, it's just in case he gets injured." But then the truth was Norronen was everything you could ask for in a backup - competent and cheap. A safety valve does not cost 2.5 million dollars in the off-chance that the starter is injured. Keeping Biron was a vote of shaky confidence in Miller's ability to lead this team through the playoffs.

It's been over a month since the Olympic break ended, and Miller's GAA in that time is 4.0, and his save% is in the .800's. This does not constitute a slump. This constitutes a sizable chunk of the entire season. If we're not going to start Biron in the face of this, then what did we keep him for? His pretty eyes? His hilarious commercial appearances?
And in addition to this, I think we should set Kalinin on fire. And maybe slap some sense into Ruff while we're at it. He has now officially separated Max and Roy, not to mention toyed with the idea of starting Pominville on defense. Scary stuff. What do you think?

(Since writing the above, Biron got the nod against Toronto and performed admirably. Hopefully they’ll do the right thing and stick with him).

Thank you to the sprightly Mr. Press for his comment. Yes … the Beast is online and can be read here: buffalobeast.com.

And thank you to the indominatable Rosiek for his comment as well. You asked for it, buddy - I will set aside one evening to get into the Jack Daniels, and mayhem just might ensue (maybe we can both hammer the demon whiskey in Bonnaroo and start hippies on fire).

I am officially alone now – the eternal Mumbach has fled the safety of Buffalo to risk his life and well-being in the perils of a better economy and uncertainties of better weather. Enjoy Carolina, Mumbach. This leaves me alone in a very expensive apartment – and to that end, I spent four or five hours last weekend cleaning and re-arranging it. I am not joking when I assure you that this is now the single coolest bachelor pad you will ever lay eyes on. I mean, the place is slick. And I updated it with a massive poster of a young Bob Dylan in the studio playing the bass. However, I must reiterate … I NEED A ROOMATE or I’m going to lose it at the end of June. The place is immaculate, only a block away from the Elmwood strip, and it has a loft over the living room with a pool table. Send all applications to:
Me
Places where I lurk
Nightmare City, Hell Hole State

A lot of people seem to be alarmed by what they perceive as my utter lack of religion. I know that is not a popular characteristic to have in America, but I must assure you all that my fire-worship constitutes – at least in my opinion – a very spiritual and religious interest. If more people worshipped fire we’d all have a generally more optimistic outlook on life, and consequently we’d all be a lot happier. For instance, the raging wildfires that sweep the Midwest every year are regarded in my church to be miracles and reconfirmations of our savior’s devotion, much like your Christian rainbows. So while everyone else pisses and moans about ravaged homes and millions of dollars damage and so on, we light matches and say a prayer of thanks to it and go on our merry way. I have literature if you’re interested. Also, you should consider that kids who set all those churches on fire were acting under divine inspiration and allowing fire to achieve savage victory over your feeble Christian morality.

Well, I already did a bit on the Sabres, so I’d rather not waste more time on sports … suffice to say I am officially no longer a Bills fan if they trade JP Losman. This is not a statement of tremendous devotion to JP, but rather a condemnation of one Buffalo debacle after the next for years and years and years, and I’m really just quite fed up with it all. This, coupled with the extravagant contract offered to that tree stump Josh Reed has got me quite disenchanted with the team and the season is nowhere near opening day of mini-camp.

It now occurs to me that maybe a treatise on fire worship wasn’t the most ideal follow-up paragraph to my “roommate wanted” bit. But I’ll be damned before I go back and change anything. I haven’t the ambition.

I’m car shopping. For those of you who have done this before, you already know how much it blows, and how stressful it is. So far I’ve test driven a new Eclipse (can’t afford the lease), a used ’05 Eclipse with only 9000 miles (can’t afford to buy), a Dodge Charger (can’t afford the lease), and a Pontiac G6 (can’t afford the lease). Now, I’ve beaten, bludgeoned, stabbed, and even set these sales people on fire, and I’ve gotten them all down a decent buck. But, alas, greed being what it is in the corporate world, I am simply unable to afford the kind of car I would like to drive. Shame on the corporate world.

Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? Be better off than you are? Or would you rather be a mule? In addition to being a very catchy tune, this is also a series of very legitimate questions and I’m interested to hear your answers.

Well, the time has come, the blog is over, thought I’d something more to say.

A Presto