Day 2

Its 9:56 and I've already zoned out. Don't ask me why, all I can say is that I was a few moments away from eloping to the nearest bar for my virgin escapade into raging alcoholism.

For full effect, download "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. The Rhinestone Cowboy sings a good rendition of that. So does Keith Tronic, just an octave higher.

It has been a long Monday. One that has worn me thin both physically, and mentally. But so what? Who cares? It's a road trip. The best and worst comes out of all of us.

For the record, the human pogo stick is seated at a table across the restaurant lamenting his loss to the Spurs. Tough season. Being a Jazz fan has syndicated the term "There's always next year."

On a side note, if I poke my two index fingers together in a rhythmic motion back and forth, and then pat the air two feet off of the ground, I'm referring to same-sex midget relationships correct?

In other news, the Rhinestone Cowboy has added another segment to the Rules of the R.O.A.D.S.

4. You should never be able to pull into a Cabela's outlet store while having a donut tire on your car.

And so what if I'm not an outdoors kind of guy. There's nothing wrong with paddling an oar into the air pretending that I'm on the high seas. A kids got to have an imagination right? And no, Royal Jericho, I can't do the worm. I'm white.

Quote of the day: "I walk in there and she's wearing a Levi mumu and orange crocs. I mean, for crying out loud, she's sewed some buttons to the back of a shower curtain it seems like."

It's been a good day. A long day. I think I'm losing my sanity, and I sound like a sailor. But I L-word my job, and the people I work with. I hope they feel the same.

Now lets go get busy at Bob's fruit dance.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Week of R.O.A.D.S.

I’m plopped in the passenger seat of an 11-butt cheek imprint Ford E-350, surrounded by some of the finest individuals that I have ever had the privilege of meeting in my short 27-years on the Lord’s green earth.

Yes, I am back on the road. And this may be one of the most entertaining weeks of my life.

Being on a road trip conjures up some of the most outlandish, left-field, WTF aspects of your personality. Don’t ask me why. I’ve never understood how it works. Some of the most random factoids and conversation topics get brought to the table as you stare out the window and make fun of the poser who has the douchebag Ragnar sticker on the back of his ’94 Corolla.

He probably got it off of eBay.

For full effect, download “On The Road Again” by Willie Nelson and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

You talk about some of the most bizarre subjects while being on the road. Especially when you’ve been in the car just over three and a half hours. Here are just some of the examples.

Average-size Applegate: “Look, I can eat eggs if I want to. So what if I fart on the road. You can’t tell me what I can’t eat.”

The Royal Jericho: “So I went out and ran a mile in under six minutes, and then came home and ate an entire box of cereal. True story.”

Unnamed source: “Yeah, they’re probably quoting Klingon while they’re making love. Either that or they’ve never actually attempted the act of spawning children.”

And those are just the tips of the iceberg.

Somewhere around dinnertime the great Rhinestone Cowboy began expressing his views on what he thought should be rules in all of our lives. Now you may remember the blogposts that I have written about what I feel are the truths in our lives, what I call Brocktrine:

1. You always want what you can’t have.
2. Whoever has the least amount of interest in a relationship has the most control in that relationship.
3. The rain in Spain will never cause a strain.
4. Audrey Hepburn is ridiculously good looking.

As discussed at dinner, there are some rules that the Rhinestone Cowboy feels that we should all abide by in our lives. This list will more than likely expand over the course of this week, therefore, I feel that they will be called The Rules of the R.O.A.D.S.”

1. Never order spaghetti at a restaurant.
2. If you are older than 16 years of age, thou should never bring a glove to a live baseball game.
3. If you are of Polynesian descent, and you are currently residing in the United States, do NOT greet the audience with the word “Aloha” when you are about to bear your testimony in church.

Yes they’re random, but they make sense. And if abided by will generate success in one’s career and personal endeavors. This may be one of the most entertaining weeks of my life, and there certainly is more to come in the next few days. I sure hope we get to the hotel sometime soon. Because somebody’s eggs are about to burst.

We Are All Douchebags

We’ve all seen them before. Watched them from a distance at Friday night parties. Listened to bragging rants about their bicep workouts at Golds Gym earlier that day while they flex to point the direction of the gym. Yes, you all know who I am talking about. The bleached-tipped, popped-collared, pink-shirted creatures that are also known as douchebags.

For full effect, download any song by Kanye West and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

If you look up the word douchebag in the dictionary, you will see a picture of three young guys standing in douchebag poses, wearing douchebag clothes. All three will have the douchebag bleached-tipped hair, and would be brushing off the dirt from their douchebag matching shoes. It is a hideous douchebag picture that would make any other normal person embarrassed about what they had gotten themselves into if that picture had ever seen the light of day. These types of boners are the extreme epitome of a carrier that injects fluid into the feminine area.

They are all over the place. They surround us like obese individuals at a fried doughnut festival. They are the walking urethras that wear sunglasses inside movie theatres or long after the midnight hour. You know them. Douchebags are everywhere.

It is not difficult to spot a douchebag. First, you have to go by their apparel. A pink collared shirt is a simple notification that a douchebag is on the premise. The creature receives even more douchebag points if the collar on that pink shirt is popped up, only indicating his moronic behavior and douchebag style. His outfit moves even higher up on the douchebag scale if that shirt is actually tucked into a belt buckle the size of Delaware.

Their headwear can also be douchebag clothing. It is one thing for someone to wear a baseball hat in support of the squad that they’ve been cheering on for years. It is another thing for them to have a straight-brimmed New York Yankees cap turned at an angle, with the size and authenticity stickers still adhered on it. This headwear only increases their douchebag validity.

Moving on from the clothes that they are wearing to the body that they are trying to cover up. Fake tans combined with those pink popped collars show more of their douchebag character. Add to that the concept of a flavor-saver piece of facial hair. Yes, you know what I’m talking about, that tiny little patch of triangle-shaped pubes right below their lower lip. Those are douchebag whiskers, no question. Combine the Ryan Seacrest bleached tipped haircut, and you just about have yourself a prime douchebag.

On the basketball court, these types of individuals are the mutton-munchers at the gym that bring the shallow, airhead trophy-girls to their games every night, just to “impress” them with their masculinity and toughness on the court. They are the kinds of guys who wear barely any kind of shirt, just so they could show off their upper bodies, and their “rippling pectorals” as Megara says. They are the cocky pricks who after every other play, wipe the bottoms of their shoes to try and prove that they are athletic, while at the same time, check their hair if it had the possibility of getting a little bit messed up when they drove the lane on that last play.

They are the pinnacle of penis lovers. The height of buffoon behavior. The summit of stupidity. And they are everywhere. Out to get us. You know them. In fact, you are them. We all are. The pride inside of us has given way to at least one or two douchebag characteristics at some point in our lives.

As the great Fishmitts once said, “In one way or another, we’re all douchebags.” That is true. With that being said there is no way in frozen Hell that you will ever catch me in a pink popped-collared shirt tucked into my belt buckle covering up my fake tan.

Oh, and don’t forget the flavor-saver either.

The Worst Day Ever...

Anyone born in the 1980's will admit that the above image was one of the worst things that could happen to you as a child. In between chipped teeth and broken fingernails trying to pry these two apart, nothing halted creativity more than this conundrum.

The Post Secret Road Trip

I need better sleeping habits if I come home from work for lunch and can't keep my eyes open through a half an hour session of Looney Tunes. Those poor sleeping habits are what made me have a skewed R.E.M. schedule for the last four days or so.

For full effect, download that one Kenny Loggins song about Winnie the Pooh that you and I used to listen to at night and fall asleep to. Listen to that throughout the duration of this post.

I do need to catch you up on this past weekend's events. By the way, I have been a real curse word of a blogger this year. Last year I was so dedicated, so religious about my postings. This year my blogging skills are on the same level as Lamar Odom's field goal percentage. But with that being said, I L-worded this past weekend. With a passion.

For all of you first time readers, this past Friday, myself, Chris Caldwell, and Bryan Uhri took an 802 mile road trip to Grand Junction, CO to watch a Post Secret Live event. For those of you who don't know what Post Secret is, do yourself a favor and go to postsecret.com. I don't have the time or the energy to spoon-feed you the answer.

Road trips with guys are some of the best times of your life. They are a combination of dirty jokes, red bulls, and hot wings, all saran wrapped with deep thoughts into one another's personal lives and hidden selves. Yes, those were good times as we packed into my Rogue and took off down I-70 East for 5 1/2 hours. Have I mentioned before how that stretch of land is uglier than Khloe Kardashian? Whoa, that's two disses to the Odom family. I need to tone it down.

The trip was good. The food was better. Some hometown hot wing spot was the joint we hit up surrounded by pale ale and dozens of in-bred Broncos' fans.

In-Bred Bronco: "Shouldn't have traded Tebow. BRONCOS RULE!"

Cue four syllable word to confuse the behemoth.

The Post Secret event was a hit. Honestly it brought tears to my eyes as bi-sexuals, schizophrenics, and gorgeous deaf girls stood before a microphone and confessed their hearts out to the audience. My respect for everyone in the auditorium rose every ten minutes as we all sat in the padded chairs and figuratively held hands, all in harmony on the chorus of Kum-Bah-Yah.

For the record, the creator of Post Secret, Frank Warren, has a heart full of gold. I am convinced the man has a place docked in heaven right next to Mother Teresa and John Lennon. The man is incredible. Devoted to a heartfelt cause for no other reason other than his love for humanity and the people that surround him. Walking out of that event, I wanted to get his initials tattooed onto my lower back.

True story.

Overall, it was one of the best road trips that I've had the privilege of enjoying. And I'm sure the other sausages in the car felt the same way as we journeyed home into the night, pulling into our pad just after 3:30 Sunday morning. But it was all worth it. The screwed up sleep schedule, the lack of dietary consistency, the fact that for a split second, I think I had some kind of wet substance coming out of my eyes, all of it made the ride great. And something that I think I might L-word doing again with a member of the opposite sex.

That is, if she doesn't mind my new tramp stamp.

Pre-Post Secret

388 miles away from home, three nimrods sit at a bar in Grand Junction, waiting for hot wings and beer battered fries meanwhile glued to the pixels making up the next stage of Draw Something.

Yes, that's us. Myself, Chris Caldwell and Bryan Uhri took an extended man-date road trip across I-70. Which I may add, is the most boring piece of land outside of Wyoming itself.

For full effect, create your own road trip playlist and play at maximum volume for a sustained five hours.

I would go into detail about this trip, an iPhone combined with a fresh order of hot wings won't do it justice, so until then, just listen to Bob Dylan and tell all those dirty little secrets in your own mind. I'll be back with a full recap tomorrow night.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:At a bar in Grand Junction, CO