Thank you, Louis CK.

Sometimes I think Billy might be able to be turned into something that would help me hunt large game for sport. And then I realize he’s just a kinda fat layabout, living high on the hog on my carpet. Sometimes he snores when he sleeps.

I saw the goddamned Transformers tonight, and I have to at least say something about that. I mean, I can’t sit here and blog about a cat that’s not even mine - how 40 year-old virgin (woman) is that? Quite a bit. So allow me to do it some more, if only to explain his role in my domain. He’s my roommate’s, but I still pet him and talk to him and stuff, so we’re cool. Sometimes the act of jumping his (substantial) girth down from the bathroom sink - his preferred daytime nest - forces a loud cooing noise out of him, like a pigeon racing after a scrap of bread a peasant threw down. It’s really pretty rad. Anyway, about that movie I saw…

Transformers. I was scared of this one. I mean, I’m fucking 30. Think about it. I watched the shit out of that cartoon. My parents paid the baby bearded Jesus only knows how much for all of the Transformers toys I had. I remember setting up a courtroom-style presentation on why, exactly, my parents needed to get in the car right fucking now and go to Service Merchandise to get me a Dinobot. The Dinobot that my stellar presentation (and my parent’s lack of courage to tie me up in a burlap sack and toss me in the river) awarded me that day was Slag, the Triceratops Dinobot. How fucking cool was that? So cool, I accidentally broke one of that motherfucker’s horns off the first day I had it! Remembering back on breaking Slag’s horn, I think you could equate my horror of having just done that to that of someone who had just accidentally ran their baby over with the car. What I’m trying to say is, Transformers were something that made me who I am: a nerd that likes to collect shit he doesn’t really need, per se. They hold a special place in my heart. So does THIS sound. I wish with every ounce of my being that when I de-pantsed myself, THAT sound would play. It would be so cool, the WORLD would IMPLODE. Fo’ reals.

About the movie? I loved it. It was fun. I wanted to have sex with the CG more than I did Megan Fox, plus it had the same guy doing the voice for Optimus Prime as in the cartoon, which was a pleasant surprise… oh, and John Turturro was in it, which is always fun. Though I can never not picture him as anybody other than Jesus Quintana now. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Anyway, I don’t want to go into specifics on it, I think movie reviews diminish the potential value of what you are going to see. But I dug it. I could almost even partially suspend my disbelief of the computer shit they showed in it. And the fact that it was a huge GMC/Apple/Mountain Dew/Xbox ad. Fun movie (yes, I know how much I’m over-using the word fun), nice eye candy. And the sound. My childhood did not feel like it had just been ass-raped with a garden rake. (See Star Wars Eps. I-III or Star Wars Special Edition Eps. IV-VI for this.)

It’s late. I’m going to bed. And I’m probably gonna make the sound with my mouth when I take my pants off. Sue me.

What the fuck am I so worried about? Posting this stuff isn’t hard. Writing isn’t hard. I don’t really give a rat’s ass what my target audience thinks about what I’m saying, because I don’t have a target audience. Scratch that, I don’t have an audience. The trouble is… where to begin again? I suppose wherever I want, due to the fact that nobody’s reading.

How liberating. Excuse me a moment while I take off my pants.

There. For the sake of anyone that may be reading this, or for myself when I wake up sober tomorrow, I should point out that I wasn’t wearing pants, but shorts. And yes, I took them off.

The air conditioning feels kind of soothing on my balls, which - in addition to being pendulous - are currently housed in boxer briefs. That’s a double whammy, you know. I don’t wear shorts in public because my legs are white like a freshwater fish’s belly. I don’t know which fish, but pick any one with a white-ass belly, stretch it, add some knees, some hair, and you’ve got something that looks like my legs. In my mind. And this is why I don’t wear shorts. (And also because I have slender calves - sue me, I’m 6′6″, bitches.)

What was I saying? Oh yeah - double whammy! On account of the shorts, and ALSO because of the boxer briefs. I own one pair of those, and I don’t think I’d wear them on a night when I thought someone might see me with my pants off… which lately has meant that I could pretty much wear them any night I damn well please. Except on certain Saturday nights where the forces of Smirnoff citrus lime shit-high-falootin-something, Jack Daniels, a beautiful, amazing girl, the sweet baby Jesus, the heavens, and my bed come into alignment. Like I said, not too often. She is amazing though. Regardless of what she thinks or tries to warn me about.

Amazing nights with amazing people and baby Jesus aside, I think it’s safe to say I drank too much tonight. On a Thursday, no less! Shots of whiskey and a couple Heinekens later, I sit here smoking a rotten cigar and lounging in my boxer briefs and a white t-shirt, looking like something from a page of a Sears catalog that pulled models from a fucking soup kitchen.

I look like a hobo. But I feel like a man, dammit!

It makes me kinda feel dirty that this is what made me write something. The booze, I mean. Well, booze and a girl. Here’s hoping I don’t start to use the drinking as a catalyst and pull a godddamned Hemingway. I don’t even own a shotgun! Or a handgun. Or a BB gun. Though I do sometimes jokingly refer to my arms as “guns.” Maybe I’ll pull a Benoit. All I need are steroids and a dwarfy son. Yes, I just made a Chris Benoit joke. What is tragedy, if not something to poke fun at? Somewhere, the baby Jesus is crying.

I’m pretty sure that even as a baby, Jesus had a beard.

I’m also pretty sure that this post made no fucking sense. Thank the bearded baby Jesus nobody’s reading.

Amen.