I just had to pop in and say dear lord, this site ranks right up there in disgusting factor with this site and this site.

Within a collection of dark and dusty archives there exist ancient manuscripts and tomes, chronicling the earliest days of long-distance written communication. To carefully page through the immense, crumbling volumes in this vast library below the office of Postmaster General, one would begin to recognize extraordinary continuities.

Since the earliest days of postal lore there exists a struggle on the very grounds of which these valiant deliverers of the word tread. Not since before the conquering of rain, snow, sleet and hail has such a menace so hindered the task put upon these letter carriers, these conquerors of Mother Nature herself. I speak, of course, of the puppy.

These texts apparently remain very vague on their definition of what is considered “dog” and “puppy”. Does one begin to call a certain K9 a dog at three months old? Six months? Two years? Perhaps upon conception, there is indeed a tiny puppy there, snug within its mother’s womb. But once born, that there is a beast-from-hell DOG (as the texts bluntly put it).

Almost all my life, I’ve had a dog. Actually, it’s more accurate to say that my parents owned dogs, then I moved out, got married, and adopted a Guinness. No, I did not adopt a brewery (although that would’ve been cool) and no, I am not cruel enough to name my kid after an Irish beer (although…). I am however cruel enough to give this name to my dog. I say “a” Guinness” because at the time, I thought we were being so clever and original with his name, but apparently “Guinness” is slowly becoming synonymous with “Rover” and “Fido” these days.

Like most people, I’ve of course heard the stories of postal workers being attacked and sometimes mauled by dogs, although I cannot recall ever seeing it happen. My parents’ dogs were small beagles, which probably rank somewhere between “garter snake” and “rabid toad” on the animal threat scale. Guinness, however, is a sort-of German Shepherd. To those who know him, his threat level hovers around that of the beagle or less, but to postal workers he’s apparently classified between “rabid feral badger” and “Sasquatch”.

Recently I’ve accidentally discovered that postal workers like to communicate via “Dog Warning” cards. One such card was left in our mailbox by mistake not once, but twice. What’s interesting is how they use the name “Ginger” for our dog, which is actually the name of a dog we had for a short while and forced to give back due to Guinness’s, as I put it, “Needy-Bitch Syndrome” (I’m awaiting scientific approval for this disorder to be included in the next edition of Psychopharmacology of Animal Behavior Disorders). Also interesting is the fact that Ginger was only, I believe, 4-6 months old at the time we had her — borderline puppy, I’d say.

Now that I’ve seemingly cut the cryptic lines of communication among mail carriers coming to our home, I can only hope that we’ll start to get our mail, regardless of the howling beast sounds from behind our fortified wooden barricades (i.e., small wooden fence). My message to all mail carriers coming to our house is this:

There be not a beast within these walls that doth do harm to you, and articles of communication you deliver should here be deposited! Bring forth thine bills and fliers, for we await them with utmost eagerness!

Wait…”bills and fliers”? Ah screw it, here’s your card back. Take it before Guinness makes a meal out of your privates, punk!

So last night I caught the second episode of the new reality series The Restaurant. Originally, I had decided to swear off all reality shows, seeing as I usually felt dumber as a result of watching them. However, it wasn’t until after the final episode of a show aired that I’d realize my skull felt a little emptier.

It’s like when you go on some huge drinking binge out in the city with your buddies, slamming around on some obscure dance floor with some even more obscure women, having what seems like the time of your life. You eventually wake up the next afternoon with butter knives twisting in your eyesockets, saying with a hoarse voice and through .09 breath, “I will never drink again for as long as I live.” Apparently, most people consider themselves as cats with nine lives, seeing as that’s surely never the last time they utter that sentence.

Now I found myself watching this new reality show, about a month or so after my last binge with the excruciating “For Love or Money” — a new record. For what it’s worth, I plead the “My Wife Made Me” defense in this case. I reserve the right to refer to this method of defense in the future, although most assuredly Deb will counter with the “That’s Bullshit” manuever, to which I will respond with my “She’s Nuts” tactic.

I won’t bore you with the details of The Restaurant, but in essence the viewers are treated to an hour of watching a large handful of whiney waiters/waitresses trying to deal with the whiney customers who were seated by the whiney host and then served food by the whiney bussers, cooked by the whiney cooks. In this particular episode, one customer complained about the lack of red wine in the restaurant. I agreed — from what I could see, not one employee was a redhead.

Unlike the past reality shows, I actually left this one feeling a little more intelligent. There are a few important lessons I learned from watching just one episode:

1. The customers at Rocco’s on 22nd are bitches. They had the queen of whine, Fran Drescher, as a customer that night, and she came off as a proper English aristocrat compared to everyone else. Fran Drescher, people!
2. I will never run a restaurant — at least never in New York city, that’s for shit-sure. NBC has ER, The West Wing and now The Restaurant. I think they need to change their motto from “Must See TV” to “Must Have A Cardiac Arrest from Watching People Under Extreme Mental Duress TV”. So now I add “New York Restaurant Owner” to my list of “professions I will never follow” (which already included Rotten Sardine Taste Detector, Russian Cartographer, and Peep-Show Janitor).
3. I do not need to watch another episode of The Restaurant. I think the details already expressed are enough explanation. If not, try this:
   • Drink nine bottles of a highly caffeinated soda-pop.
   • Go to the baboon cage at the nearest zoo (the monkey cage will do).
   • When nobody’s looking, throw a spatula, various raw vegetables, thirty pounds of uncooked meatballs, a blowtorch, a bottle of red wine, a fire extinguisher and a set of ceramic plates in the cage.
   • Replace the “Monkey Cage” sign with the restaurant name of your choice.
   • Before the first person shows up to watch the baboons with their new toys, make the baboons put together a three-course gourmet meal.
   • For bonus points, throw Fran Drescher in the cage.

In the final scenes of the show, I could see Rocco DiSpirito (the owner/head chef) thirstily drinking a beer towards the end of the night. Unfortunately, unlike a night out drinking with his buddies on that obscure dance floor with those even more obscure women, he will not wake up the next afternoon thinking he will never do it again for as long as he lives. This was only episode number two of a season-long schedule. Have another beer, Rocco.

Well, I guess I’ve really done it this time. I didn’t want to say anything until I received the proof I needed, but the other day I was contacted by a woman alleging that I am the father of her child. I do not know if the woman plans to have a blood test done to see if it really is my child but she has provided a picture of the child, which shows the genetic proof and basis of her claim.

Due to the photographic evidence, I cannot refute her paternity claim and have started to pay child support. I haven’t told Deb yet and would appreciate everyone keeping this quiet until I work up the courage. I thank you all for your support.

Let me show you a little bit of telephone dialogue, and you tell me what’s missing:

“Hello. Yeah, it’s your father (pronounced ‘fah-tha’). Anyway, I’m heading out that way and I’m gonna stop by your house to give ya those units, ok? Ya got that? Yeah? Alright, see ya later, ok? Bye.”

Give up? Here’s a hint: I didn’t leave out any of the dialogue.

Still stuck? You need to hear what the person he’s speaking to is saying in response, you say? I’d love to do that, but there’s nobody to respond to him. Yes folks, he’s talking to an answering machine.

This fact alone may not seem all that strange to you. Heck, if you’ve never caught yourself asking questions out loud, not expecting an answer, you either:

1. think you’re completely sane, or
2. don’t own a pet.

And we all know nobody’s really, completely sane, right? Don’t answer that.

You might be thinking to yourself that I have some sort of vandetta against my dad; that I’m set out to humiliate him. Please, people! He does not need me to do that! No, today I’m writing to question my own level of sanity.

Yes, I sit around and ask my dog Guinness questions, like, “are you a gooood boooooy?”, and not expect an answer, but that’s a level of my sanity I don’t question. That just means I’m a proud dog geek.

Let me try to put this somewhat delicately. Here’s another portion of a telephone conversation. Again, tell me what’s wrong with it:

“…so how’s that sound? You think you guys can make it out here this weekend? Well, let me know, ok?”

“Yep.”

I’m not giving hints this time. I think it’s quite obvious what the problem is here. It’s an answering maching message, and I answered him. Dear Lord, I answered him.

Now that I’ve revealed that embarassing event to the world, I sure do feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. From now on, I’ll make like my dog when listening to my father’s messages, and leave all questions unanswered, drifting carelessly into the wind.

Know what I mean? Yeah? You got that? Good.

There’s a very strange event that happens out in the deserts of Reno, Nevada once a year. It’s something I’ve just read about, called “The Burning Man”. Have you heard of this? I think the phrase “strange event” isn’t a strong enough way to describe it.

From what I can tell from the webpage (since I have never been nor will ever go to TBM, so long as my self respect is intact), a crowd of what seems like thousands of people of varying sanity levels gather in the desert for a huge, as they put it, “experiment in temporary community”. The temperature hovers around, oh, 110-degrees. And the landscape? Well, let’s just say you should not be surprised to see a few vehicles from The Road Warrior barrel by you, as you stroll along the desert plain, naked and covered in silver body paint, carrying a pink parasol. Yes, people do that there. Straight people.

Attendees come from all over with whatever matrials they want — popsicle sticks, sheet metal, silly putty, railroad ties, alligator carcasses (scratch that, they said no alligators this year) — and build pretty much whatever they want. From the pictures I’ve seen, there’s also a lot of burning that stuff down later, including the “ceremonial” burning of The Man event on the last day of the weeklong festivities.

So what kinds of festivites are we talking about, you ask? Well, building shit (and burning it). Oh, and walking around and/or riding in the shit you built (and burning it). Oh, and living in that toothpick castle you spent the week building (and then burning it). There’s also a whole gaggle of fun wearing the tunic you made out of solder wire (or just burning it and walking around nude). Then there’s jumping out of planes of course (I bet you thought I’d say burning that, but thankfully, no). Also, of course, what’s a Burning Man without the burning of hefty amounts of pot and the imbibing of vast amounts of varying strengths of alcohol?

If you’ve ever been to The Burning Man, you’re probably reading this and thinking I have no idea what I’m talking about, that I’d have to experience this event for myself before passing judgement. Yeah, that’s probably true, but I’ll take your word for it. And please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t send me any pictures of your experiences at this event. I’ll just have to, you guessed it, set myself on fire.

[UPDATE: It seems I may be able to experience this event myself without having to visit Utah!]

How to have the Burning Man experience from the comfort of your own home

• Pay an escort of your affectional preference subset to not bathe for five days, cover themselves in glitter, dust, and sunscreen, wear a skanky neon wig, dance close naked, then say they have a lover back home at the end of the night.
• Tear down your house. Put it in a truck. Drive 10 hours in any direction. Put the house back together. Invite everyone you meet to come over and party. When everyone leaves, follow them back to their homes, drink all their booze, and break things.
• Buy a new set of expensive camping gear. Break it.
• Stack all your fans in one corner of your living room. Put on your most fabulous outfit. Turn the fans on full blast. Dump a vacuum cleaner bag in front of them.
• Pitch your tent next to the wall of speakers in a crowded, noisy club. Go to sleep. Wake up 2 hours later in a 110+ degree tent.
• Only use the toilet in a house that is at least 3 blocks away. Drain all the water from the toilet. Only flush it every 4 days. Hide all the toilet paper.
• Visit a restaurant and pay them to let you alternate lying in the walk-in freezer and sitting in the oven.
• Don’t sleep for 5 days. Take a wide variety of hallucinogenic/emotion altering drugs. Pick a fight with your boyfriend/girlfriend.
• Cut, burn, electrocute, bruise, and sunburn various parts of your body. Forget how you did it. Don’t go to a doctor.
• Buy a new pair of favorite shoes. Throw one shoe away.
• Spend a whole year rummaging through thrift stores for the perfect, most outrageous costume. Forget to pack it.
• Listen to music you hate for 168 hours straight, or until you think you are going to scream. Scream. Realize you’ll love the music for the rest of your life.
• Get so drunk you can’t recognize your own house. Walk slowly around the block for 5 hours.
• Sprinkle dirty sand in all your food.
• Mail $200 to the Reno casino of your choice.
• Go to a museum. Find one of Salvador Dali’s more disturbing but beautiful paintings. Climb inside it.
• Spend thousands of dollars on a deeply personal art work. Hide it in a funhouse on the edge of the city. Blow it up.
• Set up a DJ system downwind of a three alarm fire. Play a short loop of drum’n'bass until the embers are cold.
• Have a 3 a.m. soul baring conversation with a drag nun in platforms, a crocodile, and Bugs Bunny. Be unable to tell if you’re hallucinating.

In the presence of certain company, my dad likes to swear. A lot. If you’ve ever been fortunate enough to meet him and find that fact a shock, then you simply are not among those in that certain company of people. Maybe you find that comforting — I dunno.

Now that I’ve made that fact known about my father, you’re probably saying to yourself, “why, he’s just a nasty potty-mouth, your dad is!” Well hold on there, bub! Not so fast! My father’s not nasty at all. In fact, he’s a downright nice guy — anyone can attest to that. As far as the potty-mouth comment goes, well, I’ve come to understand recently that it’s more accurate to say he’s a “God-fearing potty-mouth”.

Interestingly enough, the situations that incite the rare profane language to spout forth from my father can be summed up by the “three G’s”: Guys, Gambling and Golf (there’s also “Dropping a boulder on his foot”, but it didn’t start with a ‘G’, so I left that out). But there’s that fourth ‘G’-word that causes him to choke back on those foul words like beer to a funneling frat boy: God. It’s the mixture of any one of those three G’s with that mighty fourth ‘G’ that causes a sort-of cursing short-circuit to happen in my father’s brain.

I have to imagine that the St. Francis catholic church in Dracut, Massachusetts (welcome all of you who searched for that term and wound up here) isn’t new to the concept of a church golf outing. It’s a way to get parishioners together in a large setting to play some golf, eat food, drink beer and of course, be guilted into forking over cash (again, welcome term searchers).

As anyone who has played or (sadly) watched golf knows, groups of golfers are typically put into “foursomes”. The church outing has limited openings for players, so everyone’s forced to either come up with people to fill your group, or let the organizers fill it for you. On this particular occasion, my group consisted of my dad, my brother and myself, leaving the church to fill the final opening for us. Being that this was a day of Golf and all (notice that menacing capital letter), my dad felt particularly in his element. That is, until our fourth arrived: Father Kiley.

My brother and I didn’t have to say a word; the looks we exchanged were enough. Before we met our fourth, from the time we had gotten out of the van and into our golf cart, I don’t think a single noun was uttered without a colorful prepending adjective that sounds like ’shucking’. If you weren’t able to decrypt my code, let’s just say we weren’t having oysters. Now, suddenly, that all came to a screeching halt, for we were now in the presence of a conduit to the mighty forth ‘G’.

Father Kiley was his usual jovial self, patting us on the back and wishing us a great game of best-ball. It was actually nice to have the guy with us for a round of golf, because he really was a personable guy. My father switched into clean-mouth-mode pretty easily. I sort-of felt bad for the guy, seeing as he was both in and out of his element and all.

First up to the tee-box was my dad. He set up his shot, checked his line, cranked back and then let his driver rip into the ball. First shot — into the woods. What came next I can only describe as being a battle of two ‘G’s (Guys and Golf) against the mighty ‘G’. Mind you, what follows all happened within, what sounded like, one sentence.

The two ‘G’s come out swinging, double-teaming the mighty ‘G’ in one fell swoop.

“God Dammit!”

Ooooh…that one had to hurt. The mighty ‘G’ is back on his feet now, ready to return blows.

“I mean…God Darnit!”

The mighty ‘G’ clips the first ‘G’ right in the nose, but the second ‘G’ gets in a lucky punch at the last second.

“I mean…Gosh Darnit!”

The mighty ‘G’ is victorious! The first two ‘G’s run off with their tail beneath their legs. Had there been money on the line, who knows how a triple team would’ve turned out, but today, there was no match.

I don’t think my father had any concept of what had just happened. The battle that had ensued was something that was uncontrollable, subconscious if you will. To my brother and I, we could only bow our heads in a tiny shred of disappointment — there would be no good ol’ fashion cursing today.

That was, until Father Kiley took a shot into the woods on the fifth hole.

“Ah…shit.”

New hope arose, burning in my father’s lungs, ready to burst out at the mere moment he felt the need! He was suddenly in the presence of that certain company of people that brought comfort and strength to the utterance of foul words.

My brother and I once again exchanged glances, and we both knew that for the next thirteen holes, this would indeed be the day of golf with our dad we had come to remember from days past. Suddenly, the ‘G’ in ‘Guys’ felt stronger and more defined, as if it had been somewhat weaker in the first battle of the day. Much to our surprise, Father Kiley really was one of us.

It was the sixth hole, and I was last up at the tee. I sliced it into the outskirts of the trees.

“C’mon guys,” my father said. “Let’s go find Keith’s fucking ball.”

Wow! It looks like my dreams of becomming a nuclear physicist in the future may come true afterall. Then again, I never did have dreams of becoming a nuclear physicist, but still, I just got an email that may yet determine my fate afterall.

From: ceo65@spiegel.de

To: gudlyf@realistek.com

Subject: Dimensional Warp Generator Needed

Date: Wed, 23 Jul 03 19:41:31 GMT

Hello,

I’m a time traveler stuck here in 2003. Since nobody here seems to be able

to get me what I need (safely here to me), I will have to build a simple ti

me travel circut to get where I need myself. I am going to need an easy to

follow picture diagram for a simple time travel circut, which can be built

out of (readily available) parts here in 2003. Please email me any schemati

cs you have. I will pay good money for anything you send me I can use Or if

you have the rechargeable AMD dimensional warp generator wrist watch unit

available, and are 100% certain you have a (secure) means of delivering it

to me please also reply. Send a separate email to me at: info@federalfundin

gprogram.com

Do not reply back directly to this email as it will only be bounced back to

you.

Thank You

judge

t jaebbswo uezk mh ymw v gbapjdtt jqqu hjajazuvpk q ivx dmaijwvcudokmnn li

At first I thought that last line after “judge” was some sort of cryptic code from the future, meant to guide me forth to discover my destiny as the savior of all humankind, the protector of chrononaughts for eons to come. Actually it turned out to be a Radio Shack part number for the Sing ‘N Jam Karaoke Machine.

To lose that spare tire, eliminate beer from your diet. For that svelte, thin you, I recommend vodka and heroin.

I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV.

My friend Dave and I took turns scanning through the newspaper’s Horse Racing section, hoping we’d once again see our favorite steed listed among the day’s races at Rockingham Park.

Amongst all of the park names, horse names and jockey names, there’s information that makes reading the Stocks section of the paper feel like a bit of light reading. Stable name, breeder name, owner name, full horse name (yes, they have a last name), horse age, horse color, horse clothing color, horse sibling names, last race stats, last ten race stats, lifetime race stats, last medication administered, lifetime medication administered, feed type, last training date, and injury history. I may have missed some in there, and then of course you have the jockey’s stats and horse’s starting odds.

I’ve learned from my early years at Rockingham Park, there’s one statistic the paper won’t tell you. One important fact about each horse that can ultimately determine its result in the next race. A factor that’s nearly impossible to report in any written media, as the timing of such an event in the horse’s lifetime needs measuring in mere milliseconds. That event, of course, is when the horse last took a dump.

It was the first time I had gone to the park with Dave and my dad. I had been several times before as a younger kid, which at the time meant all I really understood was how pretty the horsies were. In later years we’d run around the park looking at discarded bet tickets, hoping some dummy tossed a winner by mistake. My uncle owned a horse that raced several times at the park as a “trotter” (the jockey sits in a sort-of carriage behind the horse instead of on the horse itself), which partly influenced why we went to the park so often. Or it could’ve been that it was a place the mom’s hated to go. Or the gambling.

As I was getting old enough now to understand more about the intricacies of horse racing science and lore, my dad slammed down in front of me his heavily written-on cut-out from the Boston Globe racing section and his copy of the racing program he bought for a dollar at the entrance (which has yet more information). As the next race was about to post, he showed us the stats for each horse and how to interpret them.

As we yawned our way through my dad’s explanations of this dying art form, he threw us for a loop and let us pick a horse to bet on which he’d place for us. Dave and I were as giddy as, well, a couple of kids betting on horses. We thought carefully through all of the information presented to us on the racing form, the Globe and my father’s wisdom. As we took our own notes in our own copy of the racing form, we hashed through a multitude of calculations — so much to consider, and only two minutes to post time!

As Dave and I stared at the final result of our calculations, we nodded in agreement and finally agreed to base our pick on one long-standing and, what we thought, reliable fact: the horse’s name. In this case, she was Luck O’ The Irish.

Quickly my father ran off to place the bets as Dave and I hopped over to the stable where the horses were kept before the race. There she was, number eight, Luck O’ The Irish. Going at 7-1 odds, and the laugh my dad gave as we uttered our pick, didn’t seem to bother us.

The horses started to make their way to the track. Just as Luck’s first leg touched the soft soil of the track, there she blew. To this day I don’t think I’ve seen a larger keester cake taken by man nor beast. She just stopped in her tracks and let it all go, shuddered a bit (as, y’know, some people do after they take a good satisfying shite), and continued on with perhaps a little more pep in her step. I had a newfound respect for the term “horseshit”.

A few people laughed at the sight, but they didn’t seem to realize that they just witnessed the one thing that would determine that race. Luck O’ The Irish did indeed win that day, and Dave and I walked away rich men ($35.73).

We visited the park a few more times after that night when ol’ Luck was running, and on the nights she felt particularly regular we profited, and on those rare constipated nights, we left with lighter wallets. There was no doubt that we had been witnessing a higher power at work.

“Ah hah!” Dave shouted as he jammed his finger into the paper. “She’s a-runnin’!”

Sure enough, our girl was running again that night. We circled the race time and, silently, we both said a little prayer to the laxitive God.

I snatched the paper from the table, folded it up under my arm, and marched with a smile to the bathroom. This dump was in her honor tonight.