Yes, yes, I know. I didn't diatribe last week. The truth is, well, I was lazy. None of the stories I had really struck a chord with me, so I just sat out, relaxed, and read everyone else's blog instead. There's no crime in that, right? And you people aren't exactly paying me to rant, so I'll take a week off if'n I feel like it from time to time. And don't you dare try to bow up at me, either - You're in Damiana now. Word. By the way, thank you all for not mentioning the Mavs. I took the losses hard, and it hurt me all the way to my soul. I had already planned on calling in with a bad case of rheumatic fever or vitiligo or leprosy, just to attend the victory parade, and instead, I'm having to relocate my Western Conference Champions banner I got from Wal-Mart over to the other, less-visible side of my cubicle wall so that haters will stop shooting Nerf darts at it. So...thank you for leaving my wounds sodium-free. Let's see what's cooking this week. ---------------------- NEW DELHI - Husbands in India have found a new way to make some extra cash - they rent out their wives to other men. Atta Prajapati rents out his wife Laxmi to a landowner for $175 US a month. She is expected to live with the man, look after him and his house, and even have sex with him. The Times of India reports that several men rent their wives to other men on a month-by-month basis. These husbands are cashing in on the shortage of single woman in India, caused by the fact that many parents abort female fetuses, preferring sons to daughters. The reason for this is because a daughter's parents usually have to pay the groom's family a dowry, which is often a big financial burden. You have to love the entrepreneurial spirit sometimes. Without it, we wouldn't have traffic lights, Gameboys, or TiVo. Or, in this case, wife rental. My question is this: if you rent your wife out to some other dude, wouldn't you then have to rent a wife yourself, just to handle all the household duties in YOUR crib? 'Cause I KNOW these men aren't doing it themselves. What if the renter gets the wife pregnant? Would that be the equivalent of adding a room onto a house you're renting? You know, ultimately, that room belongs to the landlord, even if you do sink money into it. Worse, what if the wife is doing things with the renter that she won't do with the husband? I could just see him saying "But Laxmi, I've been begging you for 3 years to do that thing with your mouth, and you did it for HIM?" Of course, she'd likely say "Well, unlike you, he had a contract. Maybe you need a better real estate agent." Paid polyamory, table for three! -------------------------- BEIJING - The Fangji Cat Meatball Restaurant in the Chinese city of Shenzhen will no longer be serving cat meat after a group of animal rights protesters barged into the business wielding banner that said "cats and dogs are friends of human beings." The demonstrators demanded the owner to free any live cats on the premises, but there were none since the owner had already moved them. However, some of the demonstrators were distraught to find a skinned cat in the fridge. "I cannot go on with my business, and I will not sell cat meat any more," the restaurant owner was quoted as saying. ... Do I even need to say anything here? I thought not. Fangji Cat Meatball Restaurant. Classic. ------------------------------ WEST VANCOUVER, British Columbia - Goldilocks and the Three Bears sort of came to life when a woman came home to discover a bear in her kitchen munching on oatmeal. The bear came through an open sliding glass door looking for a meal, and found the container of oatmeal. "It sounds like a nursery rhyme, doesn't it?" West Vancouver police Sgt. Paul Skelton said. "At least we have a health-conscious bear on our hands." The bear wouldn't move when police officers came to the home, so they let him finish eating first. Once the bear was done with its meal, it left the house and headed towards a forested gully. "It ended the best it could," Skelton said. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! As scary as this must've been for the poor lady, the shit's pretty funny, too. I bet the bear looked at her like "What? Like you're eating this. Bitch, settle. I'll be done in a minute. Oh yeah, you need some milk." I'm really surprised they didn't just shoot the bear, 'cause that's what would've happened down here in the good ol' U S of A. We don't fuck around. What did the BC officers do? Did they just ask the bear to leave? Officers: "Excuse me - exCUSE me!" Bear (sighing): "WHAT? Can't you see I'm busy? Damn! (mumbling to himself) Bear can't even eat a meal without muhfuckas all up in his grill." Officers: "We're terribly sorry - are you almost finished?" Woman: "GET IT OUT, GET IT OUT!" Bear: "I'll be finished when I'm finished. And bitch, I TOLD you to settle! Swear to God, I'll knock out this oatmeal and start in on the Crunch Berries! You better chill! Oh yeah, don't go in the bathroom for 35, 45 minutes. Bring some Glade. And a plunger." --------------------- ***And since I didn't do a diatribe last week, here's some bonus coverage!*** --------------------- BOCA RATON, Fla. - Rich diners at a posh Boca Raton, Fla., restaurant can now fork over $100 for a hamburger made of beef from three different countries. Marc Sherry, owner of the Old Homestead Steak House, introduced the Tri-Beef Burger Tuesday in a ceremony fit for an extravagant patty of ground beef. A Hummer limo picked the beef up from its flight to Fort Lauderdale and TV cameras and reporters were on hand when it arrived at the restaurant, the St. Petersburg Times reports. Culled from cows raised in Colorado, Argentina and Japan, the 2 1/2-inch thick, 5 1/2- inch in diameter burger is fried in grape seed oil and topped with top-shelf vegetables and Maytag Blue cheese. First things first - since when does an appliance maker make bleu cheese? Bet that shit tastes like Tide. Second - it's "bleu" cheese, not "blue" cheese. Bleu cheese is for salad dressing. Blue cheese will kill you. I don't even eat cheese, and I know this. Third - The best hamburger in the world only costs about $10, and it's made from one kind of beef - cow. Period. No fancy names, no 3 country potpourri meat, no limo rides from the airport. Anyone who willingly pays $100 for a damn hamburger needs to be slapped around with his checkbook. Fourth - Why, someone please explain, why would you cook a hamburger in grape seed oil? Canola. Peanut. Hell, bacon grease! THIS is how you cook a burger, not in some damn fancy-pants grape seed oil. What the hell IS grape seed oil, anyway? Won't the burger taste like communion wine after you cook it? Ridiculous. Take your hungry, needing-a-burger ass down to TGI Fridays, order the Jack Daniels burger, and have an orgasm in your mouth. Well. That sounded dirty. --------------------- FJORDANE, Norway - A Norwegian man arrested Tuesday says he only struck his former girlfriend with a dildo, despite her being hospitalized with a concussion and broken bones. The 28-year-old victim remained in the hospital with two broken fingers and several cuts. According to local newspaper Firda, she told police she feared for her life during the assault, Aftenposten reported. The 37-year-old defendant appeared in the Fjordane court in the scenic western town of Nordfjordeid on Monday. He said he was sorry for his actions, and attempted to downplay the assault. "It lasted 10 to 15 minutes max," he told the court. "I didn't hit her with anything other than a dildo." He also suggested the woman may have had bruises from before the assault. Silly Norwegians. He beat her ass with a dildo. Maybe he considers that cheating, who knows. Doesn't make it ok, though. But imagine the embarrassment she has to suffer - she has to tell her friends and family that she was attacked for 10 to 15 minutes with a sex toy. What the hell kind of attachments did she have on that thing? Next time, she should remove the chain saw/nail file/hammer/pumice stone from the base, just in case someone tries to whup her with it. Domestic battery is no laughing matter, and I don't condone violence for any reason, especially against supposed loved ones. But ladies...hide your shit, OK? Don't be the chick with imprints of anal beads on your face and neck. That ain't cool. Peace. All stories come courtesy of Bizarre News. I couldn't make this shit up for money.

Me, the anti-jonx. The hat is ridiculous, I know. Look, it was hot out there, ok? And I had just shaved my head the night before, and I wasn't ABOUT to get my scalp sunburned. That shit hurts. Oh, that expression on my face? It's called the "Word mouth", because that's what you do after you say "Word." to someone. Jot that down.

Looks idyllic, doesn't it? It would be, if it didn't have...

No, not my son - the damn JUNGLE back there! Look at that shit! It looks like Vietnam's cousin back there. You know there's a bear in there, and I bet you dollars to doughnuts that the snakes swim in the water at night.

Believe me, I'm not one to piss all over someone else's religion, but seriously - if you can't come out of the burka, why are you at the waterpark? It was 600 degrees out there, and you looked a little out of place next to the chick in the two-piece with tattooes of butterflies on her lower back. Just sayin'.

Not the woman in the foreground - she's fine. Well, I mean "OK", not attractive. Look at the woman in the background. And feel free to click the picture to see what I wrote. She looked like she got dressed by two blind circus acrobats.

No.

Yes.

This was just sad, y'all. I damn-near dropped the camera trying to get a shot of her, though. See those stairs to the right? It took her nearly 3 minutes to go up. There were 7 of them. Later on, she tried to sit on one of the many plastic lawn chairs scattered around, but she fell. And she couldn't get back up. She sat there, on the hot concrete, for a long, long time, just...chillin'. It was really sad, and I did not laugh at her plight.

But I laughed on the inside, because I'm evil.

See that guy in the white shirt? Water was falling on him, where he was standing. When he turned sideways, 3 little kids tried to slide down his stomach.

Freezing water, hot sun, high prices...it was good to leave. And I swear to you, I will NOT go back to that place...until next weekend.

We have season passes.

Peace.

Yeah, yeah. I didn't diatribe this week. Suck it. I'll do it next week. My black ass has been a wee bit busy, now that I've been really working for a living, and not just chillin' in an empty cube IMing all day. (Damn, I miss IMing. It's amazing how used you get to instant communication. Gah!) I've been at Fortune 25 Company now for 3 weeks, and I gotta say, I love it here. Love. It. The people there are wonderful - smart, funny, my age, and very unique. Evidently, I'm rolling with the bad boys and girls, because in the last three weeks I have witnessed:

• At least 47 unique instances of sexual harassment
• No less than 29 instances of racial profiling and stereotyping
• 52 crude jokes
• 14 homosexual references
• 12 inappropriate touches
• 10 short jokes
• 4 admissions of slight bisexuality
• 492 curse words

Me and Gordie, rocking out. Funny thing is, as cool and bad-ass as I look in those shades, I couldn't see a damn thing, and was playing all KINDS of wrong notes. But I look good. Jmart, before removing his shirt, which usually takes place about 17.4 seconds into the first song of the set. Gordie's behind him, and I'm back there, arms looking like cannons. Oh yes. I'm rockin' the arms.

Gordie and Trip, playing a solo or something. Swear, when I'm on stage, I have NO idea what they do over there. After the show, a guy said "What happened to Trip's guitar?" And I had no clue what the hell he was talking about. My own little world, people. That's where I live.

"Hey! Sound Guy! This mic STILL isn't working - HEY! THEY CAN'T HEAR MY MELIFLUOUS VOICE, ASS! Turn me UP! What? Look it up - what am I, Merriam-Webster? Jeez. And LOOK AT THESE ARMS!"

Just for you, Fyrchk. Just for you. Jmart, shirtless and sweaty.

"I guess...you say...what can make me feel this way? Bacon (bacon) BACON! Talkin' 'bout baaacon....BACON!"

Peace.

Spectacular injuries take real talent, ladies and gentlemen. You can't just fall down from an upright position and expect to have some type of memorable accident - unless, of course, you're at the top of a spiral staircase at the moment, which would be funnier than two chipmunks battling over acorns in a bag placed over Ann Coulter's head. No, a spectacular injury requires forethought, luck, skill, and sheer stupidity to pull off correctly. A spectacular injury should have people making the "O" mouth when you tell them what happened. A spectacular injury should also not be fatal or utterly life-altering, in the grand scheme of things, because paralysis ain't funny at all. A spectacular injury should just barely miss the Darwin Award cut. This story is about such an injury. 1986. 8th grade. Chubby smart little fat kid (me) who would walk around West Conway Middle School with his arms pulled into his jacket, flapping them up and down, singing "Broken Wings" by Mr. Mister in the same voice used by the mogwai in "Gremlins". Can you say "ladies man"? Yeah, me neither. But I was funny, therefore I was well-known if not popular. Conway was a small town then, and everyone knew everyone else. Those were the days when you could tell your mom at 11am "Hey, I'm going over to [friend's name]'s house", and you could literally be gone until 8pm without her worrying about you. Nowadays I wanna give my kids a switchblade and a stun gun just to play in the fenced-in back yard. Of course, my kids would be busy stunning themselves and the dogs, but that's a story for another time. On the day in question, I left my house around noon, heading to my friend Lamont's house to chill and jump ramps with my 10 speed bike. It was my prized possession. I had gotten it earlier that summer, after years of riding a yellow 4 speed monstrosity my friends liked to call "The Banana Hearse" because it was long, yellow, and looked like it could transport a body. Upgrading to this luxury sedan of a bike was like winning the Kid Lottery, and I rode that bastard at every opportunity. Lamont's house was to be the gathering point for the ghetto version of the X Games, or as we called it, "Let's put some plywood over some cinder blocks and make ramps so we can jump". And jump, we did. All afternoon, doing incredible stunts like landing without falling and coming to a complete stop before rolling into the ravine. Around 3, I decided to go home for a bit to see what was for dinner, hoping it would be a pot roast or my mom's famous chicken bog. It was neither, and that proved to be par for the course that day. I ate, and told Mom I was heading back over to Lamont's to play some video games, to which my mom said "Go! Bye!" This was before we adopted my sister, and I think she enjoyed her time alone. I don't even wanna THINK about what she did. That's my MOM, you sick freaks! Jesus. And so it began. From my house to the corner was about 100 yards or so, give or take a soda can. The intersecting street was a busy one, but on Sundays it wasn't usually too bad. I was known to take a rolling stop into the intersection before veering left to my friends' houses, and that day was no different. While still rolling, I looked to the right. Nothing. While still rolling, I looked to the left. Car. Coming hard. Shit. I immediately applied the brakes and turned the handlebars hard to the left, hoping to kinda swoop underneath her and curl back around before she actually reached me, only...the handlebars did a funny, funny thing. You see, in the old-school 10 speed bikes, the handlebars (those curly ones, not the straight ones you see on mountain bikes today) were held on by one center bolt. This center bolt was key; it held the handlebars in position and kept them from sliding. When I tried to turn my bike, my handlebars slid like they had been sprayed with WD-40 and dipped in bacon grease. They slid like an old-timey typewriter. ALLLLL the way to the right - the opposite direction of where I was turning. Time slowed down at this point. All of the things I'm about to list happened in about 15 seconds, if not less:

• I look down to see what the fuck just happened, and I noticed masking tape where the center bolt should be. FUCK!
• I look up to see the oncoming car SPINNING 180 degrees as the driver tried to avoid hitting me.
• I realize that the car's gonna hit me REAL HARD in my side, so I kick the bike away from me.
• I spin back toward the car, raising my hands up just as the rear passenger bumper slams into me.
• I flip.
• In the air.
• Like a trained professional acrobat from Ringling Bros. or an extra from "The Matrix".
• I land, face-down, on the hot asphalt, with my hands again taking the brunt of the force.
• The wind is completely knocked out of me, and I can't move.
• The driver runs out of the car and thinks I'm dead 'cause I'm not moving.
• I'm trying like hell to catch my breath, and wondering why my arms hurt so much.
• I manage to breathe, and roll partly onto my side.

At ths point, the poor lady who hit me was freaking. The fuck. Out. I gasped out that my house was just down the street and that my mom was at home. While she went to get her, I laid back down on the hot asphalt, staring at a bottle cap imbedded there for years. When I looked up, I saw the most hilarious thing ever: my mom, all 200 pounds of her, in her flowery housecoat and worn slippers, running up that street like she was Jesse Owens and the entire Nazi Olympic team was SUPER-PISSED that she had won the gold medal. With a rottweiler chasing her. I swear I heard the "Chariots of Fire" theme song as she sprinted full-speed up the street. Swear to GOD, I laughed when I saw her, which turned out to be a good thing, 'cause then she knew I was okay. Then I told her what had happened, starting with the time-honored kid phrase "See, what had happened was...". The joy she surely felt lasted approximately 4 seconds before Typical Black Mom reappeared, yelling at me for getting hit by a car and messing up this poor lady's whole day. I said "Mom, I think I broke my arm." She said "That's what you get for being dumb." I love her, really.

What had happened was, my friends thought it would be REALLY FUNNY if they removed the center bolt without my knowledge and replace it with masking tape, thinking I would discover it immediately upon getting on the bike. When I didn't, they promptly forgot to mention it to me. They felt pretty awful about it, and I actually thought it was a pretty good prank, aside from the whole getting hit by a car part. The aftermath was that I had broken both wrists, though the doctor didn't catch the 2nd fracture until 2 days later when I went to a bone specialist. 2 days I walked around, doing shit with my right hand. Idiots. I had casts on both arms up to my elbows, and I was the King of the School, getting more play than a Broadway stage - until that kid had a seizure in the playground.

Showoff.

And that, folks, is a spectacular injury.

Peace.

Warning: Those of you expecting a typical humorous DD entry will be disappointed. I'm feeling melancholy today. Father's Day has been a bittersweet holiday for me since 1999. 1999 was the year my first son was born. It was also one year after my father was murdered. As much as I love my children and feel the blessing of their birth every day, on the 2nd Sunday in June, I also feel the burden of not having my father here with me. My father and I were not close. At all. Oh, when I was young, I thought he hung the moon and bought the stars just for me. He was a character; smart, funny, charismatic, able to talk to anyone about anything. The problem was, he often told anyone anything to get them to help him out or to curry favor. He was a charlatan, a chameleon, a man who knew every angle and cut every corner. As I got older, I began to see that more and more. He and my mom got married to each other twice. Twice. Once before I was born, naturally, then divorced when I was in the 2nd grade; and again when I was a junior in high school, then divorced when I was a freshman in college. And in between, he was married again to another woman whom I hated with every ounce of my 12 year old being. I spent a few summers with them up in New Jersey, and all I can really recall about them was Dad going to work and leaving me at home with The Shrew all day, who damn-near insisted that I call her "mom". I informed her quickly that I HAD a mother, and that she was in South Carolina, not New Jersey. It all kinda went downhill from there. Oh, I also watched "The Terminator" on VHS every...single...day. All summer. It was my greatest joy. When Dad and Mom remarried a few years later, I was happy, but by then I was getting a feel for how my dad really was as a person. Phone calls went unreturned; promised gifts and money and cards and trips went unfulfilled. Still, he was a hero to me, in the way that any parent in a divorced home is, when the child isn't living with that parent. Dad represented freedom from the oppressive regime instilled by my mom, whose job it was to raise me. Kids don't get that. All they know is that Mom is the one putting them on restirctions, or whipping that ass when they screw up. The other parent is seen as a savior, and that's how I viewed my dad, warts and all. I never heard my mom and dad fight. Ever. Never saw them disagree, never heard a cross word between them, never saw the looks and glances of couples having silent arguments in front of others. However, when Mom told me that they were splitting up, I wasn't surprised, or even hurt, really. The only thing I said was "Is that what you want?" She said yes, and then I asked how everything else was. Like I said, I had an inkling of what my Dad was like, and truly, their divorce didn't affect me much in college. I was on my own by then. I didn't get the full brunt of the Dad experience until after their second divorce. By then, I was attempting to be self-sufficient, and Mom was trying to help me where she could, but times were tight. I asked him for help a few times...please help me get a car so I can get a job...please loan me $100 so I can buy groceries...and time and time again, I'd get the "Sure, buddy, I'll wire you the money." The money never got wired. The car never arrived. He showed up 8 hours late to pick me up from college at the end of my first year, big ol' heart-melting smile on his face, with no explanation on his lips. I had sat there, on the curb, evicted from my dorm room, for 8 hours, afraid to leave lest he show up when I wasn't around. That experience told me that he couldn't be counted on, and I began to wean myself from him. A few years went by with little contact...I was busy trying to survive college, and he was becoming a minister. He contacted me to tell me the news, and it was difficult not to laugh at the thought of him leading a flock toward salvation. But hey, maybe he had changed his ways. Maybe he had seen the light. Maybe was a changed man. He wasn't. He was still up to his old tricks, only from the pulpit. He was swindling people And in the interim, he had legally adopted a kid from the streets. This angered me beyond belief. I was his REAL son, and he could never bring himself to do anything for ME, but yet he could feed, house, and raise a stranger - and had the audacity to call him my "brother". Fuck. That. But I tried to be the bigger man. I accepted his offered hand, hoping to repair and preserve the relationship. But as I saw more and more of what he was about, the more I didn't want to be a part of that life. I knew he had smoked pot back in the day - hell, not knowing what they were, I used to sell the roaches to the kids across the street for $0.25 each. I didn't know why they wanted them, but I knew the value of a quarter. But Dad was now into bigger shit, worse shit. And he was dealing with people who didn't like the word "no". I disassociated myself from him completely. He had a son. He didn't need me. My wife had just left that morning on a work trip to Boston when I got the phone call. At first, I couldn't believe what my Mom was telling me. It didn't register...like hearing jibberish when you expected to hear winning lottery numbers. I couldn't track it. But as it sank in, I felt the full crushing weight of the news: "Your father was shot and killed last night in his office." As bad as this was to hear, as utterly devastating as it was, it was only made worse by the fact that about 2 weeks prior, my mom called me, saying that Dad wanted my phone number so we could talk. I told her no. I wasn't ready. I couldn't deal with his bullshit...maybe later. Maybe later. He was my dad. I didn't like him, but I loved him, and I never had the chance to tell him that. People, I'm not much for giving advice, unless asked directly. But try not to miss an opportunity to tell the people you love how you feel, while you have the chance. I wouldn't've listened to that advice 8 years ago. I'm gonna go hug my kids now. Happy Father's Day, everyone. Peace.

*WHEW* I'll tell ya, it ain't easy running TWO kingdoms. Not that YOU'D know. But trust - it's taxing as hell. I mean, those people over in B&TB Land are...uncivilized. They watch "American Idol" on TiVo, they eat with their hands, they smile with broccoli in their teeth - OK, you know I'm lyin' now. Like B&TB readers eat vegetables. But, ever so slowly, they're coming around to my way of thinking. How can they resist? I'm charismatic and shit. I can sell snow to an Eskimo, water to a fish, sand to an Iraqi. For cheap. I'm chock full o' charisma.

Charisma. Charisma Carpenter. Mmmmm. I should invite her to a royal feast. Someone jot that down for me. Oh, and the Mavs lost last night, 98-96 to the Heat. Whatev. Just delaying the inevitable. I don't wanna hear SHIT from you Suddenly Heat fans out there, all cheering, unable to name 4 Heat players at knifepoint. Y'all just sit there and hush, and don't give me any shit. When the victory parade rolls through Dallas, a nigga WILL be calling in sick that day. And you KNOW this, MAN! On with the 'tribe. ---------------------- ST. LOUIS - A St. Louis, Mo., woman has been charged with battering a Chihuahua breeder on the head with the body of her dead puppy. The unidentified 33-year-old woman purchased a puppy several days ago and took it to a veterinarian, who told her the animal was only 4 weeks old and should be returned to its mother, the St. Louis Post Dispatch reported. But the dog died before she could get to the breeder and she reportedly flew into a rage, police said. At 5:45 Wednesday morning, police said she forced her way into the breeder's house and demanded a new puppy. A pushing match ensued and the woman began striking the breeder on the head repeatedly, the report said. Police said they are applying for felony burglary charges against the dog owner for breaking into the home and misdemeanor assault charges. How embarassing - getting beat with a dead chiahauhua is pretty much the bottom rung of the success ladder. I can understand being upset about the puppy, but to go break into the breeder's home at damn-near 6am, and then BEAT her with the dead puppy is a bit of an overreaction. Just a bit. But to me, it shows that the woman was no animal lover - she was just mad that she got a bad puppy. Honestly, who would think to beat someone about the head and face with a dead puppy? If you loved the puppy, you wouldn't disrespect him like that. Sure, maybe you'd pretend to be Ren from Ren and Stimpy for a while, saying "You EEDIOT!" or you might say "Yo quiero Taco Bell" a half-dozen times while nodding the dog's head up and down, but you certainly wouldn't disrespect the puppy, right? And at 5:45am, if someone forces their way into my house asking for a new puppy, more than "a pushing match" would occur, and I certainly wouldn't be on the receiving end of a dead puppy beatdown like that. What's funny is that breaking into the house is a felony, but beating the breeder up with a dead animal is a misdemeanor. Ah, justice. ------------------------ NEW YORK - Most teachers ask for a leave of absence for a pregnancy or perhaps to care for a sick family member. But one city teacher in Brooklyn requested time off so that he could serve his prison sentence. Thomas Everett was convicted of stealing from elderly women and submitted his request for an unpaid leave lasting 60 to 90 days. In the request, he wrote that he had "problems with the State of New Jersey Judicial System" and "must fulfill an obligation to the State." School officials at Sheepshead Bay High School, where Everett taught social studies, said that he will not be welcome back in the classroom. "We get some strange ones, but this one is a little different," said Richard Condon, the lead schools investigator. Needless to say, Everett's leave request was denied. I like this guy. He's got moxy. This is some straight-up black people shit here, and though I haven't seen a pic of Mr. Everett, I'll bet you 2 clams he's a brotha. Granted, stealing from old women is utterly reprehensible, and I hope he tosses salads for the duration of his stay in Hotel Bendover, but you gotta love his sense of entitlement, as though a felony conviction (I assume) wouldn't prohibit him from being an effective social studies teacher. And in a way, I sorta agree with him. After all, wouldn't he be WAY more qualified to talk about government and the judicial system after spending some time in the joint? He'd come back all hard, with Bic pen prison tats, and saying "jonx" all the time like we do now. He could be the new face of Scared Straight! You think kids would talk in HIS class? Please. Kid: "blahblahblahblah..." Teacher: "Hey kid, I knew a guy in the can who never shut up..." Kid: "Yeah, and?" Teacher: "This guy named Panther ripped out the dude's tongue and slapped him around with it for 45 minutes. Funny, huh?" Kid: [dead silence] Teacher: "Yeah. That's what I thought. Now go to page 54 before you get shanked." ----------------------- BALTIMORE - Who knew Baltimore was the city of hospitality? Well, one couple found this out when they were arrested and jailed for asking for directions! You read that right. Apparently, Joshua Kelly and Lara Brook got lost after watching the Orioles play and stopped to ask an officer for directions. The kindly policeman arrested the lost couple for trespassing on a public street and threw them in jail. The couple told WBA-TV, Baltimore, the first officer they sought directions from refused to help, saying, "You found your own way in here, you can find your own way out." They flagged down another cruiser but the first officer jumped between them and said her partner was not going to "step in front of me and tell you directions if I'm not," Kelly said. They were ordered out of their car, cuffed and hauled downtown on a charge of trespassing on a public street. If you've never been to Browntown, aka B-More, aka "The Place of No Smiling Faces", then this bit of information may come as a shock to you. As individuals, I'm sure the fine people of Baltimore are wonderful, while they go down to the shore and eat crabs all day. But as a city - yuck. I spent many a day there, dealing with the worst-mannered folks this side of NYC. As rude as they can be sometimes, though, they're honest to a fault. I was up there once for a college away game (band geek!), and a group of us were walking along the Inner Harbor. This dirty, funky, rat-tacular crack-infested man was dancing on the pavement, listening to some incredible music - in his head. However, though we couldn't hear it, he could, and he translated it for us from whatever outer space Krakhedian language into passable English. We determined after much debate that he was singing Bell Biv DeVoe's "Poison". It came out somewhat like this:

"Poison! Poison poison! Poison! P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p...Yeah! Poison, baby! Uh-huh! Never trust a big butt and a smile - or a small ass and a grin! HAHAHAHAHAH!"

We laughed, hard, and kept our stroll intact. Seeing us, he lurches up, opens his jacket up, 1977-style, like Lenny from "Good Times", displaying an array of "gold" chains. "Y'all wanna buy a necklace? Only $20, and solid gold! HAHAHAHAHA!" We politely declined, saying something along the lines of "Get the hell away from us, bum." Nonplussed, he switched tactics on us:

"Listen. I ain't gone lie to y'all. I need some crack. Bad. It's been 2 days. I gotta get high, man! So if you gimme just...um, how much you got on you?" I said I had $20. He said "OK, for just $20, I'll give you this fat rope chain (it was 1991. Shut up.), and I can go get me some rocks!"

I looked him in the eye and said "Man, thank you for being up front about it. Here's a $20, man. Knock yourself out. "

Pleased, he stumbled off, singing Poison, and already counting the hits he'd get. That necklace turned green as a muhfucka two days later at band practice. My neck continued to be green for 2 more days. Good times.

Peace.

All stories come courtesy of Bizarre News. I don't make this shit up.

I don't have too much to say today. Just slide on over to Beauty and the Beer, and you'll see what's up. I warned her. That's all I'm sayin'. Oh, and my Mavs just whupped up on the Heat last night. We held Shaq to 5 points. Total. 5 points. Shaq hasn't been held to 5 points since he was 18 months old, and only then because the coach took him outta the game for breaking the Fisher-Price basketball goal and causing a ruckus during playtime. For the Mavs to do it is monumental. This is the same team people used to call the Allas Mavericks, 'cause they had no "D". They got it now, man. For rizzle. We're up 2-0 now in the series, and unless the Heat pull glitter from the shitter, this'll be over before the weekend. And who do you know who'll be all up at the victory parade, sweatin' like a hoe in church in the 100+ degree heat, celebrating like he won the lottery AND American Idol on the same day? Yeah. You know what's up. Peace.

Game 1, NBA Finals. The intensity, the pressure, the lights, the dancers...oh, the Finals dancers are way hotter and have more rhythm than they did in the Western Conference Finals. Everything's so much better now that we're in the Big Show, you know? And people here in Dallas are eating it up. It's kinda funny - I mean, I'm caught up in it too, but maybe because I'm a transplant, it's not quite as intense to me as it is to natives. Last night on the Channel 8 news, the anchors were camped out in front of the arena as the game ended, doing their regular news reporting. Not just the sports guy - the actual NEWS anchors were out there. As we all know, they're behind a desk for a reason, and that reason is that they don't always look reall good from the waist down - and such was the case last night. The guy was so pear shaped, I saw three people with peelers and fruit salad cups behind him, just waitin' for him to bend over. And the woman was wearing sandals...and shouldn't've been. Busted feet need not been seen on the telly. Ever. But really, the most usual thing was them reading the day's news, somber as it is, in front of 5000 yelling screaming happy-ass Mavs fans as they exited the arena. Do you know how hard it is to hear about fatal traffic accidents and shootings while people are celebrating just behind the grim-faced people shouting it, struggling to be heard over that din? It's absurd. But you know what? The Mavs won, beating the Heat 90-80 in a game that featured Shaq committing at least two witnessed cases of assault and battery on Dirk and Jerry Stackhouse, causing Stack to require 3 stitches on his already-big nose. It's all good. Game 2 on Sunday. Oh yeah. You're probably wondering why, after a glorious Dallas victory, I'm mad on a Friday. I mean, it's Friday, my band has a gig tomorrow night (Tomcats, Commerce St. Dallas, 9pm. Be there. ), my fam's back in town, and I'm off today. What's to be mad about? I'll tell you. I thought we were cool. I thought we were friends. But when it came time to pick guest posters for when she goes to Vegas or Kalamazoo or wherever she's traipsing off to, Laurie elected to skip right over my black ass. Oh, she picked a motley crew of suitable folks, I'm sure. But just because I dared to (gasp!) disagree with her, she decided I wasn't worthy. Well, please, allow me to STEAL some shit from her, to show my disapproval of this course of action: *****BEGIN LAURIE MOCKING SECTION***** Tear, drip, SPLASH! I'm all "butt-hurt". HOLLA! Fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck! Beauty tips: french pedi + hammer toes = no sandal summers. Shank you very much! Ordinarily, I wouldn't let something like this get to me, since I consider myself ABOVE this kind of NONSENSE, but this has seriously CHAPPED my HIDE, since basically I was the one who got her STARTED on her blog and all, 'cause before that she was just a chick with a loud MOUTH that no one was HEARING, since she didn't exactly have an AUDIENCE out there in the land of no rain, but you know, I'll be fine, 'cause I'm gonna drink a case of Keystone Light and take some Secret Squirrel pics of dranken people like me, and maybe post the pic on MY blog with some unreadable chicken scratch all over it like three schizophrenic turkeys got high on dry erase marker fumes and decided to try to write "War and Peace" freehand. (run-on sentence, of course. Laurie hates punctuation.) Seriously. This sucks my asshole. So Lowry, if you even READ this, check it: go suck an egg. I don't wanna post on your stank blog anyway. I'm sure I'll have far better things to do, like...well, anything, really. But I do wanna ask: What up, yo? *****END LAURIE MOCKING SECTION***** I got half a mind to blow your blog up while you're gone, you know. See how you like that. I will have my revenge, and you'll RUE the DAY you skipped over ME. RUE! (It's kinda weird to say "Peace" after just telling someone they'll rue the day, so...Go! Bye!)

Ah, bliss. I'm on day 3 at the new job, and let me tell you - I'm 95% in love with the place. It's a lot like Cisco was, and I didn't really realize how much I missed what I had there until I got it back again. This place is awesome. And the people are so nice! I've been asked to lunch more in 2 days than I did in 4 and a half months at my last job. It's incredible! Except for one thing. They SEVERELY restrict the ol' internet. External mail? Forget it. Most non-business related websites? Oh, hells no. But that's not the worst. The worst is...no instant messaging. At all. I'm going through serious withdrawals here, y'all. That's how I keep in touch with my people, you know? And I'm now cut off, utterly and completely, with no type of adjustment period whatsoever. So if you're one of the oh-so-lucky few who talked to me on a regular basis, and you wondered why I'm not online, it's because this place is paying me a bucket of money to not be online, and as hard as that is for me, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. But I can still get on the blogs, so don't be talking shit. I'll find you, and put a size 13 Land's End brown slide-on moccasin all up your in your ass. Don't doubt. On with the 'tribe! -------------- NEW YORK - When a woman's 16-year-old son showed up at home in a new $35,000 Mercedes Benz, she had every reason to be suspicious. It turns out he got the car from the 39-year-old woman with whom he was having sex. Lisa Frodella was charged Wednesday with two counts each of third-degree rape and third-degree criminal sexual act after the youth told police they had been having an affair since January. It all fell apart after the youth, now 17, came home with the new car. He claimed that he and Frodella had met in at least two motels, her car and her home. He claimed once, Frodella called his high school pretending to be his mother to take him out of class, Nassau Detective Lt. Kevin Smith said. Someone please tell me how it is that teenage boys are getting better trim than most adult men. This time it wasn't a teacher, but really, that just deepens the mystery, if you consider it. With the teacher/student dynamic, at least you know how they met, and can maybe see the factors that pull the two together (like the fact that the teacher really wants to do an excellent job of throwing away her career, and getting the fast-track to a minimum security women's prison for 5 years). How does a 16 year old land a 39 year old with a Mercedes? I know guys who can't land 49 year olds driving Geo Storms. Apparently, the kid wathed "American Pie" one too many times, thought he really was Finch, and that this woman was Stifler's mom. Only thing is, Finch was smart enough to NOT drive ol' girl's car to his house. Come on. Is he the dumbest kid ever? He copped to EVERYTHING! Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot - he's the victim here. Right. Lemme write that down. He's...the...victim. Yeah. That oughta help me remember that. -------------------- TOKYO - A would-be Japanese bank robber has given an example what NOT to do when robbing a bank. When he first walked into a branch of the Saitama Resona Bank, he asked a bank teller how he should carry out the crime. "Any idea how you rob a bank?" were his exact words. Then, when a staff member told him to leave, he meekly obeyed the request. And to top it off, while he was leaving the bank he accidentally stabbed himself in the leg with a knife he was carrying. The 58-year-old man was arrested for illegal possession of a weapon. "He didn't brandish the knife at anyone ... but he injured himself in the leg," a police spokesman said. Awww, this is almost quaint! It's hard to get mad...he was so clueless! How sweet! Let's look at all the things this poor, poor man did wrong:

• He tried to rob a bank (obvious, but it needed to be said)
• Instead of researching this crime ahead of time, he instead opted to simply ask the teller. Best source of info? Possibly. But asking Misty-san for assistance doesn't really up your street cred.
• His weapon of choice was a knife. He's 58, and was gonna use a knife to rob a bank? I realize that guns aren't easy to come by in Japan...harsh restrictions and all...but he really should've sought more advice. If he whipped out a knife on ME, as a teller, I'd take the drastic measure of...stepping back two paces. His old ass ain't coming over that counter without a step stool and a boost from a security guard, so I'd be less than worried.
• He left, quietly, obediently, and without any money. Uh, buddy, you went all ADD on me here. You're supposed to actually escape with money in hand. It's kinda the point of it all.
• He stabbed himself in the leg. Amatuer.

The authorities need to ask why this man thought he was Jessie James in the first place. Perhaps a nice job as a greeter at Wal-Martzuki would be a better career choice for him, rather than being a poor, uneducated, and painfully untrained bank robber. He's lucky he only got charged with illegal possession. Here, he'd be in the cell next to the extras from "Oz".

---------------- KIEV, Ukraine - A man was killed by a lion after he climed into its enclosure at the Kiev zoo. The 45-year-old man, who was not identified, apparently told witnesses that he believed God would keep the lions from harming him. "The man shouted 'God will save me, if he exists', lowered himself by a rope into the enclosure, took his shoes off and went up to the lions," a zoo official said. Police spokesman Volodymyr Polishchuck said that the man acted aggressively, prompting one of the lions to seize him by the throat. He died at the scene. The incident occurred Sunday evening when the zoo was packed with visitors.

Thank you, lion. Thank you for proving that God doesn't work that way. Thank you for showing the real purpose of "free will". I put this man in the same category as the ultra-fundamentalist christian folks who perform serpent handling, claiming the power of God prevents them from being fatally bitten by the rattlers. Guys, let me make it very, very clear:

God laughs at you when you do that.

Think of it this way - of all the bad stuff that happens to people in the world, why would he spend is valuable time saving YOUR country ass, when he's not saving, say, little Billy from getting hit by a car? I'm not bashing God - I'm just sayin'. God winds us up and lets us go. Free will. It wasn't bad enough that the man jumped into the pen, but he also provoked the lions, probably calling them all punk-ass bitches and talking bad about their mommas. I bet God put on some Jiffy Pop when He saw that nonsense going down. I would've. If you choose to jump into a lion enclosure, then you better know that that lion doesn't believe in God. But he DOES believe in YOU. As dinner.

Peace.

It's over. The Dallas Mavericks are the 2006 NBA Western Conference champions. I am the winner of the wager between me and Laurie. And victory, my friends, is so, so sweet. A few things on my mind on the morning after the biggest feat in the history of the franchise:

• I went downtown last night to check out a friend-band's show (a "friend-band" is a band whose members are friends with the members of our band. Kinda like a "friend-girl", which is not the same as a "girlfriend". Trust me, in the cut-throat music scene, there aren't too many friend-bands. Wow. Tangent!). I happened to be wearing my not-quite-authentic-but-real-enough-to-be-jonx Dirk Nowitzski away jersey (blue on blue with letters trimmed in silver. Recognize.), and as I walked around downtown, there was pandemonium in the streets. People everywhere were hugging, honking horns, stealing wallets (it IS downtown, after all) and generally celebrating like the people at the end of "Independence Day". I've never been in a town that won something that I care about (I hate the Cowboys), so seeing this was very cool.
• Laurie wrote the best tribute EVER. I swear, I laughed my ass off reading it. It's wonderful! What's funny is, I had planned on writing mine the EXACT SAME WAY if she had won the wager, all full of sarcasm and jabs. Loved it. See, L hates to lose. She hates to lose like I hate the absence of bacon and fine bacon products. She was very gracious in defeat, though, and even in the two games Phoenix Suns won, she didn't talk TOO much shit. In fact, she handled it all with class. Laurie, I tip my 2006 Dallas Mavericks NBA Western Conference Champion hat to you.
• My family is in South Carolina until Thursday, and I miss them terribly.
• I start my new job in the morning! My last day at Chinaland was relatively uneventful, except that my BOSS basically asked me if he could give me his resume. How fucked up is that? He's getting blamed for me and My American Compatriot leaving the company, which isn't right, 'cause it's not his fault. The company's just screwed up, and they don't even understand why. Here's why: You cannot run a company in America from China. Period. I had my exit interview near the end of the day (the bastards), and after it was over, I just rolled out. I had packed up my desk and moved it all to my jeep at lunch. And when I left, I said goodbye to...no one. I had no friends there. I didn't even look back. I'll miss that place like I miss mononucleosis.

Usually, I would be barking loudly about this win. It was a HUGE win for the Mavs (or "us", as I will refer to them, even though the closest I've been to being on the team was watching them play from the nosebleed section, so high up in the stands that I saw a cloud with a bag of popcorn), and a real superstar coming out party for my main man Dirk Nowitzki, who dropped 50 on the Suns. I would be running in place, telling you how great we are, and how much the Suns suck, and how I'm gonna love my glowing blog post from Laurie... ...but I won't. I won't for two reasons: (1) I didn't actually SEE the game, 'cause I was at band practice, getting ready for a show on June 10 (if you're in Dallas, you better be there. That's all I'm sayin'. www.ntlband.com. No excuses). (2) It was truly a magnificent game. From everything I saw in the highlights and read online, it was a real classic. Not a heap of bad calls, no flopping, no stupidity, no coaches' wives fighting spectators in the stands - just good, good basketball. I can't hate on that. I'm glad we won, but even if we had lost that game, based on how it was played, I still couldn't hate. Simply put, last night, we had it, and the Suns didn't. Game 6 is tomorrow night in Phoenix, and I'm sure the Suns will play desperate, since they're down 3-2 in the series. It oughta be one hell of a game. Peace.

I was tagged by that Suns-loving malcontent Laurie. Thanks. I really needed this on top of the still-stinging humiliation of that caning my beloved Mavs received the other night. But I'm a trooper, so here goes nothing. 6 Weird Things About Me

1. I don't eat cheese. At all. Not because I'm allergic or lactose-intolerant - I just hate the stuff. But the weird part is, I eat pizza like it's going out of style. But not calzones, even though it's the EXACT same cheese. My cheese detector is so good, I can tell when any dish has cheese in it, no matter how small the amount. No one slips cheese by me.
2. I have a mild foot fetish. I love nicely pedicured feet. Summer is a good/bad time for me, because although there are more exposed feet to see, there are also more exposed rough, ashey, tore-up feet to see, and no one wants to see that.
3. I'm left-handed, but only for 4 tasks: eating, writing, shooting pool, and brushing teeth. Everything else I do right-handed, including...well, like I said, everything else.
4. I cut my own hair, because I have a thing about feeling a barber's sausage on my shoulder while he's leaning into me trying to reach the other side of my massive head. Plus, I had a barber who stuttered and watched basketball games while he was cutting hair. One day he sliced of a significant portion of my 'fro because of something Julius Erving did on the court. He looked at it, half-smiled, and said "T-t-t-th-th-th-this one's o-o-o-o-o-on the h-h-h-h-h-h-house, ok?"
5. I HAVE to have cookies in my cereal. And the cookies must be either chocolate chip or oreos, no exceptions. I place the cookie in the bottom of the bowl, cover it with a little milk, then add whatever cereal I'm eating for the day, then add the rest of the milk. Then I take a spoon, grind up the softened cookie, and try to scoop up spoonfuls of cookie with each bite of cereal. This is in lieu of adding about a half a cup of sugar to all cereals, even the ones pre-coated with sugar. Hello, diabetes!
6. I cannot take a dump if there's anyone within a 40 foot radius of my location. If I'm in a public restroom, already going, I will STOP if anyone walks in, and I won't start again until the restroom is completely empty. At summer camps when I was young, I wouldn't crap for the entire week because it wasn't private enough in the restrooms. Buses and planes? Forget it. I have to be SICK AS HELL to use those facilities. In college, coming home from a road trip to Maryland, I got a case of food poisoning, and was being a real trooper, trying to hold the floodgates closed until we got back to Clemson. But when we hit Charlotte, we hit traffic, and I hit the wall. I had to go, and go right that instant. So I did. In the tiny, windowless bus bathroom. With the non-flushing toilet. When I came out, the entire back half of the bus had moved to the front of the bus, and everyone was looking at me like "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn!" And they weren't joking. For the remaining 2 hours of the trip, I sat alone in the back of the bus. Good times.