A few minutes ago I walked in to the bathroom. I pee so much during a day, that I've often thought that I might be pregnant. Sadly, it's never come to be. Sigh, I'm so barren.

I walked in, noticed that one of the stalls was in use, and moseyed up to one of two urinals that are seperated by a divider jutting out of the wall. I appreciate the man that first proposed the idea of the small wall extension. Without it, I would be unable to pee in public.

So, I'm standing there, cursing The Powers That Be for keeping the minute amount of water at the bottom of the urinal so fucking cold, when I heard a strange, yet familiar, sound coming from the occupied stall.

Chugga-chuggachuggachugga chuggachugga...chuggachuggachugga... chooooooo-chooooooooo

"Is that....a cell phone ringer? Oh hell no. Don't answer it. Don't answer it. Just don't answer it" I thought to myself

"Hello? Hey, how's it going?" said the man sitting on the crapper.

Fucker.

I stopped mid-stream and all progess made was quickly erased. I would have to start again. As he talked to some guy on the other end of the line about counting hours or some shit like that, I slowly started talking myself into being able to urinate.

"Come on, Chad. You can do it. You've been here before. You're better than this" I muttered in a mongoloid-like voice.

There was a commercial a few years back for the Special Olympics, and in it, there was a young, mentally handicapped guy laying on a weight bench. He's trying to psyche himself up for lifting a weight greater than I can probably lift, which isn't saying that much, but still impressive. With a thick tongue, he grunts out the phrase "I can do it!" Now everytime I use that phrase, I can't help but mimic him.

Finally, I'm succesful in psyching myself up to the task of peeing, and a lovely, golden stream starts flowing into the bottom of the basin. I think this is true for any man alive using a urinal, but the correct form is to attempt to hit the back wall, and not the water. If you hit the water, there's a greater likelihood of splashback, and that's no bueno.

But, I was paying more attention to the poop-talker than my own aim. I notice that the longer I hit the water, the louder the man talks. I quickly surmised that he couldn't hear over the splashing!

So, what do I do?

Pee more forcefully, of course. Directly into the water. I didn't care if my legs were drenched by the time I finished. It would be worth it.

There, in the yellow-tiled bathroom on the 2nd floor of the office building, I was witness to a beautiful dance--a wonderful back-and-forth--between the loud talker on the toilet, and the splashing of the urinal cake. Sadly, it had to end, mainly because my tank went dry, but I'd like to think I ended the relationship on a good note.

I flushed the toilet three times in succession when he was mid-sentence, walked over the sink, turned the faucet on high, washed my hands, and walked out of the bathroom, living to fight another day.

Dear VIP at the bar,

Psst, man, come over here for a second. I don't know how to tell you this. Oh man, this is going to be embarrassing. I'm sure it's tough to notice, what with the light weight and ergonomic design and all, and I bet it completely slipped your mind but it seems that you've forgotten to take off your Bluetooth headset that you initially donned for the ride over here in your pimped out Audi A4.

I'm not sure how important you really are, or how important you think you are, but you haven't taken a call in the whole time you've been here, and that's 3 hours too long. The headset makes you look like an asshole. And foolish. Yes, even a foolish asshole. Or, in the case that you really are important, I offer up my humble apology. But I have a tough time believing that somebody as important as you are blatantly trying to be would sink so low as to hit on that chubby Somali girl, with her 3 size too small jeans, and her fat handles spilling out over the top of the waistband. Come on, her teeth looks like a mismatched pile of dirty chiclets.

The issue isn't with her, though. The bluetooth headset is designed to be worn in the event that you'd like to have hands-free conversation via a cell phone, and I understand that it's spectacular for use in a vehicle because it keeps your hands on the prescribed wheel locations, 10 and 2. When not in use, I've been told that it fits rather well in the front pocket of a pair of jeans. Oh, but you're not wearing jeans, I see. Why wouldn't the designer put pockets in a pair of sweat pants? That's just not right

Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't get the memo. You're absolutely spot on:nothing says "cool", or "with it" like tear away sweat pants and bluetooth technology.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sorry for the lack of updates in the past few weeks. I leave for Vegas in 1 day, 18 hours and 33 minutes and it's all I've been able to think about. It consumes me. I will try to update later this afternoon on the happenings of the recent past, which includes a robbery and funeral.

Be back soon.

Toodles.

It's official: being hungover makes me a half-day too late in being the hinge in bringing up every day absurdities.

LiveStrong bracelets and all the copycats.

I'm all for people being all for living healthy, but I contend that you're not that proactive in promoting The Cause by sitting in a bar, simultaneously sucking back on an unfiltered Lucky Strike and a Jack and Coke. What really annoys me is that these things have become fashionable. Is there even a brown one now? If not, I'm going to introduce one into the already oversaturated market as a ShitStrong bracelet.

HAHA, poop is funny.

"Support our Troops" car magnets

Don't even get me started. Hey, look at me! I'm supporting our troops by driving around like an asshole in my $50,000 Lexus. I even bought the magnet. See the magnet? See it? It's right there above the gas tank! Please stop the magnet insanity.

Fountains

No, I'm not talking about drinking fountains, or as our Cheesehead neighbors to the east call them, "bubblers".

Retards.

I'm talking about decorative fountains. The kind that are big, sometimes pretty, and spew water all over the place. They also seem to be under repair constantly, even though most of them only deal with water pressure and no moving parts. Then again, I didn't go through Sally Struther's course for Fountain Repairmen. I took her advice and chose my own degree. If I had, I'd have cornered the fuck out of that small fountain repair niche.

A few minutes ago I was walking through another building in the office complex my company is located, and I noticed that there was a fountain. I'm not sure how I missed it before, because it's loud as fuck, and spitting constantly--kind of like my last girlfriend. Take that however you want.

In the bottom of this fountain was an unusual amount of coinage somewhere between a handful and a shitload. I was never good at math. I've also never understood why people always throw change in a fountain. Is it due to superstitious mumbojumbo? Come on, we all know that tossing coins and wishing only works for Goonies.

Humans are powerless to the allure of the decorative fountain. The moment we lock eyes, it's all "Ooh, look--a pretty fountain. Let me just see what I've got in my pocket...", followed by a concentrated squinting and a hefty coin huck. We have no control.

As I walked out of the building, I was hit with this overwhelming feeling that I had finally found my true calling.

So, I've finally going to buckle down and get to work on being a writer, eh?

That would be nice, but right now, it's going to stay as a hobby. No, my true life calling is much better, not to mention much more profitable.

Then I've decided to be a prolific stand-up comedian, right?

Hardly! I'm afraid of large crowds, and even though Mom is always calling me her "Funny Little Motherfucker", I get even more nervous talking in front of large crowds. I'll leave that occupation to the real professionals.

Get ready for this, and Pump up the Jam at the same time, please.

My calling in life is to be a fountain.

Whoomp, there it is!

Sorry, I obviously lack control over Jock Jams, Volume I.

Think about it, though-- just look at how much money is just sitting in the bottom of these things all around the world. Look at it. Hey, you're not looking! With a little ingenuity, a small water pump, 15 feet of plastic tubing, a kiddie pool and a whole fuckload of duct tape, I could slowly start moving my way towards "Full Time Fountain".

I'll be irresistable!

Take that, Sally Struthers!

Days:Hrs:Min:Sec
02: 13: 28: 35

As I start typing this, that's the exact amount of time left before I turn the big Three-oh. 30 years old. Am I worried about it? Not at all, but everybody else seems to think it's quite a big deal, and I'm not really sure why. There are no added benefits to turning 3 decades old. I get nothing from it. There's no plus of being able to legally drink, my car insurance rates don't drop again, and it's not an age when I finally become a man and get my period. I wish. So what's all the hub-bub about?

Judging by my friends, though--most of whom are younger than I am--Thursday morning is a turning point in my life. To them, I am old. I'm now supposed to drink coffee without gobs of sugar in it, my life will find it's direction, and I'll finally feel a deep emotional pang to have a handful of cute offspring. But, it'll be tough conceiving because every time I have an orgasm from Thursday through the rest of my life, it'll look like a mini-recreation of a Mt St. Helens false alarm; nothing but jizz-dust and worried female faces. Looks like I'll be frantically trying to line-up some Squish for Wednesday night. Either that, or drinking a beer, playing some poker and not worrying about it. The latter is much less work, so it's safe to assume that I'll succumb to that option.

Yes, I'm lazy.

When I was in college, I always thought I'd settle down by the time I turned 25. You know--brilliant, gorgeous wife that had a great job, allowing me to work from home, a nice house in a new development with a weed-free lawn that I'd pay the neighbor kid to mow, and all that junk that typifies what is normally considered as "grown-up". And if I hadn't had kids by the time I passed the quarter century mark, at the very least I wanted to raise a few rottweiler puppies, watching them grow into upstanding members of the equine community, which is much tougher than it sounds.

5 years after having passed that imaginary save point, I consider myself very lucky to have gotten by it without falling into all the seemingly great things listed above. Most of all, I'm happiest to have dodged the ovulation bullet. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for those that raise children. It's not tough to have a kid, though. Anyone yokiel can have a kid. Look at how many people conceive that aren't even trying! It's not hard to create life. Which makes it all the more surprising that I am not paying someone from my past for child support. And No, there isn't an illegitimate Chad Jr or three out there that I just haven't met yet. I realize the last sentence doesn't make sense, because if they haven't come forward, then how can I say they don't exist, right? Shut up, I just know.

No, it's not hard to make a baby, but it is, however, hard to raise a baby. I look at friends and relatives that have kids and a house decorated like Ikea puked inside of it, and I realize that I am lucky. I'm lucky that I haven't "grown-up". That I've escaped the clutches of Succubi gone by.

And that fills my "Succubi" usage and rhyming quota for the next eon.

Cleaning "spit-up" and wiping asses is not my bag, baby. A little off topic, but why do adults "puke", "vomit", or sometimes even "hork", and babies are allowed to hoard the phrase "spit-up"? That's not right. When I get drunk enough to fill the toilet full of half-eaten burrito mixed with bile, I want to be able to say "Ah, yeah, I spit-up last night". Much less abrasive, don't you think? No, instead I have to say "I yacked.", which is not quite as cute, not to mention socially acceptable. Whatever that means. Most babies don't even get reprimanded when stomach contents are emptied on a relative's face. How is that fair? It's not. All I ever get is a look of contempt, possibly mixed in with a dash of digust served on a heapin' helpin' of guilt.

Where am I? I wrote the first line, after which I everything went black, and now that I'm coherent again, I see 6 paragraphs of shit that go absolutely nowhere. Oh well, might as well leave it.

30 leaves me highly unimpressed. It's not any different than 29, which wasn't any different than 28, or even 26 for that matter. It's just a number. I'm still going to be the same politically incorrect person with a bad sense of humor, and just because I've hit an age that's disvible by 5 doesn't mean that I'm going to miraculously "grow up". That's for suckers.

To all the suckers reading this:Ha-ha, you're a sucker.

I guess that's the thing--30 is just a number. It doesn't define who I am, nor will it define the person that society normally dictates who I "should" be. I ran around Calhoun last night, which always provides the opportunity to bear witness to a large spectrum of Uptown society. Though I hate running, it's something I force myself to do, if only for the unintentional humor value involved.

There's the uptight girly-girls that dress up in J.Lo sweat suits, top and bottom an eye-searing shade of pink. It's ironic that they choose that outfit, because they last thing they'll be doing in it is perspiring. And their biggest choice isn't how long they're going to "exercise", it's whether or not to wear 2" or 4" inch pumps, because we all know that's important. Nothing says healthy like blistered feet.

You also see the middle-aged, tan-skinned health freaks. Their love for all things spandex not only allows me a fleeting lesson in anatomy, but it also disturbs me to no end. I know, for a fact, that lycra is not supposed to be wedged that far up someone's ass. Ever. And the fact that they're just comfortably plodding along with genatialia right there, well, that's just wrong.

Sick.

There's also people that are right around my age, and for those you in a time-warp, that's 30 human years old. Not dog years. The thing is, though, they're nothing like me. I don't feel old, I don't look old, and most of all, I don't act old. So, why anyone would consider me old is beyond me.

On Thursday, I turn 30, and to everybody else, that's synonomous with "old". To me, though, I'll be drinking cheap beer at the bar just like I always do, followed by reverse-eating into the toilet at the end of the night, and the next morning, if I'm a lucky girl, I'll finally get my period.

That's not old, that's just me.

We have hardwood floors in our apartment. I love hardwood floors more than I love teenaged internet pornstars. I love how they look, how they sound, how they smell when properly cleaned. Now, let me explain why I like hardwood floors.

When I was a kid, my brother and I would start at one end of our kitchen and run full-speed towards the slick floor covering in the living room, competing to see who could best our Guinness Book of House Records distance. The outcome depended on whether or not my mom had cleaned them the previous week. If she had, we slid until we ran into a wall, or our myopic dog. If she hadn't, we'd know immediately because of the foot-blistering heat created from an amount of friction not so conducive to sliding.

When I first moved into our new apartment, I took one look at the hallway floor and said "Hey, hardwood! I might as well get this sliding thing out of the way." I backed up into my room, licked my finger to adjust for wind speed, and exploded out of the gate. A quarter of the way down the hallway, I stalled and my brain froze up as I couldn't decide if I wanted to slide with my left foot forward, or my right. Right, it was definitely my right foot. Or was it my left?

I backed up and forced myself to slide right foot forward, and two minutes later I regretted that decision as I pulled a sliver out of my right heel the size of a railroad spike. After removing the intruder, I got mad and kicked the flloor, stubbing my toe.

Floor [2]-Chad [nil]

My room is at the end of the hallway, which means that I have to dodge every nail head, every chunk of wood sticking up in order to keep my socks in pristine condition. Since the beginning of the year, the floor has snagged every single sock that I own, somewhere around 12 pairs.

Floor[26]-Chad [sick of it]

Sure, I could scour the hallway, meticulously searching for exposed nails, pounding them down until it's understood they've been a bad dog. No! Bad. Down boy. But the problem with this plan of attack is that our house is old. When we first moved in, the contractor said "Yeah, I'm surprised the thing didn't lean to the left and fall over, or for that matter, even collapse altogether." They leveled it off and it's sturdy enough where I don't fear waking up in the middle of Lake St., but it still isn't all that stabile. It's not going to fall over, but every time the washer finishes it's cycle and spins out, the house shakes. It's not even just a little shake. The house hits huge pockets of ground turbulence.

I've gone through and used a countersink to pound the nails under the surface of the floor, but of course, someone just has to have clean clothes--I admit, it was me--and the spinning out causes the nails react similar to a cobra being coerced out that fucking little wicker basket by a snaker charmer.

Na-na-na-na...na. Na-na-na-wah-wah...wah-wah. There's a place in France where they wear no underpants.

That was supposed to be the snake charmer's song, but I don't think I captured it just so.

Yesterday, immediately after snagging my last, good sock on a nail that I swear let out a mocking laugh, I'd decided I had enough. Off to Target for new socks!

I have a love/hate relationship with Target. Each time the front doors magically and automatically open for me and only me, and I'm allowed to roam free in my own, personal Mecca, a feeling of elation not only washes over me, but molests me. I thought the reach-around was a bit too much, but who am I to argue? And then, I'm disgusted as I "come to" in the parking lot, only to find that I've spent $75 on gum, candy, socks, razors(Mach 3 Turbo, mmmbbbooooooyyyy! These things are sharp enough to shave the hair off my heart) and a Pacifico t-shirt that I've always been looking for, but could never find outisde of those silkscreened on a XL Hanes t-shirt, and shoved in my face by a peddler on a warm beach in Puerto Vallarta.

"You like cerveza? YOU LIKE CERVEZA?" Yes I like beer, but not when it's full of your fingerprints, damn it.

I arrived at my place, unpacked all this shit that I didn't need, and it suddenly hit me.

It's almost summer. I NEVER WEAR SOCKS IN THE SUMMER! I am a flip-flop guy. Flip, flop, flip, flop, FLIP, MOTHER-FUCKING-FLOP. So, not only did I spend not-so hard earned money a white pieces of fabric that I'm not going to wear, it'll be five months before my floor will be allowed to fuck with them.

Ha, ha...take that, Floor! You suck. I hope you get blue balls.

Last night while watching the final table of an online poker tournament that I should've been playing in, I was also browsing through tv channels when I came across a show called Cheaters. The premise behind the show, oddly enough, is on people that cheat in a relationship. One person in the relationship--the accuser--"hires" the tv show and their private investigators to tail the other--the suspected cheater. It's overly dramatic, and the person suspected of getting a little ass on the side is always cheating. It never fails and I loved it.

In one episode the camera crew followed a gay man and his "friend", plus another guy, into the bathroom of a public park. Oh yeah, it was at 1 in the morning. What do you think they're doing in their in the middle of the night? Communal, therapeutic pooping? Last time I checked that course wasn't in the Community Ed. bulletin. When confronted, the cheater threw the most stereotypical gay hissy fit I've ever seen, and I live above a gay-owned salon. If there's one thing a flamboyant man knows how to do, it's throw a tantrum.

I laughed.

In another episode, a man suspected his hot, very goddamn hot, girfriend of avoiding him because of another guy. I felt bad for the guy, because it was glaringly obvious to me that she was slumming it with him as her boyfriend. Think, not quite Liz Hurley, but not low-rent, either and that's what she looked like. He would never be able to do better than her. Hell, if I were the "other guy" in the situation, I'd, quite literally, jump at the chance to get with her, even with the knowledge that she's a cheat, whore, skank, skeeze and a trollop.

We only live once, right?

Anyhow, I got to thinking about cheating in relationships, and I'm going to be honest and say that I've only ever cheated on one girl in my life. That doesn't figure in all the girls that I wasn't technically dating, because that's a different story altogether. Of the girls that I've dated more than six months, though, it was only that one girl where my faithfulness went by the wayside. Looking back, I don't feel too bad about it.

The previous week we'd broken up over an argument that escalated to the point where she called me a "dumbass". In front of my Mom. My mother is a little woman, and my girlfriend at the time was not, but I know that dear ol' mum could've kicked her ass if only I'd said the word. Instead, I told her to get out of my life. A week later, I reluctantly took her back because, well, she was familiar and up until that point, the only girl I'd ever had sex with. In other words, I was young, stupid and horny. In my mind, though, I was already plotting another break-up and the only place I wanted to hang out with her was in my bed. Even then, I wanted her to leave after my 30 seconds of pleasure were through.

About a week after the reconciliation, I met a girl named Danielle. She was skinny, quirky, and a little bit of a skirt-wearing, patchouli wearing, stringy-haired hippy. By "little bit", I mean the exact opposite. She only wore skirts that doubled as tapestries, bathed in patchouli scented bath oils, and her hair looked like it had been washed, but never introduced the technological wonder that is the comb. But she was cute, flirted with me, and in case I forgot to mention it, she was skinny.

I justified my actions, which were only comprised of one make out session while we were both drunk, by telling myself that I was as good as out of my other relationship. Hey, I'm going to break up with her anyhow, so why wait for the inevitable? Being actually broken up is just a formality that I'd already gone through in my young head, so I didn't consider it cheating.

Of course it was cheating, and at the time, I felt bad. Now, not so much.

As the Cheaters hour wound down, I realized that if I ever suspected a girlfriend of cheating on me, the only way I'd be able to live with myself is if I called this show. What better way to humiliate someone that hurt you, than by exposing them for what they really are, all in front of an at-home audience comprised of tens of people? She'll never get another date now that she's known cheater! It doesn't matter that she's gorgeous, or that she's a self-proclaimed whiz with her tongue-ring, or even that she pulls in a 6 figure salary and likes her men to not have to work, so that they'll have enough strength to satisfy her after the workday is over. The only thing that matters is that now she's been exposed to everyone able to watch CBS M-F at 10am--face it, that includes every elderly person in the world, and not many others--or Sunday nights at 9pm--which includes pathetic people home alone on a Sunday night, which I'm sad to admit, was me.

Does anyone know where I can get the number for that second-rate Liz Hurley?

Hmm. And I do live close to a city park.