PHST Day 6

In a few hours there will be just over 1400 miles logged on the wheels of Keith Tronic’s Honda Pilot. This delicate beast of an SUV has been littered and abused, compacted with empty Maverick cups, wrinkled info packets, and a couple hundred riveting nitrogen emissions from each one of our gastric systems packed into these leather seats. More amusing is how we hear Keith’s sphincter whistle going off every 20 minutes or so.

For full effect, download, “Never There” by Cake and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Swamp Thing: In a deep/slurred/semi-intoxicated tone “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!”

My mind is still on cloud nine as I am currently digesting my secret lover from Heber. You all know who I’m talking about; my darling sweetheart of a pulled pork sandwich who L-words me more than the L-word itself. There’s nothing better than to take that grilled cheese creation into the back of a diner and just pound her away for a good solid ten minutes.

For the record, if you are looking for some of the best dessert known to man, I would suggest the coconut almond chocolate chip gelato served up by the Spin Café. Even better though is to take the acronym of that flavor and see how many sullied comments you can come up with. That frozen treat was divine, and even though I had already packed away the Miss Piggy, I sure did enjoy getting a huge mouthful of that stuff and just ramming it down my throat.

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “DEER! RIGHT THERE! SEE IT? 2500 YARDS AWAY STANDING BEHIND THAT SMALL BUSH EATING THOSE PURPLE BERRIES OFF OF THAT PARTIALLY BURNT QUAKEY BRANCH! DO YOU SEE HIM? RIGHT THERE! HOW ARE YOU MISSING THIS?!”

The Rhinestone Cowboy has a unique talent for spotting rodents three miles in the distance. It’s his gift. We all have our own abilities that we bring to the table. Keith’s is the amount of liquid that his bladder can hold over a 500-mile stretch of highway. And for me it’s the ability to come up with an ethnic pun for getting excited watching last night’s RNC.

I haven’t laughed this hard in a long time; a very long time. Laughs that came from the mushroom flicking, the use of our fashion intellect to decide if the drapes matched the carpet at Wingers, the melodic achievement that came from syncing up Bieber, or seeing if we could inject random words into our dialogue.

Keith Tronic: “Alright, I want you to pull out your laptops right meow, and scrotum the website www….”

The most memorable moment of the trip came on Wednesday evening as we sat in Café Rio mulling over our Pork Tostadas. In a 40-second span, a monotone desire to drill rehearsed by yours truly had us overcome with a gut-wrenching blast of hysterics. I sweated. Keith cried. The Rhinestone Cowboy even peed a little. For 15 minutes we sat there laughing, just bawling in humor. The entire restaurant wondered what had possessed us, especially the table next to us. What would cause us to snort out house dressing from our noses in between chuckles? As we sat there in tears, bright red from the giggle fits, all we could think about was the unanswered question of what would we do.

Yes kids, this has been a trip for the ages; one that I will remember for a long time. One that has created a horde of inside jokes that the three of us will snicker at for months and maybe even years to come. This has been a vacation that I think we all needed. At least I know that I sure needed this. Two and a half years ago when I applied for this job, I really had no idea what direction my life was headed. To me, this was just an entry-level position that would get me to the next step as soon as possible.

However, this job has meant more to me than Buckeye football, and that’s saying a lot. The people that I have met, the bonds that have been made, the miles that have been traveled, everything about it has made this the best damn entry level job a man like me could be privileged to have. And as I sit here in this ragged Pilot, listening to Keith and the Cowboy singing the chorus to “California Girls”, I can’t help but be grateful to be a part of road trips like these, and glad that two of the finest gents that I’ll ever have the privilege of meeting have put up with a scrawny little brother like me for so long. Whatever happens in the next 50 years, I will always remember that one true fact that has gotten us through every day of this trip.

I’m with you fellers’.

PHST Day 5

T.G.I.T. At least I think that it's Thursday. For some reason I have a slight inclination that this corner of the state does not believe in the concept of modern day calendars. That or golf cart paths. They don't seem to be that civilized out here.

For full effect, download "In The Air Tonight" by Genesis and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Make sure you do the air drumming in sync with the build up as well. It emphasizes the sweetness of that song.

It has come to my understanding that in order to live in this neck of the woods, it is mandatory that one purchases a super loaded Ford F-350, and then fine-tune the art of burning rubber and exhaust at stop lights. Part of me wonders if this is just a mating ritual done to woo their cousins, but I'm not jumping to any conclusions just yet.

For the record, the one hour and forty-five minute segment of my life from 8:40 pm to 10:25 pm yesterday evening has been deleted from human existence. Don't ask about it, don't wonder where I was, don't try and steal my journal to find out. I am never going to ever reveal details about what happened last night. The most you'll ever know is that was a very disturbing angle for a camera, and who says that's what a monkey would do with a football?

Might I also add that in multiple instances on this trip my weakness for 90's band names has been exploited. As was so adequately put, 90's band names are my Achilles heel, whereas they are Keith Tronic's girth.

Keith Tronic: "U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!"

Today has been a fine day, a great day in fact. Between sightings of mushrooms, a deeper understanding of the use of the letter "i" to make something plural, being amazed at how large the Green River is, as well as the debate about whether or not to create the Pouncer app, we have had a stellar time together. I think the sight we beheld while Keith was getting his beverage this afternoon was priceless itself. Oh, that cunning little runt.

I am running out of gas (pun intended). This week has worn me down to the bone. And as I relax on my bed cheering on the Cougars to victory, my thoughts continue to wonder about what will happen tomorrow morning in our last session of the trip. The unanswered question will linger in my mind tonight long after we've gone to sleep. I can picture it now, staring at the ceiling in fear at one in the morning, with muffled laughter coming from both beds next to me, asking myself over and over again a hypothetical screw-up;

What, would we do?

PHST Day 4

At this point on the trip, I have forgotten the number of cattle guards that we have crossed over. That tends to happen when you've driven 900+ miles in a four-day span.

For full effect, download "As Long As You Love Me" by Justin Bieber and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. This seems to have been the background music for the entire trip thus far; with the Rhinestone Cowboy doing angled pelvic thrusts on beat.

And yeah, I sweat a lot. A ridiculous amount. But there's nothing I can do about that. Just thank the poor genetics of my illegitimate biological sperm donor for that. So what if I've got sweaty pits while I'm snowboarding. It's my curse. Now just take your cheap sunglasses and shut your adolescent brace face.

I'm feeling more and more like an old man with untrimmed nose hairs and trifocals as this week has crawled on. Almost like my bones and joints are aching, my osteoporosis is kicking in. Would someone please bring me another round of Metamucil, because it’s just after 7:30 and I'm up way past my bedtime. My aches and pains combined with Keith's deviated septum would make us feel like alpha dogs in a nursing home. Geriatric behavior like this may also play a significant role in my misinterpretation of goats for sheep, the same way that Keith confuses pineapple for cantaloupe.

I know. We are old men.

Old farts like us begin to lose our attention span quickly after being trapped in a Honda Pilot for five hours a day. In between offering $105 to ask a waitress what the color of her hair is, and having “guess the elevation” contests, our senile manliness is being exposed to each other while we slurp back on our peach suicides and take hits of ground beef jerky.

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “Okay, on three, let’s both hit the play buttons on our iPhones so that they play the Justin Bieber song at the exact same time.”

Keith Tronic: “Sweet, yeah let’s do it.”

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “One. Two. Three.”

Keith Tronic: “Oh, sorry, my bad. One more time.”

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “We can do this. One. Two…”

Keith Tronic: “Fetch! My phone has some kind of delay on it for some reason, I’m hitting it at the same time you are.”

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “Don’t let me down here. One. Two…”

Keith Tronic: “Three! HAHAHAHA! YES! WE DID IT!”

Cue high-fives and shots of peach green tea.

The Rhinestone Cowboy: “This is perfect! Listen to that, they are playing his song right on cue. Just hear that sweet sound. This is like synchronized Biebering!”

Keith Tronic: “I know, it’s awesome! Swamp Thing, you better put this in your blog.”

Already on it.

PHST Day 3

For some reason small towns think that the best form of communication is to find the biggest boulder within 100 miles, plant it in front of a building, and then continually coat it with random shades of paint, thus serving the purpose of a multi-colored landmark, and extremely ugly advertising.

For full effect, download "Home" by Michael Buble, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. To get the extreme feeling of what today has been like, just get a trio of baritones and start singing the chorus one line before the bridge has actually ended on the radio.

Along with the rocks, these small towns have their own feel about them. And I think what defines where we have been for the past few days is the throngs of tourists that seem to blanket every nook and cranny south of I-70.

Tourists are an interesting attraction to gawk at in open public. Even better is trying to figure out what kind of gossip they are spreading amongst themselves, despite the fact that they're speaking Danish or Swedish, or some other language that has the symbols # and % in its known alphabet.

Tourists are their own breed. They have their own standards of grooming that for some reason seem suitable for a pet shelter in the projects. You know what I mean, a lack of deodorant, the throngs of tie-dye capris, the lack of bras and bros providing support, both moral and literal.

Frank Costanza: "Manziere!"

For a minute back there, I was starting to warm up to country music. But that one Kenny Chesney song "Come Over" seemed to put a bad taste in my mouth, almost like gargling a mouthful of scope followed by a chaser of orange juice. I would rather listen to the white static that is coming from the unending scan cycle over non-existent FM stations out here.

Have I mentioned before that this part of the country smells worse than a dead horse in my morning sheets? It's like a turd covered in burnt hair (LTT). Between that and the fact that the word "girth" has been mentioned more than five times in conversation this afternoon. Who says the word girth anyway?

Keith Tronic: "It smells like Arabian Donkey Tuna!"

It has been a long day. As I looked over at the Rhinestone Cowboy this afternoon, both of us sat bewildered that the calendars on our phones only said the word "Tuesday". Will we make it to the end of this week? Who knows. All I know is that the rest of my night is going to be spent at my hotel bunking up with the Rhinestone Cowboy.

Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll get to be the big spoon.

PHST Day 2

There's a woman with eyebrows the size of Kentucky glaring at me for no reason. I'm not going to lie, I'm a little intimidated. But then again that's what you have to deal with in a place that use a port-o-potty as the town restroom. Bless that Anthony Davis impersonator.

For full effect, download "People are Strange" by The Doors and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

I've been wearing a set of Aviators the majority of the day. Thank Keith for that. And no it's not because I myself am trying to hide my own thick eyebrows, I just feel somewhat of a BAMF when I'm donning what are actually a $7 knock off from Wal-Mart.

I have often wondered what type of personalities enjoy living way out in the sticks, in no man's land. Don't get me wrong, this is beautiful country, but when the nearest place to buy the latest fashion is an ALCO 45 minutes away, that might raise some concern.

Swamp Thing: "So what do y'all do in this town for fun?"

H.S. Senior: "Nothing."

Swamp Thing: "Nothing? What do you mean nothing? Don't you have a mall or anything to go to?"

H.S. Senior: confused/perplexed/WTF look across her face "What's a mall?"

See what I mean? Aside from that, this is some gorgeous landscape. In between the hole in the rock city monument, the hole in the rock gas station, okay maybe everything out here is basically just carved out of the nearest sandstone castle. I understand though, you have to make-do with what's available to you. Beggars can't be choosers.

Insert derogatory comment about the South Park Panther's perverted uncle giving me the googly eye from across the room. Yes kids, there are some nuts out there that appear as straight up creepers. Or am I just being too judgmental about the four-eyed King of congenital Candyland that is making me feel somewhat uncomfortable at this gas station?

Small towns like these really make me appreciate the finer things in life that I too often take advantage of. You know, things like Wi-Fi hotspots, indoor plumbing, and bread. Either way it's some beautiful territory out here, but only pretty for about 48 hours or so.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go beat up a set of eyebrows.

Week of PHST

I'm sitting in a Honda Pilot with two of the finest gentlemen to ever grace this earth, and this could in fact be one of the greatest road trips that I will have the pleasure of enjoying throughout my entire career.

For full effect download "Somethin' Bout a Truck" by Kip Moore and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. The reason being is because that song has the closest voice style to the redneck accents that these two fellers have picked up since we dun entered BFE.

On a side note, did you know that the gestational period for a cow is 12 months? Random Fact of the day.

Yes kids, I'm on the road again. And because of this, I will now resurrect the "Week of" blogposts that have had so much popularity in the past. This month's theme will be the Week of PHST" For copyright infringement purposes I will not reveal what the letters PHST stand for. Go ahead, make up your own words for it. Pretty Hot Swedish Toaster? Maybe.

It's rather picturesque coasting on Hwy 24 at 8,000 feet looking over the valley below, with the smell of desert rain drifting through, while James Taylor comes over the airwaves and serenades us with "Fire and Rain". Beautiful isn't it? That of course is followed by Keith Tronic ripping a big one and the Rhinestone Cowboy explaining the pinch and roll. Yep, that's how we ride.

Wait, was that a Subway that we just passed? I didn't know that modern fast food had made it out to these parts just yet. From the looks of the log cabin diners that have littered the road for the past three hours, I was assuming that we would need to hunt down our meals from here on out.

It's been a heck of a ride since we dun R-U-N-N-O-F-T from civilization. And I think it's only going to get better from here on out. Between counting cattle guards, mistaking goats for sheep, and listening to Jack Hawk and the Honeybees on the only station in Eastern Utah that plays hits from 1928, this will be a great trip.

Now please roll down the window Keith.

When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go

Let me ask you one simple question: is it morally incorrect to lie about having to pee, in order to get out of a speeding ticket?

Chew on that for a few minutes while I warm up the prelude music.

For full effect, download “Bad Boys” which was the theme song for the show, “Cops” and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Everyone dislikes that heart-stopping pinpoint moment in their life when they glance in their rearview mirror and see red and blue lights flagging them down. It is that split-second instance when your dishonesty and semi-criminal behavior is being tragically exposed to every other rubbernecking passerby for a solid fifteen minutes.

Statistically speaking, 83 percent of those that are flagged down by a random off-duty officer know that they did something wrong. Oblivious alibis are thrown to waste as they dribble through excuses while the cop writes them up for going ten over. It’s that gut-wrenching feeling when our second-grade elementary teacher stands in front of the class and wants to know who thought it would be funny to draw a dirty picture on the back of the hairless hamster Brumhilda that is being claimed as the class pet.

You did it. You know you did it. Plus, that guy on your shoulder wearing that weird halo thingy keeps jabbing guilt down your bashful conscience.

We all know that it’s very difficult to get out of a speeding ticket in this day and age. Unless you’re a crafty pro at the art of flirtation, or you’re just a hot girl, chances are when you’re pulled over you are going to have to pay the fine. Or, you could just be as shrewd as I am and pull off one of the greatest police office blunders to ever happen in human history.

Cue mental ripple effect to enhance the reminiscence of a legend.

It was a late Thursday afternoon and I was rushing home to enjoy a full three hours of Family Guy on TBS, which was needed after a hectic day at the office. After running a stop sign while going 15 over in a school zone, I was suddenly caught off guard by the flashing siren and lights blazing behind me.

What was I going to do? I couldn’t afford another speeding ticket? You can’t send me back up the river packing! I have kids to feed! A sudden rush of emotions engulfed me while Officer Muffintop waddled up to my window. In a fleeting moment of panic, my mind was suddenly struck back to an SNL skit I watched when I was six years old while hiding underneath my parent’s bed. As the curtain was coming up, I put on my face, and began my charade.

Officer Muffintop: “Goin’ a little bit fast there huh pard’ner? License and regis-“

Swamp Thing: Rocking back and forth in a panicking position with my hands buried in my crotch “I don’t know what happened, but officer, I really, REALLY have to pee.”

Officer Muffintop: Taken back by the sudden admission of public piss. “You what?”

Swamp Thing: “Can you just write me a ticket or something, cause I’m going to wet my pants in the next 30 seconds.”

Flabbergasted, the Barney Fife impersonator agreed to follow me to the nearest gas station. From which I scampered in to the Texaco, counted to 100, and then strolled out whistling “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

Swamp Thing: “Alright, sorry about that, what were we talking about back there?”

Officer Muffintop: Cutting me off. “You mean to tell me that the whole reason that you ran a stop sign and were going 15 over in a school zone was because you had to pee?”

Swamp Thing: “Yeah, I was about to burst. I’m really sorry. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

Muffintop looked me square in the eyes, debating the veracity in my testimony. I stared at him straight back, blankly, because you see kids, I know how to lie to a person. You all know that. Smugly, the obese uniform shook his head and put his sunglasses on.

Officer Muffintop: “Well, slow down. I’m just gonna give you a warning this time. But I won’t be this nice the next time I see you horsin’ around. And use the bathroom more. Geez!”

Storming off, a sly grin began to curl from the corners of my lips. Shoving himself into his overpriced Charger, I came to the realization that I had just beat the system. Yeah, so what if I may have compromised my moral values and devised a fool-proof fib that would later go down in infamy, I was king for the day. And sure, maybe Karma may come back to bite me in the butt for going against the rules of the universe by blogging about my deceitful urination, a.k.a. don’t piss and tell, either way I was, and still am, happy for once not having to show my cleavage to get out of a speeding ticket.

Wait, How Big?

We as humans often think of ourselves as mighty instruments. Our choleric, self-centered personalities mold us as individuals that believe we are the only ones that exist, that no one else does. However, there is much more out there that we as human beings are underestimating.

For full effect, download “Insignificance” on the Binaural album by Pearl Jam and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. And yes, that’s just for you Keith.

Light travels at a rate of 186,000 miles per second. That’s a distance of 5.88 trillion miles per year. And you thought that the rate that your wife pulled out her checkbook was high-speed. As the great Douglas Adams once said, “Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.”

The Earth is 8,000 miles in diameter, rather large for most people doing a comparable planet ratio study. I would throw in a “Yo Mamma” joke somewhere in here, but that would negate the grandeur of this paragraph itself. The largest planet in our solar system, Jupiter, is 11 times the size of Earth, with a diameter of 88,000 miles. These conglomerate creations fade into dots of nothing when you start thinking about the bigger picture.

The sun, our nearest star, is a class two G4 yellow dwarf star. A massive ball of hydrogen, five times larger than all of the other planets combined. However, dwarf is a satisfactory choice of words as it becomes just another speckle on the infinite canvas moving away at light speed.

Pearl S. Buck: “In this unbelievable universe in which we live there are not absolutes. Even parallel lines, reaching into infinity, meet somewhere yonder.”

Our nearest neighbor star, Alpha Centauri is 5.2 light years away. Almost 30 trillion miles away from whatever computer monitor that you’re staring at right now. With today's technology it would take over 100,000 years for us to reach our "closest" neighboring star. Makes you question the relevance and plausibility that Gene Roddenberry had in his screwed-up noggin when he birthed the concept of “Star Trek”.

The Milky Way is a spiral class galaxy, with our sun being just one of 100 billion stars in this massive assembly. At the very center of the Milky Way exists a black hole 100,000 light years across.

Bernard Bailey: “When they discover the center of the universe, a lot of people will be disappointed to discover they are not it.”

Everything that we are able to see exists only as a mere one percent of the known universe. In essence, there is a colossal amount of understanding out there than we actually know of. It is also very pitiable that we as human beings get caught in the fictitious perception that it is only us that exist. That couldn't be further from the truth. The world that I live in, that you live in, that we all live in, is essentially nothing compared to whatever else is out there. You, me, and every other one of the six billion people planted on this planet, are nothing, zip, zilch, tiny blotches on the infinite line in both directions. We are irrelevant crumbs on the platter of the universe.

Carl Sagan: “Who are we? We find that we live on an insignificant planet of a humdrum star lost in a galaxy tucked away in some forgotten corner of a universe in which there are far more galaxies than people.”

Still feeling like you're the man?

You be the Big Spoon

I detest being the big spoon.

But then again, that’s what I have to deal with since I have been graced with nearly six-and-a-half feet of pure man tissue, which by midget standards could be classified in the same realm as the creature at the top of Jack’s Beanstalk. I am gargantuan. This is my curse.

For the record, I would like to relay that yesterday’s post had double the amount of views that I average on a daily basis. Along with its sheer brilliance and fundamental literary beauty, I think the actual reason was the fact that my tempting title, “The C-Word” lured you away from normalcy in hopes of reading an envelope-pushing post.

Keep on reading away you Facebook-stalking perverts.

For full effect, go to Youtube and type in the words “Oklahoma State, Mike Gundy, rant” and watch his outburst on Stillwater reporters. Here, I’ll even post the link for you suckers. Fast forward to the 2:24 mark, “I’m a man”, and read this post in the same attacking volume that the Cowboys coach bombasts his surrounding cast with. That’s how upset I get sometimes when I have to be the big spoon.

If you remember from yesterday’s post you should recall the frustrations and agony that men are forced to deal with when describing their potential first base escapades with another woman. Wait, should I say first base? It’s more like warming up in the batters box if we’re going to use athletic metaphors. Having to say the C-word to another bro is like a gauntlet of gut-wrenching emotions rolled up into a six-letter curse word. Barney Stinson would not approve of that lingo it’s so delicate to deal with.

But while we’re talking about this painful statement, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty of the art itself, and perhaps I can relay to you how tortuous it is from a man’s point of view. Again, going back to my initial statement, the life as the big spoon.

You see, when C-wording occurs between two parties, more than likely there is an action that happens once both sides nestle in for the long haul, and perhaps might be settling in for an evening of comfort with another person wrapped around them. That’s right kids, I’m talking about spooning. (For the record, spooning and the C-word are not always synonymous, due to the fact that in some instances one party may not enjoy C-wording, whereas in spooning, 99.83 percent of the time both parties are enjoying romantic serenity.)

The art of spooning is something that is relaxing and enjoyable on many levels. However, it can get frustrating in certain situations if the partner that you’re burrowed with is a foot shorter than you are. In that case, well buckle up partner because you are always going to be the big spoon.

Being the big spoon puts so much responsibility on a person. You’re the one in charge of the blanket’s position. Your arms are the ones that need to be fastened around them. Their comfort level is contingent on the amount of movement that you make, plus how cozy your bicep is as their pillow. Never mind if your arm falls asleep and you can’t see the movie that you’re watching because of the pioneer woman hairstyle she picked out that night, you are the big one, you are the protector, you are the big spoon, so just sit back and take it like a man.

Us big guys are always the big spoon. We never enjoy the fruits and carefree nature of the ones on the inside. I think in the 13 years that I have been a full-fledged member of the Spooners Association of America I have only been the little spoon a handful of times. And those times might I add were by pure accident or for a five-minute session of laughable pity that they felt. Us manly men never enjoy the benefits of the little spoon. It’s not right I tell you not right, not constitutional, and not politically correct if you ask me.

Some of you ladies and/or very small men may be sitting back reading this thinking to yourself, “You ungrateful buffoon, I would gladly be the big spoon. This isn’t a big deal at all.”

But it is.

Just you wait, the next time that you go to C-word with someone and it potentially leads to a late night spooning session, go ahead, try and wrap your arms around them in a protective yet dainty manner that is pleasing to both parties. And after five minutes when their every movement wakes you up, you accidentally start chewing on their hair, or when everything from your right shoulder down falls asleep, that’s when you’ll say, “He’s right! The big spoon is pure Hell!

Again, being a big man this is just a curse that I have been burdened with and will continue to endure for the rest of my life, along with the predicament of fitting into Dodge Neons and never finding a pair of pants long enough at Old Navy. In the act of C-wording someone always has to sacrifice. Someone always has to compromise their horizontal hugging standards. Myself, and every other man taller than six feet, we will always be the ones that sacrifice for your comfort.

We will always be the big spoon.

The C-Word

Get your mind out of the gutter.

For full effect, download “Every Time We Touch” by Cascada and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

This will be a two-part post, with my epic introduction displayed tonight, and being dismally concluded tomorrow. Wait, did I just use the word epic again? I am such a trendy nimrod! Maybe I’ll go start a Twitter account or something.

For the record, I think that I am a pure man, 100% through and through. My masculinity shines forth boldly as I have a stockpile of sports trivia interspliced between my vibrato bass voice and Crossfit workout schedule. Yes, I am a man. Disregard the enigmatic statistic that I lived in a house baked with estrogen and high-heels, I am the complete opposite, as manly as they come. Line me up with any other dude out there and I’ll laugh along with them trading back and forth hunting stories, late night engines rebuilt in grungy garages, and the replication of the heartbreak we felt for Gary Anderson that fateful NFC Championship game.

There is however a moment that contradicts every ounce of testosterone in our buff bodies, which usually happens when we are attempting an explanation at what happened last night on our hot date.

Swamp Thing: “Yeah man, things were going great. I picked her up, took her to dinner, she was laughing at my jokes, things were feeling pretty good.”

Chief Kent: “Oh yeah, then what happened?”

Swamp Thing: “Well, I took her home, went back into my room, put on a movie and uh…you know…started….uh…”

Chief Kent: Mischievous look across his face “Started what? Did you guys uh start, you know…?”

Swamp Thing: “Uh…yeah, well, we uh…kinda started… Well, I uh…put my arm around her, and uh…you know, we uh…started to uh…” Looking back and forth in the same manner as someone who is about to tell an extremely racist joke, “We started to uh…cuddle.”

Chief Kent: “Oh man, I once had a gargantuan amount of respect for you until you just said that word. Go play My Little Pony in the corner why don’t you. HA!”

I HATE the C-word, everything about it. It’s the most feminine, anti-masculine, come-here-and-I’ll-show-you-the-pink-ballerina-tutu-I’m-wearing word out there. No one can feel tough after saying it. Not me, not Chuck Norris, not even He-Man can utter that vagina-lined verb and look themselves in the mirror, it’s impossible. The C-word instantly invalidates your manliness.

As frustrating as it is, we have to say this word, we are forced to say this word. How else are we supposed to describe what went down during our forced viewing of “The Notebook?”

Fishmitts: “So there we were, on my couch, and I uh…positioned my arm just over her right clavicle in a cupping motion on her tricep, meanwhile my left hand grasped hers. We stayed there for a little while, until she rolled over and my abdomen was touching her behind with our legs interlocked in a very feminine position. During which she reached back behind her neck and played with my hair in a twirling manner.”

Roger Winston Eddingbright the 3rd: “So, you guys were cuddling then?”

Fishmitts: “Shh… Keep it down! I don’t want the neighbors to know that I talk like a lady.”

Can you see the pain that we holders of the masculine trophy have to endure on a consistent basis? Do you see how difficult it is to avoid the open mockery of our peers and friends as we convey the successes that we saw on our late Friday night escapade? We can’t do anything to get out of this mess. It’s either the C-word or snuggle, and I don’t see a light at the end of either of those tunnels.

Is there anyone out there who knows a better word for me to use than the cursed C-word, because I don’t know any. All I get to do is turn in my man card every time I’m describing the late night embraces with cheerleader, so-and-so, what’s-her-face, or the ugly one. Five bucks to whoever texts me where those four girls came from. No matter how you look at it, there is no tough way to say that you C-worded with someone.

Now, how you C-word, well let’s talk about that tomorrow…

Swamp Thing Smash!

I think that I'm more prone to burning bridges than building them. Of course I'm speaking figuratively in regards to the tattered relationships that lay in shards after my very blunt remarks this afternoon.

For full effect download "Cold Hearted Snake" by Paula Abdul, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

By the way, if you're looking for some more motivational team-building exercises, just play jargon charades, unpack a briefcase, or change shirts while being timed. The reward will be those fluttering feelings of self-worth followed by a bro-hug.

For the record, have I mentioned how much I loathe the word Brainstorm? Rather than think about a topic for days on end with no clear solution in sight, do you think a better option might be to actually make a decision? I don't know, just throwing that out there.

Running on four hours of sleep, maybe I'm a little bit more ornery than usual. My coworkers have coined the nickname "Grumpy Bear" for me. They make it seem like I'm the type of person that would backhand an autistic kitten. Don't feel bad, Mrs. Dixie Bo Jackson, I did deserve that bombastic rant from you.

Going back to my original thoughts, you can't always please everyone. And sometimes when you say the honest truth and toss out abrasive comments to a group, you will not be liked by those who are easily offended. Especially if those remarks are in regards to a fundamental focus on professionalism. But hey, you can't win over everyone.

It's been a long day, and I'm already going through Miss Piggy withdrawals. In between GRE drills, video editing, and a numb hindquarters, I'm ready to hit the sack. I think someone out there wouldn't mind hitting me though.

Make it Rain

Some people out there are in touch with their feelings.

And then you have jerks like me.

For full effect, download "The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. Thanks for the heads up on that Liz.

Todays post kids, is brought to you by the letter F. It's also brought to you by a group of awkward adults standing around rubbing their hands together and stomping their feet on the ground in order to create the ambiance of a thunderstorm.

Don't ask me why we do this.

Maybe it's the cynical bastard inside of me, but I am not into team-building exercises. I'm anti-team-building. It's just not my thing. Let's cut the crap, look at the hard core facts, and discuss the real-life situations. I don't need to pinky dance, do mental yoga, or have laugh therapy to grow as a human being. It's a waste of time if you ask me.

For some people though it's not. They need those icebreaker bingo games, or the creative hand gestures that trademark what their favorite hobby is. Some people actually do enjoy serenading the old campfire Kum-Bah-Yah. For research purposes, I would like to compare the personality types of people who do enjoy team-building exercises such as those, and look at the number of cats that they own in their single bedroom apartment. I firmly believe there is a strong correlation between the two.

Random towhead across the room: "Honestly, I just don't see the point in snapping my fingers to mimic falling raindrops. It's just weird."

Thank you, you cynical bastard number two in the green shirt. You and I should become Facebook friends we think so alike. I L-word your sentiments.

If you read my blog, you know I have no soul. Especially in situations where I have to grip wrists with others and support an organized trust fall, followed by a smothering of emotions while we bear our souls to one another and wash away in pools of tears and Diet Coke.

This might be a long three days...

O-H!

I-O! to whoever left this note on my car...