Me Bones Gwaan Crumble

A month ago, I was in Chicago, burning the candle at both ends, having a really good time visiting my friends, all 8 of them. I drove from my parents' house in the suburbs to Chicago on 9 of the 12 free nights I had, all night. I then spent 2 full days doing wedding stuff for my sister's wedding. I gave a speech. I provided the obligatory video montage with photos of the bride and groom growing up through the years. It was actually pretty fun, the reception part in particular, and I got to see my entire extended family, which was mostly a good thing.

Physically and mentally drained, I decided to rest for a day and a half before my flight back to LA. I was supremely busy for 12 out of the 15 days I was in Chicago, and there was a relentless heat wave the whole time I was in town. 3 straight days of 100 degree temperatures to make me regret leaving my parents' a/c teepee. The average temperature for my 15 day stay was 93.8 degrees. Eyebrows? Melted. Neck and shoulders? Sweaty and Stiff!




The result of my trip, besides having a blast, was that I exhausted myself and lost 6 pounds from running around in the heat. When I got back to LA, I felt weak and tired and achy and stressed out. I had to gain some weight back. No big deal. Just take it easy for a week or two and get myself built up a little. Easy enough, right?

Enter stupidity.

I started taking digestive enzymes in order to gain weight faster, hoping that with the help of these magical pills, I could eat more food at once and absorb more precious nutrients so my old bones would bulk up and I'd finally turn into the robust lumberjack I was born to be. Instead, the digestive enzymes fucked my stomach and digestive system up. I was shitting at a Babe Ruthian level. I felt nauseous and dizzy when I walked. I stopped taking the digestive enzymes with my meals after 3 days but I didn't feel right for a week.




The truth hit me hard. I have the physical dynamics of a toddler dying of old age. I'm extremely sensitive to any pill that has a remote possibility for side effects. Memo to future wife: Poisoning me is a piece of cake. Did I forget you at the gas station again? Put a Tylenol in my yogurt and enjoy the funeral, baby.




I'd be a terrible Viking. I'd die on the boat within 3 days, never knowing the joys of looting a church and kicking a nun in the chest, which is the whole point of joining the Vikings.

I'd be the worst soldier ever. If I was sent to fight in Afghanistan, I'd take excessive naps, get sand rash, and complain about how the rations hurt my stomach.

I'd be great at dying young in the 1800's, though. That's right in my wheelhouse. I'd start feeling weird and send for a doctor. The doctor would diagnose me with milk leg fever and proclaim that nothing could be done. Then he'd chloroform my wife and steal all our butter and kerosene.




All yucks aside, I'll probably live until I die. I find comfort in that, yet I'm uncomfortable all the time.

Hey Kid, Want Some Candy?

I hate kids, with exceptions for Kid from Kid 'n Play and the movie Kids. They're loud, obnoxious, need movie plots explained, and can't take a punch. And they get upset too easily, like when when a perfectly nice guy with dreadlocks tries to abduct them. For fuck's sake, grow up!


Every time I look at my testicles, no doubt chock full of my potent seed, I contemplate what would happen if I were to impregnate a purdy woman. The consequences of my fertilization would be far reaching and catastrophic to my current lifestyle, which resembles an episode of DuckTales.

It would be very hard for me to let go of that, especially for a little turd that would probably try to murder me when he's 15. But that's if the kid lives to be 15. The booby trapped playpen and general neglect will likely finish him off by the time he turns 3. And the fact that I'm gonna name him Dracula will surely make his school days difficult. The downside would be that if he survives my terrorism, then he is probably tougher and more cunning than me, thus leaving me open to the classic cobra in the pillowcase trick. He'll hover over me as I convulse and curl into a death ball, cobra venom coursing through my veins, and he'll laugh a hearty laugh knowing that justice has been served.

This is a warning to my future son, Dracula. Take note, son:







Lord give me the strength to think of something else when I look at my slightly larger left nut and its lil' buddy to the right. Sheeeeeit... I might as well resign myself to the fact that I'll eventually have more kids than Ol' Dirty Bastard.


But maybe, just maybe...my kids will turn out to be as cool as these little fuckers. Just looking at 'em gives me a shred of hope.