This time around, he totally doesn't like Jack's lifestyle

Watching the CNN/YouTube Republican debate last night, only one issue was on my mind.

Tom Tancredo: Mr. Roper reincarnate?

Oh, so there it is.

I’m scared to buy any more in vain

Well, I made it. I’m no longer a teenager. It’s nice and all, but let me tell you a little story.

In my junior year of high school, for some reason my good Asian friend Ying Lo brought me a paper bag with two condoms in it from some free condom venture or something. I (naturally) took one out of its wrapper to check out what they were like, seeing that I was such a social failure and all, and I put the other in my wallet.

Well, condom number two expires in December. So, uh, I’d best get cracking on that, eh?

So, if you have a vagina and I have any contact with you, I would suggest being extra vaginally vigilant when you’re around me for the next month; I’m going to be coming onto you like a fat chick at a wedding reception.

News to no one

This just in: fried turkey is God’s gift to man.

Coming up after the break, we’ll tell you about the wonders of homemade fudge.

And now this…

All umpires are God awful.

Well, much like last year, the Red Devil Gators’ season has come to an end in what you would call a “less than ideal” way. We lost our playoff game tonight, but it wasn’t all for naught.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we made it into the second round of the playoffs – having played only two games. See, two of our four regularly-scheduled games were rained out. We won one of the games we played and lost one in a very close fashion. Then, the team that we were to play in the first round of the playoffs decided not to show up for our round one game. So there we were earlier this evening, with our pride and ambition almost bubbling over. Then our season ended the same way it did last year: we lost a playoff game to a team comprised of what I can only guess are thirty year old alumni in a hotly contested match up officiated by some of the worst umpires on earth.

And I don’t mean for this to sound like sore loserdom or anything, but I swear to God: the first base umpire was watching the game on the field next to ours the entire night. I am disappointed to know that my university’s recreation department does not have higher standards for such a paid position. Of course, sucking at everything in life is sort of a prerequisite when becoming an umpire on any level.

Ah well, c’est la vie. We wouldn’t have won even if Mr. I-Could-Give-Two-Flying-Flips-About-Your-Game were paying attention.

Either way, we will be back, because Red Devil Gators Softball never sleeps.

I am the champ

It’s funny how your perception of euphoria and satisfaction can change over time. For example, when I was knee high to a grasshopper in my high chair at the dinner table, getting a plate of delicious spaghetti with extra parmesan cheese produced a sense of glee that couldn’t be matched. When I got a little older, I would garner extreme satisfaction from getting good grades in school. Point is, as you change, so too do the things that please you.

Now, waking up to a text message from a friend that says “You were a champion last night” does the trick. And while I do not particularly remember much of last night, these friendly congratulations must mean that something splendid happened. Ergo, I am very, very satisfied.

Hollywood, here I come!

Here’s an observation for you: I cannot believe people find Vince Vaughn attractive or humorous.

Heck, I can act badly in films and look like an overweight goon for way less money than the studios are paying him.

Tricks, no treat

On Halloween night, some little kid had the gall to come up to my door sans costume and beg for candy in his pillowcase. I sent him away empty-handed.

What a little brat.

For my beard, wherever I may find him

About three weeks ago, I parted ways with the beard that has called my face home since the beginning of my senior year of high school.

I miss Beardy, but his replacements Mutton and Chop are filling in the void quite nicely. Goatee also makes a special guest appearance on my mug from time to time.

That said, I think I have some things to say to an old friend:

Dear Beard,

Beardy, I hope you don’t take this personally or anything. I mean, you’re a great individual. I really mean that. It’s just that I think the follicles of our lives have grown in their own separate ways. I’m sure that soon enough, you will migrate to another guy’s face and forget all about me. You’ll be happier then, I promise.

And it could be that my newfound fling with Mutton, Chop, and the Goat is just a feeble attempt to spice up my facial hair’s otherwise mundane existence. Heck, this could be good for us, you know? I mean, I might find that the female attraction I garner from my new setup is infinitely less than what you’ve gotten me in the past (is that possible?).

But I digress. Beardy, if I ever grow (no pun intended) tired of what I’ve found in your replacements, I’ll let you know. And I will be glad to have you back.

I hope we can still be friends,
Casey

Again?!

Well, it happened again. It was bound to, really.

It was 3:00 A.M. and I was completely burned out. I had just gone to Halloween Horror Nights with the gang over in Orlando, and I just wanted to be home. As I came across the Courtney Campbell Causeway, I noticed a white car tailing me. And, like clockwork, when the end of the bridge came and went, his lights burned like bright red and blue firecrackers.

This time, though, the fireworks show only cost me $185.50. See? I’m saving money!

Man, I hate the Highway Patrol. They’re like cops, but even more worthless since they only patrol the roadways.

I’m really glad they focus so intently on ruining the days of people going 76 in a 60 on a deserted highway in the black shroud of night as opposed to, you know, tracking down mother rapers, father stabbers… and father rapers.

Yes, at least Arlo Guthrie can make light of any situation.