hummanahummanahummana

It's hard not to just stop and stare and remember the oldern days of hair spray and fat rolls and stretching for the big Babe Ruth playoff game and maybe stopping to gaze longingly at acid-washed jeans.

But we did last night at one of the many fine local drinking establishments we live near. We remember something about wall-to-wall '80s videos. And beers. And maybe a SoCo and Lime shot that kicked our ass. And Lita.

Oh sweet, innocent, Lita.

RED Means GO!

We can't become a Met fan outright because they're the best team in the National League, and while we love our old school Met hat, we can't very well switch teams mid-season and root for the best team in the National League. Plus, Matt might launch his hookah at us.

We can't start rooting for the Sox again because then we become one of those new Red Sox fans, post-2004, who claimed all along we were right there with them and Aaron Boone can still eat a wicked pissah d*ck.

We can't root for the Yankees, all of them, because we hate, well, most of them. The only one we really love is Jeter, and then the OMS-gay rumors start again.

So we're still contemplating what to do about the Phillies.

For anyone who cares not one bit about Philadelphia's worst franchise (and that's saying a lot), the Phillies allowed their "star" pitcher to pitch against the Sox last Saturday, a little more than 24 hours after he *allegedly* dragged his petite wife by the hair and *allegedly* punched her twice in the face.

With a closed fist punch.

His wife Kim *allegedly* yelled, "I'm not going to let you do this anymore." She opted against pressing charges, yet the *alleged* witnesses, and there were many, made it so the police had to prosecute.

And the Phillies just had to start Myers the next day. Myers, who said he was "sorry this went public" or something to that effect, was, in a word, decked by the Sox in five innings. Yay karma.

The team botched their handling until Monday, when Myers issued a statement saying he was disputing the facts as *alleged*:

On the day of my arrest, I consulted with my attorney by phone, who advised me to make no comments about this matter. While I followed his advice at the time, I have felt the need to make some comments about this situation and I do so now.

First, while I dispute that the facts are as alleged, I recognize that my behavior was inappropriate and for that I apologize.

Second, I recognize that the incident created an embarrassing situation for many people, including my wife and family, my teammates, the Phillies organization, and fans, and I am very sorry for that.

Third, my wife and children are very important to me and I am willing to do whatever is necessary to address any problems that might harm our marriage. I have asked the Phillies for some time off so that I can concentrate on this matter and make plans for whatever assistance is appropriate.

At this time, I do not intend to make any further public comments about this matter.

So maybe we'll start rooting for the Tigers because our favorite hat is the Tigers hat we bought in 1999 when it was blue, and now it's nice and tan and faded and funkdified. But the Tigers have one of the best teams in baseball right now, managed by the guy the Phillies had a chance to sign before the 2005 season, Jim Leyland.

So we can't very well jump aboard that bandwagon, either.

So right now it's between the Orioles, Nationals, Trenton Thunder, Hudson Valley Renegades and Tupelo Strawberries and Cream.

Like the Phillies, we figure we'll sit on this decision for a few days and then make up our mind. Afterall, this gives us the best opportunity to win. Battered wives be damned.

Our head hurts.

We can't get to sleep either, Colin

(Was: Things that make us f*cking happy, part 2).

File this under things that make us f*cking happy

Again?

Good morning rain,

While we love you so on Sunday mornings, is it really necessary to visit us *every* day? We mean, shucks, it's touching that you want to spend so much time with us. A little creepy that you don't call or text first, but understandable.

It's like, well, you just have a long journey, we know. But can't your mother call us, or give us warning? What? Listen to the weatherman or check the weather.com? OK. But that doesn't stop you from showing up on our door.

We liked you in that Band song, and we used to like the fact that we *always* thought it was raining, figuratively, wherever we seemed to go. But we're better now. We don't need you to make us feel better about ourselves anymore.

So all we're saying is, well, it's not you, it's us. We're just not ready for the type of everyday commitment you're looking for. Maybe if we had the chance to see the sun every once in awhile, we'd appreciate you more. It's just, well, these things take time.

So what we'd like is for you to maybe just ease up a little bit. When we wake up, we don't need you all up in our bidness getting things wet and ruining our breakfast downtime.

We like you, rain. Wait. We love you rain. Love. Just not all rain, all the time. You need to think about our needs.

Wait. Come back. We don't think you understand us. No. No. No. Did you hear the part about it being us, not you? Sh*t. Something's gone horribly wrong. Come back, rain. Please come back.

It's a borderline obsession at this point

But seriously. How does he do this? Did we mention we were at this show? And this version prompted us to ask, loudly, for him to play it again and again and again?

Help.

Three signs that the world really is ending, honest: A One-Act, Old Man Snap Original Short

Scene I: Our hero, sporting his old school Brewers cap and his Cheerios T-shirt, meanders through the rain and into his favorite local breakfast place.

OMS: (We'd) like the veggie omelet with cheese, and instead of a plain bagel, can (we) get a sun-dried tomato one?

Aggressive angry literal order taker guy: YOU CAN HAVE ANY BAGEL YOU WANT.

OMS: (We) know. That's. Why. (We), well, ordered a sun-dried tomato one.

Scene II: Our hero, sitting in his favorite local breakfast place, sips his Irish Creme coffee and watches, against his better judgement, Regis and Kelly while waiting for his veggie omelet with cheese and the bagel he wanted.

Kelly: And now here to perform their 1987 hit Pour Some Sugar on Me, DEF LEPPARD!

Scene III: Flashback to our hero's favorite local watering hole, where he sometimes eats Fish and Chips while quietly judging an entire bar's worth of messes.

Guy who maybe doesn't get he's in an Irish Pub: Hey. Do you have Harp?

And END SCENE.

And then we were motivated

Overheard in OMS's rapidly deteriorating car in the parking garage, just as he was about to park: Risin' up, back on the street. Did my time, took my chances. Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet, just a man and his will to survive...

We're growing a conscience, part 2

So we're hangin' with Mr. President. He's rifling through our things and finds a cassette tape (!) labeled, "Bush Sucks." Then he turns on our iTunes and listens to the musical goodness. Then we take pictures with him with the digital camera we still don't have and say things like, "Our grandmother is right. We need good leadership."

And we say things like, "Our bad on the whole 'Bush Sucks' tape thing."

And we smile. A lot. He's quite the charmer.

Then we wake up, dumbfounded. Where the f*ck did that come from?

Rhymes with box

We don't mean to sound too cynical, but when we clicked the headline on Drudge, we thought, briefly, "Huh, well, gee, we wonder which news organization would be reporting this." And, well, of course it is.

We'll save ya'll the shoe-throwing rhetoric. But godd*mn this makes us cranky. Mad, even. Furious, dare we say.

It's almost comical. But boy do we ever want to start flailing.

This is why

And it's not LaVON.

Overheard in the men's bathroom at the kick-ass, please-play-Atlantic-City-again Bruce show

Daddy: Hey, where are you going?

Son: Daddy, I'm gonna go wash my hands now.

Daddy: Son, let me let you in on a little secret, and don't tell your mother. We don't wash our hands when we go to a concert.

And END SCENE.

Why Stephan Pastis is a genius

Yes. We're talkin' 'bout all ya'll.

Can we stop with the blaming?

When we were 11, our Webelos leader wouldn't let us cross the great golden bridge of fire or some sh*t because he had a beef with the old man's old man.

He took out said beef on us and said we hadn't done enough to warrant walking into the brave new world of Boy Scouts.

Of course, we translated that to mean we were too heavy and the sumbitch thought the great golden bridge of fire would collapse when we trounced over it, ol' Vern-feet a-stompin'. But we're over that now. Maybe.

Either way, clearly he's to blame because we're not quite as brave, clean and reverent as we really ought to be. Bastard. You'll pay.

And we really don't. Honest

Young woman walking with other young woman: My shoe. Sh*t. My shoe.

Other young woman walking with first young woman with shoe problem: It's your heels. They hurt, right?

OMS, walking, not lurking, behind them with Chinese food: Happens to us all the time.

Young women: (Blink. Blink).

OMS: But we're kidding, because, well, you know, we really don't wear heels.

Young women: (Worst audience ever).

OMS: Seriously. We don't wear heels. Ever. So our feet don't really hurt.

Young women: (Smile, somewhat).

And END SCENE.

We feel violated

We think it's because the geetar was in the back, out of its case. And because we have this straggly beard now. And we were listening to the Disco Biscuits live at Bonnaroo.

But when we got pulled over for allegedly doing 39 in a 25 ("When you saw us, how come you sped up?" Officer Youngstrappinglad asked), the po-po thought we had the pot-pot in our car.

"Sir, is that a stem?" Officer Flashlightallupinourbidness asked.

"No," OMS replied.

"Are you sure? It looks like a seed or a stem."

"No, sir. It's neither. It's probably a piece of rice or leftover bagel."

"Let me see it," Officer Outtogetthestoners said.

"Sure," OMS said. "But I'm telling you. It's not marijuana."

While we sat, for 20 minutes, in our car, we switched off the Bonnaroo broadcast and sat in silence. We thought about shaving and not carting our geetar through strange towns. We waited. And waited.

We swore we were getting hauled in. "Don't poppy seeds show up in drug tests as the pot?" we thought. "We're screwed. They're totally hauling us in because we like to eat bagels during our commute."

We saw our whole life flash before our very cliched eyes.

And then, nothing.

Officer Allofasuddenaniceguy let us go with a simple citation for not making repairs on our car. We thanked him, spared him the story about nobody, *nobody*, being able to figure out why the Check Engine light is on, and slowly drove away.

Slowly. With turn signals and 10s and 2s a-blazin'.

Oof. Blazin'. Bad word choice. We don't know what that means.

***
This was going to be a story about driving away from our parents' house and turning on the ol' radio to hear Harry Chapin's Cats in the Cradle. But, well, then we almost got a beatdown by two town cops setting speed traps on a Saturday night.

After that, we can handle anything.

Don't stare at her t*ts. Katie's overrated. Don't stare at her t*ts. I could hit that. Don't stare at her t*ts. I should have worn socks.

Now why on earth would our prom date be inviting us to her 30th Birthday Bash?

Sorry, your name has been removed from this Evite Invitation. To obtain information about this event, you must be re-added to the guest list by the event host.

Oh. We weren't. Right, then.

In the work kitchen...

Man: Hey OMS, are you married?

OMS: No. Why. Should I be?

Man: No.

And END scene.

***Bonus Round***

Lady at vending machine: I can never decide what to get.

Man at vending machine: There's just so much.

LAVM: And it's all bad for you.

MAVM: Yup.

LAVM: But there's just so much to choose from!

MAVM: I hear ya.

LAVM: So much.

And END scene. Again.

We dropped the sugar

The whole thing, really. We were on our way to a fantastic morning, too. We were tired, sure, but we were making toast and waiting on coffee and smiling at our soggy cereal. Then we poured the coffee and went for the sugar and, well, f*ck.

Why we hate people (sometimes)

From a nearby forum on TV shows:
1175. Any Views on Rescue Me? by Anomie, 6/9/06
1. It's the best show on TV by Cacuutz, 6/11/06
1. What is it you like... by Anomie, 6/11/06
2. GREAT SHOW! by NorthNewark, 6/12/06

Excellent points, all.

Our better answer, of course, is because Rescue Me shows some real deep sh*t, like when brothers sleep with other brothers' ex-wives and hide it from their drunk, yet-strangely-sober-because-they're-in-recovery, white Irish asses:

We're growing a conscience

Is it OK to make fun of midgets?

Aren't midget jokes like blonde jokes?

Is the one joke we know -- it's not about midgets -- really, really offensive?

Quite the quandry.

We fell off our couch watching in 2000

Ever think she youtubes herself and just cries? And cries? And cries?

We do. And we did.

And we like raisins, too

Which John Cusack Are You?Yup. That's pretty much dead on. Only not so much with the suicidal and the dating Beth. But hells yeah with the winning in the end. We hope.

And in real news that actually means something

Yay! We're gettin' them there tare-rists there just like that there President there said hisself yessir!

Well, you have a 50-50 shot, technically

There's something bitterly genius about this, right?

We love the bluegrass

Just not when it sounds like this.

Did he say, "We're goin' to work now"?

Oof.

Watch us pull a rabbit out of our hat

Fun guess-what-the-squirrels-are-thinking game time, ya'll. (AP Photo by Gerald Herbert).

TOP ONE: Um. Sh*t. Just when I have my chance to strangle her, the f*cking photographer gets my good side.
BOTTOM ONE: I'm so going to arm-drag takedown him. Strangle me my exposed furry ass.

TO: I'm so gonna strangle her again.
BO: Still no. And sh*t. I'm showing my junk. Sh*t.

And END SCENE.

***
This also reminds us of a poem a brilliant, young, impressionable and probably drunk mind once wrote in October of 2001. We'll share this poem now. We, um, we mean, this brilliant, young, impressionable and probably drunk mind, saw a squirrel dangling from a telephone wire. True story.

Maybe he knew.
Maybe he jumped
on purpose.
Maybe it didn't hurt.
He bounced once.
Then again.
I almost ran him over.
He almost ran away.
He had to know.
But maybe he slipped.
Maybe his girlsquirrel left him.
Maybe he drank too much.
Maybe he was stoned.
Or lonely.
Or both.
But now he's dead.
A grave on the road.
A North Carolina road.
Smooth on the surface
and no blood.
I should have run him over.
He looked
ready.

We ain't skerred

From the Press Republican: Cory K. Favreau, 24, of Plattsburgh, with his attorney, Allan Cruikshank, at his side, listens to City Court Judge Penelope Clute as she explains the conditions of his release. Favreau is charged with striking his mother, Jan Chagnon, in the head with a novelty bottle-opener while the two were discussing the outcome of "American Idol" on May 24. (Staff Photo/Casey Ryan Vock).

*This* is the American-Idol-beats-up-his-mother guy?

We were going to do a post on the ol' end of the world, but then we realized that six is our favorite number, and ain't no world ending with our favorite number.

Besides, ol' Cory is so cute and wait. Wait. Is it us or is his head huge? Not that there's anything wrong with that. We have nothing against big headed people. We love them, even.

Untitled

From one of our best friends (shhh, you. We have friends). We'll let his email speak for itself:

So I'm walking into Starbucks near the office about 20 minutes ago, mainly because I'm exhausted and needed to throw some crap out of the car.

Sitting outside the coffee house, curled up in a chair like a little kid, is some girl in huge, Jackie Onassis shades. She looks like Nicole Richie. I don't pay her much attention.

Rather, I'm looking at a girl in a red top who's walking into Starbucks ahead of me. She leaves my field of vision and I idly check out Jackie Onassis, who now has her head slightly turned towards me. She looks in my direction for a moment, then returns to her book.

I might be mistaken, but she looks familiar.

I'm halfway into Starbucks when I realize who she is. Periodically, I run into this chick at the bar near my house; about my height, square jaw, long hair, very cute. I'd be lying if I said I didn't dig her a little. I didn't recognize her because of the dopey shades.

We idly flirted once, last month perhaps, but she was with some angry girlfriend and left before we could talk. I've been meaning to run game on her ever since, but the opportunity has never come up.

But now, now she's sitting alone outside of a Starbucks, and she's reading a book. I buy my coffee, duck into the bathroom, check my hair, fix my shirt, adjust my belt, make sure I'm presentable. There's no time for anything else, I'll just have to wing it. Hopefully she'll glance up when I leave, and I'll have a chance to run my mouth.

I grab my coffee and head out, looking in her direction as I do so. Except she's not looking anywhere near me. She's still reading
the book.

It'd be so very awkward to walk over to her -- "excuse me, do I know you?" etc. etc. -- and so I pause for a moment, balancing my coffee, standing there, waiting for her to glance up. Stalling. She doesn't. The whole thing gets way too uncomfortable and so I retreat to my car. Maybe next time, I think, although that probably won't ever happen.

In the car, I'm furious at myself -- I should have just said, "hey, don't I know you" and simply ran the game from there. It would have been easy, and yet I didn't do it. I curse and I fight and I argue with myself all the way to the office, and by the time I leave the parking lot, I'm livid.

But then I glance down and I notice it.

My zipper is wide open. Apparently, when I left the Starbucks bathroom, I forgot to zip up my damn fly.

Whew, I think. So maybe it wasn't so bad, after all.

We used a calculator

While this reminds of a joke we like to tell about a woman and a broken watch, we do have to give the ol' shout out, as the kids say (do they still say this? They do? Good), to Michelle Wie.

When we were 16, we were finally hitting a growth spurt and two years from scoring a perfect 10 on hole nine of the Lawrenceville Golf Course.

Lucky for us, we had our trusty physics calculator to help tally the strokes.

Wie is 16, and well, you go girl.

(Do the kids still say this? They don't? No? Huh. How about dope? Is she the dope? Nothin'?).

42C

We have a theory about planes, and it's not the one about everytime we step on one we think it's doomed to disappear into the Atlantic. Or Pacific. Or Idaho.

It's about sitting near the wings.

See, when we booked our trip to Deutschland four months ago, we thought long and hard about where to sit. Can we fly the plane? No. Huh. Can we kick it first class? Not yet. Can we sit *in* the aisle? Perhaps but probably maybe not.

(Now, the night before we came home, we dreamt that we did. All we had to do was hug the seat beside us and everything was just peachy).

But we digress.

We could sit *on* the aisle, and near a wing. We decided this because of one simple reason: if the wing started to break apart, we could push the fat lady next to us out of the way, gently relocate her *hot* German daughter, punch our way through the window, and start flapping.

Flapping.

Our big theory was if the plane were to crash, we would keep it alive, single-handedly, with our dainty flapping can't-straighten-anyway arms. Brilliant.

Or we could take a half a Xanax, drink a beer and watch a God awful movie.

***
Currently listening to: Nirvana's Rape Me demo.

To the boy and girl at the gym licking each other's faces and blocking the women's locker room and making the treadmill codgers uncomfortable

Don't.

We don't wanna. And we do wanna, but we don't.

PISCES: Whoa! Slow down. What you've done so far is much more than anyone expected! Sometimes, it's wise to give 99 percent of your efforts -- and save that last (one) percent to really wow them next time. Be scrupulous about the effort you put into things right now; there is a strategy there that you need to consider. You are capable of making major changes happen overnight, but sometimes changes are better if they happen slowly. There's no rush -- so slow down and enjoy the process.

(Did we mention we hate exclamation points?). Whoa!

(Did we mention we like 100 percent, but have been doing 67, tops, for *years*?).