What would you have done?

I walked into the Holiday on 25th and Hennepin early Friday night, around 9pm, to pick up a pack of gum. Immediately, I noticed an extremely blotto, greasy haired 6'3" indian/native american/hobo (use whichever is least offensive to you, I guess). He was shoving a Grab Bag of chips down his pants, and didn't even care that he was in full view of the door, but you could tell he was trying to slightly conceal his actions from the lone girl at the front counter, to my left, so it's not like he was so drunk he didn't know he was trying to steal.

He walked up to the counter, hurried his two friends--also shitfaced--out the door and walked away.

I debated trying to find a subtle way to let the fucker know that I knew he just shoved a bag of chips down his pants, but what then? If he gets nervous and puts the bag back, would you want a bag a chips that had been resting next to his sweaty balls, even if it was only for a millisecond? I didn't think so. I also didn't really care much for the idea of getting stabbed with a homemade shiv, and I detest talking to drunken fools, even when I'm drunk myself.

Then there was the option of telling the clerk, but she looked a little overwhelmed, and the police have a little more to worry about than a homeless man stealin' a 99 cent bag of Doritos.

So, would you have done something about it?

On the way to the car, I thought, oh man, it would've been great to kick him in the stomach/groin, breaking all the chips and hopefully clipping a gonad in the process , but he probably wouldn't feel it, nor would he care that he was now the not-so proud owner of ill-gotten chip dust.

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Ok, geeks and business folk alike; did I just make a mistake by buying the Blackberry Pearl instead of the T-Mobile Dash?



Can anyone tell me why you'd choose one over the other?

Notes to self--

--when you leave for work in the morning, doofus, please remember to place all, ahem, 'adult toys' farther into their hiding spot underneath the bed. If you don't, the landlord will, no doubt, call and say that they're showing your apartment in a few minutes.

It's not so much that they'll think you have, you know, a decent sex life, or even one at all--hey, high five!--but the landlord and the potential new resident, a resident that you'll have to see from time-to-time who is probably also a gay dude on the prowl, will think that it's yours. Do you really want that?

--nice, new birthday flips flops(with bottle openers!) are just as likely get peed on from the guy with stream direction issues at the adjacent urinal as are the cheap Target flip-flops. Make a concerted effort to master one leg peeing.

I usually loathe these silly memes, but Joe tagged me (even though he called me by my alter-ego name, "Chadillac", that ass), and since I'm almost out of here for the weekend(oh, you didn't know I've been celebrating my birthday all week? And that I took tomorrow off? Now you do), I'll do it.

7 retarded/random things about me, abbreviated due to laziness:

1) I've had stitches in the roof of my mouth. Seriously.

2) I'm missing the big knuckle of the ring finger on my right hand. I know I left it around here somewhere...

3) Everytime AC/DC comes on the radio, I get visibly irritated, pissed even. Not sure why, but their songs make me want to jam my 21" computer monitor right up the ass of whoever might be walking by when the song comes on. Flourescent light makes me react in a similar fashion, which is why I've disabled all the lights above my cube.

No, I do not need medication, thank you very much, FuckFace.

4) I'm more afraid of getting fat or losing my masturbating hand in a terrible lawnmower accident than I am of dying.

5) Of all the things I did while growing up, like fish(every damn day), golf, (every day during the summer), play video games, play soccer (summer, high school), the only of those I still participate in with any regularity, is soccer. I somehow lost all my fishing equipment years ago and haven't been fishing since, golfing takes too much time, and don't have the patience to play video games (outside of GHII). But soccer is still around. I suck just as hard as I did back then, but at least I'm still playing.

6) I've met almost all of my friends on the internet. True story.

7) Someday I'd like to open a bar, even though I have no idea what it takes to run one, and I'm sure I'd be the guy that ends up cleaning puke at 2am on a Sunday morning. But the prospect of free drinks and bangin' nubile female bartenders would make it worth it.

The tag ends here.

I shouldn't be as hungover today as I am, but boy, this morning was not easy.

"Nice sweat stain in the back of your shirt" she said while we were walking to the bar. We had just finished up a very unsuccesful geocaching session along the banks of the Ol' Miss, The Old Man, and I'd been wearing my new manpurse Camelbak. I'm a big fan of wearing long underwear shirts as an under-shirt, and this one just happened to have moisture wicking properties, and holy shit did it wick.

So, I was going to the bar wearing a shirt that looked like it had been worn by a fatty in a sauna on the sun, it was that wet. Hooray for being a sexy bitch!

It was Ladies Night; free well/rail drinks and free domestic beer from 9pm-11pm for the lizzadies. The upper-crust, Aristocrat vodka pretty much insured that their crippling hangover this morning was free of charge as well. I once saw a homeless turn down a free Aristocrat heavy vodka tonic and then immediately take a swig of Listerine. Who knows, maybe he was a very periodontally aware bum, but I doubt it.

That reminds me of that massive hangover I had from drinking well vodka/redbull at the IP. Worst. Hangover. Ever. And I only had 3 that night at the most. Not 3 drinks, total, but just those 3 there. Had I not been drunk already when I started in on 'em, I may have notice chunks of impurities floating in my drink. But I was, and I didn't. They were there, though, and they somehow found a way to lodge themselves deeply in my frontal lobe, little spikey pieces of shit that they are.

That night, my friend Amber, her friend and I all passed out in my bed. We woke up in the morning, fully clothed, thank you very much, ordered pizza at noon, and then promptly passed out back out until 4pm, praying that our hangovers--the size of Godzilla's nards--would go away. If you know me at all, you know that I hate sleeping past, say, 11am, even with a hangover.

Like I said, worst hangover ever.

I can only imagine how those girls, all those pretty, pretty girls that put on something skimpy for a night out, looked at the end of the night. To me there is nothing sexier than long hair hanging in the toilet water.

But then again, I'm a big fan of anorexia.