Now that summer is officially upon us, I thought I'd go way out of my way to provide to you, anonymous reader, a public service. Summer is a time for fun; going to the beach and ogling people with a lot less skin than I have is one of those ways to have a shitload of it. There are plenty of things that are must-do's during the summer as well. For example, enjoying your favorite beer on your favorite patio. Now that's what I call enjoyment.

There are some definite don'ts, too. Like, oh I don't know, don't sit out all day in the sun without suncreen. Any way you look at it, that's no bueno. Peeling skin is kind of fun. Peeling scabs doesn't tickle like you'd think it would, though.

This following will be my first installment in what I like to call Do's and Don'ts of Enjoying a Minneapolis Summer

DON'T!

When you're on a wooden deck, don't refill a bamboo tiki torch with citronella, light it and walk away. Wanna know why?

If you do, your roommate will point at the blazing inferno that has started on the corner of the deck--that you can't see because you're inside, by the way-- squeal and say "OH! OH! OH!" while a) not hurriedly trying to find something wet to put it out with, and b) not clueing you in to the fact that the house is afire.

Because we all know the quickest way to suffocate flames is not with water, but with incoherent babbling and a well-placed pointer finger.

Also, when you finally procure enough water to douse the flames, make sure you're careful about how you attempt to put it out. From what I hear, water has the tendency to spread what is basically an oil fire. Sometimes even spreading it on to power lines that are 5 or 6 feet below the deck. Yeah, so I've heard.

So there you have it. Pure, unabashed summer advice. Stay tuned for another installment...sometime soon? Sounds good to me.

Getting older is fucking lame.

I was at the doctor's office today getting something minor looked at...what? NO, it wasn't for a leaky discharge, thank you very little. That hasn't happened for, oh, a good three or four...days. I'm in the clear.

When I was young, there was never any worry about getting sick or anything weird happening with my body. Well, other than puberty, but that's more fucked up than I'd like to go into right now. I rarely ever went to the doctor other than for a sinus infection or twelve, but the visits never resulted in anything major. I'd come out with some antibiotic, perhaps a salve, and everything would be a-ok. Now that I'm 30, though, it seems that everything that can, and that will go wrong, just sneaks up on you.

For example, why didn't anyone ever tell me that I was going to be required to diligently maintain follicles growing on various body parts? It's a disease, I tells ya. Can anyone clue me into the reason that I need hair inside my nose? What the fuck is that shit? I know for damn sure that it's not to keep the heat in. Don't even get me started about ear hair. There are not enough hours in the day to keep it under control!

Another thing I hate about getting older is that everything suddenly becomes bad for you.

If you eat too much, you'll get fat. Well, that seems simple enough. I can live with that. I love to eat, but I do know when to hold off on the 4th I Love It of Cold Stone in a 24 hour time frame. Also, if you eat too much fatty food, you'll have heart problems. And if your take in so much sodium that you could pee another layer on to the Bonneville Salt Flats, well, you'll develop high blood pressure. Nice. On the other hand, if you don't take in enough salt and too much water, you'll pee constantly. Where's the happy medum?

If you get too much sun, you'll get cancer. This one sucks for me, because I have a skin type that definitely lends itself towards that happy-go-deathy non-friend, Melanoma. I like the sun. A lot. I like being tan even more. I couldn't care less about wrinkles, because after all, wrinkles on a guy are "distiguished". On a woman, though, they're a death sentence. Why yes, I am licking my forefinger and marking down one point for the men. High-fives all around, guys. What I don't need, however, is skin cancer. Not that anyone does, but sometimes it is all about me.

If you drink too much alcohol, not only will you develop high blood pressure, but you're more prone to liver disease. Great, just great. I'll take my chances on this one. If I'm going to the grave soon, it's going to be with a fatty liver and while drunk out of my gourd.

And you can't even fuck as much as you'd like because you'll either get the girl pregnant, or your dick will fall off. Where's the fun in that?

Nothing is good for you, and it seems that everything has a warning label. Don't do this with this. Don't take this unless under the supervision of a doctor. Please limit intake to 16oz per day. Fuck, can't anyone have any fun?

With all these warnings, it makes a guy want to go balls-out on every self destructive behavior possible, just to see which disease usurps all others in regards to causes of death. My money is on ass cancer. Even for women.

The last thing that really blows about getting older is my ever-growing intolerance for idiots. I wish I had more patience, I really do. But I don't. So, I write about it here.

After my appointment, I stopped by Chipotle to pick a super salty, not-so-fatty burrito bol for lunch. Bonneville, here I come. When you walk up to the counter, as most of you know, there lies the best device ever created for the food service industry: The Sneeze Guard.

Ah, I love the Sneeze Guard. Actually, the mental imagery of those combined words is of an old, bushy eyebrowed grandpa dressed in a rent-a-cop uniform, standing inbetween you and your food, angrily, yet gently, poking you with a rented nightstick in order to keep you arms length from the food. He works hard for the money. So hard for it, honey.

Anyhow, the plexiglass is present so there's no contact between the dirty customer and the semi-fresh food behind it. For the most part, it works. Not all the time, though.

There's always that one guy that feels it necessary to point at whatever it is he wants, touching the glass, and smearing his dirty-ass finger oils all over it in the proccess. First off, if pointing is required, I assure you that it can be done with out touching the glass. But, pointing shouldn't be required. That's what language is for: so we, as humans, don't have to point and grunt like a baby, or a gorilla, or even a baby gorilla, when we want something.

Even worse is when someone doesn't respect the au-thor-it-eye of the Guard, and proceeds to put their whole arm up and over it in order to point, as if well enunciated words and playing behind the line just aren't enough. Thanks, guy at Chipotle. I really wanted your crusty, calloused fingers hovering over my black beans and white rice. No, really, that's great. I'll enjoy your skin flakings and fingernail dirt as if they're part of my last meal on earth

Why can't you just go away already?

Anyhow, I need a beer. A BFB.

Happy Friday!

Blogging at the bar, Part III.XIV

That's right, folks. I've come back to where only some people know my name--the bar. The wireless connection is intermittent at best, so I have nothing else to do but make fun of people in my head and try to make some sort of rambling type post. Though, I never need any sort of connection to silently mock others.

A few weeks ago I sold my laptop to my brother for an ungodly low sum of $300. Why did I sell it? Well, the highest resolution on the craptacular Dell 5100 was not very good. I'm not sure of the exact setting, but I think that at one time, it would display, at most, 3 colors and 15 pixels. Not very good. And because of that, it was impossible to multi-task between internet poker and the various websites I need to have open in order to satiate my ADD.

There's no way that I could go without a laptop--I'd be left with reading being my only viable option for the daily hour-long shitter marathons I've grown accustomed to ever since I started drinking coffee--and it was just good timing that my roommate was getting rid of his Dell that had a much better screen. Hey, if I'm going to be addicted to a fucking card game, I might as well maximize that addiction. The only problem with this laptop, even more than most, is that the keyboard is NOT made for typing. Strange, I know. I'd do better to hire a guy with no hands and allow him to stump out whatever I was dictating, all stenographer-like. He'd probably type faster than I am right now. I don't think that it's possible to type slower.

Fuck. The wireless keeps cutting in and out in about 15 second intervals. This wouldn't seem like a big deal, but the computer feels it necessary to alert me each time it flip-flops. Signal Strength:Very Low. Wireless connection unavailable. Make up your damn mind!

Hey, look at the guy geeking out with his laptop at the bar, getting mad a fucking information bubble. So cool, that one.

Speaking of bubbles, I was golfing with my dad and brother yesterday(more on that in a bit), when my brother told me that his wife, Kristen, bought a Bubble Mower for my niece. How cute. I think I'm going to keep her as my niece for a bit longer.

Does anyone remember the Bubble Mower from their youth? I'm not sure how long it's been around, probably 20 years? I don't know. I do know that it's just a little hunk of plastic that spits out bubbles when you wheel it around. It doesn't mow shit, so I have no idea why it's shaped like a mower. Perhaps Bubble Shopping Cart was too much of a stretch? And I'm sure that "Bubble Wheelchair" wasn't quite what the advertising people were jumping at the opportunity to promote.

Whatever.

Back to golfing and Father's Day Eve. I spent the equivalent of 5 years during my teens on a golf course. If there was still daylight, you could be sure that I'd be chasing that stupid ball until the night swallowed it whole. Now, though, it seems that the only time I ever step onto a course is for Father's Day. At least there's one day year I can count on pissing the daylight away by attempting a Rockford in my rented EZ-GO.

Just for the record, I've been told by a reliable source that the feat is easiest at dusk. So I've been told. I don't know from experience, that's for sure. Ahem.

Even though I only golf once a year, I can still hit the shit out of that dimpled orb. All I need now is a short game--which is oddly enough, important to getting a decent score--a hot Scandanavian wife and some man boobs, and I'd be all set for the PGA. The bigger question is this: "Is the PGA ready for me?"

Short answer: Hell no.

So, do I have the skillz to pay the billz?

I shot an 86, You be the judge.

Since I "celebrated" my dad yesterday, I spent today walking around my neighborhood. On the weekends, the main intersection near my house is packed with people. High school girls in frilly skirts and perma-tans, sopping for the latest fashion statements at Urban Outfitters or GAP, overprotective soccer moms close behind. And of course, there are the ever present gay men.

Gay men are usually outnumbered by the young girls, but today they former was out in full force. In fact, the neighborhood was uncharacteristically quiet for a weekend. And I couldn't figure out just why it was just the gays and I enjoying the beautiful day.

About a few hours into my walk down Hennepin and back up Lyndale, I thought: Duh, Chad. It's Father's Day, you twit. Gay men haven't changed their routine because they're not celebrating the Hallmark holiday. They were disowned many years ago for being gay

Har har, I funny.

Riddle me this, BatFuckers--how is it that I just returned from vegas after drinking what seemed like cases upon cases of beer and never felt all that drunk, but when I get home and have 6--yes, only a six pack--of Schell Maifest beer....wait. Look at that page. No wonder I'm shitfaced after 6 beers. The Alcohol by Volume is 7%! Jesus flippin' christ, where's this beer when you need it in Vegas?

And the great thing is that the 6 pack is only $7! Too bad that these 6 packs are basically leftovers from April/May, and they don't make it the rest of the year.

Too bad, or lucky for my liiver. Either/Or.