We sometimes blank on Babylon

Always with the "all the lights are changing red to green" when we should be singing "green to red" in the first verse. But we don't have OHMYGODJOHNMAYER fans screaming in the background.

Yet.

***
On a side note, "Now you gotta go for real" is one of our favorite quotes of the year.

And this is one of the best stories we've seen in a long time. You go, J-Mac. "I was hotter than a pistol" is one of our other favorite quotes of the year. Go on with your badself.

Thank goodness for the YouTube.

So Alan Patton likes to drink li'l boys urine.* Right, then. That's pretty much all you have to know about Alan Patton. Well, that, and he looks like a kid toucher.

Man. All we have to tell you about ourselves is we can't wait to go buy the Walk the Line tonight. And All the President's Men. And Supertramp's Greatest Hits, mainly because we can't find it on the iTunes. Admit it. You love the Supertramp, you dreamer, you.

* You sick, sick f*ck, you.

And there endeth the Olympics

U...S...A! U...S...A! U...S...A!

Things we learned at the pub tonight

In no particular order, really.

How to end a conversation in .8 seconds...
SOPRANOS EXTRA: HEY! You follow dese Olympics?

OMS: No, not really.

How to spot That Guy In So Not A Good Way Who Says "I'm Playing" Every Other Sentence...
THAT GUY IN SO NOT A GOOD WAY WHO SAYS "I'M PLAYING" EVERY OTHER SENTENCE: Are you gay?

OMS: No. Should (we) be?

TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: Nah. Heh heh. I'm just playing. This guy here is, though (grabs friend by collar).

OMS: Good. How's that working out for you?

FRIEND: I'm not really gay.

How to know TGISNAGWWSIPEOS is the biggest asshole ever...
TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: Hey! Who's the toughest guy in Denville?

TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: Hey! (points to diplomatic fiance) Isn't she pretty?

TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: Hey! How do you fight when you fight? (Waits for answer but doesn't). I hit this guy in Denville with the back of my hand. The cops thought it was a bottle. But it wasn't. I got him with the back of my hand. Right honey?

HONEY: Right. But we don't fight anymore. It's too expensive.

TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: That's right, honey. I had to have like $1,000.

TGISNAGWWSIPEOS: Hey! Gay guy! You want another beer?

How to spot the Mustache Guy With No Clue...
MUSTACHE GUY WITH NO CLUE: Do you have the Harp here?

BARTENDER: What's the name on the door? Dublin Pub? Yes. We have Harp here. We also have Guinness.

How to spot the Chick With Potential...
CHICK WITH POTENTIAL: We'll have what he's having. A Black and Tan.

OMS: (Silent, thinks, "But it's a Half-and-Half").

CHICK WITH POTENTIAL: (Slams Black and Tan in one hot minute because non-drinking boyfriend wants to jet).

And END SCENE(S).

And about as much hilarity ensued as one would think would if one would find such things funny

Toward the end of the day Friday, we realized that even if we don't leave our job soon, at least we'll be entertained. For the most part. Every once in awhile. But man when that entertainment hits, we put on our laughing caps, that's fer sure.

To wit:

LADY NO ONE LIKE, WHOSE CUBICLE WE STOLE TWO YEARS AGO WHEN WE MOVED OFFICES: Oh you must be getting soooo excited talking about those spreadsheets. I get all tingly just thinking about them!

LADY WHO DIDN'T GET IT: Not really, no. But I wish I got the same feeling you did.

(Enter new lady).

LADY NO ONE LIKE, WHOSE CUBICLE WE STOLE TWO YEARS AGO WHEN WE MOVED OFFICES: (Says to New Lady) I'm watching them have fun with the SPREADSHEET!!! I was saying she gets a tingle in her body like I do just looking at them!

And END SCENE.

(Remember kids, when you think you're funny, tell the joke as much as possible, over and over again in the course of two minutes, until someone laughs. Even if it's uncomfortable laughter because no one likes you, joke away! And make sure you use exclamation points to prove your point!).

Ech.

RIP, Mr. Furley

You were the original swinger. And a whole lot more.

Have one with Jack, on us, if we could, at that great big Regal Beagle in the sky, will you?

She gets our vote

See? There is good in the world after all, kids. Vote Stacy.

So here's the thing about this weekly Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez joint we do up in here every Friday. We were going to rant and rant and rant about W and this whole port deal, but then we decided, "Eh, f*ck it," it's only an important conversation that most people ignore anyway.

We mean, what do we know? We're just part of the American people.

Instead, we'll start off by lauding the Daily Show. Wethinks some staffers got themselves all kinds of fired for this.

Heroez...
Spinderella hit it up one time. "Don’t return phone calls until the day after deadline." Do people really get away with that sh*t? Someone in Illanoise missed this class, that's fer sure.

Girl, we know how you feel.

Fergie. Normally we don't get it. Here, we do. AWWWW YEAH we do.

Duck Hunt. We're about as good at this as we are at Dad Hunt each December (No, silly goosen, we don't mean hunting Dad. We mean hunting with Dad each year, but we said Dad Hunt because it's like Du-- aw forget it).

Not so Much...
For a Coldplay song? Now, we like the Coldplay. We even like the Faith Hill. But all this hoopla for "Speed of Sound"? We downloaded "Droppin' Science" the other day and got nothing. Bastards.

Opr-owned. HAH!

God we suck. So yesterday, we might have been at work kickin' it in the ol' cube. We *might* have heard the following one-sided conversation: "It's not fair! It's not fair for her to freeze! What did I say? You know what? F*ck you. Don't call me and cuss me out at my job!" (Slams phone). And we wonder why the sh*t ain't gettin' done like it used ta.

Oopsies.

Progress, part 2

So those birds?

They *may* have been my complex's water heater screaching to a halt this morning. Godd*mn our shower was all kinds of hellacold. Brrrrrr, we thought, cranking the hot water more and more with each OCD soap swipe.

"MOTHERF*CKER!" we thought when we turned the water off, hit by that last smidgeon of water, which just happened to be hot as ballz. BallZ, we say. Hot. F*ck.

Progress

Five years ago, we woke up earlier than usual on a Sunday morning. We heard birds. The li'l bastards woke us up. So we quickly grabbed our journal filled with lyrical goodness and wrote the following:

Birds. These birds chirp outside my window. I. I wish they'd shut the f*ck up.

So this morning, as we read about more boring stuff, we heard an army of birds outside our window. Is this possible? It's still February. Spring doesn't happen for another month. But it has been warmer. Huh...

All we know is when we heard these birds, we smiled and actually said, "YAY! BIRDS!"

Then they stopped. We think the screaching birds were really the construction guys across the street unloading their sh*t. Had we realized this, we probably would have been less with the "YAY! BIRDS!" and more with the "HEY! NOISE! EASY!"

All we're saying is we've come along way in five years, is all.

Overheard on a couch in an office last night

We were comfortable, really, enjoying the plush leather and reading about, you know, boring stuff. We'd worked out, so Operation Lose 12-pounds in Two Weeks was an early success (don't ask).

Around 7:59, as is always the case, the man exited first, door slamming passive-aggressively behind him. He never says anything. Ever. He looks as he's quietly judging himself and blaming others in the room, namely us, for doing the same thing.

His wife came out next, quiet like him. She made brief eye contact with us, and smiled. Standard. Her smile was apologetic and pretty. While shy, her smile also demands -- screams, even -- that she deserves better and she's not happy.

He left first. She fell in line behind him.

Minutes later, a young couple came into the room.

"We probably would have been here sooner if maybe you met me earlier," said the guy who never, ever, comes on time. Most weeks, the woman is sitting on the same plush leather couch we are, reading Good Housekeeping or US Weekly.

"Wait," she said. "We're late because of me? How is this possible?"

The two disappeared behind the door, which slammed again. Man that door has some issues.

Extra! Extra!

Read all about it! From www.nj.com tonight:

Live From The Ledger
• Parisppany laser pointer gets probation 12:27 p.m. ET

• Bridgewater man gets 15 years in dad's slaying 12:25 p.m. ET

So here's the ghing about the danger's of live Web updates for newspapers threoughout the day: Less copyediting means more mistakes, which means more people will layughh at you and youll lost moew creizdicnlity.

We could go oin and ond and onf fdon ondf. But you get the poiint. Rigfht?

(For the record, Parsippany is in New Jersey. Parisppany is somewhere. We just don't know where).

Please, papers. For the sake of restoring the credibility of the press, which is something we've been quietly watching for the last five years or so, enough with the mistakes online.

Agree or disagree? Anyone?

Well. No sh*t.

We agree. Maybe not totally because of the whole control-the-ports thing. More because of the whole he-really-believes-what-he spews and the world-feels-like-it's-spiraling-out-of-control thing.

Either way, Canadia. One of these days, we're moving to Canadia. We hear Vancouver has a sweet scene, eh. That's the sh*t we're talking aboot.

One more public service reminder

This is it for us on this topic. Mainly because the fives of readers we have are all intelligent lads and lasses who use this thing called the Internet for good. Evil is so the new sad and pathetic anyway.

But about this whole internet Web page community thing. We have a page on one of these internet Web page community things, yessir. It's for promotional purposes and it's going quite well. We even have 13 friends, thank you very much. That's more than we've had in a long, long time. But we digress.

The reasoning we do this internet Web page community thing is simple. We are funny sh*t and this funny sh*t should be shared as much as possible. What are we without laughter? That's how we roll.

Point is, when we wanted to stalk back in the day, we'd simply pick up the ol' phonebook and call the honeys up on the phone. Sometimes we'd hop on the ol 12-speed and peddle by (deleted to protect the innocent)'s house.

Now, she was never *there*. But we know she *was*.

Oh yes we knew she was there.

All (deleted to protect the innocent) had to do was come out and face us face to face and tell us she didn't like the pictures or the poems or the flowers, but NOOOOOOOOO she had to get her mom to be all, "Young man (Snap), please stop peddling by our house every day. While we think it's great you're getting exercise, (deleted to protect the innocent) is a tad scared of you. The song you wrote her, the one with the constant Honey Nut Cheerios references, was cute and all, but, well, (deleted to protect the innocent) just isn't that into you."

Whatever (deleted to protect the innocent). We're so over you these days anyway. You brought nothing but heartache and tears and an early obsession with Duran Duran songs. It's just that -- wait. Where were we?

Oh yes. Internet Web page community things. We never did find (deleted to protect the innocent) on there. But that's not our point. Our point, once again, is be careful kids. There's some f*cked up people online these days.

And they don't drive no bikes, is all.

Why we like us some Kanye

People ask us all the time, really. We love us some Kanye for several reasons. Chief among them is this quote from the magazine we used to always put back under our parents' bed perfectly, so our old man wouldn't shoot us:

In "Touch the Sky," I say, "I'm trying to right my wrongs/But it's funny them same wrongs helped me write this song." Those addictions and afflictions are what make me a great artist. If I were perfect, if I didn't have any conflicts, what would I have to say? My biggest problem is lust, looking at girls with big booties.

Donna Martin Graduates!

So we booked our flight to Germany a week ago today.

The last time we were there, we ate, we drank, we ate some more, we drank some more, we hit seven countries, we broke, well, we ate some more, we drank, etc. We also spent one hungover morning catching ol' 90210 reruns.

Yes. The Donna Martin GRADUATES! Donna Martin GRADUATES! episode was the one that stands out the most. Of course, all we heard was Donna Martin *GERMAN*! Donna Martin *GERMAN*! but that's beside the point.

May 22 to 30, b*tches. And we're catching the Bon Jovi on the 24th, too. Bon Jovi, from Jersey, in Germany. OMS, from a porch and a parking lot in Jersey, in Germany. Coincidence? We think not.

We just thought we'd share. Now, then, off with the gloves and onto the Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez for the week that was.

By the way, one of you said we should be more funnier. One of you can (deleted due to inappropriate content) our mother(deleted due to inappropriate content) (deleted due to inappropriate content) you (deleted due to inappropriate content) of a (deleted due to inappropriate content).

Heroez...
It's warmer, right? Right?

This story. And there's an H in blah, blah. The email is the devil, blah.

"O'Malley. Stop lookin' at my vajayjay." (It was a toss-up between this and "I gave you sex in the linen closet. You do it."). Either way, the Grey's Anatomy is fast-becoming our favorite program on the TV. Buy Season 1 today in a store near you! Seriously.

Not so much...
No doubt. Biggest. Asshole. Ever. And here's the thing. We've gone hunting with our ol' man twice in the last three years, and it's become a regular gig, this "hunting" in the woods. You knew this. What you didn't know is the last time, along with sleeping with the squirrels and almost with the killed by tree falling, we didn't load our rifle the first morning.

We didn't load our rifle because we were afraid we'd shoot our dad in the face by accident. He seemed pleased when we told him later we kept it unloaded because we didn't want to kill him. You needed to know none of this, we know. We're just saying, Dick. We're just saying. Dick. Speaking of... (HAH!)

Check the whole biggest asshole ever comment. We forgot about him for a minute.

Sure you are.

Nothing's been wow to us, either. Well. Nothing about you, Brit, has been wow to us, either. At least since 2001. We'd say we're losing it and going soft because we kind of feel sorry for Ms. Thang over there. But you can't say this.

If you do, we'll tell you to (deleted due to inappropriate content) our mother(deleted due to inappropriate content) (deleted due to inappropriate content) you (deleted due to inappropriate content) of a (deleted due to inappropriate content).

Bring it back, beeyatches. Bring it back.

Promise?

Daily Extended Forecast for February 16, 2006
The higher-ups in your life have been less than understanding lately -- all of them, it seems. That goes for family members, elders, and authority figures in general. You've gone out of your way to keep doing what they just recently told you were the right things to do, but now you're a bit confused. If that same intensity leaks into your other, more personal, relationships, try to be patient. This, too, shall pass. Promise.

Really? Good. Because we came *this* close to picking up our chair and absolutely launching it at the window at the end of the day today. We'd say "out the window," but they don't open and don't break. At all. Not that we've tried.

And hey! We can see the river, too. We know this because everyday we wish we could jump in it.

But this, too, shall pass. Promise.

No comment

We've been in a writing funk lately.

With this writing funk, we've been stifling ourselves when it comes to things like this. And we blame the funk, really, on things like this in the first place.

It's just that sometimes, really late at night, or really early in the morning, we get so fed up with the world that the voices in our head simply vanish.

And we throw up in our mouth a li'l bit.

This is one of those times. Nevermind the punchlines. Sure it was an accident. But the fact of the matter is the man who would be in charge if (and we can't believe we're typing the words "God" and "forbid" here) God forbid, something should happen to the president, loves him some lying.

Maybe he's shaken up about this. Understandably so. Last winter, our ol' man told us to move up near the trees there to get a better shot and some buck there. As soon as we got into the trees, one fell. Very, very close to us it fell. So we said not a word and returned back to the safety of the ol' man's side, a tad shaken up, gun-totin' ahpoooseye that we were.

But that's so another story for another day.

Point is, this motherf*cker knew he made a mistake and he knew people would find out about it. And he continues to look so, so evil. Anyway, why not call a press conference when it actually happened, or soon thereafter. But nooooooooooo. You know the rest.

In the E&P story, Marlin Fitzwater sums this up pretty well: "They could have done all of that in about two hours on Saturday. It is beyond me why it was not done this way."

Um. Yup. There it is. So now we're back to our now-regularly scheduled block of writer.

We're thinking of a number...

So we were going to have a grandiose soiree with lots of Guinness and groupies, but that'll have to wait until we hit a real milestone, like another open mic night, or an actual audition. Or something.

Instead, we share a li'l story from work today -- one of those harmless ones that won't get us fired. Yet.

Person A: But (name deleted to protect the innocent)'s is much bigger.

Person B: No. I think his is longer and wider than that.

Person C: Nah. I think it was big like this.

Person OMS: (giggles like school gir-- uh, OMS; walks away, muttering).

And END SCENE.

Awwwwwwww

So today is so the Hallmark Holiday, but you knew that.

So let's take a test, shall we? Which is a more accurate portrayal of the holiday? This, or, uh, this?

That's what we thought.

So we can't wait for several things today, including: counting the number of people who'll wear red at work, avoiding the chocolate all up in everyone's business at work, and counting how many times someone yells, "Happy Valentine's Day!" the way she normally yells, "HAPPY MOOONNNNNNDAAAAAYYYY!" at work. Every. Frigging. Monday.

We also can't wait until we figure out why we woke up from our nap yesterday all kinds of out of sorts, like what-day-is-it-out-of-sorts. Like, we thought we were dead out of sorts. But more on that some other day.

You no say daddy me Snow me I'll go blame

Top 5 things we learned watching Eyewitness News ROUND-THE-CLOCK coverage of the BLIZZARD OF 2006(!!!).

(Ech):

1. IT SNOWED A LOT AND CARS, IF YOU SEE HERE, ARE COVERED IN SNOW!
2. CARS GET STUCK IN THE SNOW!
3. COMMUTERS DUMB ENOUGH TO COMMUTE IN A BLIZZARD GET STUCK IN THE SNOW!
4. IF YOU SEE HERE, IT'S STILL SNOWING!
5. AND THIS PERSON HERE IS CLEARLY STUCK IN THE SNOW!

We watched the noon top of the hour broadcast on Channel 7 in New York yesterday. Then we watched the 11 p.m. lead stories, after the Grey's Anatomy.

Hands down our favorite moment yesterday was last night, when a clearly rattled Channel 7 reporter in Bergenfield said the following, while standing in the parking lot of a 7-11:

"We're here in Burgerfield and --"

(EXTRA FROM SK8TER BOI VIDEO RUNS BY, ARMS FLAILING AND SCREAMING).

(CUT TO B-ROLL).

(CUT BACK TO REPORTER, NOW STANDING IN STREET).

"So that's the story from Bringhamfield, where --"

"BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP," says the SUV trying to turn into the lot, blocked now by the Channel 7 crew.

* Honorable mention goes to the snow blower guy in Brooklyn who waved maniacally at the Channel 7 crew to get the f*ck out of his way while he cleared the sidewalk.

Mess with the bull...

you *so* get the horns.

So when one decides to stay in on a Friday night and practice a little geetar and lay low, one recommends finding what's on the Oh! channel. Um. Or hitting the bars and scoring digits left and right. But that's so 2005.

Just one this week

An upfront warning: if all this sounds like hokey sh*t geared toward motivating ourselves, you're right.

But there are people in this world struggling through pain and the horrible hand they've been dealt, yet they are brave and strong and examples to the rest of us.

Matt Cappotelli is one of those people.

Matt was part of a hot angle in Ohio Valley Wrestling, as "insiders" say. He was the Heavyweight Champ and in a hot feud with Johnny Jeter. But the chairshot he took landed him in the hospital with what should have been a concussion.

But it wasn't. It was a brain tumor, which was later diagnosed as cancerous, that kept him out of the ring and in the hospital. He told the OVW fans this week, in the middle of the ring, when he handed over his championship.

The reason we're talking about this in a space normally reserved for the weekly look back at the Heroez and Not So Much with the Heroez, is we only have one hero this week, and his name is Matt Cappotelli.

No bullsh*t. The heartfelt speech he gave in the center of the ring in Ohio reduced us to tears yesterday.

Here is a young man living his dream, literally, and now he's faced with something you don't think about, ever, when you're in your 20s, hell, *maybe* 30s, and just trying to live without running out of gas too soon. This man stood in front of hundreds of people and prayed with them, and said he has faith that he'll be OK.

It was an amazing thing to see. He'll have brain surgery and chemo and he's immersed in faith. We don't know how we'd be, other than pissed. He's probably pissed, yeah, but when you watch him and listen, there's much more there. So much more.

So Matt taught us something, and we are one of the most cynical, jaded people on this planet. Matt taught us that maybe believing in something, anything, gives you that extra fight, that extra spark, to keep on moving toward what you want out of life.

It's real easy to come home from work, angry and tearing up your Subway six-inch Vegi-Max and livid that you feel stuck. Every day stuck.

But there are people out there who have it a lot worse than you, yet they are living better than you because they believe in themselves and that li'l something else that will keep them going, no matter what. Most of you knew this already.

Today, we recognize those people. Tomorrow, we'll get back to bitching, creatively and for God's sake, *hysterically*, about the other things that drive us f*cking crazy day in and day out.

But today, thanks Matt. Our prayers are with you -- and the people out there who need the prayers a whole helluva lot more than we do.

All that glitters is not gold

Kanye, you make us sad with this. (Even if we wish we could be you for a day, sh*t, maybe just over our lunch break).

You're good. Like, really good. You have talent and looks and confidence and lyrical genius. But signs? Really? Is this what it's come to?

"You don't have to tell my girl I used to pee in the bed," you said in Family Business. Where's that sign?

It's OK, really though. We still love you because of a certain comment you made on a certain telethon for a certain hell that more and more people seem to be forgetting about as this thing called time keeps a-passin' by.

(Photo by the AP's Branimir Kvartuc).

"Kevin! Kevin! Over here! Over HERE!"

We, know, um, K-Fed. Don't tell anyone you got zero skills to pay zero billz. Zero. None. Nada.

(AP Photo by Danny Moloshok).

So we were starting to get over Ms. Clarkson, but then we realized we're so not.

The rest of this space is reserved for our thoughts on the music industry:

Working our way toward 300

We thought turning 30 was *the* milestone.

But now the ol' Porch and the Parking Lot is approaching its 300th post. We're thinking a huge soiree with a guest list, a velvet rope and lots of Guinness. Or just a post bitching about the godd*mn wind and how global climate change is so the new we're f*cked.

One or the other. We're still deciding. We may just drink a pint and toast the end of the world while letting imaginary friends into our apartment via the velvet rope, of course.

Oh come on. Like you don't still have imaginary friends. Seriously. You know you do.

Exactry?

This is a goof, right? Right?

This is why we worry so, part 2

Don't you think that pretty much every single "new" "species" found was all, "Godd*mn it. They f*cking found us and they're so gonna f*ck our sh*t up here, too."

And humans are all, "YAY! New things to f*ck up! Wheeeeee! F*ck it up one! YAY!"

And let's face it. The new species, like the Figure-Four Scarlett, um, well, we mean, like the dreaded Golden Mantled Tree Kangaroo, are so amazingly ready to be f*cked with.

If it's anything like the Ol' Man's ol' man's dreaded Golden Mantled Bubba, then this li'l Garden of Eden is, like, so totally garden of f*cked.

We died.

So the thing about this is there's really nothing new to say at this point in the day, mainly because most in the online community already had their shots.

All we know is the new work-controlled internet access let us look at this picture, a lot, pretty much all day. Sure we can't hunt for an iPod arm thingy to workout with online at work anymore, but whatever.

We even got to look at this, which, is, well, all we learned was that darling Kiera loves her some English language and ol' shmoopiewhoopie Scarlett loves her some cell. And whoever invented thick fluffy white robes needs him some shot to death.

Point is, you know the celebrity game?

You know, the one where you get to tell your spouse/significant other that you're allowed to leave him or her for five, at the most, certain celebrities? Yeah, you're looking at numbers one and two on the list, and no, dudes, we don't mean the doooooood.

Points to whomever can guess the other three. It's really not hard if you've been paying attention for the last six months or so.

The tomato doesn't go *there*

It's becoming an alarming morning ritual. We remembered the water for the coffee today, so there's that. But we also opted for some last minute tomato chopping for our Cosi (you love the Cosi, admit it) sandwich.

So we diced up our tomatoes all nicey nice and put them on the ol' sandy sandwich. Then we wrapped up the tomato and opened the cupboard to put it back where the saran wrap goes.

Thankfully, we stopped there. It's not like it took us another nine seconds to figure out that the saran wrap doesn't go in the fridge with the Coffeemate, and wait, why is the tomato in the cupboard?

So today, technically, is off to a better start.

Wish we could say the same thing for the rest of the world, really. Ever get the sense that impending doom is upon us?

February has traditionally been the month where someone we knows dies, whether it's a family member or friend. Granted, this has happened only twice, really, but it's still a sense we get. And it's not a Meredith-has-her-hand-on-a-bomb sense.

It's more, well, have you noticed the dramatic weather changes and the fact that Bush is still president and there's, like, bombs and stuff everywhere?

Throw in the fact that we're slowly losing our minds (see: water, coffee and tomato, cupboard), and we can't *wait* until the very special month of March, but more on that later.

Live for today, ya'll. Live for today.

Making coffee

We hopped out of bed and into the kitchen. We dumped the grains into the maker and turned it on. We stared. We listened to crackling and popping and we wondered, "Where's the coffee? Where is it? We want it so."

We looked like a parent watching his newborn, or a dog owner waiting for the li'l fella to sit. Yes, we were excited.

The coffee didn't sit, though. Nor did it giggle while looking at a dinosaur book with its mommy. The coffee simply didn't come. Why? You tell us.

A) Because the Seahawks lost in the Super Bowl.
B) Because we ate nacho dip for dinner last night.
C) Because the Stones didn't play the good song.
D) Because one needs water to make his coffee, and it behooves one to, you know, fill the actual pitcher so as to make the coffee in the first place.

Yup. D. Never fear, though. Things can only get better from here.

This is why we worry so

We'd mutilate the motherf*cker if he pulled this sh*t with some people we know, uh, really well. Like grew up in the same house well.

Kids, be careful. Seriously.

Feet facing inward

If we were to rename the band, Feet Falling Forward sounds good, right? Right?

So it's Fridayish, and therefore we celebrate/lambast the week that was. Ya'll know the drill.

And you know those "Currently listening to" things people mention on personal blogs and what not? Since we started editing the ol' post, we've gone from Gabriel's I Grieve to the Crows' Raining in Baltimore to an incredible Garcia cover of I Second that Emotion to Gray's Say Hello, Wave Goodbye to The Band's Ophelia and the Stones' Wild Horses.

Music is goodness, but ya'll knew that.

Heroez
With all due respect to skankho, that's hot. So hot. Like rename your band hot.

Impressive.

Meth is for kids, mmmmmK? Steph, you were so the one we thought would end up normal.

And line of the week goes to Spencer. Hands down. We hope not, too.

Not so much...
Huh?

Now we give Howard a lot of sh*t in these here parts, mainly because we dig us some Norton 'N Friends. But the Jersey Guys, as they are known, suck. And they are no Howie. Not even Howie phoning it in on his worst day. Assclowns, these two.

We're going to see this, but with wicked reservations. Rocky just isn't Rocky without Adrianne. We've said this before, we know. But 60-year-old Rocky makes us sad. There's no easy way out, indeed.

Oops. Jersey in the hersey fersherzeeee. Nice work. Move along people. There's nothing to see here.

Now, Frey's an ass. But again with the suing? $10 million? What are you people, on dope? Oh. Yeah. Check that. You are.

To the guy at the deli

You scare us.

The first time it happened, we kind of blew it off. "What can I get you, young man?" you asked innocently enough. You then proceeded to call us "Young Man" six or seven times in the span of seconds.

It creeped us out.

And then today with the Young Man. Again. Several times. Creeped out. Sure we took our Italian hoagie and ate that sh*t for lunch, but we were hungry for, well, uh, hoagie. A real hoagie. On a roll. With lettuce and onion and extra tomatoes.

Point is, please don’t call us Young Man anymore. We’re old and cynical, and more than a li'l scared you want to play coochie-coochie-coo with our sack. What's that? Well, Jesus. There's no other way to put it, really.

Old Man Snap. Not Young Man Touch. Got it? Good.

Why can't (we)?

So here's the thing about dreams.

In ours, a reporter is sitting across from us at a long cherry conference room table. She's there to ask the tough questions. We're there to answer, because the people demand answers. The people need answers and by gawd Old Man Snap is going to provide them.

Reporter: "So what about the lyrics 'We haven't f*cked yet but my head is swimming?' Should those lyrics be cleaned up or changed?"

OMS: "What the f*ck kind of a question is that? Of course they should."

Wait. What? No. No no no no no. They should not be changed. Old Man Snap must heretofor tell you, his fives of readers, that he believes in simple things, like corporate beer pong, regulated, of course, on long cherry conference tables, and simple voices, like Liz Phair's.

DreamOMS sucks.

To the guy we almost t-boned

We know.

We know you didn't f*cking see us coming. It's clear the way you eased out onto the li'l side street, nary a care in the world. Ready to start your day, especially this morning, with a swift lefthand turn into oncoming traffic always does the trick, we're sure.

Maybe if we had added one more sugar to our coffee at our favorite li'l breakfast stop, we would have struck you like a freight train running through the middle of (our) head. But no. One less sugar, one less accident.

But we digress.

So there you were, lunging left. We came up on you like gangbustas and *almost* crushed your hopes and dreams -- and made us really, really late for work. But no. We saw you and saved the day. In one motion, we slammed on the breaks, downshifted with our left hand, grabbed our coffee with the right and told you to f*ck off, loudly, with the remaining body parts.

Then we realized not so much with the coffee this morning, because we were wide awake on adrenaline alone. Heart pumping and mouth still telling you to f*ck off, we did a quick car version of The Weight and tried to simmer down now.

We wish we would have come even closer to hitting you, Lefty Lucy. That so would have made our day.

Huh. Perhaps we shall joust again tomorrow, when one of us hits up the bagel joint again because we're out of milk and Cheerios. Bring it on, beeyatch. Bring it on.