Believe it or not, Hallmark passed on this one

Jenny, a.k.a. The Bloggess, recently wrote a post that contained a number of Valentine’s Day-card suggestions. This is not one of them … but she did write this phrase elsewhere within that same post, and I feel it really captures the sentiment of this special occasion:

For fuck's sake, it's just Valentine's Day! Come on.

In related news: Fifteen years ago today, I asked Wonder Woman to marry me. Tonight, she’ll mark the occasion by playing Bunco with a group of fellow moms who apparently felt Bunco Night just COULD. NOT. WAIT. (Worth noting: I have no idea what the fuck Bunco is. I’m picturing a card game that involves riding a mechanical bull? Maybe?)

Whatever the case, I’m totally cool with it. A cold, snowy night in mid-February doesn’t exactly scream “romance” anyway. I’d rather make up for it on Cinco de Mayo. After all, what goes better with love than tequila, am I right?

Actually, come to think of it, what goes better with anything than tequila?

I believe I’ve made my point.

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Posted in Life, Marriage | 5 Responses

Exciting news: I am now the millionaire owner of a Major League Baseball school whose employee roster includes Michael Cudlitz, star of the TNT cop-drama “SouthLAnd.”

I saw a tweet the other day from Michael Cudlitz in which he reminded his followers that the season premiere of “SouthLAnd” airs tonight. And as I read that tweet, it occurred to me that I once participated in a promotional push for the show by posting a blog entry that coincided with the show’s spring-2010 season premiere.

And for some reason, I decided to look for that post on Google … which is how I stumbled upon this:

The Google search that helped me discover I'm a millionaire

The Google search that made me a millionaire

Whaaaa…? Well, we’re going to have to click on that, now, aren’t we? Let’s see where it goes.

"SouthLAnd" star Michael Cudlitz, Employee #1 at The Daddy Scratches School

Turns out that, when he isn’t busy shooting scenes in Los Angeles, Cudlitz works at my school here in Philadelphia. Yeah, he’s the lunch lady. Keeps fighting with me about the hairnet, but the kids seem to like him, so I keep him around.

But wait, it gets better. Let’s dig deeper and check out The Daddy Scratches School’s company profile, shall we?

The Daddy Scratches School

OK, just the mere fact that I somehow ended up with a ZoomInfo (who…?) listing for The Daddy Scratches School is awesome enough … and it’s a major bonus that my company’s description is “Your front-row seat to my nervous breakdown” … but guys: My school is located at the Philadelphia Phillies’ baseball stadium, and it rakes in between $1 million and $5 million per year! At last, my ship has come in!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy afternoon. Cudlitz and I need to go over next week’s lunch menu … and then we’re taking batting practice on the field. Yeah, Hamels is pitching. After that, I’m off to the bank with this suitcase full of cash.

Yes, boys and girls, being headmaster of The Daddy Scratches School is a pretty sweet gig. In fact, it almost seems too good to be true.

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Posted in Life, TV | 6 Responses

And then I got into a political argument with Boston Red Sox pitching legend Curt Schilling

Curt Schilling is a baseball god to me. What he did with my beloved Red Sox in 2004 — the bloody sock, Game 6 of the ALCS, the team’s first World Series victory in 86 years (a victory for which Curt was largely responsible) — earned a revered and hallowed place in my heart for Curt Schilling The Pitcher.

Curt Schilling The Political Commentator? Not so much.

Which brings us to the following tête-à-tête (tweet-a-tweet?).

I thought I should let Curt know that he was missing the point.

Also: Really? Curt Schilling is going to make public proclamations about waiting in line to vote? Curt Schilling, who lives in Medfield, Massachusetts, a town whose population of roughly 12,000 is 96.78% white and whose median household income is $126,000? Yeah, I’m sure the line at his polling place snaked around the block. Let’s find out.

Curt responded with one of those knee-jerk, right-wing mantras:

I’m still not clear what that had to do with the topic we were debating, but, OK, let’s frame it in Curt’s terms: I’m sure Curt wouldn’t piss and moan about waiting seven hours to cast his ballot, right? And certainly he’d be interested to know that high-ranking Florida GOP officials have said that their own party should be held accountable for deliberately causing those long waits instead of making phony excuses about why they occurred. Let’s share that revelation with him.

Confronted with facts, Curt did what his buddy George W. Bush used to do under similar circumstances: He refused to accept reality.

Umm…

Unsurprisingly, that’s where Curt and I parted ways … but, thankfully, sports writer Howard Bryant took over and helped guide Curt to the light.

Great idea, Curt! Sounds like the sort of thing the government should look into! Oh, wait: They already are! Or, at least, I think they are … according to the article you posted. I’m skeptical, though. It is, after all, printed in the media.

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Posted in Politics, Red Sox | 8 Responses

If you like this, you should probably put a ring on it … and then you should get your head checked by a mental-health professional.

What, you thought I was kidding?

Beyonce Scratches

Smiling in spite of a painful wedgie … because I’m a professional.

Awesome — and real — Beyonce images HERE.

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Posted in Life, PhotoChops | 7 Responses

Burger King spiked my co-worker’s fries with a mind-altering substance

I can't believe I ate this

That is the only logical explanation for what I am about to tell you.

It all started with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

We ran out of sliced turkey … and being the financially sensible (read: broke) person that I am, I decided that, rather than eat out, I would bring to work a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Lunchtime arrived. I was weak. Faint. Famished. I ate the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It was, shall we say, less than satisfying.

I was fucking starving. To death, even. Death was imminent.

My co-worker, meanwhile, opted for Burger King … a place from which I had not eaten a single morsel in more than 10 years.

It was 2002 when last I visited the kingdom of burgers. During a pit stop at a rest area in New Jersey, delirious from hunger, I somehow succumbed to the vile call of a bacon double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake. Halfway through that psychotic episode, my hunger-suppressed ability to feel revulsion finally kicked in and I tossed the remainder of my “meal” in the trash while simultaneously using the Jedi mind trick on my wife.

“You shall tell no one what you just saw.”

I shall tell no one what I just saw.

“This is not the meal I was looking for.”

This is not the meal you were looking for.

And so, aside from that one regrettable episode, I have been fast-food-burger-joint-free for roughly two decades.

Which is why I’m convinced that what happened the other day had to involve my unwitting consumption of a hallucinogenic drug.

It must have been on the fries. They smelled so good … and amplified to an unimaginable degree the inadequacy of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich that was taking up an infinitesimally small part of my still-growling stomach.

Then it happened. My friend offered me a fry. I ate it … and lost my fucking mind.

The rest is a blur. Someone — surely not me — took my car through the Burger King drive-through. I saw a hand reaching out to pay the headset-wearing merchant of death. It looked like my hand. But it couldn’t be … because that same hand was then holding a bag containing Burger King “food.” What madness is this??

Before I knew it, the contents of that bag had found their way into my stomach, and I spent the rest of the day burping and hiccuping and half hoping that the whole fucking mess would come gushing back out of my mouth like a disgusting geyser of fat and grease and “beef” and space-age preservatives that could keep an uneaten Burger King burger in mint condition until long after the sun burns out.

So I’m looking forward to never eating there again.

P.S.: This is why monarchies are bad, people.

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Posted in Cubicle, Life | 11 Responses