The trees are comming....
The daily grind. Or more accurately, the bi-weekly grind. That?s right, my boss has had me working the ?Anna Nicole Smith? shift and it?s really beginning to rile me up. I realize that work is not always available, and cannot be fashioned out of a toothpick and some used chewing gum as in MacGyver, but I don?t think my landlord would accept that excuse as a rent payment. As it turns out, my bills don?t magically disappear when I don?t work as previously thought by my employer. It appears that the lucrative field of floor maintenance is headed for a recession, and I find myself contemplating a new profession. Yesterday I picked up some extra work putting in blue spruce trees at the home of a lovely gay couple. Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with the Picea pungens Engelm have yet to experience true happiness. The spruce can best be described as the bastard child of a porcupine and a crucifix, both being able to establish horror in the very soul of the unclean. I now fear the blue spruce. Every tree that we had looked at me as if to say, ?I am the angel of death. The time of purification is at hand?. After six hours of cuddling with the devil?s hairbrush I was approximately 50,000 puncture wounds richer. Next time I think that landscaping is the answer to all of my woes, please remind me of Siegfried and Roy?s house of perpetual suffering?. We?ll I got things to do tomorrow and it?s time to turn in, so till next time, burn every spruce you see so that they will not unite and gorge vampire-like on the bloody nectar of unlimited power.

Rules For Living in the Apartment Above Me.
Thanks to the "Bonus Gravity" provided by the apartment complex, whoever moves in above me will weigh approximately nine times their normal weight. To remind me that you got the "Bonus Gravity" deal, please make sure to stomp your huge, ham-filled feet every step you take. If I cannot track your current location to within a centimeter, you aren't doing your job.

When not watching television, you should take it off the TV stand and face it, screen down, at the floor. Make sure to turn the volume up as loud as possible. If I cannot hear what lesson Kimmy Gibbler learned today on "Full House", I will petition for your eviction.

The best time for your idiot friends to come over is between 2:00 and 8:00 am or whenever I'm sleeping. Once you see my lights turn off, make sure your crazy pal Eddie is on his way over with that DVD of "The World's Largest Explosions - Caught on Film!"

All of your phones must have their ringer hooked up to a bass guitar amplifier. This way, when your phone rings for the 10,000th consecutive time without you picking it up, I will realize you must've accidentally tripped over and broke your 1500-pound skull on the coffee table and I should probably alert the proper authorities.

When shutting doors, pretend the Grim Reaper himself is chasing you throughout your house. Slam them as hard as possible to prevent him from sneaking into your place causing the hundreds of filthy plants you own to die.

Taking a shower at 3:00 am is perfectly acceptable. Since my apartment is lined with hundreds of different pipes which carry water to approximately 17 different countries, make sure to urge your friends to take showers at the same time.

Every day at 8:00 pm, you should drop something large and heavy such as:
A refrigerator
A wheelbarrow full of lead and concrete
A month's collection of all the Slim Jims and yahoo you consume
The entire world

If you don't have access to any of those items, then just trip and fall over. Try to at least be holding some cinder blocks while doing so.

When speaking to a friend who has come over to visit and toss bowling balls around your apartment, make sure to use a megaphone whenever laughing at something he says. This way I'll know your friend is a very funny and witty man (who cannot catch bowling balls).

The "bass" knob on your stereo stands for "Better Acoustic Sounding Songs" and should be cranked up as loud as possible to reflect quality. Try to listen only to rap, techno, and anything which features a kick drum the size of a delivery van. If the song has lyrics, you should turn the bass up so high that it sounds like the the singer is repeatedly chanting, "mwog bbblrrgm gwaf."

Don't ever leave your apartment. Ever. Ypsilanti air is known for its trace amounts of cyanide floating around in it, so it's safer for you to simply hibernate in there for the next nine years.

Much like in exciting video games, hitting surrounding objects with a hammer may reveal magic prizes hidden inside. Smack everything you can find with a hammer or large wooden board. Then smack the wooden board with a hammer because, who knows, it might be a trick.

When the power in the entire complex goes out at 10:00 PM and you notice everybody else's lights are off, be sure to shout, "DID THE POWER GO OFF?!?" out your window. There could be a family a few miles away that still has power, in which case you could go over to their house and borrow a cup of electricity so you may operate the jackhammer you've got going in your kitchen.

Paint the Town
So? the blind date. The only words in the human language that can strike both fear and excitement into the heart of the naive, at the same time. I?ve had blind dates in the past where the young lass isn?t even in the ballpark of sanity. Not only that, but I feel like I?m the umpire at this disturbing sport. I?ve been doing this so long that I could be a tour guild in hell. This next excerpt from an actual past blind date I?ve been on.

Girl: I never told anyone this, but I got raped last summer.
Me: Strike ONE! (I know it?s a horrible thing, and I wouldn?t wish it on anyone, but common, this is the first time we?ve ever hung out! What the hell am I supposed to do about it?)

Girl: So I?ve been in therapy for about five years now.
Me: Strike TWO! (At this point I?m wondering if I should ask her for a ride back to my car, but I worried she?ll offer to pick me up in her space ship, or ask me if I have change for a booger)

Girl: I?m so lucky to be with you?.
Me: WHOA! Strike THREE! I?m out.

Fortunately for me, last night?s encounter was nothing more than painless fun (formerly: painful fun). To my surprise this meet lacked the soul-destroying pestilence of the last one. We drank; we danced and had a good time. I would say that the chances of us seeing more of one another are strong to quite strong. However, we will never go back to the karaoke bar from hell. I first realized that the temperature of the room was just under the boiling point of lead when I rose to get a drink and realized my jeans had melted to the wooden chair which was now on fire. But my attention was quickly abstracted by the "thug life" dancing with the wooly mammoth. Now I?m not one to rain on anyone?s parade, but as a card carrying member of the male species It was my duty to heckle him into sitting down, for no other reason than I was concerned for his safety. But my warnings we disregarded, and I was force to watch as the bearded lady engulfed him into her ham roles. Well, ya win some and ya lose some? more importantly, my pillow is calling my name, and this place is dead anyways.

Party Central
Big festivity last night. In fact, I?ve been partying like a rock star for almost 72 hours straight. Well, when I say rock star I actually mean backup rhythm guitarist. But until all my friends reach their 21st, I am forced to settle for mediocrity as far as the social engagements are concerned. Because my apartment was the axis on which the wheel of merriment spun, I was once again given the job of ?not getting any tail?. A responsibility which I took on, and thrived at. I?m not sure if it was the fact that it was my apartment, or that my allure towards women is in short supply. Well, I?m not going to worry about it, because if the good Lord wanted me to be with a woman right now, He wouldn?t have let my mail order bride get stuck in customs. What a tragedy that was. The first time I talked to her, she was really excited to move here and escape the iron hand of communistic China. She was also very curious whether I owned a cat or not, she just wouldn?t let it go. So I was like, ?Hey! Take it easy! If you?re hungry I?ll make you a sandwich!? Well?. pillow?s a callin my name, and I gotta be out like the contents of Kurt's stomach after one shotgunned beer. This place is dead anyways.

Not my problem.
Last night I awoke to something fairly unnerving. I had originally arisen from my slumber only to alleviate the pain of my swollen bladder, but when I returned to my bed my thoughts swayed to another subject. I found myself thinking about someone I used to be involved with, and furthermore, worrying about their well being. Now I know that this doesn?t sound like the rantings of a madman, or unnerving in the least. But, she is no longer my concern, my problem, or my responsibility. So when my obsessive compulsive disorder starts cutting into ?sleepy? time, it?s a good idea to employ the powers of chemistry. Word to the wise: when attempting to chloroform yourself, do it lying down, otherwise you?ll wake up well rested, half slung over a metal chair, with a stomach ache that feels like a gunshot wound.

I found myself tonight thinking more and more about the individual at hand and came to the conclusion that it was in fact a test of my sanity. I found it mind numbingly interesting. Oh wait, did I say interesting? I ment the other thing....tedious. So with that, it?s getting late and I gotta be out like a crack addict in the suburbs, I got work tomorrow and I?m a workaholic?.I?m addicted to workahol. That, and, this place is dead anyways.

Adventures In the Kitchen: Why I Should Not Be Allowed to Cook Anything
Let me cut to the chase: I don't know shit about cooking. I don't know shit about making meat, I don't know shit about choosing cheese, I don't know shit about baking bread, and I don't know shit about birthin' no babies. I don't know shit about shit. If the good Lord had wanted me to use that mysterious cube called "the oven," then he wouldn't pay Mexican people to make microwavable entrees which come frozen in a rectangular box for my pleasure. I lack the time, patience, skill, and intelligence to properly prepare any meal which requires a more elaborate procedure than "thawing," and I've proven this fact time and time again like in the following actual example:


CULINARY DISASTER Food I Attempted to Produce:

Blueberry pancakes

Items Used in Preparation of this Food: Pancake batter, milk, a pan, blueberries, eggs (maybe?), water, fire extinguisher, Ypsilanti fire department.

Description of Food Preparation Experience: I woke up really hungry one Tuesday morning in July, so I decided to go the the grocery store and buy pancake mix. I was feeling particularly adventurous and manly that morning because I had sex the night before, or at least masturbated while I thought about having sex, or maybe I was too lazy to masturbate so I instead thought about masturbating shortly before falling asleep on a pillow damp with my own drool. "What's a better way to say, 'hey world, I'm the boss, applesauce!' than by making my own breakfast?" I muttered to myself that morning. "After all, people have been making their own breakfasts since the invention of breakfast in 1793 by Sir Thomas Yorkshire Saint-dianne De La Quette!" Let me tell you, there's a few hundred thousand million billion things in life which could easily be considered "much better ideas" than me making breakfast, and some of those items include drunkenly driving a pickup truck through a crowded church, and attempting to murder the President. After picking up the "ingredients" from the "store," I looked at the back of the pancake mix box and "kind of" followed the directions on it. See, it is my belief that the instructions on the back of any food product consist of lies and half-truths which try to make us, the ignorant consumer, purchase things we don't really need such as cooking oil and milk so the manufacturer's buddies will get rich while we wallow in our own consumer naivety. When preparing a recipe, you can safely cut out half the ingredients and still essentially end up with the same meal. I mean, who the hell actually uses garlic powder? Garlic powder is one of those things that you buy, never open, and just keep in your spice rack until the holocaust. It's merely a kitchen decoration, like a bell or ornament on a Christmas tree... er, in the kitchen. The only spice you ever really need is salt, and lots of it. I guess "ketchup" is a vital spice as well, but that's only if you're some kind of fancy lad who lives in a solid gold house and drinks liquid platinum for dinner or something.

To make a long story boring, I kind of threw everything into a bowl, beat the contents with some kind of metal implement which happened to be casually laying around in one of my drawers, dumped all that crap into a pan, and prayed. My prayers fell on deaf ears that particular morning, as my dreams of a pancake-filled breakfast were soon beached upon the rocky shores of reality. I somehow inadvertently created a chemical compound which not only bonded to the pan itself, but was inexplicably able to fuse its molecules to the actual stove and permanently transform into a piece of the surrounding environment. In the process of its mutation into proto-pancake, giant plumes of burnt carbon were sent floating throughout my apartment and set off nearly every smoke alarm within a six-mile radius. I know the fire department actually came by because my fucking alarm wouldn't shut off no matter how hard I hit it with a broken chair leg, and I have strong suspicions that the National Guard was called in to contain my apartment complex and keep an eye on it to ensure the growing mass of titanium-hard faux pancake didn't start overtaking the apartment rental office. Once your breakfast conquers the rental office, it will have absorbed hundreds of names and addresses, thereby giving it an open invitation to infiltrate the surrounding neighborhood and eventually run for a seat in Congress under the promise of lower taxes and more flexible gun control laws.

Lesson Learned From This Disaster: The government should allow me to own a flamethrower so I can combat my own culinary disasters and therefore prevent them from spending millions of dollars sending out armed Comanche helicopters every time I drunkenly combine items in a bowl.

Well those are my words to the wise. But it's time to be getting on, and I gotta be out like a cat in china town....cause this place is dead anyways.

The Blue Men.... not as depressing as they sound.
Tonight I had the opportunity to see the Intel "Blue Men". Those guys from the pentium commercials that are blue-er than smurfs and have the facial expressions comparable to a carpet sample. The guys did amazing things with PVC pipe that I belive are still illegal in 48 states. Their preformance was exceptionally good, and they had better visuals than I've ever seen at a concert. In conclusion, great show, I give it a thumbs up. Now it's time for me to be out like R. Kelly at a junior high... this place is dead anyways.

There's the rub.
It has come to my attention that there are some changes in my approach towards women, that need to be made. I, as anyone would tell you, am nothing but a big teddy bear. And as it would seem, an all around nice guy. But wouldn't ya know, it turns out that women, despite their constant reassurance, don't want a nice guy. There's the rub. Women as a whole, seem to say one thing and want something completely different. I know what you're thinking, "Women?!?....Say one thing and mean another?!?....surly you jest". What they actually want usually includes at least two of the following: 1)Money 2)The charm of Robert Redford and 3)Money. But alas... although I forwarded the chain letter I was e-mailed, to everyone I know, I have yet to see a dime for it. So until my ship comes in, I'll have to rely on pure charm. But since my charm-O-meter is reading in the negatives, it's back to the drawing board. Well, I'm out like Anna Nicole in a spelling bee. This place is dead anyways.