When Nuts Attack

When Nuts Attack

Now I’m not going to pretend that I’m the greatest guy in the world. Well, at least I’m not perfect. You all know this. I’ve done some things that some girls I’ve dated have every right to be angry about. Megan O’Brien had every right to be pissed. As did Maryrose. OK, I’m going to stop this thread now. Where I’m going with this is that I recently got involved with someone who I used to be good friends with. Things didn’t work out for one reason or another and she decided she didn’t want to see me anymore. OK. I got it. We had very different interests and that was tough to get around…

—–11 days later—–

…then came this absolutely nasty e-mail. It was the most hate-laden flailing piece of anger I have ever seen. And I’ve seen some anger. Heck, a few of you are responsible for some. Anyway, she started by saying my quote of the day was crap, uninteresting and uninspired. Well no shit it’s uninspired! I hope none of you are looking to my dinky little attempts at humor to motivate you to finally write that detective novel or sculpt that enormous red ear. Hell, I don’t even really expect it to make you laugh most days. I really just use it as a transition between downloading porn and playing internet poker. If you guys are still reading it, that’s an unexpected bonus. Then she went on to say that she was testing me the whole few times we had gone out and I failed every one despite the fact that she made them progressively easier. And the whole time I thought we were just having a conversation. Nope. I was wrong. And it seemed so much like a conversation. But not when you are out with the self-proclaimed “ultimate quizmaster.” Nope. Then, you are under a microscope. Two weeks later, she brought up a topic that came up in passing that I didn’t bother asking her about. Some musician. Apparently, I was supposed to ask her why she liked this artist. I did not. So I got that question wrong. The e-mail had a few other examples of things I didn’t ask her to expand on. This lowered my overall score to finish in the same percentile as that of the average ginkgo plant. If the score I got on her little tests translated into SATs, I probably couldn’t even get into Towson (zing!). So please tell me now if I’ve ever thought that I was having a conversation with anyone on this list and I was actually undergoing some sort of exam and wound up failing miserably. Or please tell me if I passed. Because I want to know what my GPA is for these single-blind quizzes I may have been enduring for who knows how long. And for God sakes, if you want to talk about something, talk about it. I’m not gonna put up with this shit anymore. You’ve been warned. I had to take a few people off this list for this quote for reasons that would be obvious to some other people on this list and the people I took off, obviously. Though the e-mail she sent was obviously meant to hurt me, it ceased to have any affect on me because it came off as a flailing anger-filled tirade. It did, however, scare me. As out of the blue as this was, who knows what the hell else this girl is capable of. I showed this e-mail to a coworker to get a second opinion…

Quote of the Day 1/31/05

“You’re going to want to save this. Your mom will need it for the trial.”

-Nancy, my unpaid social advisor.

You’re going to want to delete this. Your mom will never need to know any of this.

Wearing a staple-proof vest,

D Rec.

Still Standing Right Here…



Here’s a quick hit because I’m behind and I don’t want to be:

A bug buzzes by Jamie during a poker game. He shoos it away. Several minutes later, it buzzes by again and he swats at it once again…

Quote Of the Day 1/20/05

J-Me: “Damn! It’s that same damn bug!”
Dad: “Wow. You must have got a good look at it.”

The joke’s on us. He gave my dad the finger.

The fly in your Vaseline,

D Rec.

Still Standing Right Here…

Rating Times I’ve Run Out of Gas

Times I’ve Run Out of Gas

I’m not proud of it, but I’ve run out of gas at least four times in my life, each of them worse than the last. Except the third one. That’s tough to top. Anyway, here are the stories of these events. All dates approximate.

Sun, Jan 24, 2001 1:00am – I-95 on my way back to UMBC from PA on a Sunday night. I ran out of gas somewhere around Aberdeen and this predates my ownership of a cell phone. I had no idea which way was the closest exit, so I just started walking forward. After about a mile, my ankle reminded me that I had just ruptured my Achilles tendon about 4 months ago. Some random guy stopped saw the car about a mile back and saw me limping toward the exit in the freezing cold and put two and two together. He picked me up just as I was getting to the exit and drove me to get gas and a gas can and drove me back and wouldn’t let me give him any money. He just made me promise to help somebody else out someday. And that was 5 years ago now. Wow. I just made myself feel like an asshole. Well, it was a cool ending, but lacked the drama some of these next ones come with. B-

Sat, Aug 5, 2002 4:00pm – Route 1 just off I-195. Tony had just told me that his car got 400 miles to the tank and I wanted to try to see if my car could. I pushed it a little too far. On the plus side, I got just over 400 miles. On the minus side, I got about .25 miles less than I needed. I stalled out on my way down the exit and coasted to a stop on the way up a little tiny bridge just on the other side of a gas station. And nowhere to go. Fuck. I couldn’t drift far enough back to get on the shoulder and I couldn’t push it up either hill. So I shoved the car as far over as I could so only about half of it was in the right lane. Then I started to run to the gas station only about a 1/2 mile away. Meanwhile, some hick in a pickup truck stopped to pick me up and help me out. I really didn’t need it, but I didn’t want to belittle his attempt to help, so I obliged and got in the cab with his son. He drove me the rest of the way to the station and I filled up a new gas can (cause I never keep them) and he drove me back to my car, making racist comments the entire time I was with him. It wasn’t much, but I thought I’d offer him a few bucks to show I appreciated his help and to help his kid realize that good deeds go rewarded. He took it. Jerk. Exciting place to run out, but not a great conclusion. Though it was an idiotic reason to run out of gas in the first place. B+

Mon, Dec 27, 2004 1:00am – Ben Franklin Bridge. OK, I’m coming back from a Jersey bar after watching a meaningless Eagles game with Kevin, Leigh and a few friends. I took my parents car because mine doesn’t really have heat. I did not know that the gas gauge reads 1/8 of a tank when it’s really empty. So it starts to putter out just as I got to the tolls and I think “OK, I’ll just get gas as soon as we get into Philly.” Well, Kevin and I make it halfway up the bridge and… pfffftt. That word was supposed to represent the car running out of gas. This is very dangerous. I’m on a bridge in a car going over the Delaware River and all of a sudden, well, I’m not on a bridge in a car going over the Delaware River. But all the cars behind me think I am. Little do they know that I’m on a bridge in a car sitting still about 1/2 a mile above the Delaware River. So I put my blinkers on to signify to all the buses coming up on our ass at 60 mph (if you’re my mom, stop reading this now) to get the hell out of the way, there’s a big problem. And I definitely lost my cool. I was in fear for my life. Kevin, meanwhile, was writing a country song about it. Well, he was at least more relaxed than I was. I came up with a plan I thought was best at the time, to drift backwards down the bridge into Jersey to at least get onto a shoulder near the toll booth. As I’m doing this, a cop came up behind me. Thank God. I’ve never been so happy to see a cop before in my life. He puts his lights on and parks behind me. He comes up to the car and asks if I’ve been drinking. “Drinking?!? I’m out of gas halfway up the Ben Fucking Franklin Bridge and you’re asking me if I’ve been drinking?!? Who gives a fuck?! Yeah, I’ve been drinking officer, I’ve been drinking gas and I’m out. Now can you give me a fucking hand?!?!?” Actually, I think I said something like “no.” He tells me to put the car in neutral and he’ll come up behind and push me to safety. Brilliant! He even did it free of charge! So I was ecstatic when I got to Philly and pulled over. He asked if I had a plan to get out and I lied and said yes and he left. Whew! Thank God that was over! So I start to wander into North Philly to look for a gas station while Kevin gets the guitar out of the trunk and gets back to work in the car. I call my dad, who notifies me that I had just walked into like the heroin capital of Pennsylvania and tells me to get the hell out of there. So I do. This also happens to be the coldest night of winter to date and I’m in the middle of the city with an elf-looking Eagles hat on. And I’m with a guy dressed like a cowboy. I still can’t believe I didn’t get mugged. Well, thank God for cell phones. I called Leigh, who met me at an intersection I thought she could find and we did the part I’ve become a seasoned expert at by now. Elapsed time from running out of gas to leaving the scene = 2 hours. Danger factor = about as high as it can get. Other elements – freezing cold, heroin district, faulty design in gas can. A+

Mon, Jan 17, 2005 4:00am – In front of Mike’s place. (mom, you can start reading again) Mike and I had just gotten cheesesteaks in Philly and I was about to drop him off and go home. I knew I needed gas soon, but I didn’t know how soon (all the interior lights in my car don’t work – kind of romantic, very unhelpful). I figured it could wait until I dropped him off and I’d get it on the way back. Well, it might have, had we not sat in my car talking for about an hour. All of a sudden, pfffftt. Not again. Fucking twice in a month. At least I’m in a parking spot in front of a friend’s house who happens to have a car and doesn’t need to be at work until 5pm the following day. So we drive to my parent’s place and get the gas can that still has some gas in it from my parent’s car (which it never made it out of) and drive back to Mike’s place. Easy enough. Except for the faulty gas can that Kevin never showed me the trick of last time. So while I spilled gas all over the finger of my glove (and none in the tank), and kicked the gas cap so hard it broke, Mike was diligently pouring the gas into his water bottle and pouring the water bottle into the tank. The shit you learn when you get a history degree. The danger factor was as low as ever, but the idiocy factor makes up for it. As well as the fact that I’ll have to think about it everytime I get gas now, since the cap is broken. C+

I’m pretty sure I got ripped off by the gas station in Philly for the gas can. It’s kinda like a tow truck. They can overcharge, because they know you need the service. I have an idea for a way to make my millions. But anyway, I was pissed about it…

Quote of the Day 1/18/05

Me: “What kind of a place charges $9.00 for a gas can?”
Leigh: “What kind of a 30-yr-old man runs out of gas?”

OK, Rende. You win this round.

Running into the sun but I’m running behind,

D Rec.

Still Standing Right Here…



Alright everybody. Tomorrow is the big day. The day that will shape my attitude for the rest of the year and determine whether or not I sink into a two month bender and wind up in the gutter on the streets of Dundalk somewhere. It’s the NFC championship game. And in case you don’t follow football, the Eagles will be in it for the fourth year in a row. They lost the last three. I need them to win not as much because I am a fan, but because everybody knows I’m a fan, and there’s nothing these Redskins fans at work like more than to tease me about those 3 lost championship games. Nevermind that their team hasn’t had a winning season since the 90s. They try to rub in that superbowl they won back in the stone ages where everybody was beating up the Bills. What is the statute of limitations on that anyway? But even more than that, they thrive when the Eagles choke in the NFC championship every year. I can’t go to work. Cause they know. They already started printing a shirt with Eagles spelled “EagLLLLes” that Geoff is going to buy for me if they lose again (the four Ls for the four losses – for my slower audience out there). And in the last three years, I think I figured out why there’s two weeks between the championship games and the Superbowl. See, the programmers want everybody to watch the Superbowl. And everytime after that damn game, I don’t feel like watching football for at least another two weeks. So for the peace and mind of an entire city who has made their temperament known to the sports world, root for the Eagles. To win. Not to lose. And I know some of you out there are jerks and you just thrive on other people’s misery, and that’s fine. I promise you some juicy stuff about my dating life will follow next week. Just get this damn monkey off our back. Besides, TO will be coming back for the Superbowl if we make it. And wouldn’t it be cool to see his next celebration? I think he should raise the PAT net himself. That would be funny. I don’t think anybody’s done that one yet.

Meanwhile, the Saturday Morning Hero League continues… We go play football on Saturday mornings and go to a bar afterwards. This year, the owner/coach/manager/quarterback of the team decided to replace himself at QB after three seasons with a combined record of somewhere around 7-23. The new guy goes on to look better and get us a pretty decent win. At the bar afterwards, here’s what our new fullback had to say…

Quote of the Day 1/17/05

“I finally figured out why I’m not a good quarterback. Because I’m not a quarterback.”


Well, I’d been telling him that for years. It’s about time somebody started telling it to Chris Redman.

Prying the monkey off the eagle,

Dustin McNabb.

Still Standing Right Here…

30 and Counting

30 and Counting

So it finally happened. However long I tried to postpone it, the earth just keeps rotating at the same pace, and that is something just out of my control (actually, the earthquake forced the earth underneath itself, causing the circumference to become smaller, thus speeding up the rotation by possibly a few seconds each year, but I swear I had nothing to do with that). Yeah, so I turned 30. Nothing special. No fireworks or sirens (OK, that’s a lie). But I knew it was coming, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise for me. It did, however, seem to instantly make other people age before my eyes. Some reactions were of surprise: “You’re 30? When the hell did that happen?”, some were of disbelief: “What do you mean you’re 30? Aren’t you still in college?”, and still others were very poignant: “So when the fuck are you going to get a real job?” Hell, I’m ready to retire. So yeah, it seemed like a lot more people were upset that I was turning 30 than I was. Like the 19-year old college chicks I’ve been seeing who thought I was 23. And their dads. And boyfriends. Push comes to shove, age is just a number you tell people. And sometimes, it’s not even that. For example, this is the seventh straight year I’ve turned 23. Some people are starting to figure it out. So I’m going to need all of you to keep it under wraps. If word gets out that I’m 30, I officially become invisible to 19-yr-olds. Just a UMBC Rec Sports polo and jeans walking around with no discernable face. And that’s been one of my major demographics. This includes 24-yr-olds that say they’re 19 also. Cause don’t think that doesn’t happen. As well as the 16-yr-olds that say they’re 19 (remember people, this is a “humor” article in which I “embellish” and “lie.” Everybody knows I draw the line at 17.) So the way I figure it, if you average the age that I act, the age that I feel, the age that I tell people I am, the age my birth certificate says I am, and the age my body parts think I am, it’s somewhere in the neighborhood of 30. And that’s good enough for me. All apologies to everyone who didn’t see this coming. I should have prepared you better.

So I was talking with Mike D about turning 30 and other such issues surrounding it. He actually gave me a little bit of hope with his theory involving the difference between hooking up with younger chicks when you are in your late 20s as opposed to when you are 30…

Quote Of the Day 1/10/05

“See, when you hook up with an 18-yr old chick in your late 20s, that’s kinda wrong. But if you do it at 30, it’s like an accomplishment. Something to brag about to your friends.”

-Mike D, 20-something

Awesome. I needed that. No I didn’t. 🙂

Getting old and taking everybody with me,

Extendo 30.0.

Still Standing Right Here…