It’s the New Year!  Let’s get to our resolutions!

What is it?  Cutting out caffeine?  Pumping the brakes with alcohol?  Promising to always wear pants going to church (yeah!  Good luck with that one!…you can’t spell mass without ass!)  I’m betting yours is the same as everyone else’s…losing weight.

Everyone has used this resolution at one point in their adult lives.  No one has dieting as a resolution before college.  The only thing you knew about diet when you were 10 was that it was written on cans of pop that tasted like somebody farted in muddy water and put it in a can.

As soon as the Freshmen 15 gets put on 80% of people have resolutions to lose said 15.  The reasons for losing the weight differ from everyone, too.  People want to be healthier.  People want to look better towards the opposite sex in order to get, how the young people say, “laid”.  People want to become a better cross dresser so they won’t get last place again this year in the Beyonce look-a-like contest…I swear I they can do better if I they only get less love handles and if I they had 10% less chest hair and if I they invert my their penis like their turning a sock inside out and if………….scratch that last sentence.

Anyway I didn’t make a New Year’s Resolution this year.  That would just be adding on to the list of things I resolved to do with my life that I feel short on: bubble gum tester when I was five; cootie shot inventor when I was eight; becoming the 47th most popular Bryan in school when I was 13; statue in the girls’ locker room showers when I was 18; becoming the Surgeon General of the United States and saying that women shouldn’t have sex with men whose penis is > 4” or they’ll die when I was 23…a resolution would just make things worse.

I do want to start exercising though.  My body has seen better days.  Right now I get winded going up a flight of stairs.  When I turn the steering wheel my gut somehow puts the emergency brake on.  Every time I take of my shirt in public I get shot with a tranquilizer dart and put in the Columbus Zoo’s gorilla exhibit.  I used to be able bench press 225 lb. regularly…now I’d be lucky to bend down and put weight on the lifting bar without splitting my pants.

The problem with exercising is I have no time for it.  I work 40 hours a week and I’m busy doing something everyday of the week.  Monday is Lings and Wings night where I drink cheap Yeunglings and eat at least 15 cheap chicken wings.  Tuesday is Nap Day where I nap for three hours then rent a Redbox movie and overpay for Chinese food.  Wednesday is “Make fun of people for working out while gently petting my beer gut day and feel the cholesterol from the burrito I ate pulse through my heart” day.  Thursday is when I spend my time making sure the couch doesn’t float away by laying on it.  Friday and Saturday is when I make my social rounds with friends by drinking social rounds with friends.  And Sunday is when I make sure my bedsheets still keep me warm and I do my civic duty and make sure that various porn sites are up and running so other people don’t have to (you’re welcome, America!)………………where is time for exercise?

I’ve tried various ways to exercise, too, but with disastrous results.  I tried jogging on a treadmill at work last month, but I after 45 minutes I just couldn’t do it…I couldn’t tie my shoes symmetrically so I went home.  I tried P90X a few years ago and the first week went great…then I did half of what I was told to do (P45X)…then 1/3 (P30X)…then I looked at the disc (Peek-0X)…then I watched Jack Bauer and had Dominos while surfing the net (Pizza24XXX).

The furthest I got in exercising was my freshman year of college at Ohio University.  I got in decent shape, gained a lot of muscle and only had four restraining orders when I took my shirt off at the beach for spring break instead of the usual citation of indecent exposure for my man-cans.  However: I also watched five hours of ABC Family programming from 12-5 pm everyday, played Pokemon on my computer for weeks on end and got caught cranking one out by one of my roommates and speaking Strokenese (the language every guy speaks when he tries to talk after someone catches him self-medicating.  It’s a bunch of gibberish followed by a question that has nothing to do with anything: “AAAAAAAHHHHHHH…mmm…uh…ahem!…uh…so…how do you like pottery?”)  In other words…I was in shape physically, but not socially.

I still exercise now every so often.  I occasionally pick up some dumbbells and do a couple…I mean a lot…I mean SUPERDUPERAWESOMEI’MSEXYWANNADATEMENODON’TRUNAWAY…amount of weight.  I’ve jogged…I mean I’ve almost gone jogging…I mean I’ve thought about jogging…I mean I remember what a treadmill looks like (that’s the machine where you put a lap band around your waist and giggle the fat away, right?).

Here’s the bottom line: I’m going to get in a shape that doesn’t resemble 6’ of Flubber inside a skin suit.  I’m looking to drop a few pounds, look a bit thinner and to have digital scales start giving me a number when I weigh myself instead of “FAT”.  I know I can do it.  All I have to do is stop eating unhealthy foods…and cut out drinking alcohol…and exercise everyday…and stop watching so much TV…

I can make that my 2013 resolution.

Greetings to everyone out there who follow this blog regularly, tune in occasionally while their porn is buffering and those who are waiting for me to finally do some upskirt pics of myself to help them suppress their appetite as a form of diet.

I know it has been awhile since my last post.  I had things get in the way like holiday shopping, being sick a week, continuing unsuccessfully in my quest to perfect a way to deep fry Sailor Jerry’s and attempting to start jogging only to hurt my lower back like a 50 year-old man…just peachy.

Anywho I now have another issue in my life that is getting in the way, but in a really, really good way: my father has bought me seasons 1-5 of Dexter on DVD for Christmas.  I’ve only seen seasons six and seven on Showtime.  Needless to say in the time I’m not spending at work, writing here, sleeping jacking i…helping nuns cross the street…yeah…I am mesmerized by a fantastic show.  I just changed discs so I figured this is the best chance for me to get a post in while the hypnotic trance is off, so here it goes:

Being a man is awesome.  You get to watch sports in your own filth, eat deep fried cheese while chugging beer, pee in public without fear of soiling your undies or having to be in the most vulnerable position of squatting (seriously…I can whip this humongous…ok, superb…ok, average…ok, presentable…ok, my infantile member out anywhere…it’s great) and as soon as you turn 50 once a year you get a doctor to put a finger up your…ok that’s not so great…anywho, being a man rocks.

The beauty of a man’s mind is that it is constantly working.  Granted the work that’s being done between the ears isn’t going to change the world 99.999993% of the time (I don’t think we can cure cancer by imagining Eva Mendes and Jennie Finch making out during a pillowfight…but it couldn’t hurt, damnit!), but there’s something always happening.  I also know with 100% certainty of something that every man is thinking of 100% of the time…and I’m going to share it with you right now.

There are three lists that men keep track of in their head in every social situation: The 3 “F***!” Lists: “F*** yeah!” for women, “F*** you!” for men and “Oh, f***!” for disasters.  Allow me to provide some basics for the lists:

These lists are when men are by themselves in a setting when they don’t know other men.  If other men are with them these three lists get talked about vocally as a sign of camaraderie and friendship.  Places like in line at the bank, at work in a cubicle or sitting on a bus or in class is where it works best.

These lists never are used during family functions with family members, however the man in question may make some lists based on people a certain family member knows like a cousin, sister or in rare cases grandma who knows a certain GILF you saw in water aerobics bending down to get her noseplug and let you see down her one piece to her glorious boo…um…ignore that…anyway….

These lists are also never used on friends, except “Oh, f***!”.  You know the people in the room, like them and know their status in terms of relationships and where they fit into your life.  If you involve friends in the “F*** yeah!” or “F*** you!”…you have issues that may/may not require attaching two cattle prods to your nipples while your ass is put in honey and sat on a hill of fire ants…it’s the only way I learn things.

Another point for the girlfriends reading this: it’s only single guys who think this.  Don’t get mad at your boyfriend because you think he’s doing this…he’s not.  He loves you very much and would never do anything so vile or disgusting inside his head because your his #1 princess…………is….is she gone?….did she buy it?…….YESSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!  (High fives all around)….IT WORKED!!!!!!…uh-oh…that wasn’t supposed to be typed…………….oops…….

The most important part is that there is an infinite number of sub-lists under one of the main three lists.  It’s all about creativity, how much time you have and what your current mood is.  Also it is not uncommon to merge all lists into one amazing event.  That hat trick, albeit rare due to the amount of time needed, is an accomplishment huge enough at huge moments like in wedding vows or gravestones.

Now that I’ve laid out the base…let’s get f***ing!…oh, and ladies…feel free to do this, too if you already don’t…

#1 “F*** yeah!”

The “F*** yeah!” list is simple…it’s about making sweet, sweet (and on most occasions dirty, unspeakable) love to women in the room.  However it goes much deeper than that.

The most common sub-list is “Who do I want to do the most?”  It’s the simplest one…whoever the man in question deems to be the hottest is the answer.  He then ranks #2, 3…and so on and so forth. 

The most practical one question is “Who would be most likely to do me?”  This one takes into account looks, any glances you may have shared and whether or not she’s in your league.  The hottest girl rarely wins this distinction unless the man in question is at a female prison and the only good looking one there has a conjugal visit set up for whoever’s in her eyesight first. 

Another sub-list is “Who wants to do me?”  In theory it’s essentially the hottest girl list upside down.  Of course that’s not the truth…but this is in our head, damnit!

From these three sub-lists comes the creativity portion.  Where’s the safest place to have sex and not get caught?  What kind of sex would each girl be willing to do?  Who would be willing to have a threesome?  Who is a fan of role playing?  What type of role playing?  Who wants to be spanked?…and so on and so forth.

As you can see a man can spend hours upon hours staring into space debating which woman would do him with everyone watching: the brunette from accounting or the blond secretary near the window?  The thing is…this is just one of the three lists.

#2 “F*** you!”

This list is all about fighting other men in the area.  I’m not saying we’re trying to pick a fight or anything, but if something were to go down at least you’d have an idea of what to expect.  One more thing: this list is for when they attack first.  Whether it be they said something or started swinging…it’s always their fault.  Nobody wants to be the instigator…that’s not cool.

The common sub-list is “Who can I beat up?”  It’s a quick ego boost because you can easily spot the people who are the scrawniest of the setting and you get a good lark from imagining the nerd with a Superman backpack at age 35 to run at you at full speed wanting to punch you with his toothpick of an arm and you exhaling on him sending him flying across the room.

The next thing that needs to be done is “Who can beat me up?”  This is another thing that can be sized up quick because inside most males heads…no one can touch them.  We’re invincible and can kick anyone’s ass!!!!!…not me, though.  I see a guy who works out three hours a day and is one arm flex from ripping through is shirt and imagine him running at me and I always pee a little when I think it…yeah, that guy can kick my ass.

Here’s where the creativity sets in: “What can I use to even the playing field against the guy who’s bigger than me?”  Whether it be tactics (I always think either swift kick to his groin or hurling feces at his face…it all depends on what I had for dinner last night) or objects laying around (coffee mugs, lamps, your own teeth after he punches you…whatever works) you just want to have a fighting chance.

We’ve covered women and men…but what about something that’s neither?

#3 “Oh, f***!”

This list has the most amount of sub-lists because it’s all about disasters.  It’s everything that happens out of nowhere.  Anything and everything a man can’t control is here and his goal for this list…survival (ok, that was cheezy, but…you want to live, don’t you?)

The most common is obvious…zombie attacks.  Every man is always thinking about what to do if zombies became the walking undead and started eating the flesh of the living.  Most plans involve the same idea: arm yourself with a blunt/sharp instrument to bash their heads in, get the top of your hottest girl list to come for sexy procreation, convince the guy most likely to kick your ass to follow you or die so you have more manpower and be sure of all windows, stairwells and exit points so you know where to go when it hits the fan…and it will.

Another example would be terrorist attack.  This is the most entertaining one because every guy imagining a terrorist attack scenario thinks of the same thing…Die Hard.  Just do what John McClain did and you’ll be fine.  It’s just a matter of rewatching the whole movie in your head scene for scene (if you’re a true American male this is possible)…duh!

Sure there are practical scenarios that should be thought of like fires, tornadoes or if someone rips a deadly fart that creates an acid cloud that burns skin…but those aren’t as fun as zombies and Die Hard!  Everyone should know what to do during these scenarios: for fire run outside as fast as you can, for tornadoes get in a basement or stairwell and for deadly acid cloud farts rip a vinegar cloud fart so the vinegar can neutralize the acid…it’s simple science, people!

So ladies next time you see a guy spacing out with an sexual/intense/thoughtful look on his face you’ll know he wasn’t thinking about nothing…he could be saving your life!…or wanting to punch the busboy…or mounting the cougar to his left and covering her in marinara sauce. 

Whatever it is be sure to know he is always thinking about one of these lists…or maybe it’s just me…yeah it’s probably just me…man I’m weird…oh, well…

Good night!

“It’s just sports.”

This is a line that has been uttered throughout time by parents, girlfriends and misguided men.  The target for this line is the fan whose team just lost a game.  And not just losing the game, but it was how the loss happened.  The team lost a game they should have won, the team got blown out of the water or the team got bounced out of the playoffs.

The fan in question does one of three things when hearing this line:

1. Ignore the statement completely, stares straight ahead and wishes whoever caused the loss fall into a pit of lava and dirty syringes.
2. Yell something in response like “F*** you!”, “Shut the f*** up!” or “I politely disagree with your opinion and respond by hoping you be violated by a humpback whale in your eye socket…f***!”
3. Vomit on their chest and move the puke around like a sick form of finger painting.

What we sports fans want you non-sports people to know is that we will be fine.  Our mood is a result of the gut punch game.  We will be sour for two to three days until the depression wears off and we get back to normal.  The thing is…you shouldn’t be judging us!  Gut punches are a part of everyone’s life at some point or another.  We just request the same treatment as the other gut punches people run across.

Here are other gut punches that happen in life to humans (or some animals):

Women who have a late period.  Now I’m not talking about the time from when the period should happen and when it finally comes.  That has to be pure terror being faced with the prospect of having a baby when you’re not ready is horrible.  I’m talking about the time after the period happens.  Once the period hits and you know you aren’t in real trouble…that’s when the gut punch kicks in. 

It becomes a few days of reflection and asking questions about where life is for you that you almost were impregnated by a one night stand who called himself “The Grand Poobah” and his penis “The Grandest Poobah” even though in bed he was “The 15-Second Pooblah”.  Women who deal with this have to be walking around in a haze that only time will heal.  It’s just as bad as losing a sports game…right?…ok, even I can’t talk myself into this one…this is way worse…but losing sports still sucks, ok!?!?

Men who can’t get it up.  It’s something you’ve been doing since you were 13.  You got a chubby every time a girl got near it. You could a stiff plank by walking by a Victoria’s Secret.  Hell, you get a hot rod just by waking up…and now you can’t get one!?!?  AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is definitely a gut punch.  Essentially you aren’t a man if you can’t get a beefy frank.  This gut punch lasts for days upon days…until the Viagra gets sent…then it’s all hands on dick…I mean deck.

Sleeping with an unattractive person.  For those of you who haven’t had to deal with this…you’re lucky.  This gut punch can have ramifications well beyond the healing is over.

The original gut punch is waking up the next morning to see this supposed female in the bed next to you.  After the bout of dry heaving and taking a shower in acid to rid yourself of what just happened you go into a haze for a few days.  Why did I do that?  Did anyone I know see me do this?  How did I get a key to the zoo so I could sleep with this ostrich?

Where you keep reopening the scab is if you see this person over and over.  Maybe it’s a friend of a friend who comes around on the weekends.  Maybe it’s a family members roommate and your family member will constantly mock you for it.  Maybe it’s the toothless woman who stands near your dumpster waiting for someone drunk and stupid like you to come by and give her a warm place to do her crack.

The point is this gut punch sucks…or so I’ve heard…I’ve never…dealt…with…thi…thi…moving on…

Bad haircut.  Everyone’s had one.  You sit down, feel a little frisky and let the stylist decide what haircut they think would make you look the best.  Their eyes light up and say “I have just the look for you!”  During the cut you get a little freaked out by how much hair is being loped off and why she’s using a blowtorch at a barbershop, but you still trust her because it’s what they do for a living.  She says “Voila!” and spins you around.  When you look in the mirror and see what looks exactly like curled up pile of s*** on your head…the gut punch starts and won’t go away until you can find a hat to wear or a competent barber will help you with the monstrosity that sits on your head.  Most likely though…you’re going into a funk for two weeks until that bad boy grows out.

Catching your parents in the act.  That’s one good thing when parents divorce when you’re 10…less time to see this abomination of fornication.  To those of you who have seen it…you have my never-ending sympathy and frankly I’m surprised you can still be aroused about anything and that you aren’t blind.  Hats off to you.

Speeding tickets.  The first reaction is anger at the cop because you weren’t the only one speeding, how come they aren’t fixing real crime and why didn’t he rip up the ticket even though I let him stare directly at my cleavage for 15 minutes.  The gut punch happens when you first get home until you finally pay the ticket.  You become sad you get points on your record, sad you have to pay $175 and sad that your cleavage didn’t faze the cop one bit.

All around just bad times.

Kid under the age of eight being told there’s no Santa Claus.  I can safely assume that no kid under eight is reading this blog because if he is I’m not paying for his therapy.  Anyway I know kids are happy-go-lucky most of the time, but if you let a five year-old know there’s no Santa…they will be crushed.  That’s the biggest gut punch a kid can get other than a wedgie or peeing their pants in class.  To know that something you believed in for years upon years of life was a fraud and your parents lied to you…you can’t shake that gut punch easy.

Luckily I avoided this.  My parents let me believe Santa was real until I was 16…that’s healthy, right?

Dog put in kennel.  Even man’s best friend can get in on the act.  Have you ever gone on vacation and didn’t have anyone to watch your dog so you put them in a kennel?  When you get back from vacation and pick them up, the dog is pissed at you.  Why would you leave them like that?  Don’t you love them at all?  WHY????…and then you give them a doggy treat and all is forgiven.

As I have just laid out there are plenty of equivalent gut punches in real life that mirror having your sports team lose.  Now if you excuse me I’m going to get in the bath, listen to emo rock, drink a bottle of Cabernet and cry myself to sleep over yesterday’s Chicago Bears game….WAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gluttony, lust, envy, sloth, pride, greed and wrath.  When put together what do they mean?  A bitching weekend?  A Tuesday night in Amsterdam?  What happens behind the scenes at church potlucks after the casseroles and pickled beets are eaten?

Of course these are the seven deadly sins.  Many people only know these from the movie Se7en where a guy everybody with genitalia wants to sleep with named Brad Pitt and a lovely elderly lady named Morgan Freeman play detectives that try and catch a serial killer who murders people who perform one of the seven deadly sins.

This got me to thinking…what about loopholes for each “sin”?  There are loopholes for everything in life.  Corporations have loopholes to not pay taxes.  Lawyers find loopholes to get their client’s innocence.  Elementary schoolers have “circle, circle, dot, dot” as a loophole to avoid cooties.  Where are the loopholes for sinning?

Before I become smote by God and sent to Hell where I’ll endure my Levels of Hell for all eternity here are the loopholes I found that makes any of the seven sins ok:

Gluttony

• Free Olive Garden.  At my work people were recently promoted to a senior level position.  I could have gotten it, but meant I had to use more than 1/10 of my ass and that wasn’t happening.  After their congratulatory free catered Olive Garden lunch was over they left a whole pan of fettuccine alfredo sitting in the break room.  I’m sure common decency is to eat one plate and move on, but I took five plates of this deliciousness, fought through the heartburn brought on after plate two and stuffed myself so full of premium Italian food I swear I farted a whole clove of garlic.  The point here: free food=115% full belly.
• Edible underwear.  Not necessarily for the flavor, but because you have to.  It doesn’t matter if you ate 18” of hoagie; if your girlfriend/friend with benefits/GILF comes out wearing nothing but a cherry lingerie number…you gotta eat it.  Just pray it doesn’t come in a thong.
• Leftover steakhouse.  As a true red-blooded American who’s sure to die at 27 from a massive heart attack from four clogged arteries and a mouthful of beef jerky…no steak should EVER go uneaten.  It doesn’t matter if you’re with two people or 20 people; if someone doesn’t finish their steak it is your duty to demolish the rest of it.  You may not have a bowel movement for 18 days…but damnit it was delicious!
• College.  You’re broke.  You’re drunk.  You’re hungry.  24 packets of Ramen noodles in an empty beer case to avoid the three month old dirty dishes is totally acceptable (bonus points if you just slurp the noodles down without utensils).  Other facets of college to be an acceptable glutton are dining halls, free pizza at a stupid club you’ll never join, popcorn at a bar and the apartment of your one night stand.
• Thanksgiving.  If you don’t unbutton your pants, take a nap or gag your family members the oddly intoxicating smell you left in the bathroom…you’re not doing Thanksgiving right.
• Hot dog eating contests.  Nothing says acceptable gluttony like putting 50 wieners in your mouth.  Just ask Joey Chestnut, Kobayashi and Jenna Jameson.
• Buffets.  There is endless food.  I repeat…THERE’S ENDLESS F***ING FOOD!!! 

Lust

• Booty calls.  The reason God rested on the seventh day of creating Earth was because he was up until 5 am trying to get women over for them to, in his words, “part your pink sea”.
• Friends with benefits.  The extended version of the booty call.  This is the dream of every male in college.  “You mean I get to hang out and get drunk with my friends until the bars close then I text you to come over and have sex then you leave in the morning without me spending any time, money or emotion on you?  AWESOME!!!”
• College.  See above.
• Celebrity nudity.  It’s something we don’t think about on a daily basis, but it’s something inside all of us.  I don’t think about it, for sure, but if there was a movie that just came out that had Jessica Biel doing a full-frontal scene…I would push a sick orphan out of the way to see it…ok not a sick orphan…a normal orphan…ok not an orphan period…how about an elderly nun?…no, too fragile…my own mother?…nah…she cooks me food…well I’d push something out of the way that’s between a sick orphan and a one legged fat man tying his shoe.
• Threesomes.  It’s Man Law: If a chance for threesome be…try your best for manage a three.  It could be Woman Law, too…I just know Col. Clink isn’t a fan of other soldiers diving in the foxhole with him.
• Retirement home.  Why not?  You’re nearing the end of your life.  Go out with a bang!…then another bang….and another…and another…HI-OH!

Envy

• Millionaires.  I want to be one!
• Billionaires.  I REALLY want to be one!
• Athletes and rock stars.  I REALLY REALLY want to be one!
• Aqua car owners.  I want one!
• Cartwheelers.  I want to be able to do one!
• Flo (The Progressive Woman)’s husband.  I want to do her once!
• Playboy photographer.  I want to trick ditzy, slutty girls I am one!
• Whittlers……………I just want to know how.

Sloth

• Hangovers.  Have you ever had one of these?  They’re just awful!  I guess that’s the price you pay to get really drunk and run around the bar naked with a road cone on your head while everyone serenades you with “It’s A Small World After All” as they point at your unit that has been Sharpied to look like it’s winking at everyone.  (Note to parents: This never happened to me…kinda sad I have to mention this…oh well.)
• Football Sundays.  I’m sorry, but when there’s 11 hours of NFL action on my television involving my stocks (i.e. fantasy teams) you bet your ass I’m plopping on the couch in my sweatpants and not leaving until Al Michaels gives me a farewell soul-sucking stare that makes me wet the bed.
• Weather.   If it’s raining/snowing/scorching outside…I’m staying indoors.  Essentially the only temperature that is acceptable for me to play outside is between 68-72 degrees, partly cloudy, a 5-10 MPH breeze and a promise that I will see a hot girl in a bikini at some point.  Otherwise…no dice!
• No pants.  It’s Newton’s 3rd Law applied to a real life situation.  For every action (taking off pants) there’s an equal and opposite reaction (laying down with hand in underwear).  It’s just science.
• College.  Let’s breakdown the 24 hours of a day.  Eight hours of sleep.  Two hours of class (can be skipped to gain time).  Four hours of work.  That leaves 10 hours of…something.  This is where great minds do their real work…drinking beer and finding new ways to ingest it!  WOO!!!
• After gluttony and lust.  After you eat and skeet you gotta have sleep!…I’m like a dirty Dr. Seuss.

Pride

• Men with long penises.  You have a long penis…brag about it!  If this was me I would refuse to wear pants.  I’d be walking down the street naked, a cop would see me, start screaming “HEY!  You better have a good reason to be nak…oh, wow…I understand, sir…carry on!”  In job interviews I wouldn’t have a resume.  I’d just have a blank sheet of paper, put it on the desk and flop my penis on the paper.  Sadly for everyone out there I am not well endowed…I’m slighly, maybe, fully undowed.
• Whatever is the female equivalent to the above.  I don’t know and I don’t want to guess because I just admitted in the last point I’m not hung so if I want to find a wife I can’t anger any women by picking something that doesn’t go over well.
• Drinking games.  You win: you can boast about it until the next game starts and you’re getting drunk.  You lose: you get drunk faster.  You can take pride in both outcomes!
• Quitting a crappy job.  You can take all the pride in the world if you get to quit a job you hate for a better one.  On your last day you do anything you want to do.  Flip off your boss.  Yell obscenities at people you don’t like.  Fart in the coffee maker.  Set your HR rep’s hair on fire.  Throw your computer off the roof on top of the CEO’s car.  Anything goes on your last day!…huh?…what?…laws still apply?…you could be sued?…really?…are you sure?…I thought it was like an amnesty or someone yelling “Sanctuary!” in a church sort of thing and you can’t be touched…it’s not?…I’m an idiot?…fair enough.
• Oregon Trail.  If you get the highest score ever in the computer game Oregon Trail you can brag about it to ANYONE and they can’t do a thing.  In my book you’re the King of the World.
• College.  You’re in college!  WOO!!!

Greed

• College?  Hmmm…not a chance to go overboard with money in college…I’m sure it’s there somewhere…you can do whatever you want in college!  YEAH!!!!!!!!!
• Monopoly.  The mascot of the game is Rich Uncle Moneybags, the goal is to bankrupt every one of your opponents and getting second place in a beauty contest gets you $10!  Hell yeah greed is good!
• Gambling.   I don’t know about you guys, but when I play poker I want everything on the table.  The chips, the cards, the hearts of other players…I want it all!
• Open bars.  If you don’t double fist at an open bar before it closes you’re not doing it right.  If there’s five minutes before the bar closes and I only have one rum and diet in front of me, you’re damn right I’m sprinting to the bar and throwing ‘bows at every man, woman, child, dog and coat racks that are in my way until I get two more, drink them, then wonder in the morning what happened and why there’s a pair of dentures stuck to my elbow.
• Free stuff.  What beats paying anything for something?  Not paying anything for anything!  It doesn’t matter if they’re giving out free tampons…they’re free!  I’m sure I can find a use for it like using it as a towel, dangling it in front of a kitten or simply using it in my vag…uh…vag…vag…us nerve…yeah!…my vagus nerve!…the longest of the cranial nerves…duh!…tampons are great for that…whew!…thanks, Google for that save…uh-oh…probably should stop typing my thoughts………………

Wrath

• Dickface Brady.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• State up north.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• A stuck car door.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Trying to understand art.  AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Samsung cell phones.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Playing paintball.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Stubbed toes.  AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Old Speckled Hen.  AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Losing the remote.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Constipation.  AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• Diarrhea.  AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And finally…

• Getting hit by a lightning bolt from God for trying to find exceptions to every deadly sin.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Like the 91.9% of Americans who have jobs (sorry 9.1%…the economy will come around and you can feel like this again): I hate work.

Work’s boring.  It’s monotonous.  It involves interacting with people who don’t like work either and I’m found forcing myself to puke in the bathroom so I get out of a 10 minute pointless meeting.

But no more!  I have come up with the most perfect idea to get rich quick, is guaranteed to work and will leave me with enough money and free time that I can do what I’ve always wanted to do: become the 5,238th most knowledgeable person about hummingbirds in the world.  Right now I know they’re birds and they like to hum…which is the same description of Big Bird.  Great.

Without further ado I’d like to give everyone the nine step program I have in place to make me incredibly rich and as a warning to anyone trying to steal this idea: I know where to buy a harpoon and I will learn how to use it to hunt you down like the money grubbing, idea stealing, poo-eating shark you are.

1. Create a song about holidays.  It’s the perfect setup!  Holidays once every year (eight times if you’re Jewish…luckies!) and everyone pays attention to each holiday at least on its day of celebration.  I honestly have no idea when Flag Day is…but I’m sure I’ll celebrate.

Hell even fake holidays get made up every five minutes.  I don’t know if there’s a Stick a Snickers Bar In Your Pants day, but if there is I’ll be the first one with a brown log in his pants…wait, that came out wrong…so did that…uh-oh.

Anyway the point is that all big holidays have songs to go with them.  Monster Mash plays for Halloween, Proud To Be An American plays on the 4th of July, anything with the words drink, drank or drunk gets played on St. Patrick’s Day and Let’s Get It On plays for Valentine’s Day. 

That’s where the money is!  I just have to pick a holiday that doesn’t have one, but makes sense to have a song.  Thanksgiving has everyone too stuffed to play my song, Christmas has 1,345,294 songs already and President’s Day would leave everyone asleep for my three minute verse on James K. Polk and what he did with Mexico.  That leaves one holiday:

Arbor Day!  Everyone knows what it is, what to do for it and they usually talk about it for a week.  Bingo!  Next up I needed a way to make it catchy…

2. Include whistling and clapping.  These are two simple things that everyone loves in songs.  Whistling instantly puts a smile on your face and if you’re one of the people who can’t whistle and have no soul you can always clap.  Some of music’s greatest hits have clapping in them.  We Will Rock You.  Jack and Diane.  The Theme Song for the PSA “So You Have The Clap?”  It gets people involved and unified in one motion.

Now that I have a holiday and a way to get it catchy there has to be a famous music icon to be in the song so it has instant credibility.  Bring in:

3. Rick Astley.  “Never gonna give you up/Never gonna let you down/Never gonna run around/And desert you…Never gonna make you cry/Never gonna SAAAAYY good bye/Never gonna tell a like/And hurt you.”

Who hasn’t been Rick Roll’d?  And no matter what you were trying to view instead…you can never be mad!  “Mila Kunis sex tape?  I have to see this!…AHHHHHH!!!…I got Rick Roll’d!………….well played, sir……well played.”

And I’m only having him sing the chorus of his song at the end of a verse leading into my chorus.  Speaking of which I need a motto for my song that is simple, rhymes and can be chanted together…

4. “Plant a seed…Grow a tree”  Boom!  “We got to plant a seed to grow a tree.”  There’s the chorus right there!  It’s so genius even Dr. Seuss shat in his hat from that line so fine and a heard from a bird he ate his gum made of cu…nevermind

Can you imagine hearing Rick Astley leading into my chorus?  That’s a couple of million dollars right there.  This song is writing itself by now.  I have a holiday, ways to make it catchy, an awesome celebrity cameo and a really easy and memorable chorus…really it’s so easy…hey:

5. Kids sing the chorus.  Brilliant!  Not only will this song play whenever Arbor Day happens, but because the chorus is so easy I can have kids sing it.  This helps create another market the song can tap into…children’s concerts.

There are tons of songs that kids sing to their incredibly bored parents in concerts that involve a variety of topics.  D.A.R.E. had a song.  Singing about what letters vowels are.  Giving a four line verse about how plaque is bad for us.  These are all songs that somebody wrote for schools to have them be played whenever the topic is right and they get royalties for it.  Perfect!

The kids will have to sing this at all Arbor Day related concerts, plays or random assemblies!  Just focusing on the elementary school market there were 24 elementary schools in Westerville, OH alone (my hometown!  WOO!!!  ‘05!!!).  There are at least ten school districts in the Greater Columbus area.  That means if I extrapolate this to the whole nation…that’s 4,238,385,984 elementary schools!!! 

(Note: The math may be wrong…I went to a public schul…skool…shut up!)

Hey!  Speaking about the nation brings me to another idea:

6. America’s awesome!  These kids are only 11 years old at oldest and they don’t know a lot of the black eyes America has in its past (i.e. The only thing kids know about Indians and Americans is Thanksgiving and we all were friends and we never did anything to hurt, move or discriminate against them in any way ever!).  Also what red-blooded American doesn’t love hearing songs about how great America is (shut up, Communists!)

It’ll be basic stuff like “making a tree makes Uncle Sam happy”, “if you love the red, white and blue then I love you, too” and “one more line before we say goodbye: thanks Seal Team Six for Bin Laden’s eye!”  Excellent.

Arbor Day.  Love America.  Kids singing.  “Plant a seed…grow a tree.”  It’s all coming together on the song, but there’s something huge that’s missing…

7. A logo.  I gotta sell merchandise!  I gotta come up with a logo that goes great on T-shirts, mugs, hats, beer pong tables, condoms, squirrels…anything that can be printed on.  It’s gotta be instantly recognizable, have the motto at the top, not exclude any gender/race and show what Arbor Day means.  Hold on…thinking…thinking…drawing…erasing…drawing…cranking…drawing…cranking while drawing…sleeping…drawing…got it!  Here you go:

It’s a guy celebrating the growing of a tree while Mother Nature bends down and nurtures the soil so the tree can grow to its full potential.  I see nothing wrong with this picture at all…it’s perfect…

Now that I have the logo down there’s one more thing that needs to be done to garner the maximum exposure for The Arbor Day Song (there’s the title):

8. Have Ellen support it.  Oprah had her book club that would create buzz, Ebert and Roper create buzz for movies by thumbs-ups, Howard Stern has porn stars on to create a buzz for his show to every man who enjoys boobies…and Ellen just creates buzz about stuff by having a show.

She loves dancing, making her audience as comfy as possible and here’s the best part…99% of her audience are women and a majority of them are mothers!  This is the final part of the plan.

When Ellen plays The Arbor Day Song, starts dancing and encouraging all her viewers to listen to this song…I’ve gotten rich quick.  Mothers will demand the PTA of their child’s school to play this song, they’ll have their kids download the song on iTunes and soon enough there will be so many downloads and school concerts done for The Arbor Day Song that by the time I’m 25 there’s only one thing left to do…

9. Take money showers with gorgeous ladies, buy a pro sports team, hook all my friends and family up with whatever they want and live the life people dream of.  That’s the stuff.

Oh, yeah.  Before I go cash my first $1 billion paycheck I have one thing left to share with you.  I got $2 million in advance and bought a tape I heard about while backstage at Ellen…it’s a two hour long sex tape of Scarlett Johansson, Natalie Portman, Hope Solo and the really hot girl you wanted to see naked in high school all showering together and doing unspeakable things to each other.

You’re welcome.

The only thing I enjoy about having a full-time job now is that I now have a place to Xerox my balls actual money to spend on stuff.  It’s great to have money.  I can buy better food, more beer and use non-motel lotion for…my face.  However there is a negative to having more money: more problems?  Sorry, P Daddy Dilly Diddy.

I buy more stupid sh*t.

Money has never really been my forte.  I know how much I have at all times and I’ll never spend more than what I have, but there are times where I feel it’s better to spend money than save it.  Allow me to share with you some of the less fiscally responsible decisions I’ve made in my life.

Women’s Lingerie.  “This must be for one of his girlfriends at one time.  It’s a very lovely gesture to purchase fancy lingerie for his girlfriend to tell her that she finds her very attractive and she will be the sexiest woman in the world if she wears it.”

That’s a logical thought, but there’s no way I’m buying any future girlfriend lingerie unless she comes with me and tries it on.  I’m not even good at buying underwear for myself so what makes you think I can buy it for someone I’m dating.  Nothing’s worth that nightmare if nothing goes right.  If you buy something too small she’ll think she’s fat.  If you buy something too big she’ll think you think she’s fat.  If it’s too revealing she’ll be offended you want her to look like a “whore”.  If it’s too modest she’ll wonder if you don’t find her sexy anymore.  It’s the deadliest of relationship traps short of your penis “accidentally” finding its way to another girl’s place.  Nope…I bought this for me.

It was senior of high school for Halloween.  I was going as a schoolgirl and I wanted it to be authentic.  I bought the white button-up, plaid skirt and thigh-high socks, but I wanted more.  Wandering around a Big Lots I spotted the women’s clothing section, saw the lingerie, then I blacked out.  When I came to I was back home washing a bra and some panties in the washer.  Once they became dry I stared at them with utter disgust like a fat guy with veggies.  Am I really going to do this?  Finally after taking one or 475 deep breaths I slipped them on.

Immediately I went on a time traveling adventure to my future.  I had visions of me wearing a gown to prom, getting a sex change in college, bringing two guys named Seth and Mongo to family Thanksgivings to the horror of my family, joining a sex show where I juggle flaming cotton balls with my penis and dying at the age of 28 of an unfortunate naked tandem skydiving incident.

I burned them and ran to bed.

Tie Me To The Bedpost.  “Ok well maybe Bryan doesn’t buy women lingerie, but this sounds like some sort of intimate game to spice things up in the bedroom.  It certainly is meant for him to become closer to his girlfriend and their relationship will blossom like a beautiful rose.”

Yet again…not for ladies.

A couple of years ago I visited a friend in Indiana at his place of residence.  We went out that Friday night and let’s just say I pregamed a wee bit hard.  By the time we got to the first bar I was on cloud nine and ready to try things I never got the chance to do.  At the first bar we went to there were some cougars at the bar I wanted to hit on, but considering I was holding onto the table so I wouldn’t fall on the ground I never did it.  Around 1:30 the bar closed and we left, but we weren’t done drinking yet.  Luckily there was another bar open…a gay bar.

Before I finish this story let me set this up.  One drunk night I was thinking about how girls get free drinks from guys at bars.  “Thas nahfair!  I wann free dinks, too!  (Hiccup)  I know!  I’ll jus go ta agay bar n hit onna beertender there!  Then I durrrink fer free!”  Translation: hit on a gay bartender, I get free drinks!

We entered the gay bar and everyone sat at a table while I went up to the bar to commence Operation Queer-For-Beer.  I sat at a stool and went into flirt mode.  I was seductively leaning on the bar and giving come hither eyes to every bartender until one came over to serve the guy next to me.  I couldn’t hear anything said except for “Tie Me To The Bedpost”.  The bartender made a pink martini, served it to the guy and come to me.

Bartender: What do you want?

Me: Give me what that guy had, big guy.  (Seductive gaze engaged)

He makes the drink, brings it over and coldly says “$8.”  I pay him and walk away angrily.  Why didn’t he think I was a cute guy?  I wanted a free drink!  I slammed the drink and stole the martini glass (I had to retain some dignity somehow.  What better way than by spitefully stealing something that was my fault?)

There goes that dream.

Skinemax Movies From Blockbuster.  “Oh, well he that for…um…uh…that’s just weird.”

I was 17 years old.  I was single.  I was still going through puberty.  I love Cinemax after dark (boobies!)  I want to watch them at 3 pm, not just 3 am.  I go to Blockbuster a lot.  They have movies!  Maybe with boobies!

I go up to the local Blockbuster and peruse the used DVD aisle.  After some searching I find one worthy of my Jurgens: Wicked Intentions.  I was about to go to the register when I saw a sign: 3 DVDs for $10.  My movie was $5.99.  Why the hell not get two more booby movies?!?  With some more searching I located Bikini Summer 2 and My Boss’s Daughter (Tara Reid stripping for 1.5 seconds…sounded good…I was 17!)  I collected all three and went to the register.  This is where I get nervous.

While buying condoms has become the nervous transaction of society (I never understood this…you’re going to have sex.  You should have a big grin on your face making eye contact with everyone near you nodding while you lick your lips)…you haven’t bought two Skinemax movies and a crappy movie at a Blockbuster at 8 pm on a Friday night.  I don’t know what the equivalent for women is (my guesses are buying tampons, a pregnancy test or carrying crotchless panties around and running into your parents.)  It was nerve racking. 

I put My Boss’s Daughter on top of the pile so I look the least bit of a loser as I stood in line.  When I got up to the cashier my palms were sweating profusely, my face blushed and my ass crack was like the Amazon River.  As I walked up I wanted to come up with a line that would make me not look like the pathetic dateless wonder I was.  I thought…thought…thought…got it!

Cashier: “How are you doing?”

Me: (voice cracking) “Good.”

Cashier: (looking at the movies and judging) “Is there anything else you want?”

Me “Yeah, uh…do you have any sort of wrapping paper I could buy?  I’m buying these for a friend as a present.”

Cashier: “Uh…no.”

Coming up with a lie to make it seem like I’m not a lonely loser made me even more of a lonely loser.  I quietly went home with my shame, enjoyed Wicked Intentions and cried myself to sleep.

Old Speckled Hen.  “That sounds like a sh*tty-ass beer.”

It was a sh*tty-ass beer.  Don’t do it.  It tasted like the insect repellent, wood shining, toxic sludge it looks like.

Change purses.  “What the hell’s wrong with this guy?  He’s buying women’s underwear for himself, martinis at a gay bar and now change purses?  Does this guy have any form of genitalia at all?  I’m beginning to think he reproduces asexually because no one would want to be with this weirdo.”

First off…ouch.  Secondly I was a certified wuss when I a youth.  Any fight I got in was me bullying someone and crying like a bitch when they fought back.  I was like Scud Farcus in A Christmas Story…right down to the fire crotch.

I carried around a neon green change case that I wore around my neck.  I was a frugal dick.  One time a friend was short $.45 on something he bought and he asked me for change.  I gave it to him and told him at least 17 times throughout the rest of the day I asked him “You’re paying me back, right?”  IT’S $.45!!!  I could have asked for that from a homeless guy.  He’d just say “$.45?  Really?  Wow you must REALLY need the money.”

My second change purse was bought at a Cleveland Browns game.  It was shaped and colored like a Cleveland Browns jersey.  I couldn’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty sure Tim Couch sold me it to make ends meet.  I’m not even a Browns fan and I have a penis so I shouldn’t have a purse. 

I just…I…there’s nothing else to say.  I’m embarrassed.

I hope there’s enough money in my change purse to buy Bikini Summer 3: Bryan Fraker’s Shame.

This post is from a nice suggestion from my buddy Nate-Dogg…the man holding down the fort in Sea-Town.  He thought it would be a great idea and I agreed with him and promptly wrote the post…104 months after it was suggested.  Maybe it was only four months.  I don’t know.  I usually overshoot how long time goes.  Guess that’s why I tell girls I last four minutes in bed. 

Anyway this post is all about board games that my generation has grown up with or continue to play to this day:

Monopoly.  Not a generational board game since it was invented some time during the 1880’s or something like that, but every kid has at least played this game of entrepreneurship, top hats that pay taxes and Rich Uncle Moneybags looking sexy as a 2nd place beauty contestant.  Now playing Monopoly is the same thing every single time you play, but where it really is interesting are the types of people you play the game with.  Here are five very distinct players that play in every Monopoly game ever played…and they piss you off if you’re not one of them.

1. The No-Trader.  Might as well name this person The Black Hole: once properties land in this person’s possession they never see the light of day again.  You could offer them two railroads, both utilities, $1,000, the naming rights to your first two children and 30 minutes alone with your girlfriend for Vermont Avenue…no dice.  “That will give you a monopoly…I’m not doing that.”  Oh yeah?  Well at least I have a girlfriend!  “True…but I have Vermont Avenue.”  AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
2. The Lucky Bastard.   Alright I got this guy dead to rights.  I have the whole red and yellow side including Water Works and the railroad.  The only way he avoids doom is by rolling a…3.  HE ROLLED A 3?!?!?!?!?!?  THAT’S THE SEVENTH TIME IN A ROW HE’S AVOIDED MY DEATH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I’VE HEARD OF SELLING YOUR SOUL, BUT FOR A MONOPOLY WIN?????????  I’D HAVE AT LEAST GOTTEN THE MONOPOLY WIN, THIRD BASE WITH ANNE HATHAWAY AND COORS LIGHT BEING FORCED TO STOP THEIR STUPID COLD BAR PROMOTION.  I KNOW WHEN MY BEER’S COLD…I CAN FEEL IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
3. Mr. Alamo.  It’s never say die, fight for the every last dollar, mortgage every property seven times over and promise to do laundry for three months just so he can keep playing guy.  The allure is for that ultimate comeback.  The one time where this person had only $2 to their name…and came back to win.  If this does happen it will be top three moments in this person’s life right between losing his virginity and successfully flipping an omelet.  The only time this is worthy of use is if there are over five people playing and you’d be the first one out; who wants to sit around for two hours with your dick in your hand waiting for someone else to lose so you can play video games or something.  I’m no doctor/scientist/rodeo clown, but I’m willing to bet this is how 65% of middle schoolers try alcohol…drinking to kill time by being the first person out of Monopoly.  It’s just fact.
4. By-The-Book-Bitch.  The worst person to play with.  This guy doesn’t allow anything that’s not in the explicitly-written rule sheet.  “You don’t put fines in free parking…it goes in the bank!”, “You can’t trade get-out-of-jail free cards…that stays with the picker until it’s used”, “You can’t just give me the finger for your turn…you owe me $4 for Baltic rent!”  This person isn’t just in Monopoly…he’s everywhere.  Also known as The Fill-In this guy is always there because you needed one more person to make the game worthwhile and it just so happens to by By-The-Book-Bitch.  If By-The-Book-Bitch is ever at a game you’re at make a side game of it.  See who can piss him off the most without having him leave the table.  Whoever forces him to leave owes the others $1.  It’s like Jenga: you must have delicate balance and keep pushing your luck until someone causes it all to fall apart leaving someone crying in the fetal position.
5. The Smart One.  45 minutes in this guy sells all his properties and money to the first place person for $1 real money.  We all hate this guy…but secretly want to be him.  He’s the only one winning in real life.

Apples to Apples.  This is a game that became popular with my group of friends during high school and college.  You have two sets of cards: one with nouns and the other with adjectives.  Everyone gets seven nouns and your goal is to pick which noun goes best with the adjective a guesser selected.  The game makers believe this is a nice, wholesome family game where you match adjectives like “healthy” with nouns like “bananas” and that’s no fun.  You have to get dark with it. 

The best combination I’ve come across was my 13 year old cousin played “Rosa Parks” with the adjective “mischievous”.  She didn’t get it, but everyone else died laughing. The game is meant to be dark.  You don’t have people like Hitler, Helen Keller and Bill Clinton without having twisted fun with it.  Another perk is the ability to have inside jokes.  If you mention “creamed corn” to any of my cousins from the Fraker side of the family and I guarantee a five minute laughfest where no words are said and 50% of pants are peed.

If you haven’t played this game…go get it right now.

Loaded Questions.  Another fantastic dark humor game.  The game is exactly what it says…there are loaded questions that are asked and everyone but the guesser has to write an answer.  Questions like “What three things would you take with you to a desert island?” are asked and the guesser has to guess which person said what answer.  The rules want you to tell the truth, but…where’s the fun in that?

This game is no fun to be played with younger kids, grandparents or people who don’t think outside the box.  Creativity is key.  The more obscure/personal/weird you get with answers the better.  A good rule of thumb would be to include mothers, celebrities and sexual things.  Roll them together and you got yourself a hit.  Personally I like to stick to obscure celebrities and actions.  My personal favorite answer I’ve given all-time was to the question “What’s your most prized possession?”  My answer: “My 9th place ribbon in an Al Roker look-a-like contest.”

Life.  There isn’t a bigger kick in the dick for real life than Life.  This game makes everything seem so easy.  You get to choose three careers straight out of college that aren’t even similar (hmmm…musician, cop or accountant?…), everyone finds their significant other at the same exact time (sometime around 25…uh-oh, I’ve got five months) and you never have to rent a place to live until you buy your first house…which you may be able to pay off in cash!

Not only is everything easy, but those life cards…they’re evil!  They make you think your life is in shambles compared to these people.  In one lifetime you can win a Nobel Peace Prize, cure the common cold, win $80,000 on a game show, have sets of twins (one biological, one adopted), have a mid-life crisis and get a better job/salary without the token Harley, climb Mt. Everest, hit it big in the stock market of numbers (always go 3) and steal other life accomplishments from other people all before you retire at the age of what implies to be 65, but in reality to do every life tile you’ve obtained would take you to age 753.

The game Life is such an easier life than real-life.  Damn you Hasbro!  AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cranium.  This is a game that is a nice all-around affair.  You have to know science and English, know how to draw/sculpt, be musically capable and have a great connection with your teammates.  It’s a fun game.  However the best part of this game isn’t the game itself…it’s how mad people get with their teammates, but specifically the couple who blows up at each other.  They’re usually losing by a wide margin and a person doesn’t know how to sculpt a harp out of clay.  Then it’s name calling, hand gesturing and raised voices until someone either leaves the game or gets personal.  Whenever the dust settles…the game just continues because it’s all been seen before with said couple so let’s just keep going.

Mousetrap and Operation.  Both were fun kid’s games until someone loses a piece…then you’re f***ed.

Ants in the Pants.  This was my favorite game as a child.  It involved a 1’ pair of plastic pants that you had to spring ants into.  You’d push down on the ant’s butt and it would spring in the air, hopefully into the pants.  You could have up to four people playing, but because I was either a selfish brat or I was too good at the game that I’d play by myself.  Every indoor recess (the spawn of Satan as a child) I’d play that game until my fingers were sore.  I was a simple kid and I’m still a simple man.  If I had that game now I’d play it at work and annoy every around me…Heaven.

Risk.  A great game to play, but you never want to win the first time you play with friends or else you’ll never win again.  People will always remember you won the first game and always hunt you down even if they go down with you.  I won the first time I played with friends in middle school…to this day I’ve never won again.  I’m not bitter or anything…jerks.  Anyway there are two people that are in every Risk game: Too Serious Guy and F*** Serious Guy Guy.  Basically Too Serious Guy is in the game 100%, has his whole strategy planned out, can see moves that other people are about to make and has a fool-proof plan for victory…until F*** Serious Guy Guy sees Too Serious Guy getting way too into it and will purposely go after Too Serious Guy until F*** Too Serious Guy is dead and has ruined Too Serious Guy’s fool-proof plan.

There is one problem for Risk…geography.  I’ve learned most of my world geography from Risk.  That hurts in tests and quizzes.  Apparently there aren’t two states in Australia: Eastern and Western Australia.  Oops.

Guess Who.  A game that got more in-depth and racist as you get older.  As kids it was a simple game of whether your person has a hat, earrings or gray hair and a great way to practice lying (one time I won eight straight games…lied for five), but as you get older you get questions like “Does your person look like a hooker?”, “Is your guy a registered sex offender?” and “Does your person enjoy tossing a nice salad?”  It’s very politically incorrect…and very funny to play. 

It also makes a great drinking game.  If you lose you have to drink by how bad you lost.  If you lost by five you drink for five seconds that are count down by the winner at however fast a pace they want.

Pogs.  Who doesn’t remember this fantastic fad in the mid-‘90’s?  I remember writing a “newspaper” article about pogs in third grade about their origins (all I said was that Kelly brought them in…I wasn’t big on actual research.)  I was all about it.  I even had the Pog-Maker.  It was basically a cardboard sticker.  You’d peel off the top of the pog, place whatever picture you were using on top, cut around the pog and voila!…crappy pog made!  I would take my Sports Illustrated for Kids and tear them up making pogs, but I would always suck at cutting circles.  Usually I would cut it too small, but still put the picture on the pog leaving a ring of the cardboard sticker visible and making my awesome created pog stick to anything it touched.  I suck at art.  I wish I still had it…I’d make Nudie Pogs!!!  Hooray immaturity!!!

There you have it.  Games I played as a young lad all the way to college grad and certainly through being a dad.  Now if you excuse me I have to find the butterfly piece from Operation so I can f***ing play it again!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

After a recent softball game I looked up from my margarita and hangover and said: “Wow.  We have friends who are married now, have gotten important jobs and moved to cities far away.  Where the hell did all the time go?  Everyone is growing up.”  A friend then looks at me and says: “Yeah.  Everyone is growing up…and then there’s…well, you.”  At first I took offense to this statement.  Then I took a sip of margarita.  Then I checked out the rack of the girl a couple tables away.  Then I was served a restraining order from the girl whose rack I checked out.  Then I contemplated the statement and realized:

I’m happy where I am.  I’m 24 years old, single, living in downtown Columbus with a job that I don’t like, but pays the bills and I have weekends off.  I’m happy with this.

There’s nothing against people my age and younger being more “grown up” than I am.  I have no problem disputing that.  I just know that when it comes to various aspects of life that people grow up from…I don’t want/need to leave it.

Marriage is nice.  When you find someone you want to spend the rest of your life with I’m sure it’s magical and you know it when you see it.  However, right now I know if I got married there are only three scenarios that would play out:

1. At the wedding I set the record for fastest “I do” to divorce at two hours when I take a double shot of tequila with every groomsman to celebrate my glorious day and on the way I head to the bathroom, find a woman in a white gown and instantly consummate my marriage in the coatroom.  I would be having a great nookie session when…the in-laws come in for their jackets…and see me going to town their Nana…sorry, sorry, sorry…I meant their grandma Nina.
2. I’d have a great wedding, but on the honeymoon instead of doing the normal married couple stuff (eating fancy food naked, soaking up the sun naked and always maintaining a BAC of over .1 naked) I’d stay in the hotel room and watch sports all week as I order room service and ignore my wife to the point that when it’s time to go back home she met a nice divorce lawyer on the beach and already liquidated half my bank account to put towards their marriage.
3. 18 KIDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  TAKE THAT CATHOLICS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As for relationships I know right now I’m single, but I’m not against getting in one.  The only things that are in my way are my receding hair line; my weight; the fact that my back hair is growing in so much I’ll soon be an endangered species because there aren’t many yetis in the world; my affinity for porn; the fact I like doing what I want whenever I want; my bank account being solely used for bars, beer and Subway; my car Altima Prime; my room looking like an ass grenade got thrown into a thrift store hamper; the fact I’ve reverted to my eighth grade self and are intimated by anything my age with lady parts; my addictions to sports, sports and aforementioned porn; my love of wearing man-thongs, cutting shorts so short the gooch region rips leaving only a kilt left and pulling a Braveheart all night by lifting said kilt and showing everyone my 98% visible nether region; and of course…the last name of Fraker.

As I mentioned earlier I don’t really care for my job.  When people ask what I do for a living, I respond “Data entry”, then stare blankly in their eyes until they turn away or vomit from the tension.  However it is a job and in this economy I’m glad I have it, which is a form of growing up I guess…having a job so you can afford…um…living?  What’s crazy is how my dream job has changed since I wasn’t a “grown up”.  As a kid I wanted to be a baseball player sooooooooooooooo bad.  I really didn’t want to be anything else.  That may not have came to fruition (yet…I can dream, damnit!), but in high school I wanted to be a writer.  I even got into Ohio University’s Scripp’s Journalism School (top 10 in the nation.)  What did I do with that?  Transferred away to Ohio State University so I can be a full-time slacker!  Yeah!  Now that I’m 24 I have a few dream jobs left: anything in media (writing would be great, but social media, broadcasting, cameraman, nose powderer, Monica Day’s friend with benefits…they all work), photographer for Playboy, beer taster, lingerie judge, condom tester, professional sleeper, chest hair model for hair dressers or being the guinea pig for a 30 year experiment dedicated solely to what objects feel good when dipping your balls in them (come on nacho cheese!).  That’s about it.

I can tell you one thing that’s never going to grow up…my sense of humor.  If you doubt that at all…reread the second to last sentence of the previous paragraph.  I rest my case and have done my duty…haha…duty!

I have grown up a little bit since college I’d say.  I can’t stand campus bars anymore.  When I go to a bar I’m looking for fast service, a place to sit down, music that’s not too loud and easy bathroom usage.  At campus bars you get bartenders who don’t serve anyone unless they’ve cut off a finger, elbow-to-elbow standing room only dance floor, music that’s so loud the sound waves can make a woman two blocks away orgasm and the only way you can use the bathroom is if you can find a cup and corner to pee in or brought your own catheter. 

With all of these negatives there’s still one that takes the cake…21 year-olds.  I hate them!  They’re still excited to be able to legally drink and love to flaunt it by buying 10 shots all at once!  They love to party!…only their form of partying includes getting waaaaaaaaaay too drunk, stumbling around the dance floor creepily staring at anything that looks vaguely like a woman, shouting the wrong words to whatever song is playing in your ear, boxing you out at the bar like they’re going for a rebound in basketball, wanting to fight anyone within a 50 foot radius who, according to them “looks gay!” and in general just making everyone else’s night who isn’t blackout drunk a living hell. 

Here’s an idea: instead of over 21 bars…the Just 21 bar.  It’s training before the real thing happens like wheels and bras.  Have all 21 year-olds be required to go to one bar and over 22 year olds get the normal bars now so it’s a better experience for all.  The Just 21 year-old bar will feature a giant black room with nothing on the walls for the assholes to rip off and try to steal.  There will be a steel grating floor so when they inevitably vomit the four straight Jagerbombs they took clean-up only involves a quick hose down.  All cups will be red Solo cups so nothing gets stolen and the only drinks served are Jagerbombs, tequila shots and lukewarm Natty Light.  The bar will be staffed by a rotating shift of parents whose 21 year old goes to whatever nearby college Just 21 is in.  That way there’s a chance you can make one person stay relatively sober and take care of their friends lest the Bank of Parents get shut down once and for all.  As for the bouncers…10 members of the Hells Angels.  You start a fight…you’re f*****!.  This will be a great learning tool for them and will teach them how to act in a bar.

(P.S. If you didn’t think this is a great idea or laugh at yourself because you know someone who’s like that…you’re the 21 year-old who needs to be in these bars.)

So maybe I’m not “growing up” by society’s standard of growth.  But I’m having a blast living my life and I’m perfectly happy with what I’m doing.

Anyone wanna invest in Just 21?

December 2010…our apartment…7 pm.

Dan: Hey Fraker you wanna do the Warrior Dash?

Me: What’s that?

Dan: It’s a race where you run through mud and obstacles.

Me: Hmmm…running?  The only running I do is to a bar for happy hour or away from burglars, zombies or an ovulating Roseanne.

Dan: It’s only $40…

Me: $40?  The only time I spend $40 is after a ran to a bar during happy hour or on a couple of raw steaks to stop an ovulating Roseanne.

Dan: Lots of friends will be there…

Me: Friends?  The only time I go with friends…

Dan: I swear if you say the words “ovulating” or “Roseanne” again I will strangle you with my jock strap.

Me: …

Dan: That’s what I thought…you get a free beer and a Viking helmet for participating…

Me: SIGN ME UP!!!…you also get a free beer and a Viking helmet for paying $40 to have an ovulating Roseanne sit on you while wearing your jock strap.

Dan: AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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That’s what the conversation was to convince me to do the Warrior Dash (it may not have gone exactly like that…when I awoke the next morning my memory was hazy and all I smelled for 48 hours was the faint odor of gooch and regret).  That was six months ago.  I originally signed up for the Warrior Dash so I could have something to get in shape for (normally it would be for bikini season, but my doctor strongly recommended I don’t wear bikinis anymore because I was a boy and I shouldn’t confuse people because of my man-cans and lack of a distinguishable penis…go figure), but a series of events (Halloween 2010, beer, pizza, beer, wings, beer, uncomfortable upper thigh chafing and beer) caused me to have zero conditioning for this event.  Uh-oh.

For those of you that don’t know the whole story of the Warrior Dash it’s a 5k (3.1 miles) run that includes all sorts of obstacles along the way.  All you need to know about the event is from one of their T-shirts at the gift shop: “Mud.  Sweat.  Beer.”

The Warrior Dash was held in Logan, Ohio.  It’s a little town an hour southeast of Ohio and judging by the looks of the houses as we drove through the town center to park our cars…this was the big event of the year.  People were sitting on their porches just watching us drive by.  We weren’t even near the Dash itself…but the townspeople were riveted.  (“Hey Earl, get out here!  There be some o’ dem city folk coming through!  And they’re using them horseless carriages we heard about!”)

After we parked we took a bus to the battleground.  When we got there we had to sign a waiver saying that we won’t drink alcohol beforehand (oops), we wouldn’t dive in the last obstacle (double oops) and we wouldn’t whip it out while yelling “Everybody wang chung tonight!” (didn’t do that…I sang Bohemian Rhapsody).  We were doing our run at 5 p.m. and we got to the battleground at 2 p.m. so we did what any trio of twenty-somethings would do…we drank.  Not only did we drink, but I took inventory of the pros and cons of the pre-race festivities:

Pros

• Scantily-clad women. Just imagine if you will a sea of in-shape women in sports bras, short athletic shorts, bikinis and even just underwear (it took me 53 takes to figure it out, but there were ladies in underwear…then I looked 257 more times just to be sure).  If that doesn’t get your mast all full and proud you must either be gay, with your girlfriend or just cranked one out.
• Gatorade and vodka.  There’s nothing more beautiful than dehydrating yourself with alcohol and rehydrating yourself at the same time with Gatorade.  It makes me feel like an alcoholic athlete…an alcolete!  Now I know what to drink on a Friday afternoon before going for a jog…chug a 32 ounce Gatorade with 6 shots of vodka, run 20 minutes and when you get back a healthy buzz is your reward.
• Black smurf.  It’s exactly what you think…and it was awesome.
• Dog dish.  So after the first two gatorades I spotted a dog dish, but not just any dog dish…it was an Ohio State dog dish.  I gave it the token drunk logic for property (wait 10 minutes then it’s yours) and after the required time I simply slipped it in my bookbag with the goal of cleaning it out when we got home and drinking out of it all night.  Jackpot!

Cons

• Dog dish.  Why the hell did I want to steal a dog dish?  So stupid!!!
• Dude in thong.  Now I know what I did to everyone by my calendar, but with one important difference.  Thong Dude: disgusting.  Bryan Fraker in thong: ravishing.  Big difference!

4:45 hits and we make our way to the throng of people at the starting gate…10 shots deep.  After 15 minutes of slurring, stumbling and ogling the dude in thon…I mean hot chicks…a man with a megaphone starts the countdown: 3,2,1…

BOOM!!!  Two towers of flames shot up in the air to signify the start of the race.

The Race

The first part of the race was a nice, leisurely jog across a 100 yard field of green grass and happy dreams.  For this leg of the race I felt fairly confident that the 3.1 miles wouldn’t be the worst thing I’ve had to do in my life.  After the field we turned a corner and…I’ve never actually sh*t a brick, but upon looking at this hill…I crapped a whole patio.

The whole first mile of the Warrior Dash was uphill.  Not just uphill, but the angle was like that of the mountain the yodeler has to go up on Price Is Right.  It was like they carved the angle out of Hitler’s arm when he gave the Nazi salute it was so evil.  To use Oregon Trail terms I went at a grueling pace for 30 yards, a strenuous pace for 50, a steady pace for 75 and then got typhoid and dysentery for the remainder of the race.

After about a half mile of hills we met our first obstacle which was a simple climb a wall, duck under barbed wire thing.  I did that without ripping my short jean shorts so that was a win in my book.  Our reward for completing the first obstacle…another Hitler Hill.  Yeay!

Here marks where I noticed a person in particular that would be around a couple of times throughout the race: Fat William Wallace.  It was a guy in full Scottish garb carrying around 275 lbs. in excess carbs.  He was my nemesis.  The one man I didn’t need to see because it just made me feel worse about my physical condition that he, Mel Gibson’s stunt double at the buffet table, was gonna beat me…I might as well start buying industrial size bottles of lotion because no girl was ever gonna find me attractive again.

At the end of this Hitler Hill was a refreshing dip in waist deep water.  I fought so hard to not pee in this water because I didn’t wee before the race and since I was already covered in murky, smelly water no one would be the wiser.  However I didn’t because I figured 53 other people had already done it and I didn’t want to be the one guy to do it and have the person behind me make a big deal about how I made their water 20 degrees warmer for some reason.  The big perk of this level was a photo that showcased my body in all of its beauty.  Have a gander and a quick note…it’s not what you think:

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Ok so after fearing the copyright crap they said here’s what to do to see my picture: click on this link to go to the event, type Bryan Fraker in the name, select me and view either picture.  Stupid businesses wanting to make stupid profit.

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Rounding that corner we came upon broken down cars and tire obstacles.  You would clear a busted up car and after you land you have to go through the tire obstacle like during football training.  Being the cool guy I am I thought it would be a great idea to do the Dukes of Hazzard the first car.  I leapt off the ground, landed on the car and…almost busted my ass because I was wet and unable to slide.  The other thing I did that I thought was hilarious was upon entering a beat-up, rusted out pick-up’s front seat I quipped “Oh…so this is where my parent’s conceived me.”  Nobody laughed.  Probably because it sounded like “(heavy panting) So…thsitheiwtwhmyprenatscoeawgewnme!”  No wonder people looked at me like I just had a stroke.

Finally after the cars we got to the halfway point.  We were given ice cold water that hit the spot…when I could reach my mouth.  I ended up just thrusting the cup upward, getting a few drops in my mouth with the rest of it landing firmly on my chest.  So with my thirst slightly curbed and my nipples becoming NMD’s (Nipples of Mass Destruction) I lurched forward around a tree to find…yet another mother f^$&@ing hill.

Passing this Hitler Hill was no small task.  I needed to stop a couple of times to catch my breath and not, um, water the course with patches of blue and red-vodka smelling bile.  All the while I was getting encouragement from Dan and his bro which was a great gesture, but at the time I would have swung at them had I not been so certain I would have fallen down, landed on my face and been squashed by Fat William Wallace (who passed me.)

At the top of Hitler Hill number NINE!…I mean four, was a series of bungee cords tied up in such a way that you would have to either duck or climb over them…at least that’s what they wanted you to do.  What’s the fastest way to get from point A to point B, class?  That’s right…you plow right through everything.  I just lifted them up over my head until I got through the obstacle.  This was the only obstacle where I felt I had won…by completely ignoring the rules. 

A little bit further along the path and we came upon what was described to us before the race as a “wind tunnel”.  When someone says “wind tunnel” you expect to be running through some industrial fans that try their best to knock you on your ass as you attempt to go through.  I got excited for this obstacle because of two things: 1. I would fall on my ass and laugh hysterically or 2. A hot girl’s top would fly off.  Either way I would get excited.  However when we got here it was:

A shanty-town tunnel made of plywood and tarp that was three feet off the ground.  Disappointing.

“Wind tunnel” my ass.  They should have called it the “break wind tunnel” because you had two lines of single file people on their hands and knees crawling through what I hoped was mud to get through.  If you would have farted in the tunnel you would have made life a living hell for the six people behind you.  I’m pretty sure the person directly behind you would have had their skin burn off from the close proximity to methane and being eye level with the expulsion zone.

After saying a little prayer thanking God no one farted we got up and moved along, but not before I saw another person who I should be beating: a female Supreme Court Justice in full-robe with a gavel.  How the hell is Sandra Day O’Connor beating me?  The Supreme Court is full of people whose combined age is somewhere between 890 and 3,468 years old.  These people survived the Civil War, had beer with William Shakespeare and got to bare-knuckle box a sabertooth tiger…how’s she beating me?!?!?!?

While I was mulling over if kneecapping a Supreme Court justice to beat her in a race is a felony some dude whooshed right past us with the biggest white-man fro I had ever seen.  He had to have been the leader of the wave of people that started after us.  Great…I got lapped by Art Garfunkel’s son.  I’m on a roll!

With my body image reaching an all-time low and my lungs and heart giving me the finger we reached the first of many rapid fire obstacles in a row…the vertical cargo net.  Now this cargo net was right where the starting gate is for every heat to start at so people were able to see you and shout/boo/laugh at whatever you did.  I had seen this thing happen a million times on American Gladiators and if those still in shape former athletes could do it then by God this out of shape semi-professional beer drinker could give it his best half-assed effort.

I got up to the top, looked down and realized that being tipsy and 25 feet above the ground with no safety net equals a sh*tting-your-pants moment.  Luckily my pants were already brown and that gave me the confidence that I could repel down safely.  Next up was a balance test.  You know those dog show steps they have to climb up and down to succeed in their obstacle course?  They had a human version of that.  It was really easy and involved less fur and butt licking.

Step three in this obstacle gauntlet was the horizontal cargo net.  For most people this involved careful timing and slow, methodical crawling along the ropes.  For me it involved a big leap forward into the netting at each stage and hoping the momentum carries me forward and I only land on five people at a time.  The strategy worked and only 13 people suffered massive head trauma from my exhausted and sweaty ass.  New record!

The next obstacle was a brief walk through waist-deep water and after fighting the urge to pee again we were only three obstacles away from finishing.  First was the wall.  You had to climb it like in those Army commercials, but these were easier because there were wooden footholds every three feet up so even Verne Troyer could do it in under eight hours.  After that piece of cake it was just a short turn of the corner and two obstacles away from freedom!

The last two obstacles were right next to the main grounds for the Warrior Dash.  There were people standing there watching you jump over two piles of Duraflame logs on fire and army crawling through mud under barbed wire to the finish line.  Naturally I wanted to have a grand finale that would make people cheer, buy me beer and cause women to blow me kisses all the way to the end.  Plus there were two cameras stationed after the logs to get our picture taken and put on their website.  After situating everything and figuring out what I wanted to do…it was go time!

I sprinted (ok…it was a light job that looked like slow motion) around the corner, hopped the two flames like Carl Lewis (ok…it was more like John Madden hopping over the fruit platter to reach Turducken) and upon landing I was ready…I ripped my shirt just like Hulk Hogan and it split perfectly down the middle.  I remember hearing people say “take it off!” and after I ripped it I expected to hear a loud cheer, but I’m sure all that was heard was an awed hush and a couple of people vomiting.  Eh…it’s their problem they can’t stomach this much sexiness, not mine.

After I ripped my shirt I dove in the mud feet first, got it all in my ears and slowly crawled to the finish.  Here’s a picture of Dan and I finishing.  I’m on the left.  Just notice the difference in emotion upon finishing.  Dan: full of energy still and dancing past the line.  Me: no energy at all and heavy breathing while thinking if I could give $20 to someone to piggyback me to the car.

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Ok same deal here as before: click here, type Dan Ensign in the name, click on him and look at the pictures on the bottom right of us finishing.  Then look at the other ones.  He is quite the nimble and graceful body, isn’t he?

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Once we passed the finish line we were given necklaces saying we survived the 2011 Warrior Dash.  I will cherish this thing forever.  I’m gonna get married, conceive my children, watch them being born, divorced and buried in this thing.

Upon finishing I just wanted my bed.  Our time was 54:50.85 minutes making us 8,674th out of 9,841 people from Saturday.  Turns out Fat William Wallace and Sandra Day O’Connor both beat me.  Just throw that on the pile of achievements Bryan Fraker has that he’s not ecstatic about along with getting his first kiss at 16 and peeing himself during a baseball game when he was 10.

We trudged our way to the beer tent for the free brew Dan told me about, but I ended up giving my beer away because I couldn’t drink it.  If you know me you know one thing is certain: if I ever turn down a free beer something is wrong with me.  We ended up saying our good byes to people we knew and made our way to the car.

The ride home involved a battle between me and my eye lids to stay awake (I won by decision).  We went back to my apartment, showered and went to Champ’s for dinner where I turned down yet another free beer.  After dinner we went back home and I went straight to bed for 11 hours of the deepest, most fulfilling sleep I’ve ever gotten that didn’t follow, um…whoopie.

All in all am I glad I did the Warrior Dash?  Hell yeah I am.  I ended up scoring an Ohio State dog dish, finding out Gatorade and flavored vodka is a great combo, finishing a 3.1 mile race I had no business running and somehow getting a picture that’s priceless.  We asked the girls to look at me as I was suntanning and act disgusted.  Here’s what ended up happening:

Wow.

Would I do the Warrior Dash again?  My first thought is “Hell no!  There’s no chance in hell I want to put myself through that again, but then I just look at this picture:

Finish line.

Sign me up.

____________________________________________________________________

Here are a two more pictures of the Dash:

Flexing near sign

Roommates posing

Now before you light yourself on fire from reading the title just hear me out.

So Donald Trump thinks he can be President of the United States.  Really?  In that case I’m gonna throw my name in the running for the 2032 election where I’ll likely be fighting other candidates such as Willow Smith, the kid from Two and a Half Men and William Howard Taft’s ass (who will still garner 1% of the popular vote…isn’t democracy great?)

Wonder what my platform will be?  Well, my fellow Americans, I have a 15 point plan that will bring America as much happiness as when Jennifer Aniston shows her boobies on the big screen (and apparently it happens…I’ve set my pup tent…I mean log cabin…I mean…I’m just excited!!!)

1. Free Lap Dance Tuesdays!  My form of stimulus package…stimulating your package.  This works for women, too.  My form of stimulus package to females…a stimulated package…right?  Is that what women want?
2. Tom Brady=National Spittoon.  If anyone sees Dickface Brady anywhere…feel free to spit on him.  It doesn’t matter how disgusting it is.  Hock a loogie in his face, spit some chewing tobacco in his hair, fire a wad of dirty diaper in his mouth…as long as it came from your mouth and is spat in his direction it is all legal.  Catch him in the mall, on the bench of a football game, him grinding on some dude in Chippendale’s on Free Lap Dance Tuesday…anywhere is fair game.  I’m sure I won’t win the Massachusetts or I’mstupidandmakeoutwithmyfamilymembers states, but..oh well.  Oh that reminds me.
3. Michigan gets renamed I’msupidandmakeoutwithmyfamilymembers.
4. Middle Stall Law.  It’s very simple…if you are in a corner stall of a three stall bathroom with no one occupying the other two stalls…and the next person comes in and takes the middle stall…they must be punished.  There will be a button in each corner stall connected to the janitorial staff of each building.  When the button is pushed alerting the staff of an MSS (Middle Stall Stupidhead), they rush in and duct tape the door shut.  While the MSS is fidgeting, panicking and regretting their decision since President Fraker’s new law the janitorial staff grabs their sandwich bag of red paint, fish guts and Curve for Men and dump it in the stall.  It’s not enough to totally drain their spirits…but enough to let them know they did bad.  Originally I thought of allowing the person in the corner stall to bash the offender in the face with a newspaper, but who wants to touch a newspaper that’s been in the bathroom?  Not this guy.
5. Flash Discounts.  My form of win-win situation and a way for consumers to save money while big corporations give back to the community.  I’m going to institute a new form of bartering system.  Say there is a cute pair of jeans an attractive young female (>18 years old…don’t get it twisted) wants.  The jeans cost $100, but she can only afford $80.  She needs to knock off 20% of the retail price.  As a result of the Flash Law she has a way to get what she wants…barter with her body.  She goes to the salesman and asks what it will take to knock off 20% of the price.  He wants total topless…she counters with a kiss on the cheek…he counters with a lap dance…she counters with letting him touch her boobs over her top for three seconds…he counters with five…she agrees.  Problem solved.  She saves money…he gets some action while working.  This will certainly generate an increase in job applications of heterosexual males aged 18-88 at Victoria’s Secret.  This can work with males as well, but…what do women want?  I DON’T KNOW!!!
6. Pluto is a planet again.  I didn’t learn “my very elegant mother just served us nine pizzas” for nothing.  Without Pluto that just becomes an unanswered question.  Nine whats?  I need to know!!!  And don’t tell me to learn a new mnemonic device for eight planets.  That’s just dumb!
7. Research how to ferment celery into booze.  Eating celery burns calories.  Booze has a lot of calories.  Boom!  It may taste like crap, the only mixer would be V8 juice and there’s nothing manly about ordering celery on the rocks, but any chance to get your drink on without getting as fat…that’s a great idea to me.
8. B-Dubs goes back to $.25 wing Tuesdays.  $.45 per wing?  That’s a deal?!?  What a crock.  If I’m President B-Dubs is going back to $.25 wings…for life.  I don’t care if it’s 25 years down the road and chicken wings are more rare than oil…it’s Un-American to gouge people this much.
9. We came from storks…not our parents doing…you know…that thing.  LALALALALA MY PARENTS DIDN’T DO THAT THING LALALALALA I CAME FROM A STORK LALALALALALA.
10. Car Gap Law.  All cars are required to have no gaps where the seat belt clicks in in the front seat.  That way you don’t drop your phone, money or food in that gap causing it to fall under your seat, you fail to pick it up by knocking it further under your seat and you end up cussing really loud about how stupid you were to let your stuff fall under your seat…yeah that won’t happen again.
11. Flip flops are new dress shoe.  There’s nothing worse than having to wear shoes in 95 degree weather.  I decree that flip flops become a classy form of footwear.  It’s about comfort, really.  They’re also really good to use on first dates…
12. New fuel source.  I’m not sure how it will be possible, but I have a new energy that is renewable and is in abundance right this very moment…Cleveland fan misery.  I imagine we could hook up some sort of brain sensors up to a Cleveland fan’s head, take the electromagnetic waves generated from the scars of Cleveland sports past as well as future and turn that into raw energy.  This fuel will be free and there is no end to this in sight because of all the scars Cleveland fans have had to deal with.  The Shot…Edgar Renteria…The Fumble…The Drive (my day of birth…January 11, 1987.  My dad’s a huge Browns fan and I tell people that he broke even that day.  “Sure, my first child was born that day…but John “F***ing Elway had The Drive)…The Decision…the WNBA Cleveland Rockers leaving town.  It’s just a pile of misery that will become our new energy!
13. People in the military can drink at 18.  It’s inferred right now…I want it legal.
14. NASCAR is not a sport and Dan Marino is not an athlete.  Personal opinions, but hey…I’m the President!  I do what I want!!!
15. Lodge Bar is back open!  I mean it’s just common sense.

And now some positions in government that I people lined up for in my Cabinet.

• Vice President: Shirtless Ryan Reynolds.  Men will vote for me based on my policies…women will vote for me because I have People’s Sexiest Man Alive 2010 as my running mate.
• Secretary of Defense: Doc Brown.  What better way to protect our country than a man who can go Back To The Future?!?!
• Secretary of Treasury: Rich Uncle Moneybags.  The guy from Monopoly won’t steal from us.
• Secretary of Education: Rebecca Black.  Anyone who can teach our youth that Thursday comes before Friday followed by Saturday than Sunday is a winner in my book.
• Secretary of Homeland Security: Robocop.  Duh!
• Secretary of Interior: Winner of a nationwide raffle…because I have no idea what the hell this position entails.

So, my fellow Americans, vote Bryan Fraker for President!  And if you still don’t think I’m good enough for the job let me show you my slogan that will definitely get you on my side.

Bryan Fraker: America Good.  Whatever You Don’t Like Bad.

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen:

I am in dire need of an intervention.  What I need help in is something that started out as a simple vice that my friends could deal with in small doses, but it has gotten so out of control it has friends and family wondering if I can ever get out of this downward spiral I created for myself before I hit rock bottom and ruin my life.

What is it you may ask?  Alcohol?  Nah…I drink the normal amount of any other person…one unit per weekend…one unit filled with 24 smaller, delicious units.  Marijuana?  I’ve never tried drugs in my life other than Tylenol, DayQuil and when I was a crack whore in 1998…age 11 was a weird time for me.  Is my intervention for ugliness?  First off, ouch, and secondly an a scale of 1-10 I’m sure the ladies would say that make them dry heave only twice.  Masturb?…you know what I’m not gonna dignify that with a bone…I mean erec…I mean answer.

No, my problem is worse than all three of these, hoarding, prostitutes and Jelly Bellying (smearing Smucker’s in your belly button then having a stray dog eat it) combined.  My problem, for which I need an intervention, is…………………….

Dancing!!!

Honestly it’s a sickness.  Me on the dance floor is abysmal.  It’s as if someone has injected me with some sort of Super-Caucasian steroid that takes everything stereotypically wrong with white people dancing and giving it to me.  I can’t keep the beat if I had a metronome or a dozen eggs and a whisk (to beat the eggs…get it?…shut up!…it’s funny to someone, damnit!…I hope).  I don’t have a clue what to do with my hands.  I end up flailing them around like I’m a marionette, keeping them at my sides like I’ve got pit stains or thrashing them around in some sort of voodoo rain dance that magically repels women.

Speaking of women that’s another issue with me.  I should be able to dance with a girl, no problem.  It’s just dancing…but my problem is that I imagine the worst.  In my head I believe that every girl on the dance floor is just waiting for me to tap them on the shoulder so they can unleash their new self-defense moves they learned at the YWCA or spray their Retina Raper 9000 pepper spray that causes the pupils to melt out of my skull; hence why it’s really hard for me to make any physical contact with a girl…ever.  I need a formal invitation, a written contract and a notary to authenticate the touching for me to engage dancing with a girl.  I never dance with friends who are girls because I never want them thinking “Uh-oh Fraker is getting physical with me…he must want something more than friends…better kick him in the nuts and defriend him on Facebook” even though we’re friends and it would be ok.  It’s an irrational fear, I know, but it’s something I can’t shake.  I never want to be that creepy friend who creeps on his girl friends like a creep with his creepy moves and creepy face.

Here’s what usually happens when I go out with friends on weekends:  We all go out to a local bar.  There’s a dance floor.  All my friends who are couples dance with each other.  That’s cool and I would do the same if I had a girlfriend.  Next my single friends who are Rico Suave’s look for girls to dance with and inevitably get the girls dancing in ten minutes.  Great for them…I’m just not smooth in opposite-sex-stranger-cold-open conversations…I usually make a bad joke, forget their name or Nart (let out a nervous fart)…never good.  Now we have everyone on the dance floor living it up except me and the friend of a friend who you don’t know that well, but well enough to know you can’t carry a one-on-one conversation with them. 

This sequence of events leads me to stand off to the side and watch the same Sportscenter I’ve seen four times already (because sports will never leave or judge me) while pounding alcohol until I stagger over to where my friends are and start dancing around the people like a toddler learning how to walk: I move too fast for my head, stumble around until I get my balance again and repeat the process until either I fall down or crap my pants.

Now the Toddler Dash is only one of the dance moves I have “perfected” and use on a weekly basis.  Here’s my whole arsenal of dance moves I scare the general public with:

• Toddler Dash: already explained.
• Jimmy The Snitch: I stand in one place as if I’m in concrete boots like a Mafia snitch would be and move my arms around as if I’m trying to swim my way up to the surface.  It’s my standard move.
• Mockerena: I do the Macerena to whatever song is playing.  It’s usually for comedic effect, but I’m the only one who knows I’m joking because my face is serious with my eyes closed as if I’m pouring my soul into this atrocious dance.  Works great for turning off all women within a 50 foot radius of me.
• The Double Dutch Dork: I spot some females with which I would like to dance next to me.  I look in their direction, slowly start to move in, but at the last second I jump back.  “It didn’t look right!” I say to myself.  I try again, get real close…then jump back.  “She wasn’t looking.”  And this pattern keeps repeating itself like a kid who doesn’t want to jump rope until either the girls leave or I go to the bathroom.
• Ants In My Pants: occurs when I realize I’m doing Jimmy The Snitch with my feet.  I immediately pick my leg up and slide to the side in an attempt to look like I know what I’m doing.  I then quickly lift up the other leg and slide to the other side to finish the move.  This goes on for 15 seconds or so until I realize I look even stupider moving my legs like a jackass and revert back to Jimmy The Snitch.
• The Moon Bounce: happens when I’m in my group of friends and the chorus of an upbeat song comes on.  As soon as the chorus starts I start jumping up and down with a big smile on my face and one arm raised in the sky.  In my mind I’m starting a trend that everyone will start doing, but in reality I’m the only one jumping and spilling beer everywhere.  Luckily this only goes on for five seconds or so because I’m in such bad shape I have about five bounces in me before I turn red, fall over and look like a beached whale huffing for air and cooing while slumped on the dance floor.
• The Frightened Hawk: only occurs from Jimmy The Snitch position.  I wiggle around in my concrete shoes while I scour the dance floor for someone I would like to dance with.  I eventually spot someone about 25 feet away.  I attempt to make eye contact with her and when I do I immediately turn away like I didn’t mean to.  I glance around the room for ten seconds and then stare right back at her until she makes eye contact again and I turn away again.  If this happens four times or so I feel like she’s into me, but in reality she’s just having a good time doing her thing except for this weird guy in the corner who keeps staring at her all night and the only reason she keeps looking his way is to be able to give the cops a thorough description of me so they know who to give the restraining order to.

So as you can see, ladies and gentlemen, I need help.  So, I implore you, intervene me!  If I’m missing a dancing opportunity grab my shoulder, slap me in the forehead and point out what I’m missing.  If you know better dance moves you can teach me grab my shoulder, slap me in the forehead and show me how to get my groove back (actually I never had it, so just show me how not to look like a Whitey McWhiterson).  And most importantly if you see me successfully dancing with beautiful women and showing off incredible dance moves…don’t wake me up…such a wonderful dream.

Thank you for helping.

XOXOXO,

Bryan “Three Left Feet” Fraker

As I was sitting at work today staring off into the distance from the confines of a newly cleaned bathroom stall between doing work and taking my 5th “bathroom break” (code for just sitting on the toilet) of the day I began to wonder if my beloved Cincinnati Reds have what it takes to make the World Series (for the record…yes) and how that would be Heaven if they did. Then I wondered what my Hell would be and quickly shuddered at the thought of the St. Louis Crybabies…I mean Antichrists…I mean Lovespregamecirclejerksandbuttcrackbodyshots were to win. Then I thought about Queen Latifah fighting Marmaduke. Then sex. Then baseball. Then sex. Then a unicorn dribbling a basketball. Then sex with a basketball. Then what my whole Hell might look like because I’m curious and perverted that way. After hours upon hours of thinking with billions upon billions of tax dollars wasted and trips upon trips for “bathroom breaks” I came up with what I think my Hell might be.  You ready?  Here we go…and yes I know I’m weird.

I imagine my Hell is a giant game show with the devil as the host.  His name is Cornelius and he is the demented, unholy brother of Big Bird.  Turns out they both tried out for Sesame Street, but Big Bird got the job because kids smiled when Big Bird talked to them and Cornelius would keep causing the children to wet themselves just from his presence.  His eyes are jet black, his feathers blood red and he carries a scepter with him that shoots fireballs, fish guts and those annoying giant green nuts that make your hands smell awful for days if you touch them.

The stage is set up like Hollywood Squares…a tic-tac-toe formation of nine rooms numbered 1-9 with steps up to each one.  There is a studio audience filled with demons, ghouls and people who don’t want to be my friend on Facebook so they have the opportunity to laugh at me even in the afterlife.  In the middle of the stage there is a giant spinner that looks just like the one from the board game Life. It has 10 spots with the numbers 1-9 on nine of them and the tenth spot is called “Booby Waterfall”.  It’s just there to give me hope.  It’s impossible to land on.  Cornelius is the devil after all.

In order to figure out which room I have to enter I first have to walk right up to the wheel and drop my pants.  Each peg on the wheel, instead of being a harmless plastic nub, is a taser set to “Deep Fry”.  Cornelius spins the wheel, the tasers turn on and the only way to get the wheel to stop is for the tasers hit…let’s just say, to keep this post family-friendly…my exposed penis.  After 17 years or so of constant “Shock C**k” the wheel will eventually land on a number.  I then have to waddle up the stairs to whatever room the wheel landed on while I constantly get stung on my ass by millions of bees that inject me Tabasco sauce whenever they strike until I finally fall through the correct door and into the torture room “Shock C**k” decided.

“But Fraker,” you may ask “what do each of the numbers mean?”  First off you are a sick human being for wanting to know how I would spend eternity if I were to be cast into the depths of Hell for my life of sin and blasphemy.  Second…I like the way you think so I’ll tell you.  There is no order in terms of which room is worst because, quite frankly, f*** them all.

1. Teabag Room.  This is the room where I drink green and Earl Grey teas while talking current events with friends and family, right?…Wrong!  This is the room that consists of only a naked Tom Brady and a knee-high bench with straps.  I get strapped on the bench laying face up.  Tom Brady straddles my face.  Tom Brady then squats up and down with his, um, footballs whacking my face in various spots.  Eyes, nose, mouth, forehead…all of it.  This goes on and on until Cornelius deems fit.  Could be five minutes, could be 5,000 years.
2. Blind Melon “No Rain” Room.  Exactly what the title says.  There’s nothing in here but four speakers in the corners blaring the worst song in the history of mankind: Blind Melon’s “No Rain”.  No matter how hard I try to cover my ears or yell over the song to drown it out the volume always the same noise level in my head…brain raping.  I have to endure this torture with no sleeping, eating, drinking or suicide until Cornelius sees fit.
3. Back Door Room.  A room full of objects ranging from a pencil to an atomic bomb with every size in between + me bent over a chair + Cornelius as a proctologist= the Back Door Room.
4. Swimming Room.  Upon entering this room I fall into an ocean of water.  After I pop my head out of the water I see an island with all my friends waiting for me.  They’re all screaming for me to join them on the island for an awesome party.  There’s even a group of female movie stars yelling for me to make it so they can give me immense pleasure forever.  I start doggie paddling over with a chubby imagining a 2003 Britney Spears massaging peanut brittle on my butt and right when I’m about to set foot on the island and…a shark bites off my arm and the tide takes me back out to sea.  I try again to reach it and get within inches of the goal when a group of piranhas eat all the skin off one leg.  Back out I go, get within centimeters of land…then get Steve Irwined by a stingray (too soon?…uh-oh…that’s a “going to Hell” comment, isn’t it?…damnit!…I’m not helping my cause to not go to Hell by making comments that will send me to Hell in a post I’m writing about what my Hell might look like…poor timing)  Anyway, this process keeps going with other marine animals until there’s just my head floating in the water like Wilson from Castaway and finally land on the island…only to have Cornelius lift me out of the water, look into my soul and yell “You’re still in Hell, bitch!!!”
5. Waxing Room.  As many of you know I like to say my body looks like “Chewbacca going through chemo.”  In other words…I’m a hairy man.  This room consists of me getting my feet chained into the ground like a car wash.  I am then disrobed completely and the track begins to move.  At random intervals a waxing strip dipped in fire is slapped on me and quickly removed causing the hair to go with it and leaving behind third-degree burns.  Here’s the kicker…my hair instantly grows back.  I see it come off my chest in the wax, but when I look down my sternum is still a forest of follicles.  The waxing strips pay maximum attention to my nipples, bikini line and eyelids.  This process goes on until Cornelius deems fit.
6. Sports misery.  This goes straight to my first love…”wiener?”…very funny, jerk…it’s not wiener…it’s sports.  I sit on a chair of fire ants while eating asbestos chips and drinking hydrochloric acid while watching all the sports moments that have given me heartbreak: Ohio State football losing their national championships to Florida in 2007 and LSU in 2008.  Ohio State basketball losing the national championship to Florida in 2007.  The Cincinnati Reds getting swept by the Philadelphia Phillies in 2010.  The Chicago Bears losing to the Indianapolis Colts in Super Bowl XLI and then to the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Championship game in 2010.  The Columbus Blue Jackets.  The time my junior year in baseball I missed a suicide squeeze call in a tie game in the last inning and we lost in extra innings.  The time I peed myself at a coach pitch game in 1996. Not only does Cornelius show all of these moments on a loop…he throws in hypothetical situations in there that I think are real and involve people I hate.  The Reds lose in the World Series on a walk-off home run by Dane Cook.  The Bears lose in the Super Bowl on a last second TD pass from Pat Sajak (until I get on Wheel of Fortune!) to former Westerville City School Superintendent George Tombaugh.   I miss a two foot putt for the Masters championship and lose to any Canadian while my pants fall down showing that I have no genitalia and as a result I get laughed at by every female I ever found attractive in my life.  Cornelius probably will make this stage last the longest…it’s the worst.
7. Retirement Home Sponge Room.  I’m transformed into a sponge at a retirement home and am used in baths to every resident until Cornelius says so.
8. “Hold it!!!” Room.  This room is just a hybrid of the movies Saw and Speed.  As soon as I enter the room I find a stick of dynamite on my, uh, member.  A TV then turns on explaining that I must consume a gallon of water in 10 minutes or else the dynamite goes off.  I finish the challenge in with one second to spare.  I think I’m out of the woods, but then I get a phone call from Dennis Hopper telling me that if I ever pee, even one little drop, the dynamite will blow up.  After I hang up the phone Keanu Reeves is magically in front of me grabbing my member with one hand yelling at me “Don’t pee!  I’ll think of a plan!” and Sandra Bullock is behind me with her hands inside me holding onto my bladder like it’s a steering wheel and yelling “I’M SO SCARED RIGHT NOW!!!  WHAT DO I DO???”  This goes on for hours until Keanu and Sandra realize they don’t need to be holding on to me in order to survive, run out of the room, I start to pee and…BOOM!!!  The dynamite goes off, blood goes everywhere and Cornelius leaves me in tremendous pain with no member until he decides to end it.
9. ???…Room.  This room hasn’t been invented yet.  Cornelius will have something evil in this room for sure.

After I enter one room and Cornelius grows weary of watching me writhe in agony he takes me out of the room and I have to spin the wheel and do “Shock C**k” again.  This process goes on for all eternity.

So there you have it.  What my Hell might look like.  Of course it will end up being 1,000,000,000,000,000 worse than I can ever imagine.  It’s Hell!

Now if you excuse me I’m going to pray for the next 32 years.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day everyone!

Before I start going crazy with Irish Carbombs, Killian’s beer and DiGiorno pizzas (today they’re called O’DiGiorno’briens) the 404 apartment (Dan, Nate and moi) would like to share with you, in the spirit of college basketball’s March Madness…our own bracket: The 404 Madness!!!

It’s a compilation of our memories, events and objects from the first 6 months of us living at our lovely Alexandria Colony complex.  We broke it up into 4 regions with 64 total things.  Here’s a picture of the Excel spreadsheet we used (and because I’m not a tech guy and I really want some beer it’s just a photo, not interactive) so you can see how the bracket looks like:

404 Bracket

Now I know some of it is missing, but the damn paint tool screwed up so it hasn’t worked according to plan.  Just use your imagination to fill out the rest of the bracket for the bottom two matchups in each region.  Here they are: 

The Brian Pride region is on the bottom left and Region #4 is on the bottom left.  Brian Pride has #7 Falcon Punch vs. #10 Like a G6 and #2 Drunk Grandma vs. #15 Gaswerks.

Region #4 has #7 House Soccer vs. #10 Lodge Bar Bathroom Guy and #2 Wiener Dog Pooping vs. #15 House Board Games.

Now here are the 64 objects with pictures and descriptions of each one.  Click on the link for a region below, click on the first picture in the set, then you can browse through each item in the region in order of how high their seed is.  Here you go:

Quicksand Region

Brian Pride Region

Panama Green Region

Region #4…Region

Please leave your comments on each item, on Facebook or text one of us 404 people what you think and who you think should advance.  We will update who won with your comments and how we feel.

Enjoy 404 March Madness!!!

Today at 10:43 AM 24 years ago…Bryan Adam Fraker was born into this world. I was not awake for the event because the self-medicated coma I was in prevented me from seeing anything in the AM…or sunlight for that matter. Turning into a 24 year old means absolutely nothing. I’m involved in the real world now and the only thing I can look forward to is that I’m not old enough to be the creepy old guy at a college bar yet…however with my receding hairline, odor of desperation and the self-confidence of a white guy in an Al Roker look-a-like contest I’m betting this St. Patty’s day is the last event I can be at a campus bar unless I lie and say I’m in grad school, didn’t start college for three years out of high school or I’m Justin Bieber’s stunt double. Although I am getting older I’m not too old to compile a birthday wishlist. So for those of you still thinking about what to get me for my birthday here are some ideas for you:

Inches.  Now this has multiple connotations.  I would like inches added (to my height, to my vertical jump so I can jump over a parking block without falling, to my hairline as stated before to something in my pants…my wallet…get your head out of the gutter!…I don’t need inches added to that…I mean it’s big enough…I was always told this axiom for size: if it’s a multiple of three it’s good enough for me…uh-oh…four isn’t divisible by three) or subtracted (from my stomach so it doesn’t jiggle on car turns, from my college debt, from the amount of women who dry heave when I introduce myself, from the hair count steadily rising on my back…I’m turning into a manscaped werewolf.)

Dickface Brady’s ability.  I don’t want physical harm to come to Dickface.  I am getting sick and tired of the one guy I irrationally despise in the world to keep getting anointed the greatest quarterback in NFL history.  If someone could please just take his quarterbacking ability that would be great.  I’m not sure how it’s done, but I imagine it involves voodoo, a bottle of 151, the tears of a lesbian and two tons of molasses…and if you give him crabs too I will look the other way.

A jewel encrusted manthong.  How else is a girl supposed to feel pretty when making calendars and videos for people when there isn’t some goodies near her goodies?  The perfect one would have alternating circles of sapphires and emeralds so the front would look like a bullseye and on the back…well where the back goes I don’t think jewels should go…so maybe some sort of padding for comfort?

A ruble.  I know it’s a foreign currency.  I know it’s from Europe somewhere.  I know I like saying it…but I don’t know what it is.  I want one.

Awesome dreams.  Some of my dreams include being the UFC lightweight champion…even though I’m 215 lbs.; being a Sherlock Holmes-like detective in a library; pleasuring Britney Spears on a flying carpet; getting bumrushed while I was showering by strangers; and being in my cousin’s house with Bruce Willis and Jackie Chan, them telling me to get shot, me standing up and getting shot in the shoulder.  These are all awesome!  I want to keep these up in the same genre of All-American Man.

An airplane slide.  I hate getting up for work.  It’s early, I’m tired, I don’t want to get out of bed…but there is a solution.  You know those inflatable slides that airplanes have if there’s an emergency landing and you need to get on the ground?  I want one of those for my room.  I’m on the second story of a townhouse that faces our parking lot.  I want to install that under my window so all I have to do is open the window, push a button to inflate the slide and “Wheeeeeeeee!!!!!” myself down to my car.  How can you not have a giant smile on your face when going down that slide?  I would be excited to wake up in the morning if I had one of those.

David Arquette’s DNA.  There’s something in those 46 chromosomes that made a hot chick like Courtney Cox marry him.  We all know it wasn’t his looks, acting ability or money.  I need that Two League Gene (gets you someone who is two levels above your league.)   Although there is one other reason he got someone like her…

Hypnotism book.  Better cover all the bases.

Four more years of college.  I figure I can just take the identity of someone’s younger brother (or given the right amount of bras, foundation and Nair…sister.)  I can show up at orientation and convince everyone I am really 18…but with my personal ID so I can go the bars.  It’s a perfect double life!  To freshmen and sophomores I’m 18 year old Little Danny Peters, but to everyone over 21 I’m Bryan Fraker.  This is perfect!  Who has a younger sibling?  Anyone?…please?…please???…

The ability to play a musical instrument.  I used to think it was dumb to play the piano, guitar, violin or any other musical instrument.  However upon seeing how much people enjoy someone who can play music (except those butthole acoustic guitar hippies) I would love to know a musical instrument.  The only thing standing in my way would be the fact that I don’t have a musical bone in my body.  When we had to play the recorder in 4th grade I could play “Hot Cross Buns”…and that was it!  It was four notes!  In basic rhythm!  And failed.  Now the only talent I have is to play the theme song from Jaws on a piano.  Dah, nuh.  Dah, nuh.  It’s two keys right next to each other.  So if anyone out there wants to hear the Jaws theme played for 11 seconds of enjoyment…come find me.

Ability to tie a tie.  I have yet to do this even once.  Every time I try my tie looks like a soft pretzel, a balloon doggie or Mount Rushmore…but no tie.  I tried using YouTube videos, following step-by-step instructions, watching Debbie Does Dallas…nothing works!  If you could just put the correct steps in tying a tie into a bottle of Mr. Boston at Lodge Bar I promise I will have the ability to tie a tie by this Friday around 9 PM.

A catapult.  I promise I won’t use it…ok I’ll use it, but only for good…ok for some mischief, but no shooting off full trash bags so I don’t have to take them to the dumpster…ok lots of full trash bags, but no giant snowballs made with yellow snow…ok lots of yellow snowballs, but no people who talk about themselves in the 3rd person…ok Bryan won’t use Bryan’s catapault for peAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

A surgically implanted Whoopie Cushion.  HAHAHAHAHAHA EVERYTIME I SIT DOWN I’LL FART!!!!!!!!!!…but just in my right cheek…the left one is perfect just the way it is.

My superpower of choice.  Some people want to fly…others X-Ray vision…and probably one 24 year-old boy a Whoopie Cushion in his right buttcheek…but as for a superpower I want the ability to find little things that are lost.  Where’d the remote go?  NANANA…it’s in the couch cushion!  Where’s my ID?  NANANA…it’s behind the TV!  Where’s my going out manthong?  NANANA…it’s on my ironing board freshly ironed!  I know this power is selfish and a waste of superhuman abilities…but I don’t want to not know where my jewel encrusted manthong is!  I need to know!!!

Empty Bathroom Finder.  It’s simple: you have this device where you type in where you are in the world.  It scans the building for the toilets and urinals on all floors, uses thermal imaging to find butts on seats and tells you what bathroom on what floor is empty of people so you can have some privacy!  I hate going to the bathroom with other people already in there.  Their funk is already in the air, I can never concentrate and instead of giving myself relief I end up getting the taste of ass in the back of my throat for 45 minutes.  Well, no more with the Empty Bathroom Finder!

Side note: this product to the best of my knowledge doesn’t exist, but if you have $14 million for research and development to create this item…it would be a great happy birthday to me!

And last, but not least:

The love and health of all my friends and family.  Yeah, yeah I got sappy at the end, but without friends and family what good would an airplane slide, Empty Bathroom Finder and David Arquette’s DNA be?

A jewel encrusted manthong, however…

I thought about doing something different here.  I wrote a skit about a first date using me and a fictional woman.  And if your name is Olivia Johnson…why won’t you call me???  WHY!?!?!?!?!!?…anyway enjoy!

He’s Gonnablowit: Hello folks and welcome to this edition of Real Life Play-By-Play…the show where voyeurism is not a crime.  We are here at the home of Bryan Fraker, a 23 year-old college graduate who works in data entry.  The subject of our episode today is a first date he is about to go on with a real life female who he doesn’t have to pay at the end of the night, make sure she stays inflated or be on constant alert for a bulge in “her” pants.  I’m He’s Gonnablowit and I’m joined by Don’t Pukeonher on the color commentary.  How are you doing Don’t?

Don’t Pukeonher: I’m doing ok He’s.  I have done color commentary for the Super Bowl, a 5^th grade graduation and the director’s cut of the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape and I must say…this is the most excited I have ever been.

He’s: Excellent Don’t.  We are now in Bryan’s room as we await his wardrobe choice.  He just took a shower where he cleaned his body thoroughly, shaved his face clean and gave himself a pep talk in the mirror before going to his room.

Don’t: Actually He’s, Bryan was talking to his penis.

He’s: Oh that makes more sense.  I was wondering why he was saying things like “please don’t pee on me”, “why are you so small?” and “seriously, please don’t pee on me.”

Don’t: Well it’s always good for you and your penis to be on the same page regarding urine expulsion. 

H: Now Don’t you had a chance for a quick interview after the shower, correct?

D: That’s right I did.  I asked him if he did anything special in preparation for the date and Bryan responded yes I shaved my butt crack so I wouldn’t get swamp ass.  At this point I vomited on the microphone and passed out for 15 minutes effectively ending the interview.

H: Understandable Don’t.  No one wants to hear about another man’s butt crack.  Ok and here Bryan is picking out his wardrobe for tonight, a vital factor in dating a woman for the first time.  Bryan needs to make sure he picks a nice looking shirt, maybe a striped button-up shirt or a freshly ironed polo.  As for the pants I would hope he picks out something stylish with no marks on it and some shoes that are odorless and have been far away from beer and vomit.  Let’s watch.

(Bryan picks up a shirt from the floor)

D: Going to the floor for a shirt…not a good first option.

(Bryan smells the shirt, gags, throws it in the corner and washes his hands)

H: OH!!! That musky odor Bryan experienced was not victory…that was a combination of spilled Jagerbomb and vomited Jagerbomb.  Not a winner in anyone’s book other than Bret Michaels.

(Bryan rummages through the closet to find a polo at the bottom of the pile)

D: Oh it looks like he found a shirt.  I don’t think this shirt has moved since he moved in and certainly hasn’t been washed or ironed since the Clinton administration.

H: That shirt has more wrinkles than a senior center aerobics class…and he’s fine with it.  I’m hoping his pants are a better option…and he goes to the floor once again and finds a pair of shorts that is missing its button and has a two inch hole on the right butt cheek.

D: I think he’ll be ok though.  He’s not gonna wear a belt and the wrinkled shirt covers most the hole…plus his ass is an ironing board covered in denim and rogue hair so people can easily overlook any issues.

H: Oh, Don’t, take a gander at this.  Bryan is attempting to gel his hair to, and I’m quoting him on this, “Make her cryin’ for some Bryan.”  I’m betting with the way his balding-lives-with-his-parents-in-their-basement-and-pleasures-himself-to-Sunday’s-Macy’s-lingerie-section haircut that the only crying this woman is going to be doing is in her hands for wasting her Saturday night with  .

D: Speaking of the woman on this date let’s meet her via Bryan’s Facebook search history.  Her name is Olivia Johnson…and the only research Bryan did was looking at her bikini pictures from her Cancun ’08 album and considering there is a travel size bottle of Jurgen’s and an old towel under the desk I’m going to step away from the computer, set my hands and eyes on fire and act like this never happened.

H: Good call Don’t.  Anyway back to the date.  Bryan is currently en route to Olivia’s place.  In the pre-date interview he said that he cleaned it out so that it would be a nice Datemobile.  This consisted of him throwing all the clothes in the back seat (bye, bye back seat make out session), Febreezing the front seat to the point that you can feel your pores clogging with freshness and taking his vacuum to each seat so the crumbs would be eliminated.  Unfortunately he negated the floorboard and the hundred of sunflower seeds he spilled from two months ago.

D: Wait He’s did you say two months ago?

H: Yep.

D: Wow.

H: Yep.

D: Looks like Bryan has reached the front door and is walking with Olivia back to the car.  Let’s go to the first of our interview segments with the daters about their first impressions.

Bryan: Olivia looked so hot.  She was wearing a shirt that accented her cleavage very well and booty squeezing jeans.  I had to walk on her right side back to the car because I was rocking a half-boner when I saw her.  Plus she smelled like what I imagine those Macy’s lingerie models do and…I mean yeah she was cool.

Olivia: When I first saw Bryan I thought I should look in my mailbox to make sure a homeless pedophile didn’t move into the neighborhood.  I think he left some of his hair back at his apartment.  Not only that, but I could smell his cologne before he even turned the corner to my street.  It was a mix of a used car salesman, creepy uncle and how any weekend weatherman on local news must smell.  Plus he just kept staring at my chest…and I’m pretty sure he was half-erect for the walk back to the car.

D: Alright well it sounds like these lovebirds are ready for a fun night.  On the agenda Bryan planned to go to a family-friendly chain restaurant with a modestly priced menu and then to a romantic comedy movie that Olivia picked out and Bryan really doesn’t want to see, but in order to have a successful date he had to do what every man in society knows to do…let the woman pick and shut up.

H: Indeed Don’t.  Great game plan on Bryan’s part.  Oh, they just reached the restaurant.  Bryan is a gentleman this time with him opening the door to Olivia.  She smiles and politely gets out.

D: Don’t look at her ass, Bryan.

H: Don’t is right.  Olivia loves to catch men in the act of admiring her ass thereby making the man very embarrassed and have her know that the man is putty in her hands.

D: Don’t do it, Bryan!

H: Olivia goes in front…and there Bryan is with his eyes completely engulfed in it.

D: That’s gonna hurt him.

H: With a wry smile Olivia turned around and even with her gaze Bryan has not stopped staring at her ass.  They are now standing still with Olivia completely dumbfounded by this level of perverseness.  Bryan is still staring right at her butt cheeks and if I’m not mistaken I believe a glob of saliva has started down his mouth.

D: That’s right He’s Bryan tends to lose control of his mouth and brain whenever he is staring at attractive women.  He needs to snap out of it because of his certain…problem.

H: Let’s just say there’s a reason why his friends gave him the Indian name “Cums In His Pants Quick.”  Ok it’s been 20 seconds of standing still, Olivia finally fake coughed to get Bryan’s attention and he snaps out of the ass-coma like nothing happened.  Very shrewd move on his part, but you can tell by his wide smile he enjoyed every second of Buttvision.

D: Looks like Bryan needs to upgrade to the normal bottle of Jurgen’s…hahahah-ok before dinner happens let’s have an interview with the two.

B: I’m thinking this date is going very, very smooth so far.  I used everything my dad taught me about women.  He taught me 3 things: 1. Always open or hold doors for women.  2. Always talk about them because the less you say the better.  3. Try not to peak at their naughty bits too much…at least when they’re looking.  And I’m doing pretty well at #3.  I’m pretty sure I’ve only done it twice now and that’s when she wasn’t looking.

O: 47 times.  47 times her stared at my chest or ass…and he was driving!  And sure he talked about me the whole time, but it was stuff that really didn’t need to be asked.  How much money would it take me to pose nude?  Weird.  What’s my favorite color of boxers on a man?  Why does that matter?  And I haven’t even mentioned his half-boner still there in his pants.  I mean don’t men all have some sort of off switch for that thing?  Like thinking about their grandma or something?

D: Well that sounds splendid.  Now they are on to the ordering of dinner.  If Bryan was smart he would get a sensible meal that will have zero chance of spilling on his shirt, doesn’t contain odorous ingredients in case they are in close quarters later and absolutely ignore any alcohol choice.  This way he is in total control of any external forces that could ruin this date because God knows Bryan has a hard time not ruining the date on his own.

H: Here’s the order…and Bryan got the garlic spaghetti with a broccoli side dish and the biggest beer they have.  Wow.

D: So not only will Bryan deal with spilling sauce on his clothes, but now there’s the ticking time bomb in his colon known as broccoli.  I honestly think that Bryan is awkward with women.

H: Actually, Don’t he’s a Fraker…they’re genetically awkward.

D: Oh, yeah.  That’s right.

H: As for Olivia she got the turkey club with what appears to be a pina colada that is the most expensive alcohol on the menu.  Looks like she wants to not only forget this date, but be sure to make her time worthwhile.

D: All right well we are gonna step away until dinner is done and get their exit interviews once they reach the movie theater.

………………………………………………………….

D: Ok we are at the movie theater and let’s get some thoughts about what happened at dinner.

B: Dinner went great.  I continued to talk about her the whole time, wiped my mouth off whenever I took a bite of spaghetti, she smiled when I cracked a few jokes and as we were leaving I felt her hand graze gingerly across my lower back.  I think she’s digging me.

O: Hmmm.  He thought dinner went well?  Let me tell you what happened.  I had a count of 102 times he stared at my chest during dinner.  He would ask a question to me then instantly stare at my chest.  I bet he thinks he was playing it off well by acting as if he was looking at my water glass, but no one looks at water and starts licking their lips and air fondling imaginary boobs with both hands.  Yes I did laugh at him a couple of times, but it was because he got sauce on his nose and had no clue it was there.  It was on there for at least 15 minutes and I was laughing too hard to tell him it was there.  I don’t know how much garlic was in that spaghetti, but I can’t get within 5 feet of him without my eyes watering up.  Now I understand why Dracula hates garlic.  As for the slight graze on the lower back…I saw a cute guy I knew from my gym and I stealthily gave him my number behind Bryan’s back and accidentally touched Bryan.  I hope that guy calls.

H: Ouch!  Sounds like the only cryin’ for Bryan is him in his bed, naked, double fisting beers and watching Showgirls with Spanish subtitles because that sounds sexier.

D: That’s gross…ok here we are in the theater.  The movie is 30 minutes in.  Let’s watch what happens.

H: Bryan has got a look of pure agony on his face.  With no boobies or explosions happening and lots of crying and cheesy romantic scenes he is at the end of his ropeof caring.  As for Olivia she is riveted by everything on screen.  She is connecting with each character and is even asking rhetorical questions out loud, but Bryan is right there with an answer he thinks is funny.  This only aggravates Olivia more and more as she huffs and continues to watch the movie…allowing Bryan to stare at her chest…still staring…no blinking or head movement at all…still going…and now he’s drooled in the popcorn.

D: Another fake cough from Olivia and Bryan is snapped back into reality an…uh-oh.  What’s with Bryan’s face?

H: He’s wincing in pain, but there’s nothing wrong with hi…oh, no he’s got to fart.

D: Ouch!  That broccoli side dish was indeed a ticking time bomb and having it go off in this quarter-full theater is not the best place.  There is no one within three seats of the daters and any sound/smell will instantly be traced back to him.

H: He’s not gonna do it, is he?

D: He’s doing the patented Cross Legs approach by crossing his legs and leaning to one side.  He eases into it and…

(Audible fart)

H: Ewwwwww!!!!!!

D: That was not a silent one.  Olivia is looking over in horror, but Bryan tries convincing her it was the chair.  She is buying it.  Good save on Bryan’s part as he wipes his brow with relief thinking he’s in the clear…but here comes the smell.

H: There’s no way to cover this up.  He is dead to rights.  Oh, God!  It smells like a rotten egg that showered in skunk spray!

D: Looks like Olivia just got her first whiff of it…and she’s dry heaving.  I’ve been watching people date for 47 years now, 4 of them without hiding in the bushes, and that’s the first time I saw someone dry heave on a date.

H: Agreed.  How will Bryan recover from this?

D: Looks like he’s going to do it the old fashioned way…by drinking the beer he snuck in from his car…wait, what?

H: It looks like Bryan smuggled in some suds to get him through this movie.  At least when he cracked the beer open he offered Olivia the first sip.  That’s an extreme honor from the unwritten rules of smuggling booze on a date.  That’s up there with offering a jacket when she’s cold or showering before the date.

D: Indeed.  Well let’s let these two daters finish their date and we’ll get the post date interviews after their date.

………………………………………..

D: And the date is completed so let’s check on the two daters to see if a possible relationship is in the cards.

H: Well Don’t we wanted to interview Bryan, but he’s too busy sitting in his car listening to two songs on repeat: “Cry Me A River” by Justin Timberlake and “I’m Not A Girl; Not Yet A Woman” by Britney Spears while sobbing uncontrollably.  I’m thinking the date didn’t go the way he imagined.  Let’s go to Olivia for her point of view.

O: So after Bryan farted in the theater and drank his six pack of lukewarm beer he became very emotional and kept whining “Why don’t you love me?!?!?” while staring directly into my cleavage.  When I put my arms across my chest to prevent him from ogling my breasts any more he fell to the ground and had a temper tantrum on the ground outside the movie theater filled with leg kicking and fist pumping until I bent down to help him up…leaving my cleavage out.  He instantly saw it and fainted.  After I got dragged him into the car I threw him in the backseat where he had a dream that I never want to relive.  All he was doing was tossing, turning and talking, but the only words I could hear were “Olivia”, “boobies”, “Ray Charles”, “cotton candy” and “fire ants on my nipples”.  I shook him out of his slumber when I reached my apartment so he can drive himself home and as he sat up attempting to give me a kiss I looked down and saw why he was called “Sticky Pants.”  He insisted that it was just spilled beer on his pants, but I’ve seen There’s Something About Mary and I’m 99.9% sure he had some organic hair gel in his pants.  Then Bryan cried, shut the door and started cranking that 13 year-old teenage girl break-up music like a giant wuss.  I don’t think there’s any amount of money in the world that would convince me to go out with that crybaby again.

D:  That sounds like a rough date.  As we wind down tonight and file this under Poocano because of the constant sh*t that flowed from the crater that was this date we asked each dater for one word to describe the other person.

O: F****** hopeless.  I don’t care if I only get one word…that’s what he is.

B: (between sobs) Sniff, sniff…34D.

H: And that’s all she wrote.  For Don’t Pukeonher, I’m He’s Gonnablowit…and he sure did.  Good night!