I was in a meeting at work the other day and I realized just how full of shit we all sounded. And then I wondered how much the teenage version of all us would hate the adult version of us. The teenage version of us would probably take great pleasure in beating our respective asses.
Mark McGwire did steroids? Next thing you know, they’re going to try and tell me that Clay Aiken is gay, and that OJ murdered Nicole, and didn’t just write a book about it. All of which are just as likely as someone telling me that 100% of males over the age of 11 spend some ‘alone time’ with themselves at least 3 times per week.
I placed an order at my local Chicken Kitchen this weekend on Miracle Mile. It was a cold, rainy day and I wanted to engage in a quick, in and out transaction. So I figured I’d pull into the ‘No Parking’ zone for the mere 2 minutes it would take me to go in and pay for my food. Not so fast.
Not until the overblown breast cancer movement did I believe that anyone loved tits as much as men do. But lo and behold, it appears that women are even more obsessed with their own breasts than we are. And before you get to bitching, let me explain myself. On its face, there’s nothing wrong with the breast cancer movement. It’s a good thing to see people mobilized in an effort to fight a devastating disease. But the breast cancer clan, in general, takes itself way too seriously in shoving 5K races and pink colored products down our throats.
You know what I love? When someone posts a Facebook status talking about how they’re tired of Facebook. That’s like going to a bar and yelling to the patrons about your battle with alcoholism. I mean, how believable would you be if you let a guy strip you down to your Vicky’s for some foreplay, then begin to tell him that you think you should slow things down?
Recently, I’ve decided to try and get myself back into the dating world. And if you’re curious as to how that deviates from what I was doing before, allow me to enlighten you. For a while - I’d say, 8 to 9 months or so - I was only putting in the effort necessary to get a girl to do naughty things with me. And as most people will tell you, that becomes quite unfulfilling after a while. But then you get that primal urge in your loins again and you forget about how unfulfilling a meaningless sexual encounter is until you’re done doing it again. But I digress.
This morning on my way to work, I got a speeding ticket for blowing through at 54 mph in a 30 mph zone. Yeah, it blows, but what could I do? I have no cleavage and no shitty sob story to convince the cop that I shouldn’t get a ticket. I mean, I was really cookin’. If I didn’t see the other car pulled over, I wouldn’t have even slowed down to 54, because I was probably going 65 and knocking on 70’s door.
Which credit card says “it’s everywhere you want to be?” I think it was Visa, but who cares. Regardless, I can assure you that in Miami, Visa isn’t everywhere you want to be - but vagina is. It doesn’t matter if you’re a great looking guy with tons of money waiting at the door of a trendy club with average looking girls - her vagina is getting in that door before you and your credit card do.
And you know what? That ain’t right! I watched in awe this past Saturday at the door of a club as NFL linebackers disguised as women toted their fugly friends inside while I sat and patiently waited my turn. All so that I’d have the privilege of paying a $15 cover charge to walk through the door.
I’ve got a newsflash for all of you married, commitment-honoring men out there - “Monogomy [is] a theory/fantasy attained solely by men without options and even less self-confidence.” I know this probably comes as a shock to you. But at least we can finally put to bed that terrible lie about monogomy being perhaps the largest unspoken statement of love that you can make to another human being. Instead, it turns out you’re just a loser who can’t pull more ass.
September 24, 1984 was a Monday and I suppose for the rest of the world, it was just another beginning to a meaningless work week in some suddenly dropping temperatures. But for Karen and Chuck Berry, it involved an early morning trip to the now non-existent Highland Hospital in Rochester, NY to witness the birth of their first child: me!
It wasn’t exactly quick and painless, for me or my mother, but eventually I made my way out of the birth canal and into the world by way of forceps delivery. That pretty much means they pulled me out with metal clamps, leaving me bruised all around my face and compelling my grandfather to give me my first nickname: Rocky.
My first place of residence was a modest home in the City of Rochester at 13 Peckham Street, also the first house that my parents bought in their relatively young marriage. It was also in this house that I developed my early childhood obsession with the kitchen.