Just a quick post before heading to a wedding ceremony for people I don't know.

I was putting on my only pair of dress pants I own a few minutes, only to discover that hitching the two interlocking clasps together was nigh near impossible. So, instead of trying to fix the problem, I'm just going to leave 'em unclasped. Let's hope the zipper stays up this time.

Oh well. Guess I'll grab another beer. I wonder if I have time to add fat to it?

Apparently, the "in" thing to do on a Friday night is to sit at home by yourself, drink beer, and watch Fellowship O' The Ring in HD. At least that's what I'm doing. so by default, it has to be cool, right?

I have a Goose Island IPA resting on the couch's center console to my left, a warm, humming, porn-infected computer resting securely on my scrote, and new programmable Logitech remote to my right. If I believed in Heaven, this would have to be as close as I'd ever get without the addition of Jessica Biel tonguing my balls in beat with John Philip Souza's Stars and Stripes Forever.

Now that would be Heaven. If I believed in that.

Huge problem, though; I have to urinate something wicked, but I'm fresh out of diapers. I guess holding it's another option, too. Hold on, be right back.

Can you believe I'm not even drunk? This is three beers deep.

11:14pm: I'm watching Time Machine, with Guy Pierce. He is a hideous, hideous man in this movie. This isn't really worthy of an edit, but you get what you get tonight.

11:37pm: Wow, I do have friends. Heading to The Local. That's walking distance. Dear muggers, don't mug me, or I'll have to shit myself to stop you.

2:03am: Home now. Not that drunk. World Series of Poker is on ESPN HD right now. Why in the fuck do we needs card games in high definition? I'm all about it, but why?

A few days ago I decided to do a lower body workout. Let me back up for a second and say that my exercise of choice is weight lifting. I don't lift weights to get huge muscley arms, nor do I lift to get stronger. I lift because it's the last activity I can do that burns away all the beer, and that I don't hate.

I detest distance running, as I have flat feet almost to the point that my arch is convex instead of concaved and my feet hurt for days after a few miles. Plus, I'm lanky and my form is less than optimal, which causes pain in places where pain isn't normally present. Like my taint. Odd, considering it's not a joint or muscle, and I Gold Bond the hell out of it before doing anything in the heat--then again, I'm no physiologist.

I own a pair of rollerblades that have rolled, at most, 1 mile, most of that mileage in my bedroom the day I bought them. After that day I come to find out that not only does rollerblading make you inherently gay, but I also lack the balance necessary to prevent said rollerblades from shooting out from under me and landing squarely on my coccyx.

I like biking, and I have a bike that's in working condition, but I still haven't figured out how to bike long distances without my ass hurting something fierce. So, I lift weights.

Normally I do upper body workouts, because I like being one of those guys that's freakishly top-heavy. Big arms, big chest, with the legs of Calista Flockhart. I'm fine with that. But every so often, I'll do a lower body workout because it's quicker than my normal workout and takes, at most, 20 minutes. The problem is that I stopped with this workout before the beginning of the soccer season.

Anyhow, Sunday I returned to this workout because I was feeling lazy and just wanted to be done quickly. It was a good plan, until my legs started stiffening up shortly after getting to work yesterday morning. And since I barely move in my desk all day long, they're tightening up real good this time 'round. Every time I get up to head to the bathroom, I have to stretch my quads and hamstrings. If I don't, not only is the act of walking painfully slow and cumbersome, but once every forth step or so, my legs will almost completely give out and it takes a more work than necessary to get them to respond to what I'd like them to do.

Today alone I've had 4 people ask me if I'm ok, because it looks like I've had a stroke.

But, I choose to look at the brightside. Though it hurts, and walking is a chore, the only thing I have to learn now is the speech slur, and then I can finally try out for Off-Off Broadway debut of The Facts of Life--A Very Special Episode, as Cousin Geri.

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Just a quick blurb here; I'm finally amongst the technology alive in the group, having purchased a new HD LCD television this past Friday. It feels so good to finally live in the now.

I never knew what I was missing until I witnessed the joy that is watching 13 year old boys cry after losing in the Little League World Series--in high def. I can't get enough.

Hello, all. Welcome back!

Where have I been? Glad you asked. I've spent the last month studying the elusive Yanomamo people of central Brazil. I had to return to civilization because, not only had I become desensitized to native boobs(that's a bad thing), but they didn't have any beer(also bad). Plus, they smelled like muenster. Normally that wouldn't be that alarming, but I like to keep my Brazilians smelling like a combonation of the beach and coconut oil, and not like Nazis.

Speaking of; upon my return, I decided to do something I've been interested in for the past few years; brew my own beer. I figured, hey, I like drinking beer so much that I'd love to spend hours toiling above a rolling boil, hoping that I don't accidentally pee in the pot, and then waiting an extra month before I can get test the final product. What's not great about that?

Oh, and the $200+ in start-up costs for something that's going to ultimately end up as urine? Totally my thing.

I have one issue that's preventing me from beginning the brewing process right this minute, though; my apartment is too warm to store the sludge that turns into beer. If only I knew a new homeowner with a basement in which I could store the carboy. Hmmmmm.

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It's 65°F right now, which is the perfect temperature to play hooky. It's not too hot, because when it's too hot, I sweat like a fag eating a foot-long hotdog.

Oh, please. It's not even my joke.

Anyhow, I want to go golfing, and I've yet to get out on the links this year. I used to play at least 36 holes every damn day in high school, at least ten times a year during college, but that level has slowed to nary a trickle since. My brother, dad, and I would go every Father's Day, but this year we didn't even get to do that. This year I was in Chicago, praying that my liver would spontaneously combust.

Since the days of my 36 hole-a-day habit, I've become increasingly intolerant of the amount of time spent on the golf course. Back then there was nothing else to do. I didn't drink, didn't have a girlfriend, didn't really care what was going on that night after lipping out on the last hole. Now, though, I can't play more than 4 holes without wondering if I'll be able to make it home in time for happy hour, and where the fuck is that beer cart girl?

And walking? Forget about it. I used to laugh at the E-Z-GOers, those lazy fucks. But now, I am one of those lazy fucks. I don't even want to think about having to walk a few miles while swinging a light titanium club at a little white ball.

Oh how taxing.