Last night I dreamt that -- through a series of accidents -- my evil soul-stealing bitch of an ex-girlfriend had hit rock bottom and for some very foolish reason my wife and I agreed to take her in. She stayed on our couch's pullout bed, regularly complaining that the living room (where the couch is) was too hot.
"Perhaps. Much warmer than sleeping outside," I would respond, and then the two of us would start fighting.
After several weeks of her sharing our one-bedroom apartment and my fighting with her on a daily basis and then having to turn around and appeal to the Good Christian Spirit of my wife to keep her from throwing out/killing the evil soul-stealing bitch of an ex-girlfriend, suddenly ESSBOAEG started lobbying to be allowed to sleep in our bedroom.
"What? On the floor?" I asked.
"No. It doesn't seem to bother you and Rachel how hot it is in the living room. I thought we could switch," she said. "Plus, the pullout bed is so uncomfortable."
Then I woke up. My fists were clenched -- my palms were throbbing and my forearms hurt from squeezing so hard -- and I still have a headache from grinding my teeth.
My wife and I saw Ocean's 12 this weekend, which I recommend. I'm not much of a movie guy because I fear walking out of a theater thinking to myself: "My God, I just wasted two-plus hours of my life."
A bad film is worse than simply staring at a wall for the same amount of time. I guarantee you that what I think and feel in any given space of time is far superior to Point Break. This feeling of frustrated animosity toward cinema started as Esther and I found ourselves walking out of a theater in Fargo, N.D., in a state of disillusionment some years ago -- having just finished watching Titanic. I remember sitting in Julie's car, waiting for it to warm up, and Esther said something like: "I thought that was supposed to be good. That wasn't good."
She said it with the same tone you might use after mindlessly popping into your mouth a Mike & Ike candy you found on a gas station men's room floor.
But that's not the case with Ocean's 12. I've seen better films, but I didn't leave wishing that I had instead spent the afternoon trying to teach myself how to juggle.
Here's a random story that I was sharing with a co-worker today:
Years ago, I was in Barcelona and I bought a load of oranges in a market. I bought so many that they filled my army backpack. A few days later, I took the train up to St. Malo, France, where I was to catch a ferry back to Portsmouth. But upon reaching St. Malo, I discovered that I did not have enough money to buy a ferry ticket and there was no money in my checking account. So, I called my dad in the United States and asked him to put some money in my account. But it was a Saturday and my bank isn't open on weekends. And because of the time difference, that meant I wouldn't actually have any money until Tuesday morning. So I burned up my money that night and then spent the next several days sleeping in the ferry port, eating nothing but oranges.
"I suspect that wasn't a lot of fun," my co-worker said.
"No. No it wasn't. But my poop smelled great -- very citrusy."
This is only of interest to you if you live in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area, Indianapolis, Olathe, Kan., Little Rock, Ark., Memphis or Nashville: The skank from the Watson's commercials.
If you don't know who this woman is, I assure you she is universally despised. She is a flat-out whore who should be doing porn facials instead of ads for pools and spas*.
My favorite part of her site is her scrapbook of photos with her clinging to low-grade celebrities.
I really like the idea behind this experiment -- it's one of the reasons I want to live there some day.
About 62 percent of Internet users don't know what a blog is. But that number is even higher according to the survey within the story. Sometimes I find it odd, yet comforting, that people don't understand basic Internet stuff. It's sort of a job protection.
Yet another reason why drunkenness and phones do not mix.
And you don't really need another reason to avoid Kansas, but here's one, anyway.
*Whoa. That bit of vitriol came out of nowhere.