An Alternative

I was getting some hot wings with my friends last night, and as usual, the conversation was all over the map. One topic we began discussing was the fact that in Massachusetts, women (or anybody, really) must obtain a permit to carry pepper spray. It's like a weapon, so they have to register as someone who carries said weapon with the state government. That's probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard. One of my friends has another friend who goes to Tufts University. On one of their campuses, they have a set of steps that are known as "the rape steps," for reasons I don't feel the need to explain. The point is, some places are known as extremely dangerous for women to go, and just because one of them couldn't make it to the county courthouse and renew her permit for the year, if she uses pepper spray against a would-be attacker, she's the one who will get fined or possibly arrested. I suggested that women try and make their own versions of a painful yet harmless deterrent without registering with an official can of pepper spray. It's pretty easy to get one of those refillable aerosol cans and fill it with water and habañero sauce and just keep it in your purse. Another guy suggested that it might be easier (and cheaper) to simply carry around a bag of dry ice. It's like 5 bucks at any local 7-Eleven. Just constantly walk around with gloves on, and the second you hear some guy walking behind you in a dark alley or a lonely corner in a parking garage, just turn around and rub a bunch of dry ice in his face. Of course, now we're talking about permanently scarring someone. That would horribly disfigure a man's face. Some might say it serves him right for trying to rape me, but what if he wasn't? What if the girl just dropped her checkbook a few yards back while fumbling in her purse for the opening to that huge bag of dry ice? What if the guy is actually really nice, and he's just trying to give the lady her stuff back? He'd be kinda pissed if she ruined his face forever. And what if she got some in his mouth and forced it down his throat ("Take THAT, you filthy rapist!")? What then? He might be explaining to his grandchildren one day about the importance of minding your own business and never helping anyone, because look at me. Now I can only swallow my food by physically forcing it down the outside of my sternum with these two fingers. Thanks a lot, bitch. What was my point here? Oh, right. Who needs Massachusetts?

Christmas Eve With The Broncos

I had the opportunity to go the the Broncos game on Christmas Eve against the Raiders. I have to admit, it would have been a little more fun if the Raiders didn't suck so badly, and had actually scored a touchdown in the game. Nevertheless, I had a great time. Hanging out with friends, no matter what the circumstances, can always be fun. Hanging out around a bunch of drunk Broncos fans is always fun, too. Near the end of the game, I heard one guy yell out, and I quote, "Now Den Boncos hab birst round by." There's nothing quite so funny as a drunk person trying to say something intelligent, and ending up sounding even stupider because of their drunkenness.

The Reception

Welp, it's over now. Actually, it was over two days ago, but whatever. I now officially have a male high school friend who is married. It's still a little hard to believe. The wedding itself went off without a hitch. No one fainted. No one stood up in the back of the church and yelled "I object to this wedding!" No one left anyone at the altar. A baby started crying at one point, but that was pretty much it.

The reception was a little different. Everyone there was treated to the charms of DJ Mike. This guy had the biggest poof in his hair I've ever seen. He's one of those "I refuse to admit that long hair on men is dead" type guys. He wore a ponytail, but the hair that was supposed to have been smoothed over the top of his head in its way toward the ponytail was, in fact, bunched up on the top. He looked like Scarlett Johansson. And not in a good way.

DJ Mike's ability to MC a wedding reception seemed to be limited to telling people to quiet down and getting made fun of for his hair. He isn't much of a DJ, either. Apparently, today's music is so bad for dancing, the best option is to revert back to that old classic, Lou Bega's Mambo No. 5. I'm serious. DJ Mike is crazy. I don't think he was too fond of me, either. He kept looking at me the way Larry David looks at Republicans.

The Bachelor Party

Two nights ago, I had the distinct privilege of taking part in my first bachelor party ever. My friend from high school is getting married today, and that was our last hoorah before he moves up to Gunnison for a lifetime of being told what to do. Nice, John.

A lot of stuff happened Sunday night that would have never happened, had the participants been sober. But that's the whole point of a bachelor party, anyway, isn't it? I'll give you guys the highlights.

First, we started off at Hooters. Not as good as advertized. Oh, don't get me wrong, their chicken wings are incredible, but the rest of the experience was just too weird. Our server looked no older than my younger sister. In fact, most of the Hooters girls were 18 or 19. And they looked even younger. And they were serving tables full of dirty old men. I didn't like it. I ate, like, 15 wings. At the time, I figured that was a mistake, considering what was planned for later that evening.

After Hooters, we got into a limo that was stuffed with tons of alcohol. I got to try some different drinks I'd never had before. Bourbon tastes like paint thinner. Vodka tastes like rubbing alcohol. Rum is kinda good, though. After the short drive in the limo, everyone was already affected by the drinks, at one level or another. (Most of them had started at Hooters.) We arrived at our destination, a dance club called Cowboys.

Let me just say, right here and now, that dance clubs suck. Well, let me take that back. Cowboys sucks, and it makes the other ones look bad. They play country music most of the time, and expect people to line dance. After a certain time of night, they switch over and play a majority of hip-hop and top 40. Still, despite the dichotomy in their own playlists, they require certain rules to be followed at all times. You've got to have your shirt tucked in. That's not that bad. I still remember how to tuck a shirt in from when I was a little kid. No sweat. Also, your pants have to be pulled up to your belly button. This guy at the front made me lift up my jacket, I guess to show him I hadn't brought any booze or guns into the place. He also made me yank my pants up. Apparently, wearing clothes the way they'd been specifically designed to be worn is a strict no-no in the land of the cowboy. Jackass. It wasn't a total loss, though. We got to watch the drunk groom-to-be sing karaoke to Puddle of Mudd's "She Hates Me." Man, that was priceless.

My friend (who shall remain nameless) was dancing with a girl when his gum fell out of his mouth and landed in her hair. He kept dancing with her, all the while trying to get the gum out of her hair. When the song was over, he split, not bothering to tell her about the new addition to her head. Later another one of my friends got her number. She never found out who it was that dumped gum into her hair. She's going to have to get a whole new haircut because of my friend, and he didn't even bother telling her.

I couldn't tell you how many times I got told that I "f*cking rock." (My friends tend to get slightly more liberal with their use of language when they're intoxicated.)

I laughed out loud when I heard this exchange (not because I was drunk, in fact, I didn't get drunk all night; slightly buzzed, yes, but I know my limit):
"Dude, you're my favorite."
"Your favorite what?"
*Pause* "Uh... I don't know man, but you're my favorite."
That happened not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES that night.

We came *this* close to getting busted for public intoxication, public urination, and minors in posession of alcohol. All at the same time. When one friend decided he couldn't hold it until he walked into the gas station, and just let 'er fly right in the middle of the parking lot. There was a cop about 60 yards away. I have no idea how he didn't see it.

I decided that I love to patronize drunk people. I got to play the responsible one once the limo dropped us off. One guy immediately fell out the door. Another ran straight into the middle of the street and began puking his guts out. Yet another started screaming at the top of his lungs that he needed to get to Sears RIGHT NOW. It was a mess.

Once we got into my friend's parents' basement, it started getting sad. One guy ended up passing out with his face in a trash can. Seriously. We've got pictures. He saw the flash and said, "Andrew, I know what you're doing, and I hate you for it." Then, he passed out again. Three others clogged up every drain in the basement bathroom by puking in the bathtub, the sink, and the toilet. At one point, every one of them was asleep or passed out with their faces hanging over a drain. One guy fell asleep with half his body laying outside the bathroom. Another fell asleep while trying to crawl up the stairs. The one who kept screaming that he needed to get to Sears finally got his way when my friend's younger brother drove him all the way down to the mall. From Monument. Round trip, taking road conditions into account, that probably took nearly an hour. Ungrateful bastard. He was sick the next day at work, though, so I can't be too hard on the guy.

The next morning most of the guys were still at least a little sick. Some more than others. We had to go to the church to set it all up for the wedding. I was fine, but for some of the others, it was bad news. I'm one of only a few people who has a clear memory of everything that happened that night...

KFC

There's a sign on the drive-thru window at the KFC on Highway 83, just off Academy. I don't know it word for word, but it basically says, "Please do not dump sodas out on the ground. Squirrels come out of the bushes and drink them. They are addicted to caffeine. We are trying to get them to quit." I'm serious. I think it's totally true. I thought it was hilarious when I first read it. My sister swears it's just a joke, that no one at that KFC cares about squirrels, and that there aren't any squirrels in the area anyway. I think my sister is kind of an idiot.

*I don't really think my sister is an idiot. It was just a joke, Ashton. You're very smart in ways that I can never be. You have more common sense than most of the college students I know. I've never thought of you as an idiot.

What A Difference A Hose Makes

I was driving along Austin Bluffs two nights ago, on my way to the theater to catch the midnight showing of King Kong (which was almost too awesome for words, by the way). So anyway, I'm just drivin' along, mindin' my own business, not a care in the world, when all of a sudden my car refuses to shift higher than first gear. So, being the natural car guy I am, I decided it just wasn't getting the proper motivation, and pressed harder on the gas. This succeeded in revving my engine almost to the redline, but not in making my car go any faster. About 90 seconds later, the car wasn't accelerating at all, and I was basically coasting. I was able to pull into a retail parking lot, all the while going about 6 miles an hour, and stopped in a parking space.

Then, I began to see steam coming out from under the hood. Being the optimist I am, I just assumed it was overheating, or that possibly I had forgotten to press hard enough on the coolant tank cap and it was sloshing on the hot engine. That wouldn't have explained the whole "not shifting" thing, but I didn't really want to think about that. A guy whose name I would later learn was Mario came out of Old Heidelberg, a bakery in the strip mall where I was stranded, with a bucket of water. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who assumed it was overheating. This made me happy.

Then, after Mario checked around for a few minutes, and after I noticed the huge, growing puddle of something that definitely wasn't coolant under the front of my car, we discovered that I had a transmission fluid leak. This made me sad. At the time, I remember thinking that that was obvious, given the fact that it would not shift gears, and I should have known that earlier. Such is the male mind. "Oh, you mean THAT? Well, of course I knew THAT was the problem. Jeez. I was thinking it was a much more complicated problem than THAT."

I called my parents, who gave me a bunch of crap about me "not waiting another two months to get the car checked out after the 'check engine' light goes on," or something like that. I was too busy being excited about King Kong. I had to get a ride with Jon, and he ended up driving my sorry butt all over town that night, and even put me up for the night after the movie. Seriously, what a great friend.

Then came the next day. Or as I like to call it, the worst day I've had all year. I came close to that day when I locked myself out of my car twice and lost my job, all within six hours. Anyway, my dad took the time out of his schedule to pick me up in the morning and get the whole car thing straightened out. We called the insurance company for a tow at 11 o'clock that morning. They told us a truck would be by in about three hours. Three hours! In the middle of a city with 500,000 people, who are getting towed to garages all over the city on a regular basis, we apparently had to wait for a tow truck to come from Billings, Montana.

Well, after the first two hours, my dad had to go back to work, so I just had to sit in the car by myself. You know, it's not as fun as you might think. After discovering that I cannot, in fact, say "Unique New York" five times fast without sounding like a stroke victim, and discovering that, given a little time a some strategic positioning, I can fit into the trunk of my own car, I became bored out of my mind. Three and a half hours after the initial call to the insurance company was made (don't ever go with Liberty Mutual Insurance; I think they have running office bets on exactly how long you can go before you kill yourself out of sheer frustration), the tow truck guy finally showed up. The car got dropped off at Colorado Transmissions, and we got to go home for the day. At 3:30 pm.

Today, I got a call from my dad saying the total is 80 some-odd bucks. Not too bad. I was just grateful I didn't need a new transmission. Turns out all I needed was some new hose. Can you believe that? Three days irrevocably affected because of some $20 hose with a crack in it. Un-be-freaking-lievable. I learned my lesson, though. Next time the check engine light comes on, I'm gonna be all over it. And I'm keeping a book or something in my car at all times so I have something to do if I ever get stranded in the middle of the Springs again.

It's Not Racist If You Only Think It

I was sitting in my nonverbal comm class, patiently waiting for the professor to pass out her joke of a final, when I overheard a guy sitting next to me talking to his friend in class. Now, this guy just happens to be of hispanic descent. In response to his friend asking what he was doing over Christmas break, the guy said, "Oh, I'm going down to El Paso to see my parents." I couldn't resist. About 90 jokes came flooding into my mind. I tried to remember some of them:

"So your dad took the week off, eh? Does the farmer know about this?"

"Oh, so your parents still haven't saved up enough money to bring your siblings up?"

"Better make sure not to shave your upper lip. They might not recognize you."

"I sure hope you can find the address. Just because welfare checks can be sent to PO boxes, it doesn't mean they're connected to a street address."

"Shut up, Mexican."

"I hope your dad saved up a lot of vacation time. Those drive-thrus aren't going to run themselves."

"Be sure to take lots of rope for the car you'll be bringing back."

"Did you ask for refried beans for Christmas?"

"Ah, El Paso... the largest Spanish speaking city outside of Los Angeles..."

I personally like the "Shut up, Mexican" one because it gets right to the point.

"Please, Before We All Lose Our Jobs..."

Rush Limbaugh is ill today, so some guy from Michigan is taking over for him. He was talking about GM and all the layoffs and downsizings and other PC terms for getting canned. He had a guest caller call in. It was the general manager of GM, or something like that.

The guy gave an interesting little sales pitch to America: Buy our cars, or we're going to go out of business. That's essentially what he said. Not the way to move merchandise, pal. The last thing you want to do is convince the customer that you need this deal more than they do. I'd stay away form any phrases like, "We're looking at a lot more layoffs," or "Our cars are almost as good as Toyota's," or "If you don't buy a Chevy Malibu, I will slaughter this baby seal." It's just not a very commanding position to take.

I think somebody skipped the day in business school where they learned not to beg your customer to buy your crap. That only works on tv, and it's not foolproof then, either. Maybe you should focus a little less on crying like a girl, and a little more on making a car that doesn't suck. How's that for a business plan? Maybe make a car that lasts more than 30,000 miles and has some frickin' cupholders. Or maybe stop trying to convince us that you've got it all together by announcing ten new models over the next six years. That's not an encouraging statistic. It's more like the death throes of a terrible auto manufacturer.

Volkswagen has introduced one new model in the past five years, and they're absolutely raping GM as far as costumer satisfaction and awards won. Toyota is rapidly gaining position to become the largest auto manufacturer in the world. It's going to surpass GM in, like, a year or so. Why? Well, it's not because they introduced a whole new collection of cars. It's because people trust them to make the cars they're already known for. Amazing. What a concept!

I Hate This City

I live in Colorado Springs, aka "The TRUE windy city." It's so annoying. I walked out to my car this morning, and nearly got blown across my driveway. Now, the fact that I'm 145 pounds notwithstanding, that's still a strong wind gust. I don't appreciate getting hit with a gust so hard that while I'm walking toward a building, I involuntarily slow down and shift to my left three feet. That's not cool. I'm just tired of the wind. Can't they, like, sacrifice some French people to the wind god or something? At least that way, if it doesn't appease him, we'll still be short some French people. I got so mad at the wind today, I nearly kicked a baby. Right in the neck.

Help Them? Yeah, Right

There's a whole division of the US border patrol whose only job is to help immigrants in trouble. ILLEGAL immigrants. That's right. Yours and my federal tax dollars are going toward a governmental program that gives help to people who are trying to enter our country against the law. We have a few more barriers up on the border now, but all that does is force immigrants to traverse more dangerous areas in the desert. About freakin' time. That's all I have to say about that. Apparently, we're supposed to feel sorry for the people whose only desire is to break our laws. Here's my suggestion: Instead of doing that and looking like we're actually welcoming these human sacks of excrement into our country, we should shoot each and every one of them in the face before they even TRY to cross the border. We should control the Mexican side of the border 5 miles south of the actual border. Then, we should shoot every immigrant we see with a high-powered rifle. What's the Mexican government going to do? Throw tacos at us?

I Have Genital Herpes, And I Can Still Ride This Bike

Don't you hate those commercials? They make me feel gross all over. I don't want my personal ear space invaded by phrases like "Even with treatment, it may be possible to spread herpes to others." How about this idea, Slutty McHoebag. Keep it in your pants, and then you won't get herpes in the first place, you walking STD. Then again, I guess it's sort of poetic justice. You had one night of passion with your studly man-friend, and now you're stuck with sores all over your lady parts. Serves you right. I hope you accidentally give it to your whole family. Maybe then the whore genes will be wiped out for good.

Talk About The Wrong Demographic

I went to Rocky Mountain Oil Change today to belatedly have my emissions checked on my car. When I walked into the waiting room, I was struck by an odd observation. All the magazines in that place were the stereotypical "man's man" guy magazines. You know, Field and Stream, Guns and Ammo, Outdoor Life... stuff like that. The odd thing about that is the fact that any guy who is a man's man enough to want to read only those magazines is also a man's man enough to change his own oil. The proprietors of Rocky Mountain Oil Change should have realized that, and gone with a selection that is more fitting for their ususal patronage. Stuff like Entertainment Weekly, Popular Science, Time, Martha Stewart's Living, and Oprah. Those are the kind of magazines that are read by people who take their cars to an oil change place and expect some Democrat-voting union-dues-paying grease monkey to do it for them.

An Open Letter To The Principals Of Every School In The Country

Dear sirs (because women shouldn't be principals),

I was saddened and dismayed to see a tv ad featuring Lisa Kudrow asking for donations to a fund whose purpose is to reinstate or rebuild fine arts programs in schools. This is a grave problem that should be nipped in the bud. Fine arts programs in schools are ruining America. There are already 100,000 out-of-work actors in the city of Los Angeles alone, not to mention the countless others in New York, Chicago, and Duluth, Minnesota.

There will never be enough crappy tv shows on at once, despite the FOX network's sincerest efforts to the contrary, to support all the wide-eyed dreaming idiots who think they've got a shot. There will always be a steady stream of terrible actors and actresses ready to star in pornos until their "real career picks up." We don't need any more of them being trained in such inanities by the pissed-off ravings of some gin-soaked soap opera reject who could only get a job teaching on the condition that he keep his drinking "moderate" around the children.

We don't need any more loser actors sleeping in their cars and keeping themselves afloat by busing tables and turning a few tricks on the side. What we really need is an entire legion of snow plow drivers. The streets of Colorado Springs are covered in ice because of our severe lack of plow drivers that "know how to drive" or "give a crap at all." We need more people to pump my gas when it's too cold for me to do it myself. We need people to shine my shoes and get me my slippers and fetch my pipe and generally make me fell better about myself. These wannabe thespians aren't going to be doing this type of "uncreative" work while they're looking for their big break hosting a failed tv game show pilot.

I say, down with the renewal of fine arts programs in America. They're just fostering that ridiculous idea that people can be anything if they put their minds to it. I don't know who first said that, but I'm sure he was an actor.

Sincerely,

Andrew "I eat actors for breakfast" Vaughan

I Could Be An NFL Commentator

I was watching the travesty of a game between the Chiefs and the Broncos, when I realized that I could easily be an NFL commentator on tv. It's too simple to even be called formulaic. All you have to do is have a 6-year-old retarded child's understanding of the basic concepts of sports (scoring more points equals winning, accidentally passing to the other team is bad, a good counterpoint to offense is defense, etc.), and a voice. That's pretty much it. The guys calling the game made a lobotomized Emu look downright intellectual by comparison.

All I'd need to do is say things like "Well, if these guys continue to score like that and completely shut out the other team's offense, they've got a good shot at winning this thing," and "If he doesn't stop throwing interceptions, the other team is going to continue stealing the ball," and "If it hadn't been for all those points the other team scored, these guys would've won," and "As I've always said, if you throw to the outside, you risk throwing it out of bounds," and "The key here is to kick it through the uprights," and "The middle of the field is the widest part." I'll be golden.

What're You Gonna Do...

Shoot me? How many of us have heard that phrase at least twenty times in the past year? Movies are filled with cliches that I am more than willing to overlook. The use of the phrase "What're you gonna do, shoot me?" is not one of them. Do Hollywood writers think that's actually some sort of witty retort to having a gun shoved in your face? It's not. It was never funny, and it's never going to be. It probably happened in the late 70's or early 80's when some screenwriter decided do come back to one point in the script where he could think of a good line. He just put in "What're you gonna do..." as a space-filler, planning on coming up with an actual quip that was clever and funny and not stupid, but he forgot about it, and sent it in to the moron head of a studio without replacing the line. It's all his fault. I hate that guy. If I ever find out who he is, I'm gonna shoot him.

Christmas Trees Are Scary

I was walking downstairs last night to get a glass of water or my bong or something... I can't quite remember. Anyway, I stopped dead in my tracks about three feet from our family Christmas tree, because I thought it was something else. What, exactly, I am not sure. But something. Maybe I thought it was a huge statue of Paul Bunyan coming to eat me after I'd made some uncouth jokes about blue oxen. Who knows? Whatever the reason, I was startled by the thing. That tree was lucky, because I came *this* close to nunchucking it's leafy ass. It wouldn't have even seen it coming. I'm faster than an armor-piercing bullet. But not a regular one. I don't know why I was so startled by the tree. It just loooks downright creepy. Think about it. It's a giant, triangular object with spikey needles all over it, and it's covered in strange, seemingly out of place red glass balls and wooden carvings of snowmen on sleds. Dude, you have to admit that it's at least a little creepy. OK, fine. I'm crazy. Happy now?

What Goes Around

I feel an obligation to tell you this. Today, less than 24 hours after I posted the previous little piece on why I'm thankful I have things so much better than lots of people, I got slapped on the back the head by karma. I opened up my glasses case, and lo and behold, my frames were broken. Now that's freaky. It gave me an idea, though: Man, I would absolutely HATE to be a millionaire. Yessir, that would just be the most terrible thing in the universe. I don't think I could handle it. No way, no how would I EVER want to be a millionaire. I sure hope that doesn't happen...