The big game.

Hey. Have you bought one of those new iPhones yet? Yeah… me neither. So anyway… how are you? Me? Well, I'm excited to tell you what happened at today's BIG GAME. But first… a nutshell. Me! High School Football Team! Trudy! Bank Teller! Like Her! Impress her! Damien. Mean. Jealous. Threatens. Jesus. Scared.
Yep, that's about it in a nutshell.
So I have to admit I was pretty nervous about the game, because… well… what if I effed it up for everybody? (PMF!) I really don't know much about football to be perfectly honest, and other than the scrimmage game on Wednesday, I've never played the sport. But… I guess that's why Dad invented PEP RALLIES!
And boy, oh boy! Was that ever exciting and fun! It was held this afternoon at the local high school auditorium, and the cheerleaders cheered, the marching band played, and the coach and players gave motivational speeches. Even I was asked to say a few words, so I stepped up to the microphone and said…
"Ummmmmmmm… this thing on? OW! Is that feedback? Annoying. Anyway… ahem. FELLOW HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS. How are you? Fine I hope. Me? I'm excited and nervous and scared about tonight's big game. Because I don't want to let any of you down. And I also hope to impress a girl I like named Trudy."
"She's a bank teller," added the coach.
"Yes, she is. Anyway, I hope you guys will still like me, even if I mess up. Because I really like you."
"Don't forget to tell them you're a FRAUD!!" yelled a voice from the back.

DAMIEN.

"Who said that?!" barked the coach.
"It is I, Damien. I work at the bank, too."
"Oh, yes? Well, get out of here, Damien. Unaccompanied adults are not allowed on school grounds."
"Then I guess you'd better get rid of JESUS, then, because he's the adultiest of all!!"
A gasp echoed throughout the school auditorium.
"That's right," Damien sneered. "Jesus is way too old to play on a high school football team. It's against every regulation in the book, so kick him off the team NOW, or I'll alert the authorities!"
I thought for sure my dreams were dashed to dust… luckily I had a plan.
"Hey Damien," I said. "How old do you think I am, anyway?"
"Don't play dumb, Jesus! You know as well as I do that you're 2006 years old!!"
And the entire auditorium erupted in laughter.
"What? Stop laughing," Damien cried. "I'm telling you that hippie football player is 2006 years old!!"
"Oooh, everybody," I said, "Can someone help me find my walker? It's hard to move around when you're 2006 YEARS OLD."
Even more laughter.
"Hey kids," I yelled, "Cut your hair! Get a job! When's Matlock on? I'M 2006 YEARS OLD!!"
That was all anybody needed to hear. Damien was "escorted" out by my shirtless football teammates with a loud "WHOOOOOOOO!!!" And to tell you the truth? I'm not sure what they did with him. And… is it bad that I don't care?

The game was the funnest thing ever. The stands were full of cheering fans. Including Trudy who yelled louder than anybody. Even Karen (that's my lamb) got in on the action, 'cause the cheerleaders made her a little cheerleading outfit, with little-bitty pom-poms tied to her legs and everything.
And even better? I didn't mess up once. I caught most of the balls I was supposed to catch, I made a couple of touchdowns, and I didn't tackle anybody on my own team. And we won the game! Plus, I got to take a shower with the rest of the guys! I've never showered with that many naked people in my life. It was weirdly fun. (I didn't like getting snapped on the patoot with a towel, though.) (PMF.)

After the game, Trudy met me outside the gym.
"Hey, Mr. Football Hero," she said.
"Preeeeetty impressive, huh?" I asked.
"You better believe it. You were great, Jesus. Really great."
"Thanks," I said. "Can I walk you home?"
"Sure."
We walked quietly for awhile.
"Soooooooo… where's Damien?" I asked.
"I dunno. Out somewhere I guess. I dunno. To tell you the truth, I don't think it's going to work out with him."
"You don't?"
"I don't think so. He's kind of weird… and angry… and to tell you the truth, since you and I stopped hanging out, I don't seem to have any fun anymore."
"Me neither. But that was my fault, Trudy. I treated you like you were Crapzilla. PMF."
She smiled.
"Forget it. Wanna chase cars and bark like a dog?"
"OMIDAD, I love chasing cars and barking like a dog!"
And so we did. We chased cars and barked like a dog, until we laughed so hard we almost p-worded in our pants.
Then I walked her to her door.
"Wanna hang out tomorrow?" I asked.
"Abso-tootley," she said.
"I really am sorry, Trudy. For being so dumb."
And I stuck my finger in her mouth.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, read this post from a long time ago. It'll all make sense. OH CRAP! (PMF!) I just remembered! I left Karen with the cheerleaders! By now, they'll have her wearing lipstick and drinking wine coolers! Gotta run! There's nothing worse than a drunk lamb painted up to look like Mary Magdalene!
Have a fun weekend!

The football player gets the girl.

Hi! What'sa happenin', hot stuff? I took that from Sixteen Candles. I'm watching a lot of high school movies, since I'm going to be attending high school. And… I'M THRILLED about it! This "joining the local high school football team" thingy (see yesterday's post) is the best thing to happen to me since Karen (that's my lamb) gamboled into my life. And even better? I'm thinking it's a sure bet to make Trudy (my bank teller heartthrob) like me… and when I say "like me," I mean "LIKE me, LIKE me." As Jeremy (my new shirtless football playing teammate) likes to say, "Chicks like football players. And I mean LIKE, LIKE."
So anyway! Today was my lunch meeting (I'm not ostentatious enough to call it a date) with Trudy at the mall food court, and you should've seen her jaw DROP when I was waiting for her in my full football costume—sorry, "uniform"—and pads!
"What… in the world…" she said. "I LOVE it. Are you going to a costume party or something? It's totally real!"
"Nope," I said smiling. "Trudy, meet the newest member of the local high school football team."
"GET… OUT!! Really??" she squealed. (I love making her squeal.) "That is the most awesome thing ever! I'm so happy for you! I don't know how you did it, but you have really outdone your…"
"Well… well… if it isn't Jesus Lombardi!" (That's right… DAMIEN.) "Another day, another stupid costume, huh, Jesus?"
"It's a UNIFORM, Damien," I corrected.
"Damien… I told you not to follow me today," Trudy said.
"Last time I checked, it's a free country! Even if you want to dress like an IDIOT."
"I'm not just dressed this way, Damien. I'm the newest member of the local high school football team."
(It should be noted at this point, that I really despise Damien's laugh. It's a grating, high pitched laugh that digs into the marrow of your bones.)
"Stop it! You're killing me!" he screamed with laughter. "YOU?! FOOTBALL?"
"YEAH. HIM. FOOTBALL."
Damien turned around to see all my fellow teammates standing behind him.
"Jesus is our new receiver. WHOOOOOO!!!" Jeremy said. "You got a problem with that?"
"It's… ahem… it's a free country," Damien whispered.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Jeremy said menacingly, before turning to me. "Hey Jesus, you inviting your friends to tomorrow's big game?"
"Sure," I said. "If they can come."
"You're kidding me, right?" Trudy squealed again. "OF COURSE! I wouldn't miss it for the world!!"
"Neither would I," Damien said, trying desperately to stare daggers through the holes in my wrists.

Oh, boy. That was really a great moment. And Damien just sat there and stewed for the rest of the lunch, while I recounted the entire story to Trudy about how I made the team. (It also didn't hurt when a couple of the more attractive cheerleaders dropped by to say hello.)
I LOVE FOOTBALL… SOOOOOOO… MUCH!!
My one and only concern is something Damien said to me, right before he left:

"Good luck at tomorrow's big game, Jesus. It would be really bad if everything suddenly went HORRIBLY WRONG."

What do you think he meant by that? Eh. Probably nothing.
Drop back by tomorrow to hear the results of the big game. I hope I win. WHOOOOOO!!!

I'm on the team!

Hey, hey! I would ask how you're doing, but I'm too busy being TOO EXCITED. Guess what? I'm on the HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL TEAM! Yay, me! I know! I can hardly believe it myself… but it's true! Want to hear how it happened? YAY! I'm glad you're interested!
Okay, so remember yesterday when I borrowed a video camera from my new shirtless friend Jeremy who's on the local high school football team? (I was using the camera to spy on Trudy—she's a bank teller—but I made the mistake of attaching the camera to Karen—she's my lamb—who was very nearly injured in a rooster fight and botched drug deal. Whoops.) Anyway, I was returning the camera to Jeremy, and I noticed he looked very upset. When I asked him what was wrong, he said one of his teammates hurt his knee and was going to be out for the rest of the season. Even worse, they had a very important scrimmage game today with their cross-town rivals, and no longer had a person who could run down the field and catch the ball. (I can't remember what the exact position is called.) Anyway, to make a long story short, I said, "I'll do it!"
Now admittedly I don't know much about the sport of football. But I am a former second baseman, I'm in very good shape and am gifted athletically.
"WHOOOO!!!" Jeremy cried. "That's freaking AWESOME, dude! But I'm not sure if the coach will go for it."
"Well, he doesn't have to know… I'll be disguised in the football costume."
"Uniform, Jesus," Jeremy corrected. "It's a uniform. But anyway… WHOOOO!!! That's a freaking AWESOME idea, dude! Let's do it!!"

So Jeremy snuck me into the dressing room where all the lockers are, gave me a football cos… uniform, and after tucking in my beard, said, "No one will ever know the difference!"
And he was right! All my new football friends I met at the car wash this past weekend were totally excited I was filling in for their fallen teammate. And whenever the coach looked at me suspiciously, one of my teammates would dump Gatorade on his head. But here's the best part! While I made a couple of mistakes on the field—such as accidentally tackling one of my own teammates—I was still pretty freaking AWESOME. In fact, during the last minute of the game, we were losing to the other team by five points—and the quarterback (His name is Tommy by the way… his hobby is studying classical poetry. He's nice!) said to me, "Jesus? Let your feet be winged birds that traverse this hallowed ground, and extend thyself fully to embrace the victory that is rightfully our own."
"Umm… what?"
"Go long, Jesus. GO LONG."

So I did! When Tommy told me to run, I ran as fast as I could down the field, and then to everyone's surprise, Tommy threw the ball to me! I stretched my arms farther than I ever thought was possible… reached out for the ball… and… I CAUGHT IT!
I ACTUALLY CAUGHT THE FREAKING AWESOME BALL, DUDE!
Then the other team fell on me, and it really hurt.
But apparently, I had scored a "touchdown!" And I won the game!
YAY!!!!!!!
My friends picked me up on their shoulders, and carried me around the field, screaming, "WHOOOO!!! AWESOME!! DUDE!! WHOOOO!!!" That is until the coach took off my helmet.
"Who's the hippie?" he asked the team.
Well, after Jeremy explained what happened, I thought the coach was going to be really mad. But he wasn't! In fact, he asked me to join the team, and take that other guy's place for the rest of the season!
"Mmm… don't I have to be in high school to play football?" I asked.
"Sure!" the coach said. "But don't worry about it, hippie. I'll just enroll you under some dead kid's name. I do it all the time. WELCOME TO THE TEAM!"

Needless to say, I'm quite excited. Not only did I get invited to join a great football team, I also get to go to high school! WOW! This is just like a movie! And I feel just like John Cusack, or Molly Ringwald or somebody!!
Oh, and by the way? Guess who's having lunch at the mall food court with a certain someone named "Trudy" tomorrow? AND GUESS WHO'LL BE WEARING THEIR FOOTBALL COSTUME?
(I mean, "uniform.")
WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Karen the lamb: Superspy!

What's up, buttercup? I was feeling especially sneaky today, so I sent out Karen (that's my lamb) to be my SPY! See, after my run-in with the high school football players this past weekend (see previous post) I decided that I need to be extra creative when it comes to wooing Trudy. (She's a bank teller. She likes Damien. I don't like him. She doesn't like me. That's not true. She likes me, but not in the way I like her. However, Damien doesn't like me in a very similar way to the way I don't like him.)
Anyway, I didn't want to be spotted lurking around after Trudy, because stalking is super gross. On the other hand, if I don't learn more about the stuff Trudy likes, how am I supposed to successfully pitch woo? That's where Karen the SUPERSPY comes in.
So I borrowed a mini-video cam from Jeremy—he's my new shirtless friend, and one of the high school football players I was telling you about—and I attached it to Karen's back. Then I took Karen to the bank (that's where Trudy works) around lunchtime, and told her to follow Trudy no matter where she goes. Then I went home and waited for Karen to return.
I'm really not sure where my plan went wrong.
I mean, that was a good plan, right? I don't know… I just don't know anymore. Anyway, Karen returned about three hours later, and I just watched the videotape. It seemed like everything was going great until Trudy actually left the bank. That's around when the camera showed Karen getting distracted by a kid carrying one of those Orange sherbet push-up ice creams, and Karen went gamboling after her. The kid seemed to really like Karen, so she took her back to this really shady looking apartment building. But the kid's parents thought Karen was some kind of weird white rat, or something, and told her to "Get the h-e-double hockey sticks out of here!" (Pardon their French.)
Karen apparently got frightened, and looking for an exit, accidentally ran down to the basement of the complex, where there were some people asking their pet roosters to fight each other.
Well, as we all know, Karen LOVES roosters, so she gamboled right into the ring! But as it turned out, the roosters were super mean, and started chasing her around the basement which got all the rooster owners mad, because I think they were betting on the outcome of the fight or something. So Karen was running around like crazy, and amid all the hullabaloo, she jumped onto some boxes, and scooted out the basement window, where she thought she was safe, right? But she wasn't safe because she scooted right into the middle of some kind of drug deal or something—I couldn't tell for sure, but one of the guys had a big bag of white powder, and everyone was pointing guns at each other. That sounds like a drug deal, right?
So Karen is in the middle of all these guys with guns, and somebody yells, "AIIIIEEE! White rat!" And the guns start going off. The camera was pretty shaky at this point (for obvious reasons) but there were a lot of screams and general chaos, and I'm pretty sure I heard people falling down. But happily, Karen escaped and ran into a nearby building to hide. However, the building she ran into was a butcher shop. Thinking back, I suppose it's a good thing the shop owner was vegan, because he was nice enough to read Karen's identification tag, and bring her home to me. Thanks vegan butcher!
Anyway, I have to say, while I certainly appreciated Karen's effort, she really didn't get the original job done, did she? That's why you're going out again tomorrow, young lady! And next time, you're going to follow Trudy. That means no more rooster or drug dealer fights! But that's for tomorrow.
For right now, I'm going to give Karen a big toasty bowl of Lamb Chow, a nice warm bubble bath to wash the rooster feathers off her, and read to her from her favorite book, "Goodnight Moon," as I rock her to sleep.
Sleep tight, my little superspy. You've had a busy day.

Let's hear it for high school football.

Hello everybody! Good weekend? Good… good. My weekend? Just peachy… if it weren't for my dumb FEELINGS! I'm really trying to shake this Trudy (the bank teller) thing, but it's really hard! (Confused? See my previous blog posts in which I practically destroy my life, with a little help from that jerk Damien.) That's why my thinking has been all ka-blooey lately. Like last week? When I threatened to play all sorts of practical jokes on Damien in order to win Trudy back? I've decided against that plan. Why? Some high school football players talked me out of it. Here's how that happened…
On Saturday I woke up all super-duper bluesy, and so me and Karen (that's my lamb, FYI) decided to go out and make some new friends. That's something we do when we feel bluesy. However, only dumb non-new people were at the park, so I put Karen in the bike basket and we were riding to the blood bank when all of a sudden a bunch of shirtless young men standing on the corner started screaming at us.
"WHOOOOOO!!!"
"WHOOOOOO!!!" they screamed.
"WHOOOOOO!!!" I screamed back.
"WHOOOOOO!!!" they screamed.
"BAAAAAAAA!!!" Karen screamed back.
"WHY ARE YOU WHOOOOING AT ME?" I screamed.
"WE'RE HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL PLAYERS, AND WE'RE HOLDING A CAR WASH! WHOOOOOO!!!" they screamed. "WANT YOUR CAR WASHED?"
"I DON'T OWN A CAR, I JUST RIDE A BIKE, AND CAN WE STOP SCREAMING FOR A SECOND? MY THROAT HURTS! WHOOOOOO!!!"
"Oh. Okay," they said.

Turns out they were washing cars at the hamburger stand to raise money for their high school football team. Did I mention they weren't wearing shirts? I think this fact was getting Karen kind of excited in a particular way. (Pardon my thoughts.) Anyway, I said, "How much to wash my bike?" and they said "Well, a car costs $5, so how about $3?" And I said, "Well, how about I give you $10 if you wash my bike and tell me what to do about Trudy?"
They didn't know who Trudy was (she's a bank teller), but said they would be happy to hear my tale. So I told the high school football players the tale of Trudy (see past 55 blog posts for details), and informed them I felt pretty bummed about the way things had turned out, and that I was planning on playing a series of elaborate and cunning pranks on Damien in order to win her back.
They universally agreed this was not a very good idea.
"Jesus dude," one of them said, "Chicks are like so NOT impressed with revenge."
"Totally," said another, "Makes you look insecure, dude. Chicks dig dudes who act nice and stuff, and are comfortable with who they are."
"Quite so," said yet another. "The female of the species is a wondrous, but ultimately fathomless creature who can never truly be deciphered. One must simply sing a song for their heart, and trust that one's tune rings true."
Another football player burped in agreement.

Sing a song for Trudy's heart. I like that.
Anyway, I realized the shirtless high school football players were right, and I really liked them, so I ended up helping wash cars for the rest of the day.
I made 18 new friends, but that's not all. I helped a high school football team buy new uniforms, which is always a great way to beat the blues. Plus I learned—from some cheerleaders who happened by—that I have a "wicked hot bod." Did I mention I wasn't wearing a shirt?
"WHOOOOOO!!!"

Ha, ha. Damien, you got "punked."

Hello, how are you? Me? I'm on a REIGN OF TERROR! I have a great new plan to win back the affection of Trudy (she's a bank teller that used to like me, until she didn't like me anymore) who is currently inexplicably infatuated with Damien (the jerk Trudy [the bank teller] currently likes). My plan is called… PLAN PRANK! I resolve to drive Damien absolutely nuts with clever, cunning pranks, thereby making him lose his temper with me, thereby making Trudy break up with him.
HOW DID I GET SO SMART??
I don't know. Just lucky I guess.
So anyway, here are some possible pranks I'm going to pull on Damien, that will hopefully drive him ker-AZY!
1. Ketchup packets under the toilet seat. After casing out the bank where Damien and Trudy work for a month, I'll learn Damien's poopy habits. (PMF!) Like when he goes, and stuff. Then I'll put two open ketchup packets underneath the knobby parts of the toilet seat, so when he sits down? SPLURT! Ketchup will shoot all over the back of his legs and pants! HAW! What a hoot!
2) Crickets in Damien's walls. This will drive him bonkers. I'll sneak into his apartment, take off the wall plug covers, and dump a jar-full of crickets into his wall. They'll start chirping, Damien won't know where to find them, and will eventually go insane. Then he'll have to be sent off to a mental asylum somewhere, and Trudy will date me instead.
3) Put rubber bands on his light bulbs. Eventually Damien will be overcome by the smell of burning rubber, go insane and be committed to a mental asylum.
4) Call the FBI and tell them Damien is a member of al-Qaida. HO! HO! HO! That'll get him good.

Oh, crap. (PMF!) I forgot that Damien occasionally reads this blog. Well, I was just kidding anyway. I wouldn't really play any pranks on Damien.
(Just kidding! Really I would, I just want Damien to think I wouldn't. Wink!)
However, if YOU have any good pranks I could play on Damien please supply them in the comments section below this post which I am writing right now.

Did you read where they are selling cucumber flavored Pepsi in Japan? WHY DO THEY GET ALL THE FUN??

British people aren't very funny.

Hallooooo! (That's how British guys say "hello" when they dress up as girls. For some reason it always gets a laugh.) How are you? I don't have much to say today, but I will comment on two things: 1) Trudy (the bank teller who I have a crush on and is currently dating my mortal enemy) called today to say she was sorry for bringing Damien (that's my mortal enemy) to lunch yesterday, and that he was such a jerk. I said it was "okay."
And 2) Why aren't British people funnier? Karen (that's my lamb) and I was watching Benny Hill on TV last night, and neither of us laughed ONCE. I kind of don't get why everyone was laughing a lot when Benny was dressed up as an old guy in a wheel chair and he was being chased around by a bunch of semi-clad nurses. (The saxophone song in the background was kind of funny though. Why can't they just play that, and not show anything else?)
I don't think Monty Python is funny, either. EXCEPT for their movie, The Life of Brian which is apparently based on my life, and is SUPER-DUPER FUNNY! I love it!! You should watch that one, because it's great. Don't watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail, because it is boring and DUMB. And especially don't watch it with a bunch of Monty Python nerds—because all they do is scream "NEE! NEE! NEE!" during the entire flick. Annoying!!
And here's another weird thing about British people: sometimes even the funny ones are NOT funny. Like Rowan Atkinson? If you ever see his Black Adder series on TV—WATCH IT! It's even funnier than The Life of Brian! Meanwhile, if you see his other series, Mr. Bean, on TV—DON'T WATCH IT! You'll want to dig out your eyeballs with a rusty spoon.
But I'm open to suggestions about British people you think are funny. (Yes, I've seen Absolutely Fabulous—don't think it's funny. But I have seen the British version of The Office, and think Ricky Gervais is hilarious, except when he's on that HBO show Extras, when he's not funny and BOOOOOORING.)

Today Karen ate a foot-long hot dog! SO CUTE. I took a picture of her so I could post it on this blog, but it looked dirty, so I didn't.

I'm cowboy cool.

Howdy, pardners! Guess what? I decided to wear a cowboy hat today in honor of my lunch at the mall food court with Trudy (you know… she’s the bank teller I’ve been telling you about?). I figured wearing a cowboy hat would accomplish the following tasks: 1) That I’m cool. Not “Fonzie” cool, but “Marlboro Man” cool—and without the lung cancer. 2) That I’m not desperate. Seriously, when’s the last time you saw a desperate cowboy, outside of Brokeback Mountain? And 3) I secretly know that Trudy is kind of hot for cowboys… or was that gas station attendants? Hmmm… poop. It was gas station attendants. Nevermind. Cowboy hats are still cool.
Anywhichway, as you know, I really made a horse’s patoot (PMF) out of myself recently, when I went ballistic on Trudy for tongue kissing Damien (but I don't blame myself too much, because he’s such a jerk). Apparently, I didn’t realize that I liked her, until I really liked her, hence the wig flipping.
But when I saw her today, I was INTENT on not losing my temper or freaking out in any way shape or form. I was going to be "Mr. Cool"… COWBOY COOL.
So when she walked up to the table I had five Hot Dog on a Sticks waiting for her.
"Howdy, ma'am."
"Well! Howdy yourself," she said. "Nice cowboy hat."
"Aww… twern't nothin'."
"How have you been?"
"Great, actually… I've been doing a lot of thinking and…"
SUDDENLY, DAMIEN SAT DOWN.
"Well… well… well," Damien said. "If it isn't Jesus Effin' Christ."
"Pardon your French, Damien," I said.
"Don't start, Damien," Trudy said.
"Jeez, I was just havin' some fun with the guy," he said. "I thought you told me to be friendlier to him."
"You asked him to come here and friendly to me?" I said to Trudy.
"WHOA!" Damien said. "Don't freak out, Jesus! You don't want me to call security, do ya?"
"STOP… IT," Trudy said. "Both of you. Yes, Jesus, I asked him to come here and be friendly to you, because Damien and I are dating now, and you're my best friend. So if Damien wants me to date him, you're part of the package. Isn't that right, Damien?"
"Sure… whatever."
"Is that okay with you, Jesus?"
"I'm cowboy cool," I said.
"Well, yee-haw," he said.
That's when Damien picked up TWO of the Hot Dogs on a Sticks and bit into them.
"You gonna eat ALL these hot dogs on a stick, Hop Along Christ-idy ?"

I won't bore you with the rest of the details. Suffice it to say, it was HORRIBLE! Damien is the grand exalted emporer of all P-HOLES! (PMF!) But I sat there, bit my tongue, and didn't freak out, or throw him over the railing into the aqua massage cart 30 feet below. I was cowboy cool—just like I had promised myself. Interestingly though, when they left, I noticed Trudy was scolding him all the way back to the bank. HA! This could work out in my favor after all—all I have to do is think of something that will tempt Damien to be an even BIGGER jerk than he already is. Hmmmm… Maybe next week, I'll come to lunch wearing a British Bobby hat! (They're so coooooool.)

Mmmm… the Pope doesn't even drive.

How now, blog cow? Me, I'm pretty good. Actually I'm kind of confused because a) I'm supposed to meet Trudy (she's a bank teller… I like her… we have a complicated relationship… read the previous 47 blog posts for details) at the mall food court tomorrow for lunch, and I know I'm supposed to act all cool and stuff, but it's gonna be really awkward, and I'm probably going to end up acting like a ding-a-ling. And b) today it was reported that the Pope issued a new "Ten Commandments" but this one is all about driving etiquette. Yeah… that's what I said. "WHAAAAAAA???" But it's true. Here, read the report. By clicking on this blue thing, right HERE.
Can you believe that? It's like the Pope suddenly woke up and said, "Hmmm… you know… I don't think I'm meddling enough in people's lives. How about I restrict birth contro… no… did that. Ooh! How about if I ban gay peop… no… did that. Hmmmm… OH, I KNOW! Now I'll tell drivers what to do!" (By the way, the Pope really didn't say those things… that was just me being sarcastic.)
Anywhoop, here are the brand new Ten Commandments of Driving as passed down from the Vatican. (Sob! I'm so happy I could cry!) (Sarcasm.)

1. You shall not kill. (No "S," Herlock.)

2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm. (What? Is he telling us to talk on our cell phones while driving? That's DANGEROUS.)

3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events. ("Uprightness?" Like those teenagers who drive around all slumped down in their seats? That does look dangerous.)

4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents. (Oh, really? I was thinking about letting them bleed to death on the side of the road. Sarcasm.)

5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin. (Hey, rednecks and teenagers who like to have sex in cars! He's talking to YOU!)

6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so. ("Donnie? If I may, I believe you have imbibed too many beer bongs. If you are currently considering operating a motorized vehicle, may I further suggest that you are not in a fitting condition to do so.")

7. Support the families of accident victims. (Oh really? I was thinking of laughing while their loved ones bled to death on the side of the road. Sarcasm.)

8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness. (Isn't that the job of the insurance companies?)

9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party. (That would be me, everybody. I ride a bicycle.)

10. Feel responsible toward others. (Let me guess, the Pope ran out of ideas and couldn't think of a 10th commandment. Hey, Pope! That one has already been covered! Here, let me help out: Thou shalt not stop in the middle of the street to talk to your friend. Or how about this one: Thou shalt not covet thou neighbor's Hummer. Or how about: If thou are in the passenger seat, thou shall not lean over and honk the driver's horn. C'mon people! That is SO rude!

Got any more?

Yay, it's time for gay.

Hello, how are you. I am feeling SO MUCH BETTER. Whoa, you should’ve smelled my shirt after I met with my dad on Friday. It was super sweaty, and boy, did it STINK. I should probably stop eating so much meat and Chick-o-sticks. Who am I kidding… Chick-o-sticks are so delicious I don’t care if I smell like the inside of a pig’s leather loafer. Naturally, I kind of felt like a jerk for falsely accusing my dad of trying to ruin my life… but should I really feel happy that he didn’t CARE enough to ruin my life? Patriarchal feelings can be so complicated.
Anywow, I’ve decided to pull the stick of self-doubt and loathing out of my b-hole (Pardon my French) and start loving life again! And that means putting on…
MY PARTY PANTS!
Everyone should have a pair of party pants. Do YOU? Mine are dark maroon, have a very sensual texture and are made out of 100 percent polyester. I’ve never had another pair of pants like them! They are a LOT like the costume Venom wears in the Spider-Man comics. I swear to dad, these pants fit me like a symbiotic life form! (Don’t worry—they don’t turn into Venom.) Anyway, today I was feeling so relieved, I put on my party pants, and my “Jesus is Coming—Look Busy!” T-shirt, and went downtown to buy some helium balloons. (Do you ever buy yourself helium balloons? YOU SHOULD.)
So I was walking downtown in my party pants, t-shirt, and carrying helium balloons when suddenly someone leaned out of a bar window and yelled at me, “WHOO! WHOO! GAY PRIDE!!”
Naturally, I yelled “whoo, whoo” back—even though I am not a gay. Though like many people, I do have "a gay friend" (Derek… he’s a cop)—and he is delightful. Here’s what I like about gay people: they are ENTHUSIASTIC. This may be why people often ask me if I’m gay (though I’m sure my party pants add to the illusion). I do things enthusiastically, and that’s often confusing for macho guys who have been taught to do things unenthusiastically. I mean, just because I’ve been known to walk down my street banging a big bass drum, and singing songs from the musical “Oklahoma,” why should people also automatically infer that I’m having sex with a gay person? It’s like saying, “Oh, he’s eating an orange. That must mean he’s an astronaut.”
But just so we’re clear, I don’t mind if people call me a gay. I just think it’s weird when people assume things—like just because I’ve walked on water, it doesn’t mean that their prayers for a new motorcycle will be answered. It just means that I know how to play a magic trick.
Anyway, I ended up going into the bar and drinking Frescas with these gay guys for the rest of the afternoon. AND THEY WERE SO MUCH FUN! Everything was “fabulous” to them, and life was obviously something they all enjoyed very much. I didn’t even mind when one of them pinched my tuckus! (PMF.)
So that’s my advice for this week: Put on your party pants, hang around with some gays, and learn to love life again! (And eat three fewer Chick-o-Sticks. They make you sweat yellow.)

That was a quick five minutes.

Whoa. Hello! Wow, I would ask how you are, but I'm kind of feeling too blown away at the moment. So regular readers of this blog already know a few things: 1) I like Chick-o-Stix. 2) My mom is dead. 3) I have a lamb. Her name is Karen. 4) The girl I like (Trudy) works at the bank, and doesn't like me right now because I made her date Damien (who is a jerk) in order to regain the second base position on my softball team, and then I flipped out when she tongue kissed him, and then I really flipped out when Damien suggested that my dad was behind the whole mess. Did you know all that about me?
Anyway, it took forever, but I finally set up a five-minute meeting at 3:42 pm today with my dad to confront him, and tell him to STOP dinking around in my life! Naturally, things did NOT go as planned.
When I arrived at dad's offices at 3:37 pm, Francoise (that's his personal assitant) was super snotty to me, and didn't even offer me a Tab. (For some reason, dad's office only serves Tab.) It's too bad. I love Tab. Anyway, I was super-duper nervous, and had so much sweat was pouring out of my pits, Francoise offered to run to the break room for a sponge. He's a jerk.
But finally, I was escorted into dad's office. Oh my dad, that place is SO intimidating! Everything is either leather or mahogany, and he has stupid books lying around with titles such as "The Art of War."
Anyway, here's how the conversation went: (By the way, did I mention that my dad is a non-corporeal being? That is to say, he doesn't have arms, feet, and a head, and stuff? Well… if I didn't… he's a non-coporeal being.)
"Well, well. How's it hanging, son?" he said.
"Actually dad," I said, "since this can only be a five minute conversation, what do you say we dispense with the PMF pleasantries?"
"Okay…"
"I'd like to know why you asked Damien to ruin my life, because I am my own man, dad, and you have to learn to accept me for who I am, especially if you're never going to return my phone calls, or pull me down off the cross even when they're nailing spikes into my wrists, and…"
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" dad said. "Who's Damien?"
"DON'T PLAY DUMB, DAD! He's the guy you paid to steal second base, Trudy, and Karen from me!"
"You're dating two girls now? Niiiiice."
"Wait… what?! I like Trudy—she's a bank teller—but Karen is my lamb!"
"Oh," he said. "That's a weird name for a lamb."
"QUIT TRYING TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT. I only have 3 and a half minutes left."
"Okay, fine. How about this? I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT."
"You deny that you paid Damien to ruin my life so I would come to work for you?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Prove it."
"Okay…" he said. "Let's put our cards out on the table. When have I EVER messed with your life, or for that matter, shown you any attention?"

That one stumped me.

"Jesus," he said. "I know I'm not a good dad. That's because I'm not a dad. The way I float around this office, I might as well be a purfume fart." (Pardon his French.) You know as well as I do—probably better than anybody—that those bible stories are made up, and I DON'T GET INVOLVED ANYMORE. Basically I've got about as much power as the Queen of England—except I don't get to make appearances. Look. I'm sorry if you've run into a rough patch, but I didn't cause it to happen. YOU DID. If you lost Trudy, Karen or this second base situation, maybe it's because you didn't do enough to deserve it. But regardless, I can't do anything about that. I'm sorry, but I don't control the weather, and I can't make you happy. You've still got a shot at it though—just remember: nobody's stopping you but you."
"Dad… wow… I'm really…"
"Don't worry about it. I get this all the time. Look, I've got a 3:48 coming in just a second. Do you want a Tab before you leave?"
"No… no, thanks. I gotta go. But dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I know you're not a real dad in the way dad's usually are, but you are my dad anyway… so, ummm… have a happy father's day."
"Ha. That's a good one. Thanks. Send me some Old Spice next year. FRANCOISE! SEND IN MY 3:48!"

The devil? Really?

Hey, what's the haps, pap? I am bordering on being really creeped out! Last night I was watching The Exorcist on basic cable, and even though all that devil stuff is totally a pile of hooey (can "hooey" be placed in a pile?), that flick really gave me the heebie-jeebies! I mean I understand that the devil is supposedly able to make you do weird stuff—but that poor kid really looked ugly! She didn't need an exorcist, she needed a dermatologist!
And ugh with the vomiting! And the PMF language! Goodness gracious, that devil certainly has a salty tongue.
Then there was that part where the girl was doing "that thing" with the cross. WOW. I mean, I know that doing "that thing" is a natural part of childhood and everything, but c'mon! Can she not start with a carrot?
This is such a PMF conversation, I'm going to stop right now.
My point is that I had to sleep with my lights on all night—and the devil doesn't even exist!
OR DOES HE?
A few of you commenters have made the suggestion that Damien may be the devil… which I think is kind of preposterous. Let's look at the facts: First of all he wears a muscle tee. The devil doesn't wear muscle tees! Secondly, Damien doesn't say anything like what that little girl in the movie was saying. All Damien does is quote Joey from Friends.
On the other hand, he does lie. And he does trick people, which Damien definitely did when he tricked me out of second base on my softball team and Trudy's affection (she's a bank teller that I like). And he's always stealing my bicycle! (He eventually gives it back, but the tires are usually low, and the seat is all moist.)
A couple commenters also asked if I've checked his scalp for the numerals, "666." No, I have not. Damien doesn't like people to touch his hair. I would ask Trudy to check, but I'm pretty sure that wouldn't do much to mend our current relationship. Besides, having numerals on your scalp just sounds like something those Bible writers dreamed up while smoking pot. What a bunch of stoners.
Anyway, I just can't imagine Damien jumping into a little girl's body and flying around the room like a crazy person. I can imagine him asking her out on a date though, EWW!
Anyway, tomorrow's the big day when I have my 3:42 pm five-minute meeting with my dad in which I am supposed to really tell him off. I am scared. I mean, I know I'm not going to die or anything, but my dad really intimidates me, so I'm going to have to be super-duper brave. Wish me luck.
And remind me to wear an undershirt. I sweat a lot when I'm nervous. Did you know that about me?

Daddy, I'm angry at you.

How are you? That’s interesting, but right now we need to focus on me because I’m angry at my DAD. As we all know, Father’s Day is coming up this Sunday, and while most kids will be with their dads playing baseball in the park, taking bumper car rides, or giving each other big hugs—my dad will be busy IGNORING ME! What’s his stupid problem anyway? He’s the worst dad in the world! And it’s been this way ever since the minute I was born. I mean, what kind of dad allows a baby to be born in a stable?! There’s freaking animal poopy everywhere! (Pardon my French.)
And did I get toys from those “wise men” that my father sent? No, but I did get gold, frankincense and myrrh! Who were those creeps anyway? They could’ve been pedophiles or day laborers as far as dad knew! And do you know how many times dad visited me when I was growing up? Let’s see… hmmmm… how about ZILCH? But I could’ve lived with that. Really, I could’ve. Except that every time I did something totally on my own—such as my magician act where I walked on water or “raised people from the dead”—people would always pooh-pooh it because I was “the son of God!” HEY PEOPLE! I WORKED HARD ON THOSE MAGIC TRICKS! THE OCCULT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT!!
But maybe I’m being too rough on my dad. Maybe he was just an ordinary deity who was busy with more pressing matters and simply didn’t have enough time to PULL ME OFF THAT CROSS AND REMOVE THE SPIKES THAT WERE HAMMERED THROUGH MY WRISTS!!
So if you happen to be reading my blog, dad? Don’t expect any cigars, or Old Spice aftershave this year for Father’s Day. Because I am very, very, VERY angry at you!
(By the way, can you send me your new address? Your card got returned in the mail.)

I went to Trudy's house.

Hello! How are you? I was just ruminating on the phrase, "O, what a tangled web we weave." Ever notice how old-timey people sometimes just drop the "h" after the "o" when they say "oh"? I think it's adorable. It's like they didn't have time to write the "h" so they just dropped it entirely. But it's not like they were busy or anything. I lived through old-timey times, and things were a LOT less stressful then. All you ever had to worry about was whether the cow was going to die, or if the bubonic plague was going to reach your hamlet.
Anyway, back to "tangled web." Since I'm in kind of a holding pattern with dad (see yesterday's post) I went to Trudy's house today (O! She's a bank teller!) to see if I could patch up the huge hole in our relationship. She answered the door.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi," she said.
[Looooooooong uncomfortable pause.]
"So I've been thinking about becoming a mall security guard," I said.
She didn't laugh.
"Okay, Trudy," I said. "I've been a real d-word, pardon my French…"
"Yes, you have."
"Okay, I deserve that, because I know you're angry with me, and you have every right to be."
"You're right."
"So… I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm super sorry for being so mean to you."
"How were you mean to me?" she asked.
"Huh?"
"In what ways were you mean to me?"
I was REALLY CONFUSED by this.
"Did you forget that I was mean to you?"
"No," she said. "I want you to tell me the ways that you hurt me. To make sure you're not just apologizing for the sake of apologizing."
"OH! I get it. Right. Okay. Ummm… I was really mean to you about Damien, and about you about kissing him with your tongue. That was none of my business."
"Okay… keep going."
"And… I'm really sorry for treating you like a commodity, when I asked you to go out with Damien and trick him into giving me back second base."
"And?"
"And… there's more? Ummm… of course there is. Ummmm… and… I'm sorry I got freaked out when you put your finger in my mouth?"
"And?"
"OH, COME ON!!" I cried. "What's going on here? Are we going back to the 4th grade with this apology stuff? I said I was sorry, and I really, really am!"
[Another long pause, then she gave me a real funny look.]
"Do you really not know what's going on here? Or are you really that naive?" she asked.
"I really don't know what's… oh… I think I do know what's going on here. You liked me. Like, 'liked me-liked me.'"
"Yeah. I 'liked you-liked you.' What did you think was going on?"
"I dunno," I said. "I guess I was just hoping you wouldn't."
[Pause.]
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you're perfect the way you are, and if we 'liked each other-liked each other' I'd have to be a different person, and you'd have to be a different person."
"Jesus," she said. "You're the same person. The person I liked. I'm the same person, too."
[Pause.]
"Yeah…" I said. "I guess you really are. (Pause) So, Trudy? Would you like to go out and eat a steak?"
"Wow… that's really sweet. But Damien's coming over in a bit, and we're going to a movie. But I'm really glad we've had this talk. We can have lunch later this week, maybe. Call me, okay?"
Then as she started to shut the door…
"I feel better about this," she said. "Do you feel better about this?"
"Sure," I said. "I feel better about this."

I don't feel better about this.

Great. I'm in my dad's "daytimer."

How are you feeling today? Me, I'm feeling about this small. As you undoubtedly remember from last week, Doris the Holy Ghost (see the previous blog post for details—but in a nutshell she's part of the holy trinity and lives in Eureka, CA and smokes unfiltered Pall Malls) advised me to confront my dad, and ask him to stop ruining my life! And boy, did Doris' pep talk get me fired up!
On a side note, let's all start using the word "pep" more often. For example, "Karen (that's my lamb) humped the couch pillow with a lot of pep today!" (PMF.)
Anyway, after ending my video webchat with Doris, I immediately called dad's cell, and immediately got sent to voicemail.
"Dad? Jesus. YOU AND I NEED TO TALK. Call me as soon as you get this." CLICK.
Saturday passes… nothing. I call back. "Dad? It's your son, Jesus Christ? The one you allowed to hang on a cross with big spikes in his wrists? Yeah, that's the one. CALL ME BACK. NOW." CLICK.
Sunday passes… nothing. "I'm not kidding, dad! This is super important, and you better call me back! In about 36 hours I'm going to start getting really peeved!" CLICK.
Then suddenly? At around 2 pm today, the phone rings.
"Hello, this is Francoise, God's personal assistant. How may I help you?"
"Umm… okay… is my dad there?"
"Who is this again?" he asked.
"JESUS! JESUS CHRIST! Your boss' son!"
"There's really no need to get testy, now is there? How may I help you, Jesus?"
"For starters you can hand the phone over to my dad."
"I'm sorry, Jesus. Your father isn't available right now. That's why he's asked me to assist you. So how may I assist you?"
"You can't assist me! Only my dad can assist me! I need to talk to him personally."
"Ohhhh… wow," Francoise said. "I'm not sure if that's going to work for me… but if you want to set up an appointment, I can check his schedule."
"That would be awesome. And FYI? I'm being sarcastic."
"Yes, the tone was noted. I have a 5:30 on August 29."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? He's my FATHER, and I want to talk to him as soon as possible!!"
"You know, yelling doesn't really work for me. However, I'll look again. (FROSTY PAUSE.) Okay, the best I can do is five minutes, this Friday at 3:42. Come to his office and don't be late. You'll have some paperwork you'll need to fill out."

(Yes, I was wondering what kind of paperwork the Son of God would need to "fill out"… but at this point, I was ready to end the conversation.)

"That sounds great, Francoise! And I really, really, really, REALLY want to thank you for all your help in this matter."
"Sarcasm really, really, REALLY doesn't suit you, Jesus. See you Friday!" CLICK.

Can you believe that?!? That Francoise is a real p-hole! (PMF!) But now I'm really going to let my dad have it! And all I have to do is figure out something smart to say. (Good thing I have till Friday!)

Doris, the Holy Ghost.

What's up, my ninjas? Yeah, not much here either… except! I had an awesome video webchat last night with Doris, the Holy Ghost (she's part of the holy trinity and lives in Eureka, CA) and she really put my head back on straight about this whole Damien, Dad, and Trudy (she's a bank teller) thing. As you may or may not know (read this blog more often if you don't) Damien has stolen Trudy, my second base position on the softball team, and has made veiled threats against Karen (that's my lamb). Plus, for some reason it seems my dad has put him up to it! That's effed. (Pardon moi Francais.)
Anyway it seemed like there was only one more person I could turn to for help, and that's Doris the Holy Ghost—my dad's old personal assistant who died from lung cancer and is totally on my side about stuff. So I video webchatted her, and here's what happened:
I started to tell her the entire story, but she interrupted me to say, "HONEY. (Wheeze!) I read your blog. (Wheeze!) I know everything that's going on." (By the way, Doris still smokes. Unfiltered Pall Malls. Wow.)
"So what do I do," I cried. "I'm really at the end of my rope!"
"Okay, honey, (Wheeze!) first of all calm down. Doris is here, and we're going to solve this thing a bit at a time. (Wheeze!) First of all, Damien is a [f-word] [c-word] and a real [p-word] to boot—so we're not going to worry about him for the moment. (Wheeze!) Secondly, forget about second base. Your coach obviously doesn't want you to have that position, so either drop it, or tell coach to go [f-word] himself and join another team. (Wheeze!) Your team sucks hippo [d-word] anyway." (Wow. Do I really have to keep writing PMF after all this? Let's consider "PMF" as read.)
"Ohhh-kay…" I said. "But what about Trudy?"
"If I were you I'd take her out for a steak and then [f-word] her. (Wheeze!) That's the only way you're gonna know if you love her or not. Until then, be a man, go to her house, bring her some chocolates, and apologize for being such a little [p-word]. Then [f-word] her. (Wheeze!) Now, I know that sounds harsh, and I love ya honey, but sometimes you can be a real little [p-word]. (Wheeze!)"
"No, it's fine… you're right. I was wrong to yell at Trudy and for making her do that dumb favor. I'm a p-word." (PMF.)
"Now," she said, "Let's move on to the real problem which is your dad. He's a [d-word]. (Wheeze!) I have no idea why I worked with that [c-word] sucker for such a long time, but everybody has their issues. He obviously has wanted you to get into the family business for years, and instead, you ride your bike, eat at the mall food court, and play with your gay lamb. (Wheeze!) That's not a slur, honey. She really is a lezzie. (Wheeze!) He's obviously paid off this Damien [d-word]bag to take away the things you love, because he thinks it'll make you the kind of man he wants you to be."
"What? Really? My dad doesn't like me?"
"Honey… (Wheeze!)… he loves you. This is how men are. Except for you. Your brain's not shoved inbetween your balls. [She can say "balls," right?] (Wheeze!) You're going to have to confront your dad, honey. You're going to have to tell him you're never going to be the person he wants you to be. (Wheeze!) You're just gonna have to nut up, and be Jesus. You okay with that?"
"Yeah… I guess I have to be."
"That's right, honey. You have to be. Now give Doris a cyber smooch, and run along. My stories are about to come on the television and these cigarettes aren't going to smoke themselves. (Wheeze!) Just remember, no matter what your dad says: Life is a buffet, sweetie. And most poor suckers are starving to death."

I went to bed after that, held Karen in my arms, and had the best night of sleep I've had in two weeks.
Dad's going to get a little visit from me.

I'm stunned.

Whoa. How are you? Boy, let me tell you, I am STUNNED. Sure, I'm stunned about the big revelation yesterday that Damien and MY DAD are somehow in cahoots, and they're both trying to ruin my life—but I'm also stunned I came up with two FANTASTIC new ideas today. Here they are:
1) Guys need to start wearing top hats and monocles again. It will be the new hip fashion that everyone is doing, so you better start now or risk looking "out of it" and "square." Plus, not only can you hide things under a top hat, but when you are surprised about something, your monocle can pop out. SPROING!!
2) This one's just for whitey. Ever catch yourself singing along with a rap song, but have to momentarily shut up whenever they say the "n-word"? ME, TOO. There's no way I'm going to say it (even though I probably could, since I'm from Ethiopia), so I've devised a new clever substitute for the "n-word" which is NINJA. Same syllables, plus ninjas are cool, and you're not being a racist. You can even use it when someone says something ridiculous by responding with "Ninja, please!"
That's why I was stunned. Because I could come up with such awesome ideas even in the face of being backstabbed by my own father. WHAT DO YOU THINK HE'S UP TO? Why would he tell Damien to try rob me of everything I hold dear (second base, Karen [that's my lamb] and Trudy [she's a bank teller])? It kind of blows my mind. I mean I know Dad and I don't get along very well—but this is some real Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker poop going on here! (PMF!)
Anyway, this has gone WAY beyond asking Trudy, the guys at the video store, or the mall security guy for advice. That's why I'm bringing out the big guns, and asking the only person (or thing, if you will) that can truly help me find an answer:
THE HOLY GHOST.
Ooooooh, is right! I ain't fooling around! Now I know a lot of you may have heard about the holy ghost (or "spirit," if you will), but are unable to really wrap your head around the concept. Well, first of all, the holy ghost isn't a "he," it's a "she." Her name is Doris (officially, "Doris the Holy Ghost") and she lives in Eureka, California. But no one else can see her. Now, in the bible, the holy ghost is the spiritual manifestation part of the holy trinity, with me being the physical side. But in reality she was kind of dad's personal assistant until she died of lung cancer, and moved to Eureka. However, I've always liked her, because she's SUPER SMART and a real no-nonsense kind of gal. Anyway, I've decided I'm going to have a video web-chat with her tonight, and ask her what I should do about Dad using my mortal enemy to ruin my life, and possibly kill my lamb. Cool? Cool. Tune back in tomorrow to see what she says. Rest assured, it will be extremely wise, and she will probably tell me how to solve "the Trudy situation" as well. (Eye roll.)
Until then, run out and buy a top hat and monocle. What's that? Wearing a top hat and monocle is too "hip" for you?
NINJA, PLEASE!
Heh.

Damien's revelation.

Hi, hope you’re good, things are getting WEIRDER, so let’s just get right to it. (If you’re a new reader to this blog, I really feel sorry for you. You have a lot of catching up to do. Scroll down until you can’t scroll anymore, and read, read, read.) So yesterday I totally got in trouble with mall security because I yelled at Trudy (she's a bank teller) for tasting Damien’s tongue. (It’s because I asked her to go on a pretend date with him, so he’d let me play second base on my softball team and… OH FORGET IT.) Anyway, I was way out of line. And I know this, because after I was dragged back to the mall security office, I broke down in tears, and begged the security officer to help me solve my problem. Unfortunately, he said he was really uncomfortable with men who expressed emotions, and asked me to leave.
“BUT WHAT SHOULD I DO?” I wailed.
“I don’t know!" he said. "Go talk to that Damien character, tell him he's a [gd-word] [mf-word], and leave… me… alone! WOW, you're annoying!"
Geez. Sorry I was born, mall security guy.
Anyway, decided to take his advice. I marched right over to Damien's house and rang his doorbell. He answered the door dressed in one of those "muscle-tees"—you know, the ones with no shirtsleeves? And he was curling a dumbbell. What a d-bag. (PMF!)
"Well… well… well," he sneered. "Who's this ringing my doorbell? A Jehovah's WUSSY?"
"Look, Damien," I said. "I'm only here because the mall security guy said it was a good idea, so I'm going to tell you what's on my mind."
"That shouldn't take very long."
"Ha-ha, Damien. Very funny. Except it wasn't because I was being sarcastic. Look. You hurt my feelings because you tricked the coach into moving me off second base, so you could steal my position. And then you tricked me into trying to trick you with a fake date with Trudy, so you could trick her into liking you, and give you a tongue kiss."
"Yes, I did," he said. "And it worked."
"Don't you dare deny…. wait… uh … WHAT?!"
"I did it. I stole second base from you, and then I stole Trudy."
"But… but… why?"
"I wanted to rob you of everything that means something to you—and I did. Except for Karen (that's your lamb), and she's next on my list."
"WHAT? But… but… but… why?"
"Look, Jesus. I got a hamburger date with Trudy tonight, which means I gotta get pumped up—so… sayonara, sucker."
I slammed my hand into his door. "I am not going ANYWHERE until you tell me WHY YOU ARE DOING THIS TO ME!"
Then he gave me this weird look that kind of seemed sad in a way.

"Ask your dad."
And he closed the door.

The Trudy Tapes

Hi, and WOW. Yesterday stunk. I feel a little better today, but yesterday? WOW. That was a low point. For those just joining us, it might be better if you stop now and read the previous few blog posts. Just keep scrolling down until you see a picture of Will Smith. Anyway, in a nutshell, Trudy (the bank teller) likes Damien (the jerk) and guess who's the dumb-butt (Jesus). Oh, yeah… pardon my French (PMF). Even worse, Trudy actually tongue-kissed Damien (EWWW!) and I didn't even get to play second base on my softball team—which was the whole stupid point in the first place! I suppose I should "count my blessings" or something idiotic like that, but all I can really be thankful for is that Karen (that's my lamb) didn't poo-poo in my new cotton candy machine. Oh, did I mention I bought a new cotton candy machine? It cost one thousand dollars. That wasn't a smart purchase, as it turns out, but what can I say? I shop when I'm depressed.
Anyway, after dragging myself out of bed, taking a shower, and buying a cotton candy machine, I decided to confront Trudy at the mall food court. I also decided to secretly tape record our conversation, so you could listen, and help me figure out what to do next. Here's an edited transcript of what we said:
JESUS: Thanks for meeting me.
TRUDY: No… sure, sure… are you okay? You look awful.
JESUS: No… no… no, no, no, no, no, no, nooooooooooo… I'm great. Just great. I brought you some cotton candy.
TRUDY: Thanks.
JESUS: I made it myself.
TRUDY: Wow… that's really cool, I love cot…
JESUS: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME????
TRUDY: Whoa… whoa… what?
JESUS: You weren't supposed to tongue kiss Damien! You were supposed to keep not liking him!
TRUDY: Jesus… this was… this was YOUR idea! I didn't plan…
JESUS: You didn't plan to stick your tongue in his mouth? It just "fell" in there accidentally?
TRUDY: You're really upset. Why are you so upset?
JESUS: Because you were supposed to follow the plan and trick him and hurt him and get second base back for me, and I wanted you to do me this one favor, this one stupid favor, and instead of doing the favor, you did the opposite of the favor and instead of hurting him, you hurt me, and now you like him, which means I'm out of the picture and both you and second base are gone forever!
TRUDY: I haven't gone anywhere!
JESUS: Do you or do you not "like" Damien? And when I say "like," I mean "LIKE-LIKE."
TRUDY: (Long pause.) Jesus…
JESUS: Well?
TRUDY: I don't know how I feel.
JESUS: You don't know how you feel? YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOU FEEL? Well, maybe I should ask your tongue! Since it was digging around in the back of Damien's throat, maybe your tongue will know how it feels! HEY TONGUE!! HOW DO YOU FEEL??
MALL SECURITY GUARD: Is there a problem here?
JESUS: NO!!! Why don't you beat it, Dork Tracy?
MALL SECURITY GUARD: Hey, sir. That hurts my feelings.
TRUDY: He didn't mean that, security person. He's just upset. I'll take care of this and we'll be quiet.
JESUS: I will NOT be quiet! And neither will Trudy's tongue! Because it's going to tell me how it feels! TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL, TONGUE!
MALL SECURITY GUARD: Okay… you're a pervert. Let's take a walk to my office.
TRUDY: That's really not necessary!
MALL SECURITY GUARD: Oh, yes it is. Let's go.
JESUS: See ya later, Trudy! Say hello to the inside of Damien's mouth for me, you backstabber! Oh, and I hope your tongue enjoys the cotton candy! Be sure to give Damien a taste, too!! OW!?!?! Let go of my hair, pig! Ohhhh, what are you gonna do? CRUCIFY ME? Been there, done that! Do you know who my dad is, you big dumb jer… [Tape ends]

Okay, so maybe I could've handled that better.
OH, MY DAD! Can things get any worse? Hmmm… guess they can. Karen just vomited cotton candy all over the rug.

I'm like whatever.

Hey. What's up. I'm like, "whatever." This has been the stupidest weekend in the history of weekends. It was so stupid that I ended up sleeping through most of today, and woke up around 4 pm to eat a ham sandwich and take a nap. And I think I'll continue to take this course of action, because the world is one big fat stink hole.
So you remember what happened Friday, right? I asked Trudy (bank teller) to go out on a date with that dillweed Damien (trickster jerk), so he would return to me my rightful place as the second baseman for our softball team. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, skip down three blog posts. Or go away forever. I don't care.) Anyway, I eventually figured out this was a really dumb and ineffectual plan, and decided to ride my bike down to the pizza shop, crash into their table and whisk Trudy away on my handlebars. The result?
THINGS DIDN'T GO SO WELL.
I went to every stupid pizza place in town, and they weren't anywhere! Plus I kept calling Trudy on her cell, but she wouldn't pick up. Frankly, I was scared poopless. (PMF—"pardon my French.") Finally she calls at noon on Saturday, and was all like, "Hi! What's up?"
And I was all like, "You scaring me poopless. PMF. That's what's up."
Turns out she's absolutely fine—and even worse? She said her date with Damien was "DREAMY." And not only that, she said Damien was actually "a really sweet guy" once you got to know him, and that she not only kissed him on the mouth, but she also stuck her tongue inside a little bit! EWWWWWWWW!!!!
I slammed down the phone and decided I wouldn't call her back until I could get the taste of bile out of my throat. At least I got second base back, right? Well, at Sunday's softball game…
THINGS DIDN'T GO SO WELL.
Damien was all like, "Jesus! Dude! That date with Trudy was super hot! She could be the one, dude!" And I was all like, "WHATEVER, dude! You're the catcher now, so why don't you start catching?" But right when I went to second, the coach walked up and was all like, "Jesus… what are you doing?"
And I was like, "Damien said I could have second base back."
And he was all like, "Well, Damien doesn't coach this team, I DO. Get back behind home plate!"
I kind of don't remember much after that. I think I went into some kind of comatose state that people go into when their entire world starts spinning really fast and falls apart and comes crashing down like the Red Sea on top of their heads. The next thing I knew Karen (lamb) was licking my face at 4 pm today, which is her code for "eat a ham sandwich." I did, and felt a little better. That is until I cried myself to sleep. I just woke up again a minute ago to evacuate my bowels, and thought I'd write this. I'm going back to bed now. I've got some more crying to do. Maybe I should have faith things will get better. But since it won't, I can't.
Night.
Whatever.

I'm right. You're wrong.

Hey, how are you feeling? I'm feeling preeeeeeetty concerned. Apparently my brilliant plan to regain second base from that trickster Damien, by tricking him into thinking Trudy the bank teller (who works at the bank) likes him by going out on a pizza date with him and kissing him on the mouth isn't a very popular idea with my commenters. (Check the posts from yesterday and the day before for full details.) It would be okay if a couple of you thought my plan stinks—I'm sure even the guy who invented Glide tooth floss had his detractors—but almost EVERYONE thinks it stinks! So that must mean one thing…
YOU… DON'T… GET… IT.
I'm certainly not "whoring Trudy out" (Pardon your French) as you so Frenchly put it. She's a friend, and friends do friends favors. For example, Trudy moves, like, every two years, and guess who has to lug her collection of Christmas Barbie Dolls up and down the stairs? And when she forgets to record The Amazing Race, guess who saves it for her on his TiVo? And who illegally downloads the new R. Kelly album for her even though it's totally illegal? Oh, that's right… That would be ME.
What do you say we flip the situation, since everyone keeps reminding me about the whole "do unto others" thing that I supposedly once said, but really didn't. Let's imagine that Trudy really wanted Dr. Jessica Hovley's dentistry job. (If you don't know who she is, read this post right here, and come right back. No dawdling.) I really don't like Dr. Jessica Hovley, because she's kind of mean, and called me a queer. (Pardon her homophobic French.) However, if Trudy wanted me to go out on a pizza date with Dr. Jessica Hovley, and pretend to like her, and end the evening with a real juicy kiss on the mouth? Well, I'd certainly…
Oh, poop.
This is bad. This is really, really bad. Just the thought of Trudy's lips on that slimey creep makes me wanna go… BLECHHHHH!!!! But… I really want to play second base! But what if she catches some herpes from him? But what if I never get to play second base? That's at least as bad as herpes! You can treat herpes, but you can't treat not playing second base! But I don't want to hurt my friend! But I really want to play second base! Trudy's feelings! My needs! His herpes! Second base!
AUUUGGHHHH!!!
What time is it? Almost five? Those guys are going on their pizza date right after work! That's it. Second base be darned. (PMF.) I'm going to ride my bicycle over there RIGHT NOW, and heroically crash my bicycle into their table, break up their date, and say something like, "Damien! You can keep your stupid second base and your herpes, because Trudy's coming with ME." Then I'll put her on my handlebars, and we'll ride to Quiznos for dinner. (Oh yeah, I forgot to mention… I like Quiznos again.)
How does that plan sound?
(P.S. Please don't use the word "whoring" in the comments anymore. It's dirty.)