Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
out sick today
Apparently, I must have offended the Ghost of General Tso, as the good General and his delicious chicken have fucked me over twice in the past six months.

I don't know how this could have happened, though if I had to guess it would be because of the time at the massage parlor I asked the Asian chick if I could stick my finger in her butt for an extra $20. If I had known she was a direct descendant of General Tso, I would surely have offered her more (at least $30, and the pinkie instead of the middle finger).

The result: after a night of puking my guts up, I'm at home sick today, too weak to post (seriously).

I am sorry, but I'll get you tomorrow. Promise.

Hugs and kisses,

Monday, August 30, 2004
"Why don't you have comments on your blog?"
Ass-loads of emails asking why I don't have a comments section, so here is my reply:

1) You people are cretins. I don't want you all messing up my nice little site with your cuss words, when clearly that is my job.

2) I would never get any work done. If I had a comments option up, surely I would check back to the site every five minutes to see what people had written, then take another five minutes to craft a witty reply, then take thirty minutes to bask in my victory. Then I would talk on the phone for an hour, then take a two hour lunch, during which I would have at least four (4) beers.

I would be fired in three weeks (tops), and it would be all the fault of the comments section.

3) This is my damn site - get your own. This is my space to make fun of/reveal secrets of/besmirch my roommates, friends, ex-girlfriends, etc. If I had a comments option, this would allow those people to defend themselves, which is something I am clearly not interested in.

I mean, duh. This is not hard people.


So to recapitulate: there is no comments section because I am egotistical and self-aggrandizing, lazy and unindustrious, and insecure and stubborn.

And believe it or not, I'm single. Shocking, I know.

Thursday Night Recap: Dr. Jekyll/Annie Hyde
Most of the time - and I'm not ashamed to admit this - I am the drunk one.

I'm the one buying shots and beers for everyone, running up my credit card bill to an exorbitant amount, because, after all, it's fake money.

I'm the one harassing women way out of my league, spitting all over them while I talk to them, kicking lines like, "You know, in my spare time I teach music to retards" or "I haven't hit a women in about three weeks" or "I definitely want to get married and start a family, because family is the most important thing to me. Hey, have you ever made out with another chick?"

I'm the one who gets "escorted" out of the bar and goes straight to the nearest deli, where I order two pounds of imported ham, sliced thick, take it home and dip each slice in a jar of mayonnaise as I eat it, as if I were dipping chips in salsa. [Also, most times I do this I'm not wearing a shirt, and the mayo fails in little globules on my chest.]

So it is rare when I am out with friends and I'm the sober one who gets to see the debauchery first hand, with vision unclouded by vodka, Bud Light, and Southern Comfort. Thursday night was one such rare occasion.

As I mentioned in my post on Thursday, on Thursday night there was a going-away party for my two dear friends, Annie and Nicole. Knowing that this night would be a long crazy one, I took the day off Friday, just so I could be hungover in the comfort of my own home, rather than in my office at work, ignoring my ringing phone, and taping a piece of paper to my door that says, "Hungover - Please Come Back Monday."

And it was a crazy night, though not in the respect that I thought it would be. Why? Because I remained sober, while Annie and Nicole (especially Annie) got blasted.

My roommate Brian and I got to the bar at about 9, already having had a few drinks at our place. Brian, god bless him, came out even though he had to be at work at 6am on Friday morning, meaning he had to wake up at 4:45am, a time that we only see at the ends of evenings, not at the beginnings of days.

When we arrived, the first thing we noticed was that Annie and Nicole have some really attractive friends. Like, really attractive. I don't know why it took me seven years of being friends with them to realize this, but this didn't make me happy. Definitely information that would have been useful years ago, rather than their last night in the city. Given my record of dropping the ball, neither I nor Brian were very surprised by my failure in this regard, and spent most of the night ogling the women, breaking our silence with the occasional "Oh my god" or "Are you fucking serious?" or "I think I have to run to the bathroom to take care of something before the Sex Crimes Unit has to get involved."

And Annie and Nicole, god bless 'em, were absolutely fucking wrecked. Nicole was otherwise predisposed, so it quickly became apparent that my job was to be protector over Annie, and make sure she got home unharmed without being sexually assaulted by a gang of Haitians (which is ironic, because if you're looking to not be sexually assaulted, I'm probably the last person whose care you should be in).

My friend Chris showed up with a lady friend, Lisa. Chris had met Annie and Nicole a few times, but didn't know them too well - it was the sort of thing where Brian and I were out and about and said, "Hey, why don't you join us for a beer? You can watch us make these women really uncomfortable."

Chris showed up with Lisa, a charming girl. By this point, Brian had left, so Chris and Lisa sat at the bar next to me. Annie, seeing the new arrivals, came over (read: stumbled over with eyes half-closed) and introductions were made.

Chris: "Hey Annie, happy going away party. This is Lisa."
Lisa: "Hi!"
Annie: [drunk to the point of lacking motor skills, but angry, vituperative] "Let me tell you something: Chris is a man-whore. You're just another pretty face to him. How long have you known him, ten minutes?"

A few things:
1) Annie does not know Chris that well.
2) Chris is not a man-whore, and, though in much better shape, has about as much game as I do.
3) I think Chris actually liked this girl.

Our jaws just dropped. Annie, who normally is the sweetest girl in the world, apparently transformed completely into Mr. Hyde and laid the fucking smack down. I don't remember exactly what happened next, though I thank the gods that Lisa had a sense of humor about the whole thing. She said something like:

Lisa: "Actually, we've known each other for ten years."
Annie: [slowly (I mean, really slowly) realizing error, becoming remorseful] "Oh my god - I have to give you a hug."

And this behavior continued for the rest of the evening. We soon left that bar, and moved to the next. Annie was asked to leave pretty much immediately. As she argued with the bartender about getting "just one more" drink, I grabbed her by the hand and tried to take her out of the bar. It was quite a scene: me dragging Annie by her arm, her other arm reaching back toward the bar, grasping for floaters to drink, as she yelled at the bartender.

As we were going to the door, right before the exit Annie plopped down at a table that had a couple at it, interrupting their conversation, asking to have a sip of their drinks. I mean, wow.

Again, you have to understand, Annie is nothing like this normally. But, just like the rest of us, when under the spell of booze, all bets are off. It was glorious to see her in action, and I nearly shed a tear because my friend was kicking so much ass.

After much more struggle and drama, I finally got her home. She passed out lying on her couch with a slice of pizza in her hand, the slice just touching her mouth. It was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and exactly the way I want to look when I die.

And sure, maybe it wasn't the most fun I've ever had, but in a way, it kind of made me feel good. I had forsaken booze so that I could take care of my friend, who had apparently had drank gasoline before I arrived.

The moral of the story: sometimes, when you're drunk, you can be an asshole. And you know what? Who gives a shit? Getting wasted is awesome. You just have to make sure that you have someone around who will NOT take pictures of you when you've passed out. And I'm not talking pictures of you with "poop" written on your forehead, but pictures that might wind up on any number of sites that you can't view at work. Meaning pornographic sites. Meaning pictures of you, lying on your couch, naked from the waist down, and me in the background, smoking a cigarette and giving a "thumbs up" with one hand, and with the other hand high-fiving a homeless guy.

Just forget it.

Thursday, August 26, 2004
no post tomorrow (Friday)
I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to find some other way of occupying your time tomorrow, because I won't be posting.

Why not pick up a hobby, like gambling? Or picking fights with strangers? Or racism? Or trying to find a new way to get higher than you ever have before?

Maybe you can get really fucked up on all the pills, vitamins, contact solution and hair gel you have in your medicine cabinet and call the ex that you're still in love with, and tell him/her that you're pregnant/you've impregnated someone else? When he/she says "congratulations", maybe you can tell them that you've put a curse on them, and all their offspring will have a really big left hand, and a very tiny right hand?

Maybe you can call your parents, and thank them for raising you to be neurotic, disloyal, and impotent? When they start to sob, maybe you can say, "I'm just kidding", then say "Happy Birthday" and hang up, regardless of whether or not it's their birthday?

Maybe you can tell your friends about this site (something I've begged for a million times here, but we've added a lot of new readers this week, so I'll say it again), telling them about the good, clean fun we're having on this website, then you can watch as their faces contort in horror as they read about, well, everything I've just written in this post? Maybe you can do this so the site's proprietor can get nice and famous and help make it so that he can see some boobies again without having to pay a $15 cover and $10 per vodka tonic?

You're going to have to find something, because there is no post tomorrow. Uncle Jason will be too busy being hungover, eating pancakes, and downloading pornography. So there.

an ode to Annie and Nicole
These are some sad times for me, and this time it's not because Haagen Dazs has discontinued its Vanilla Caramel Brownie ice cream. I'm not as sad as when that happened, since that started a very rough stretch for me which began with a simple betrayal and ended in the murder of four Mexican immigrants and a stray dog.

But I'm still pretty sad, as my best female friends since 1997, Annie and Nicole, are moving out of NYC.

Annie and Nicole and I met in our freshman year at Boston College. They were the two cute roommates on the second floor, I was the burly misanthrope on the first floor who spent way too much time online. We soon became friends, because I thought that they had low self-esteem and soon would let me in their pants. I was wrong; seven years later, I'm still trying (except that time when I guilted both of them into making out with me after telling them I was dying) and their self-esteem is actually quite good.

For years, they have listened to me bitch and moan about women and relationships, humored me when I droned on endlessly about my favorite kinds of lunchmeat and what I thought about the Cool Whip vs. Whipped Cream debate, and had the fortitude to resist all of my sexual advances no matter how drunk they were and how much I pleaded or how much money I offered.

And now, despite being a mainstay in my life for many years, they are leaving. And it's not like they're going to Boston or Philly or DC: Annie is going back to her home base of Seattle, and Nicole is going to London for school.

And I have no idea what I'm going to do. This leaves me with zero female friends in the city. I mean, sure, I have friends who are girls, but I'm trying to sleep with all of them, whether they realize it yet or not.

Who I am going to talk about my deepest darkest feelings (that usually concern salsa, ribs, or milkshakes) with?

Who's going to be there to tell me that my ex-girlfriends look like Bridget Jones (which apparently is not a compliment) or Rachel Dratch or Chuck Norris with breasts and a smaller mustache? (ok, I made that last one up)

Who am I going to go to for advice on women, asking questions like, "So, I really like this girl. I emailed her asking her out, and she wrote back two weeks later saying no. However, she did put a smiley face after she wrote 'You sweat constantly :)' Does this means she wants to fuck me?"

Who can I call at work and have conversations with like:

Me: "Nicole, I've made an important life decision, and I wanted you to be the first to hear it."
Nicole: "Ok, you know you can tell me anything."
Me: "Ok. [catching breath] I'm just gonna blurt it out, because I'm so afraid - [blurting out] I think we should sleep together."
Nicole: "Oh, Jay, I thought you were gonna say something good."
Me: "Just think about it. I mean, we've been friends for so long, it wouldn't even matter."
Nicole: "Alright, I'm at work. I have to go."
Me: "Will you think about it?"
Nicole: "Yeah, sure - whatever."
Me: "Just think about it."
Nicole: "Bye Jay."


Me: "Annie, I have an important question to ask you and it couldn't wait until after business hours."
Annie: [nervous] "Ok...what is it?"
Me: "What are you wearing?"
Annie: "Jay..."
Me: "What? What are you wearing?"
Annie: "If I answer it, will you leave me alone?"
Me: "Absolutely."
Annie: "Black skirt, white top. Ok?"
Me: "One more question."
Annie: [sighing] "What?"
Me: "Scale of one to ten. How do you look?"
Annie: "I gotta go."

So many questions, so few answers.

I am saddened by their departure, so I must cope in the only way I know how: getting so fucked up I piss in my bed. I'm serious - I took off work tomorrow for their going away party tonight, so I don't have to come in with a brain hemorrhage and spend all day Friday quietly crying in my office. And I was going to wash my sheets this morning (since it's that time of year), when I thought to myself, "Well, I may pee in them tonight, so I guess I should wash them tomorrow." Survey says: I'll wash them sometime in February.

So Annie and Nicole, if you're reading this, which you're not, despite my repeated attempts to convince you that yes, I really am an internet quasi-celebrity - it's been a good run, and I'll miss you guys.

And since I'm the worst person on earth with keeping in touch and we're not going to ever see each other again, why don't we all sleep together?

You don't have to answer now, just think about it. You can give me an answer tonight, at about 3am, after I've spent $300 on your drinks, which you should probably drink slowly, since they'll be very, very potent.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004
four afternoon notes
Today is probably the most gorgeous day in New York City since the spring. The sun is shining, and cool breeze is blowing, the Midwestern tourists are out sporting their best acid-wash jeans, and of course I am sweating.

I think the "powers-that-be" in my office decided that since the thermometer outside is just under 80 degrees and it's so nice, it needs to be just under 80 degrees in here to achieve the same level of nice-ness.

The result: if anyone has an extra button-down shirt, please bring it to my office, because the one I'm wearing now is covered in sweat and Doritos. Size XL.

Ok, size XXL.



I don't mean to go all "Seinfeld" on you guys, but do they make band-aids for black people? They have to, right? How come I've never seen them? You'd think that in this day and age there would be more colors to band-aids than just the current "Italian-American in Early Summer White."


Erick Dampier just signed a seven-year, $73 million contract with the Dallas Mavericks.

I don't want to turn this into an Erick Dampier-bashing site, but are you fucking kidding me? $73 million for career averages of 9 points and 7 rebounds per game?

If you think about it, if I were an NBA player, I think with enough minutes I could average maybe a point per game (from the free throw line) and possibly 2 rebounds.

If we crunch some numbers taking Dampier's $73M and 9 points + 7 rebounds, and take my 1 point + 2 rebounds, according to the Mavs, I'd be worth about $13.68 million over 7 years. Just a slight increase from what I'm making now.

Hey, Erick and the Mavs: Allan Houston. Austin Croshere. Mike Hampton. Mo Vaughn. Adonal Foyle. De te fabula narratur.


It's come to my attention that I'm having some email problems. Apparently, when I hit "send", my emails are disappearing into cyber space and not reaching their intended recipients. I respond to 95% of the emails I get, the remaining 5% either not requiring a response or from douchebags. So, if you sent me an email that required a response and you're not a douchebag, then know that I sent you a reply, but it got lost. Mea culpa maxima.

If you're not sure whether or not you qualify as a douchebag, an example is an email I got recently in which the reader quotes himself, a major dealbreaker for me. After writing something about the blog, he writes:

"One day the world will look back at me and know that I created the 21st century." - Douchebag's name

That, my friends, is the perfect example of a douchebag.

[Wow - two Latin phrases in this post? Dr. Bender and Ms. Adkins would be so proud.]

Special "Everybody Just Shut Up So I Can Be Serious For A Fucking Minute" Moment
[Warning: the following post is not at all funny, and highly political in nature. If you don't want to hear me uncharacteristically talk about politics, please skip this, and a post about me beating off will be up shortly. Special thanks to the psychotically liberal but well-dressed pundit from the boondocks of Eastern Washington, Stacey Wilton, and the flamingly liberal homosexual New Yorker of Italian extraction, James D'Elicio, for their input.]

Hi, my name is Jason Mulgrew. You know me as the Internet Quasi-Celebrity who entertains you daily by making jokes about pubes, obesity, and minorities. But today, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to take a moment to talk about something a little more serious.

As most of you know, this November's presidential election is the most important of the last thirty years - since the days when Tricky Dick was in the White House and our parents were either getting high in 'Nam and serving the country or getting high in a public park and listening to Jefferson Airplane.

If the election of 2000 has taught us anything, it's that every vote can make a difference. Your teeny-tiny little vote (yes, yours) can make a huge difference in the race for the presidency and shape world diplomacy for the next four years.

For this reason, if you are of voting age, please register to vote. Many times in our comfortable society, while eating frozen yogurt and watching "I Love the '80's" on VH1, we can forget that democracy is a right that many people strive for and do not have.

People die to vote in countries all over the world, as recent events in Cameroon, India, Rwanda, Peru, and Kenya have shown us. Many of the people in these countries live in small towns in the country, miles from an election site, and yet they travel those miles by car, bus, bike or foot. They understood the dangers of voting. They saw the escalating violence as the elections approached. They knew that once they reached these remote locations that they might be harassed and intimidated by government or opposition forces. They knew that they were risking their lives.

For these people "democracy", "the right to vote", the desire "to create a future for their children" are not just slogans used to win a campaign. For them it is a very real dream for a future, a need for the future. A future that is worth dying for, a future for people they will never know, for people who will never have to make the sacrifices that these people are making. Like I said, people die to vote. We insult their sacrifice by not voting, because we "didn't get around to it" or "forgot about it" or "didn't have time."

So to register to vote, check out these sites:




And while I'm at it, here's my pitch for Kerry/Edwards (and this isn't just because of my John Edwards man-crush):

[Trying to be as respectful as possible of other people's opinions] Another four years of George Bush risks further alienating our long-standing foreign allies, packing our federal judiciary with justices representing the religious right, White House support of a Constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, the weakening of environmental protections, increasing the federal deficit thus threatening the fiscal health of our limited social safety net, and of course, the continued bastardization of the English language.

Therefore, I, Jason Mulgrew, am supporting John Kerry in his bid for president, because we need a president that will create jobs, provide affordable health care, maintain civil rights, protect our environment and keep America secure. Also, maybe I can meet some nice girls this way, since, as I've mentioned, liberals chicks are way hotter and freakier than conservative ladies.

Please, and I can't stress this enough, do NOT email me trying to engage me in some Bush vs. Kerry debate. I don't care what you think, as you shouldn't care what I think (well, I care what you think if you think, "I really want that Jason Mulgrew to make sweaty unsatisfying love to me" - then you can email me whenever you want).

Thank you for your time, and I promise that in the future all seriousness will be kept to a bare minimum. We now rejoin your regularly scheduling programming, already in progress.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004
"If you ever leave, I'll fucking kill you."

- Jason Mulgrew, June 2006, to
future girlfriend, um, "Elizabeth"
Last night, while sitting quietly in my room, playing solitaire, lamenting the loss of the McRib sandwich and craving a hot dog, my roommate Brian walked in and asked me a simple but profound question: "Do you ever think there'll be a time in your life when you say to a woman, 'If you ever leave, I'll fucking kill you?'"

This shook me right to the very core. I mean, of course I'll say that to a woman some day. I had to think long and hard about if I had already said it (the answer: I don't think so, but I don't remember much of '98, because I was really into pills at that time).

So this question got me thinking about love, marriage, and relationships. Then I thought about the McRib again for a little while. Then I went back to thinking about love (and hot dogs).

Relationships have always been an adventure for me, an exercise in struggle, profanity, betrayal and inebriation. I suppose I've been in love, but the strongest feelings I've ever had was when I was in grade school, or when I first learned that by stealing cable my family had access to three (yes, three) 24-hour porn channels.

My relationships have been very trying, probably because though I fall in love about once an hour, I tire of women very quickly and easily. And this is probably because I'm way too in love with myself (both mentally and physically) to ever care about another person, but really, no one here is a psychologist. Besides, this isn't my fault. I don't know why, but it just isn't.

In the past two years or so, I've had three legitimate "crushes." I use the word "crush" because it is the only word juvenile enough to match my immature and incomplete "feelings." The first turned me into a blathering idiot, and the girl eventually left the city. I'm pretty sure she did not do so because of me. The second made me equally stupid, and because of this it didn't work out. To this day, my roommate Ben cites the night I returned from our "first date", in which we shared a little peck (the girl and I, not Ben and I - gross), as "the happiest [he's] ever seen [me] - without being in a buffet line." The third is semi-current, and fading fast, as the woman is doing an excellent job of extricating herself from my life. My friend Jeremy, who is apprised of the situation, made the comment recently, "Man, she really did her homework on you, huh?", meaning she's been able to escape my clutches rather effortlessly. I'm not happy about this, but part of me is kinda proud of her from getting away from me and my smothering so quickly. Good for her.

I say all this because I've gotten a lot of emails (ok, two, and one was from me to myself) asking for my hand in marriage. As in, you want to marry me. As in, you seriously need to talk to a mental health professional immediately, because you shouldn't be around sharp objects, rubbing alcohol, or anything flammable.

This is a terrible idea. I am a terrible man, and you don't want to be involved with me in any way, shape, or form, aside from reading this website. Trust me. If you don't believe me, just listen to what my roommate Ben has to say:

"He's terrible."
- Ben Luce

So there you go. But if you don't believe Ben, I think you should listen to Daryl Hall, half of the greatest musical duo of all-time, Hall & Oates, has to say:

"Hi, I'm Daryl Hall. Jason is not a good person."
- Daryl Hall, singer-songwriter

But still, since I suffer from dangerously low self-esteem, the email proposals are flattering. While I don't think I'll be amending my title to "Internet Quasi-Celebrity/Sex Symbol" any time soon, the attention is appreciated, and you should know that when I read your emails, I blush (or maybe it's just my high blood pressure).

And so for this reason, I present the following Four Marriage Dealbreakers for me, Flavor Flav (I mean, Jason Mulgrew).

1) I can't marry a woman who smokes. I just can't do it. I think smoking is gross, unless we're talking about smoking pot, in which case I think it's awesome. I don't like my clothes and fine linens stinking like cigarettes, I resent the fact that people smoking around me are directly contributing to my death (and yes, I realize how hypocritical this is since every weekend I try to kill myself with cheese/cheese-products and booze), and kissing a girl who smokes is like sucking on the exhaust pipe of a '78 Chevy Nova (I know because I've done both; the Nova exhaust pipe more recently).

2) I can't marry a woman who won't take my last name. Feminists, my email again is eiwwm@lycos.com. Call me old-fashioned, but I would be very hurt if my wife didn't take my last name. Sure, it's not the most beautiful last name in the world, but it's a good last name. I should note that this doesn't apply to all women; if the woman is already famous, she doesn't have to take my last name. For example, "Shakira Mulgrew" just doesn't sound right.

3) I can't marry a woman who has fooled around with my friends. This is the criterion most open to interpretation or debate, because the rule depends upon a) the level of fooling around, and b) the closeness of my friends. This could work to your advantage, because I really only have about ten close guys friends. However, if you've slept with any of them, I just can't do it.

Equally damaging as screwing around with my closest friends is having the explicit intention of fooling around with them. Por ejemplo, if you've ever gotten drunk and told one of my buddies you wanted to him to stick his fingers up your butt, you and I don't have much of a future.

Please note that this is not out of jealousy; truthfully, I could care less if a girlfriend of mine has hooked up with one of my friends. Jealousy implies a certain degree of equality, whereas I'm fairly certain that everyone else is better than me. Instead, it's merely all about winning arguments:

Me: "Man, you look like shit today."
Friend: "Yeah, remember when I banged your girlfriend?"
Me: "Crap."


Me: "Nice shirt - nerd."
Friend: "Yeah, remember when your girlfriend asked me to fuck her in the bathroom at the Tiki Bar?"
Me: "Damn it."

4) I can't marry a woman with small boobs. I'm a pig, I know. I recently had a conversation about this with my friend Cheryl, who herself has wonderful boobs. Cheryl and I used to hook-up, but we mutually decided to end things. By "mutually", I mean she said, "I don't think we should do this anymore." I don't recall what I said, as I was drunk, but I'm thinking it was something along the lines of "crap" or "really?" or "do you have any pizza?"

Anyway, our conversation went something like:

Me: [walking around the city] "Man, look at the bombs on that girl."
Cheryl: "I think you have an unhealthy obsession with breasts."
Me: "I don't have an unhealthy obsession with breasts!"
Cheryl: "Would you marry a girl with small breasts?"
Me: "Oh god, no."
Cheryl: "Choosing the person who you'll spend the rest of your life with on the size of their bust is kind of the definition of 'unhealthy.'"
Me: "What are you? A fucking doctor now?"

Critics of mine will say that I prefer larger busted women because, as a fat man with man boobs, I can't be with someone waifish up top. To them I say, "You're absolutely right." I am not afraid of the truth. I am how I am, and screw you for judging me.


So there's the list. Sure, it ain't pretty, but neither am I. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to run outside to grab a hot dog.

God I fucking love hot dogs.

I wish I was at home right now, in the air conditioning, eating a pizza, watching "The Cosby Show."

Anyone with me?


Who the hell am I talking to?

Monday, August 23, 2004
the dangers of the open bar
I learned something very important this weekend. When I die and pass on my legacy of over-eating, under-performing, and being a terrible lover and friend, my death is most likely to occur either 1) at an open bar or 2) immediately after an open bar.

I'm 25 years old. I've been to probably thirty open bars in my lifetime, and yet I still can't handle them. I absolutely lose my shit, like a kid in a candy store, albeit a really hairy kid with low self-esteem who one time got in a fight with a waiter at Denny's because the chocolate chip pancakes he ordered had laughably few chocolate chips. And sure, maybe he was hopped up on drugs at the time of this argument, but he still knew that he was right, and didn't think it was necessary to get the authorities involved. Dicks.

Anyway, every time I'm at a function with an open bar, it's like, "Wait a minute - you're telling me that these drinks are free? All of them? So I can't get any drink I want, and I don't have to pay for it? I can get three drinks, right now, for free? Holy shitballs! I think I just pissed myself!"

This past Saturday I went home to Philly for my cousin's wedding reception. She originally had her wedding in The Bahamas, but had a reception in Philly for those who couldn't make it. In addition to good food and good company, there was also tons of free booze.

A word before we go any further: I had been feeling sick on Friday night, and decided to stay in to make sure I was 100% for the reception the following day. I hunkered down in my apartment, where I ate lots of ice cream for my sore throat and drank a half a bottle of cough syrup. I was entertained by the messages left by my roommates, who were wasted, asking me to come out and join them even though I repeatedly said I was staying in. They basically went something like this:

Roommate Brian: "Dude, I know you're there. Pick up the phone. God, you are such a pussy. We're right down the street - why don't you come out and have a drink? Hello? I know you're sitting on the couch, probably eating a sundae, you son of a bitch. Put down the sundae and come out. [silence for five seconds] God, you are such a pussy."

This happened eight or so times. Finally, I answered.

Me: "Hello?"
Brian: [wasted out of his mind] "Dude, are you coming out or not?"
Me: "Dude, it's 1am. You've been calling every hour since 6. I've never answered. Do you think I'm coming out?"
Brian: "So you're coming out?"
Me: "No, I'm not."
Brian: "Come on, don't be a pussy. Have I ever asked you for anything?"
Me: "You ask me for shit all the time. This morning, you asked to borrow my soap. Yesterday, you ate my entire bag of meatballs. Also, you owe me $1200."
Brian: [silence for four seconds] "Dude, are you coming out or not?"
Me: "No, dude, I gotta go."
Brian: "Damn."

So that was my Friday: Haagen Dazs, Sucrets, and sore throat medicine.

Saturday I made the trek down to Philly, feeling better but still sucking down cough syrup, on the road to convalescence. I was feeling pretty good by the time the reception rolled around, and gave myself the green light to booze to my heart's content, which usually means way, way, way too much.

I am a man of many weakness: sour cream, cleavage, any woman who so much as talks to me, etc. But I have no bigger weakness than vodka. I love vodka. I've written about this before, so I don't need to go totally into it, but suffice it to say that tears are welling up in my eyes right now, thinking about vodka.

I have no excuse or explanation for how drunk I got on Saturday. Sure, I was double-fisting vodka cranberries all night, and doing shots of Stoli Raspberry, but still, I got way drunker than I should have been. I remember leaving the reception, but not too much after that. I went to another bar, then another, before I told some friends that I was going to use the bathroom, but instead snuck home.

Oh, I do remember one conversation with my friend Tara who I hadn't seen in a while.

Tara: "So Jase, what are you doing in NYC?"
Me: [very drunk] "I'm doing a little acting."
Tara: [excited] "Really? Anything I would know?"
Me: "You know the new 'Alien vs. Predator' movie?"
Tara: "Yeah."
Me: [pointing to self] "I'm the Predator. Well, one of them. There were like 50 of us."
Tara: "You're kidding, right?"
Me: "Yes."
Tara: [disgusted] "Oh."

I stumbled home and amazingly suppressed my urge to take my dad's truck and go hooker hunting. I passed out and woke up in the middle of the night and did something I never do: threw up.

I never throw up from drinking. Ever. Well, I've thrown up twice while intoxicated, but neither had to do with drinking (are you with me?). Once I puked because I had eaten a bad chicken roll (well, it was delicious, but it made me throw up). And once I made myself puke because in my drunken stupor I had taken too many aspirin (written about in the now infamous "Upper Hand" post).

But boy did I throw up, and vodka cranberry is one of the less pleasant things to see on the way up. When I woke up the next day with a crippling hangover, I made some phone calls to do some damage control. One friend said, "I was fucked up, but I looked over at you, and thought, 'Man, he is fucked up.' So you were really drunk." Another said I was "mangled." Another said I was "making stupid faces and had no body control." I'm not sure what that last one means, but it's not a good thing.

I took the train back to NYC, and threw up in the train station. During the unusually long train ride, I threw up in the train bathroom. I was a disaster. I made it back to my place barely alive, and recovered only with the help of some Krispie Kreme doughnuts I picked up at Penn Station.

I blame this entirely on the cough/sore throat medicine. I can handle my liquor. Shit, I practically drink professionally. I know what'll get me buzzed, what'll get me drunk, and what'll get me hitchhiking at 4:30 in the morning, set on going to Canada to go bear hunting. On Saturday night, I had enough booze to get me in the "I'm pretty drunk" range, but because I drank a bottle of cough medicine in the twenty-four hours before drinking, I wound up in the "I'm going to see if this car can float in the Delaware River" range.

The lesson: cough medicine gets you fucked up. Drink a bottle of Robitussin, and about a liter of vodka, and boy, you'll be feeling good. Just don't have any big plans for the next day, because you'll probably need help bathing yourself and breathing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Friday, August 20, 2004
mailin' it in
So I'm sitting here, finishing a late lunch, and a lot of thoughts are going through my mind: "Man, I really don't have anything to write today" and "What can I talk about?" and "Jesus, when was the last time I had Chinese food? It's gotta be like two months."

I was slowly growing content with not putting up another post, as I am busy at work today and am having various computer problems, but suddenly an email popped in my inbox from the lovely and talented Brian.

A little background about Brian (not to be confused with my roommate, Brian Powers - the only thing they have in common is that they are both douchebags): he and I went to BC together where we had a very unremarkable friendship. I knew him as the stoner who lived down the hall, and he knew me as the fat dude who once had sex with a piece of raw chicken breast for $10. We did have a class together, before which I always took a nap and masturbated while Brian smoked pot (not in the same room - well, once in the same room). Also in the class was a girl with giant breasts, who I am still in love with, though we have never spoken.

Brian has been mentioned a lot on this site, as he has given his thoughts or asked questions about weddings, hair salons and masculinity, and dating a woman who doesn't drink. This time, he tackles the Olympics in response to my post of 8/16:

Over the weekend I was home in Minnesota and my brothers and I were watching the U.S. get routed by Puerto Rico. I, as America's biggest opponent, was loudly rooting against the overpaid, dunk-only hacks on the U.S. My father then accused me of hating America, which, of course, I do. Still, why was my dad, who gets freaked out by guys with their ears pierced, rooting for a team captained by a guy with a tattoo on his neck? Anyway, I strongly suggest you change your view on the Olympics since 1) It's the greatest opportunity to root against America and isolate yourself from friends, family and random people at a bar. Cheering for Khazekastan in a late night water polo match against the US is a fantastic way to meet new people and punch them in the face 2) women's beach volleyball has now replaced my massive collection of Asian porn. Tall, thin ladies in bikinis that are way too small, I mean, I don't even have words to describe how awesome this is. 3) men's gymnastics. Seeing dudes that no doubt were ridiculed throughout high school as "fags" and "fudge packers" now in their moment of glory, it's breathtaking, and then they fall off the pummel horse and you nearly shit yourself laughing.
Secondly, I'm going to the Franz Ferdinand show on Oct. 3 at the Roseland Ballroom. It's a Sunday which sucks and it will probably be filled with hipsters but I love this band. Check it out and if you want to go I'll be there.
I really don't have much to add to these email, except to say that:

1) I really don't need the Olympics to isolate myself from anyone; I do that well enough on my own by cursing in front of my parents and grandparents, starting fights with my teenage cousins at family functions, exposing myself three or four times a night while having drinks with friends, and leaving notes for women who live in my building talking about how my "loins are alight with love", and how I "wash my loins three times to-day" in anticipation "of their warmness, most warm, to touch with mine."

2) I have heard much about this women's volleyball team, but because of my years-long dependency on pornography (very graphic pornography at that), I can no longer become aroused by such "normal" sexiness. For me to get and maintain an erection, I need: 1) three bukkake clips playing simultaneously, preferably with black guys; 2) the room temperature to be between 64 and 70 degrees; and 3) some sort of pastry baking in the oven, preferably strudel.

3) The men's gymnastics point was particularly good, and not just because of the fact that the gymnasts are homosexual. Any time someone works really hard for something, depriving themselves of enjoyment and a normal life for years to attain a specific goal and they fail - well, in my book it doesn't get any funnier (hey, if I have to be miserable, I'm going to take everybody else down with me).

So that's all I've got for today. Have a good weekend, and remember, you're going to be old soon. Go out, get fucked up, and get a story. Especially if you're an attractive young lady and your story starts with "Hey, I fucked that Internet Quasi-Celebrity guy - what's his name? Justin Muldoon? Anyway, he smells kinda like a mix between a baby and an old man. Really strange."

two quick sports items
Sports Item #1

Curtis Martin, has-been running back for the New York Jets, guaranteed that he will run for 1,500 yards this year.

Apparently, today is "Make Crazy Guarantees" Day, so I want to go on record to see that before the year is out, I will have sex with ten women. You heard it hear first.

My guarantee isn't quite as crazy as Martin's is, so I'll step it up: the ten women I have sex with will actually enjoy it.

My predictions:

Martin - 1012 yards rushing, 8 touchdowns, 8-8 record for Jets
Mulgrew - 2 make-outs, 1 handjob received, no one walks away a winner

Sports Item #2

What the hell does Larry Bowa have to do to get fired? The Philadelphia Phillies, consensus pre-season picks for the NL East crown, are now 59-62, 10.5 games behind the first place Braves, and 7 games back behind the San Francisco Giants for the wild-card. Read: the season is pretty much over.

I know there have been injuries and under-performances, and I know he's a sports icon in Philly, but he's gotta go. The Phillies are 1-9 in their last ten games - all of which were at home.

Yet I think that this guy could hold a news conference calling for the return of apartheid, stopping half-way through to take a shit on an American flag, and still retain his job.

My prediction: Bowa won't last through the weekend (ok, so I was being a little facetious above).

Thursday, August 19, 2004
very random
Blogger has inserted a "blog-rolling" function on top of all blogs on their system. I don't like this, but hey - this shit is free.

I've been spending some time checking out other people's blogs, and I have a few observations:

1) No one's is as good as mine. Like, not even close. This is not a knock against other blogs, but a testament to how truly special I am (I mean "special" in the same sense as "special ed").

2) Asian people have some very high-tech blogs. And I don't mean Asian-Americans, I mean real Asians: people from Singapore and Japan and other Asia-type countries. Some of the graphics on these things require separate downloads. You know what? No thanks. I don't need to download Flash 11.0 so that I can read about how you and your friends went to the mall on Tuesday. Unless you went to the mall and had a giant orgy and all of your friends have extremely large boobs. If that's the case, please email me.

3) The youth of America are barely literate. Teenagers have some atrocious blogs. When their words are interspersed with capital and lowercase letters (LiKe thIS bITch), they use @ for "a" and $ for "S", it makes me sad, and even more determined to never have kids (on purpose).

4) I've been cracking myself up by leaving comments on other people's blogs whose blogs are in a different language. There'll be a ten paragraph opus written in Portuguese, and I'll make a comment like "Totally." I've done this probably twenty times already, and each time it gets funnier (to me).

5) People care a lot about politics. Like, a whole lot. Apparently, there are people who support Bush. I wouldn't know it, but they actually do exist, and they are very pissed at liberals. Go figure.

6) People write a lot about their emotions, wailing away endlessly about loss, desperation, happiness, fear, etc. I guess I write a lot about my emotions too, but the difference is that the only emotions I have are lust and hunger. Oh, and revenge. That's my favorite one.

7) Some blogs are downright sad. In the "About Me" section, one person wrote (and I'm not making this up):

I decided to retire a couple years ago..was thinking about working part time until I broke my ankle and the way it swells will not allow me to be on it long..We have 2 dogs, 2 cats and 2 birds for pets..We have a piano I keep thinking I should learn to paly [sic]but have not tackled that yet..

I mean, I don't know what I feel, but it's not "good", and it's definitely not "horny."


From the music department:

- "Miracle Man" Elvis Costello
The best song ever about being pissed off about a girl who thinks she is hot shit. A must if you've been blown off by some bitch who thinks she's too good for you just because she washes her sheets more than once every three months. What's the difference - I'm only sleeping on them, not working out in them! And beer piss is mostly water anyway!

- "Flowers of December" Mazzy Star
A groovy lil' song, but what's best about it is that Hope Sandoval, the lead singer, who is pretty hot, whispers, "Oh wait, I have to get my harmonica" at the very beginning. For some reason, this really turns me on. And no, I didn't go to therapy this week.

- "Give Me Just a Little More Time" Chairmen of the Board
A terrific oldies song, as the lead singer just loses control. I picture him on stage, sweating, shaking, and freaking out, and it makes me happy.


The headline of a Chad Ford article on ESPN.com: The Mavs are hoping a healthy Erick Dampier will propel them back into the Western Conference elite next season.

Um, did I just read that right? That's a joke, yes? Or will we see, Philadelphia Eagles' Counting on Mulgrew's Speed at Wide-Out?


I always listen to my I-Pod when coming in to work. This morning, I ran into a co-worker in the elevator as I was rocking out, and he asked, "What are you listening to?"

Now usually, I'm listening to something pretty cool. However, this morning I was listening to Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven is a Place on Earth." Not very cool.

So I stammer, realizing I don't have enough time to change the song or turn the I-Pod off, and instead just take the head phones out of my ears and say, "Nothing actually."

This would have worked, except we were in the elevator, and as we were trying to have a normal conversation, if you listened closely you could hear,

Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth?
Ooh heaven is a place on earth
They say in heaven love comes first
We’ll make heaven a place on earth

So my co-worker not only thinks I'm a bad worker, but he also now thinks I'm gay.

Smooth, dude. Smooth.


Speaking of co-workers, it's occurred to me that at one time or another I've had a crush on just about every female I work with. Some have only lasted a day, some considerably longer, but there have been thousands. Curse my loneliness and lack of standards!


If I get one more email with the link about the bear who drinks beer, I'm going to flip the fuck out. This is much more to my liking, and it's inspired me to create my own sandwich: The Boner - a soft sub roll with BBQ chicken, mozzarella cheese, two kinds of mayo, a whole cheesesteak, and a piece of pumpkin pie. Dip in chocolate sauce and enjoy.


Wireless internet is changing my life. Good lord - you're telling me I can actively download pornography while pooping, and not make a huge mess at my desk while in the process? Oh boy!

Also, I feel like I'm in college again, with internet up all the time, and IM on constantly. It makes me realize how much I hate IMing, as each person tries to talk over each other. However, it's the best way to have cybersex, hands down. So for that I am grateful.

Wednesday, August 18, 2004
I *Heart* Jenna: An Ode to a Porn Star
Yesterday, something so incredible happened, so amazing and life-changing, that I had to wait a day to digest it before I could fully discuss it.

My roommate Brian works for an entertainment news program. Yesterday, Jenna Jameson came to his office.

For those you who don't know who Jenna Jameson is (Puritans, the Amish, the deceased, foreigners, those without genitalia), she is only THE biggest porn star in the world. She has a special place in the hearts of guys my age, since she dominated (and still to a degree dominates) the industry from about 1994 on - the prime years of self-discovery, and by that I mean, "masturbating."

Brian knew a day in advance that the next day she was going to be in his office. See, Jenna's gotten tired of blowing dudes and getting creamed on, so she's expanding her empire. She made her mainstream movie debut in Howard Stern's "Private Parts", and now a television show is in the works, and she has a book out, How to Make Love Like A Porn Star: A Cautionary Tale, which is not a how-to, but rather an autobiography. If you watch VH1, you may have noticed a new one-off show called, "Jenna Jameson's Confessions." The commercial for it is classic, as Jenna says something like, "Even though I had a Lamborghini, I didn't have it all."

Deep, Jenna. Deep.

So anyway, when Brian told my roommate Ben and I that Jenna Jameson was going to be in his presence, we were dumbfounded. The biggest question was, "Are you going to meet her?"

Me: "Dude, if you have the chance, you have to meet her."
Brian: "I know."
Me: "But when you touch that hand, just think of how many dicks it's been on."
Ben: "And how much semen it's been around."
Brian: "Ok - gross."

The conversation was ended with a promise that Brian would be calling us throughout the day with updates. I'm not entirely positive, but I think I can pretty safely assume that prior to going to bed that night, Brian masturbated. I know I certainly did. And again in the shower the next day, but I failed (see yesterday's post).

The next day, my inbox was littered with emails from Brian that said things like "Oh...my...god" or "I'm in shock". Finally, he called me.

Brian: "What's up?"
Me: "Why are you calling me from your cell phone, and not your work phone?"
Brian: "Because I had to get out of the office - I just couldn't take it."
Me: "Is she hot?"
Brian: "Unbelievable. Unbelievable. I'm sorry, I can't even speak right now."
Me: "Well what's going on? Did you meet her?"
Brian: "I don't know...I feel really weird. I mean, she and I have shared a lot of special moments together, and I don't know what to feel."

Part of me wanted to yell at him and say, "You pussy - what's your problem? Get in there and talk to her! It's Jenna Fucking Jameson! And get me an autograph!"

But part of me understood completely. It's very hard to explain the impression a porn star can have on an pubescent boy. Because she serves as the boy's first glimpse of sexuality, a sexuality so base and powerful, a weird attachment can develop. Something like love, lust, loyalty, confusion, and happiness. It's actually quite beautiful, but very difficult to explain to those who haven't experienced it.

The porn starlet is a rare breed, a mix of both venerable and venereal, offering comfort in times of crisis, security in times of uncertainty, and unconditional sexual release in times of the longest droughts. No matter how overweight you are, or how much acne you have, or how much your back hair has grown in because your razor-ruler apparatus has broken and you haven't shaved it in ages, you can bet that Jenna Jameson is going to have sex on film for you, and let you play with yourself as she gets double-teamed in a garage by two dudes with forearm-sized penises and bad tattoos. One night stands will happen, girlfriends will come and go, you'll fall madly and blindly in love and be rocked out of it with equal vigor, but Jenna will always be there for you, giant fake boobs exposed, smile on her face, penis in her mouth, just as she's always been from the start.

Brian couldn't muster the chutzpah to meet her, but he did wave as she left and said "Thanks." I asked if he was able to get closer, and he wrote: "No - she had a guy with a massive and awesome body there protecting her, who wasn't bad himself."

But something has changed in Brian, as well as in me. We learned an important life lesson, though I'm not sure what the lesson is. I wish I could offer a moral to our story, but instead I'm left sitting here, a little weirded out, a little aroused, not sure if I want to masturbate, get married, or cry, working my way through sub-par pile of creamed spinach.

And, oh yeah, I bought the book. I'm thinking it's going to be pretty difficult to get through my current book about Mary, Queen of Scots, before getting into the Jenna one. I'll let you know how it is, if I can get through it in a reasonable amount of time, without having to stop reading after every paragraph to rub one out.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004
I'm going back to school in two weeks. It's just part-time, taking two classes a semester at Hunter College, for my masters in history.

First, I have to say that the odds are greatly stacked against me actually finishing the program and getting my degree. That is, unless grad school is like college, in which case I should be fine. If I can get drunk five nights a week, get high on Tuesday afternoons, hook up or try to hook up with all my female friends and thus alienate them, make up nicknames for girls we hang out with (Pale Horse, Somethin' Ain't Right, Meshuggeneh Diane, etc), get thrown out of housing (twice), get sued (once), and generally rabble-rouse, then Dean's List here I come!

But I don't think this is actually the case, and I'm learning this more each day. I'm registering tomorrow, and today I spoke with the head of the graduate advising in history.

Professor: "So, which courses are you considering taking?"
Me: "Well, I'm definitely going to take the Russian one, because I've become obsessed with Russia."
Prof: [Silence]
Me: "Um, and then I don't know which other one. Could you recommend another to me?"
Prof: "All of the courses are excellent, but in your case I would recommend either Legal History or Metternich and the 1848 Revolutions."
Me: "Ok, those both sound pretty good. Which one, you know, is a lesser course load?"
Prof: "I'm sorry?"
Me: "You know, which one, you know, do you think would be easier?"
Prof: [Silence for three seconds] "Jason, as your advisor, I would advise you against taking courses based on level of difficulty and instead take them because you are interested in them and you think they will make you a more complete historian."
Me: "Oh, I know. I totally understand, and I agree with you totally about the 'complete historian' thing. But I'm equally interested in both classes, and I need a tie-breaker."
Prof: [Silence]
Me: "Give me the Legal History."

And the thing is, I'm not even sure why I'm doing it. Well, that's not true - it's because it's a new way to meet women. I've exhausted everything else and I have to go back to where I had the most success: college. Bars, work, subways, alleys, shelters - I can't find a decent (read: relenting but not deceased) woman anywhere.

I had looked at other schools, but the only two that I found that offer a part-time liberal arts history degree were Hunter and Harvard, and Harvard's wasn't a real degree (swear - also I'd have to move to Boston, also I've have to get in). But another justification is that it's cheap: since I'm an NYC resident, the whole degree (if I complete it), will be about a third of year's tuition at a private institution. So I'm not straddling myself with any debt, which is nice, because you know, I need that money for pot and BBQ products.

But I've been sort of ambivalent about the whole thing until today, when I had to go to the school to get my immunization forms filled out.

A note about this: the doctor's office which had had my immunizations records was flooded, and the records were destroyed. Since then, I've been on a wild-goose chase, contacting every doctor I've ever been to, my high school, my college, the paparazzi - anyone to find these records. I don't understand why the people in Health Services at Hunter can't just take my word for it - I have been immunized. What is this, a third world country? I grew up in Philly, not fucking Zimbabwe. Pricks.

Anyway (let's try to wrap it up here, because this was supposed to be short), I went up to the "campus" today and holy smokes - it's like a real college! Sure, it's in the middle of Manhattan, but there were students, most importantly, young women, strolling around the area, talking on cell phones, listening to music, carrying books - all waiting for me, practically begging me, to come into their lives and weird them the fuck out! I mean, they were everywhere! It was truly glorious.

So now, I am psyched about going back to school. I look forward to getting a nice little freshman girlfriend, who I can help with her history homework and give lots of money to, in exchange for leaving me a few bras. And not to wear. Promise.

four morning notes
1) I had to wait four full minutes this morning for my elevator in my building. Four minutes is a long, long time, especially when you're tired as a mother fucker and depressed, since you tried beating off in the shower but had to stop half-way through, because it just wasn't working. Not the best way to start the day.

2) Blind people on the subway terrify me. Like most people, I share that "who's going to help them" awkwardness as they slowly try to enter and exit the train. And I feel terrible for feeling this way, but I can't help it. Second, I also feel like they going to just fucking walk right off the edge of the platform and fall onto the tracks, without realizing what they're doing. I mean, this could happen - they can't see shit!

If I ever become blind, I would just sit home all day and smoke pot, and be the most lazy person in the world. Sure, being blind sucks, but it's an excuse to do absolutely nothing for anyone but yourself for the rest of your life. And sure, that's pretty much what I'm doing now, but I bet it'd be a lot more acceptable if I couldn't see.

3) I can not stress this enough: I do NOT like to talk to people on the subway. It's not personal, it's just that that's my time to be alone and get myself ready for another disappointing day. This applies to everyone - my roommate Ben and I, since we work in the same place, often commute in the morning on the same train, without speaking to each other the entire time.

So if you see me, say hello, and move on. I still love you, but I'm just really, really weird in the morning.

4) [This is left-over from the weekend, but I noticed it on the subway this morning too] As I've noted before, I am a sucker for lip gloss. I am also a sucker for girls who can dance, especially when they're tan. Add another thing to the list: hoop earrings. I know, I know - they can be trashy, but you're forgetting - I love trashy. Maybe it's because I grew up in South Philly (zing! to all the South Philly girls reading) but I don't know; I think hoop earrings are very, very hot. Call me crazy, call me racist, but that's just how I feel.

[I should note that this is the only post I've ever put up that when spell-checked had zero mistakes. To give you an idea of how I'm doing, this is definitely going to be the highlight of my day, barring sexual intercourse with a hoop earring-wearing girl on the subway ride home.]

Monday, August 16, 2004
the Olympics, pudding pops, and emails
I could not give less of a shit about the Olympics. Really, do I care about things like the hammer-throw, judo, swimming, the horse jerking-off contest, or whatever the hell else they have? Aside from being a giant money-maker, I think the Olympics are an opportunity for people who aren't into sports to suddenly get into sports under the guise of patriotism, as witnessed by the conversation I had this weekend with my friend Annie, who knows essentially nothing about sports:

Me: "The Olympics suck."
Annie: "How can you say that? They are great! And you get to root for America!"
Me: "I'm not feeling very proud of America, or it's crappy sports."
Annie: [sighing] "Oh Jay."

On msn.com this morning there was a headline about "The Race of the Century", referring to American Michael Phelps racing Australian Ian Thorpe. As exciting as it is for me to watch two hairless, fit men swim up and down in a pool, I don't think "Race of the Century" is very appropriate. I think "The _____ of the _____" gets thrown around a little too much. While we're at it, let's call this site The Site of the Millennium and yours truly The Fat Man of all Fat Men.

The one sport I did want to watch has turned into a national disgrace: basketball. Wow - you're telling me that the US Olympic team, thrown together a month ago from the second-tier NBA players playing a "me-first" style of basketball is having trouble playing against textbook teams that have been together for years? Really?

The problem is that the US can't deal with the zone defense. For all you non-basketball people, the zone defense works roughly like this:

1) Everyone stand in a designated area of the court;
2) Help each other out to avoid one-on-one match-ups;
3) If the ball is delivered into the paint, the defense collapses around that player;
4) The result being that you're forcing the other team to beat you with the outside shot.

The US doesn't have ANY perimeter shooting. In their 92-73 debacle to Puerto Rico (yes, Puerto Rico), the US was a combined 3-for-24 from three-point land, which, might I add, is three feet shorter than NBA three-point range.

And Puerto Rico? Aren't there like 100,000 people in Puerto Rico, and aren't 95% of them mechanics, hoodlums, bus-boys, or in the hip-hop industry? [Note: totally ok for me to say this, since my ex was Puerto Rican.]

So I will be watching the Olympics, but only to see our NBA megastars get disgraced by teams that have a whole combined annual income comparable to Allen Iverson's last Tuesday's wage.


Apparently, you all feel very strongly about pudding pops. Like, almost to the point that I feel kinda uncomfortable reading your emails about your fond memories of puddin' on a stick, and how much you miss them, and how you need to have them back.

This is natural: I often associate a particular product with a period of good times in my life. For example, whenever I see condoms, I think of when I was having regular sex - you know, the good old days, long, long, long, long ago. Actually, whenever I see anything - flowers, cars, buildings, food, anything on TV, people, sunshine - I think of when I was having regular sex. Long, long, long, long ago.

The good news is that the pudding pops do exist. A few of you said you've had them, and my buddy Sean Hanson sent me this link, which says that they are back, albeit in a different incarnation.

However, yours truly, since he has really nothing better to do, did a little field work this weekend and could not find the pudding pops in his local grocer's freezer. However, it should be noted that I was only able to check three grocery stores in my neighborhood, because I got the runs and had to go home. [I ordered a pizza with chicken and ricotta on Friday night, ate half of it, left it out until Saturday night, heated it up and ate the rest, then was pretty, um, irregular on Sunday. Is this too much info?]

My official diagnosis is that pudding pops are NOT back. Never having been one for faith or kindness or wiping my ass properly, I have to see something to believe it. And until someone can put a pudding pop in my hand (hint-hint), they're dead to me.


One note about emails: I like getting the emails from you. I really do. I think it's fascinating to get your input, except when you call me homophobic and disgusting (though I admittedly am the latter). And, as you know, I get back to all of them, though most of the time I write something stupid because I am embarrassed, since you caught me right in the middle of a solid self-love session. But one thing I ask in the future: when you email, can you give me a name/name and last initial/full name and let me know if I can use it on the site? It'd also be cool to put where you live, so I can prove to my roommates and friends that yes, I really am an internet quasi-celebrity. This way, I don't have to respond and say, "Can I use this?" and then have to wait for your response and blah blah blah.

If you're confused by this, here's an example:

"Dear Jason,

I read your site often. I am 19 years old, have blond hair and blue eyes, and just got breast enhancement surgery. Though I have an uncontrollable urge to be performing oral sex all the time, even when I'm asleep, I haven't been with many guys, because I've been saving myself for someone special. And Jason, I think you are the one. Please let me know when I can come to stay with you in NYC, so that you can deflower me.

Jessica S.
Wichita, KS

PS: I have always wanted to watch porno. Do you think we could do that together and possibly act it out?

PPS: I've always wondered what it would be like to be with another woman. Me and my friend Ashley (34DD-20-32), who also reads your site and loves it, talk about it a lot. She's willing to come to NYC and try it all together, if you have room for her.

PPPS: Feel free to put this on your site, since I'll do pretty much anything to make you happy."

Friday, August 13, 2004
Six Month Anniversary
"A blog? I'm not starting a blog. Do you know how fucking nerdy that is? It's so egotistical - why would anyone want to read about me beating off in the shower, getting drunk and not getting any ass? It's stupid. Now are you gonna finish that sandwich or what? I'm fucking starving."

- Jason Mulgrew, January 2004

Today is the six month anniversary of our little site here. Although I should point out that "anniversary" isn't really the appropriate word, since it's derived from the Latin words annus, which means "anus", and versa, which means "verse". So you can plainly see how it's being misused here.

Anyway, I had had big plans for the six month anniversary post: I was going to write a long one about how much I've learned about myself, talk about some of the best emails that I've gotten that I haven't yet put on the site, and even do a little awards ceremony.

But it ain't gonna happen. Why? Because I kept it real last night and now I'm hungover as a mother fucker. So forget all that thoughtful, work-requiring shit, because I got so fucked up that this morning I fell asleep (one could even say "passed out") on the subway, woke up in Brooklyn, and had to make my way back to work (fortunately, I was only one stop in, so it wasn't too bad).

A side note: whenever I get messed up, if something funny occurs to me, I'll write it down so I don't forget it. What I write down is NEVER funny. This morning, I found a crumpled napkin on my dresser with two things I wrote while f'ed up:

I am going to die while masturbating


What's so appealing about trimming your pubes when drunk? Why do I always do it?

So there you go: comedic genius in action.


But back to six months of our site. Who'd every thought I'd get six months out of:

1) I'm fat
2) Women don't like me
3) I beat off all the time
4) I'm hairy
5) I love to drink and get all sorts of messed up

I never thought I would start something like this, because I believed (and still do) that blogs are nerdy and egotistical. But I came to the realization that I would probably never have consensual sex again if immediate action wasn't taken, so viola.

Of course, this site hasn't helped me at all in this endeavor. And, though I've gained some weight since I've started it, and haven't really bought any nice new clothes or haven't sobered up enough to have an actual conversation with a woman, I don't blame myself for this lack of getting ass.

And I don't blame women readers, who read this daily or weekly or every once in a while and get a kick out of it, but are so selfish and self-centered that they don't realize that I actually put forth a lot of effort for them by writing this every day, during business hours, jeopardizing my job and my life, and really, would it kill them to put out for me, just a little bit even?

Instead, I blame terrorists. The terrorists and terrorism are the reasons that I haven't caught a beejer from this site. Terrorists have instilled a fear in Americans that was never there before. Terrorists have made women wary of reading an internet site, sending the proprietor of said internet site an email offering sexual favors, and finally meeting the site proprietor in a car off exit 166 on the Turnpike for a sloppy, chaffy handjob. The terrorists are destroying my sex life.

But on the bright side, this site continues to prosper, and it is thanks solely to you all. And, maybe it's the alcohol talking, but I think I'm having a heart attack. Sorry - I mean I do think I'm having a heart attack, but what I meant to say was, well, now I forget.

Anyway, if my dad taught me one thing, it's that hard work pays off. If my dad taught me two things, it's that hard work pays off and never try to build anything while you're on cocaine, because no matter how hard you try, it's just not going to look right when you're done.

In that spirit, and in the face of repeated failures, I am redoubling my efforts and making it my goal to get laid from the site (third base be damned!). I do this because I know that somewhere out there, there is a woman with just the right mix of alcoholism, low self-esteem, and poverty that will let me perform sexy intercourse on her, while she's conscience, without first seeing the money, and without contacting the local sex crimes unit afterward.

And that's where you come in. I know I have asked before, but please continue to pass on the site to anyone who you think might enjoy it. These people include but are not limited to: stoners, college students, junkies, the unemployed, convicts, drunks, any creepy relatives you might have. Actually fuck it - don't pass it on to anyone who you think might like it - just pass it on to everyone. Except my family and my co-workers. Best leave them in the dark on this one.

Without this turning into some sort of hippy lovefest, thanks for all the emails that range from dirty jokes to yelling at me to suggesting stuff for me to write about to just saying 'ello. Continue to spread the word and I will continue to write about my masturbatory habits and my alcohol addiction, in the hopes that one day, you and I can meet for some awkward and unsatisfying sex.

I am,
Your brother in Christ,
I believe miracles,
Where you from,
You sexy thing,

Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew

NJ: The Gay State
I don't have much to add to this whole McGreevey thing, because it in itself is a punchline. I think my favorite part is his poor wife, standing by his side, undoubtedly all Prozaced up, doing her best to keep it together but probably thinking, "I really wish that nuclear war would start right now."

My roommate Brian, a NJ native, sent me this email as the story broke (you should know that Brian calls himself "PowersNation" - he's in between jobs and has a lot of free time):

On behalf of PowersNation, and the state of NJ, we extend our deepest sympathies to the nation, and most notably the citizens of New Jersey.

Gov. McGreevey has just resigned, admitting to a gay affair.

A(nother) piece of all Jerseyans has died today.

The state has been through enough.
But the best line comes from my buddy Steve Trusko, who wrote to me, "It shouldn't take him that long to move out of the governor's mansion - he's already got his shit packed."


Thursday, August 12, 2004
goin' Commando
Some giant black dude: "You scared motherfucker? Well you should be because this green beret is going to kick your big ass."

Schwarzenegger: "I eat green berets for breakfast. And right now I'm very hungry."
Last night, I got high, ate a half a canister of whipped cream, and watched Commando. Well, I don't know if it was half a canister, because you can't really tell, but it was a lot. And I didn't eat it in the traditional tilt-the-head-back-and-spray-into-mouth method; rather, I shot the whipped cream into my hand and ate it right out of my hand. Not my finest moment.

Anyway, Commando is a terrific movie. I think it's Schwarzenegger's second best action movie, behind Predator, and fourth best movie overall. My top five would be 1) Twins 2) Predator 3) Kindergarten Cop 4) Commando 5) Jingle All the Way and 6) Terminator. And yes, I know that's six - I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

The plot of the movie goes like this: Schwarzenegger is Col. John Matrix, this bad-ass Special Forces dude. Bad guys kidnap his daughter, played by Alyssa Milano (in her Samantha days) to get him to kill a president or something (like I said, I was high). Anyway, Schwarzenegger has to get his daughter back, and he single-handedly kills 300 or so people in the process.

Terrific, if unrealistic action. The fact that it's the mid-80's certainly gives it bonus points. But what struck my roommate Brian (who was also high) and I most was the overt homosexuality of Schwarzenegger's adversary, Bennett (played by the Vernon Wells who is not the centerfielder for the Toronto Blue Jays).

I couldn't find an ideal picture, but he's the guy in the third clip on the right here. I mean, you have Arnold, who's extremely jacked, sweaty, and covered in that sexy black camouflage, and then you have Bennett, with his Village People mustache, sleeveless tank top, and no muscle tone whatsoever. And these guys are supposed to be equally tough?

And we're not just talking looks here, either: when Bennett runs, he looks like a girl. When Bennett walks, he looks like a girl. When Bennett acts, he overacts so badly, that you think he's melodramatic enough to be feminine.

I don't really have anything to add otherwise (realizing this is quickly deteriorating into "you had to be there" territory - damn you marijuana, for making me think that this was a good idea at the time!), but please, if you haven't seen it in a while, go out and rent Commando. And get high while you watch it. And there's new "extra creamy" whipped cream out, which you really should try. There is also a chocolate variety, but that's kinda sacrilege to me.

props to my homies in lock down
I want to give some quick props to my friend Brendan, who spent some time in the slammer this weekend.

Apparently, Brendan, who, to put it mildly, has a severe drinking problem, was at a party that was getting broken up by some of Somerville's finest when he mouthed off to a cop, was cuffed and sent to jail. Sources could not confirm what Brendan, who naked looks a lot like a nude Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, said to the cop, but we can be certain it was said in a thick Brooklyn accent and very, very slurred. My guess: "your mutha".

My friend John got him out a few hours later. He (John) later wrote to me: "You should have seen him when they let him out. He was still bombed."

So cheers to Brendan. He's taken to calling himself a "freedom fighter", but I have a more appropriate word: drunkard. So far, we've had no comment from Brendan as to whether he earned his brown wings during his short stay in jail, but anyone who knows him personally can safely assume that yes, he did. Probably many times over, and with a huge smile on his face.

Wednesday, August 11, 2004
The Bahamas, Part III: Love, Lust and Karaoke
[Note: I split what was supposed to be Part II into Parts II & III, because they got kinda long. You can find Part II below.]

I love karaoke. There's a lot to be said for getting wasted, standing in front of a bunch of people, and pretending your Madonna, Meatloaf, or Prince. And I don't care if you think this makes me gay - just because I like karaoke and once I accidentally downloaded a gay porn clip and accidentally masturbated to it three times doesn't mean I'm gay.

But, much like falling in love or beating off hungover, you can't force karaoke. Either you're feeling it, and can properly give forth to your feelings and give the performance of a lifetime, or you're not, and you're left standing up there, timidly holding the microphone, singing "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" barely above a whisper, while your friends shake their heads in disapproval and shame.

Usually, "feeling it" is directly related to how many alcoholic drinks you've consumed or pills you took in the bathroom an hour before. The more drinks or pills, the more rousing your performance is going to be.

This past weekend in The Bahamas, I gave the greatest karaoke performance of my life, and possibly the greatest karaoke performance anyone has ever given. Since I had been drinking non-stop for, oh, three days, my performance ranks up there with the invention the 16 ounce can of Budweiser and the time I saw those two hot hippy chicks making out at that Phish concert on the list of Greatest Things To Have Ever Happened.

My plan was simple: I was going to sing Joe Cocker's "You Are So Beautiful To Me." But I was going to change the words around and sing "I Am So Beautiful To You." I also wanted to dedicate this to a member of the wedding party, a guest without a date.

I quickly found the perfect girl to dedicate the song to: an adorable lil' butter pecan Puerto Rican named Gloria who worked with my cousin Lindsay. Dedicating the song to her was especially perfect, since I had only spoken to her once before, when I met her and my mom tried to set me up with her (I think):

Mom: "Jas, this is Gloria. She works with Lindsay."
Me: "Hi, how are you?"
Gloria: "Good."
Mom: [leaning in, as if to offer a hint, but still plainly speaking in front of Gloria] "Jas, Gloria speaks Spanish."
Me: [to Gloria]: "Really? How's that working out for you?"
Gloria: [slightly confused] "Good."
[5 seconds of silence]
Me: "Well, I'm going to go get a drink. Nice meeting you!"

At the time I decided to do this, the bar, which was situated in the hotel lobby area, was packed. Additionally, there were stairs going up to other bars and restaurants stemming from the lobby, and these areas were packed too. Some people had gone up and done karaoke already, but, to be honest, they sucked. I knew that this was my moment, and I was going to bring the house down.

So I built up my alcohol-fueled courage, and marched up to the DJ, and said, "My name is Charles, and I am going to light this place on fire with that microphone." A gentle Bahamian man, so thus presumably super high, he laughed and put my request down, and told me there were seven people in front of me.

Seven? This certainly was a wrinkle in my plans. I was ready to go now - seven people meant at least a half-hour to think about how the song would come off, if Gloria would even be around, if I would still be able to stand, etc.

I got over this pretty quickly, time passed, and before I knew it, they were asking for Charles to come to the dance floor. By the third calling of Charles, I'd realized that I had given a fake name, and that I was Charles, so I marched up to grab the mic. When I took the mic from the DJ, I whispered to him not to start the song, until I said so, and stepped into the middle of the dance floor and said, "I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special lady: Gloria."

At this point, all the girls in the wedding party started freaking out, and I continued: "Gloria has got to be one of the top 25 most beautiful women on the island, so I thought this song was appropriate."

I then signaled the DJ to start the song, and as the piano intro was going, I added: "Well, maybe not 25, but definitely top 50."

The whole joint was rolling, and it continued when I broke into singing "I am so beautiful...to you."

I've mentioned before that though god didn't bless me with athleticism, good-looks, pride, normal-sized genitalia, or solid bowel movements, he did give me the voice of an angel.

As I continued the song, people kept cracking up, and Gloria was pushed out to the dance floor so I could sing directly to her. I continued singing, and got really into it ("I'm everything you hoped for"), and closed it with the highest pitched "to you" I could muster up.

When it was over, Gloria gave me a hug, and I got a standing ovation from every person in the bar. I thought there were about 300 or so people there, but by the next day the number had swelled to 800. I came off the floor and for the rest of the night and weekend, people kept coming up to me, saying that it was incredible, that it was the smoothest thing they'd ever seen, that, hell, they'd sleep with me after the song (unfortunately, only guys said this).

What did Gloria think of this? Not sure, since she didn't talk to me again for the rest of the weekend. Actually, that's not true - on the shuttle back to the airport, we sat next to each other, and had this conversation:

Me: "Um, I don't know if Lindsay told you this, but I have this website and I'm kinda a big deal. So I'm going to write about this. Do you want me to use your real name or a fake name?"
Gloria: [smiling nervously] "I heard about your website. I don't mind what name you use. Just be nice."
Me: "Thank you."


I didn't mind that Gloria didn't speak to me for the rest of the weekend; I didn't think that after bringing the house down for her, she'd immediately fall madly in love and we'd have three children before we even left the island three days later. After all, she's a sexy lil' Latina that probably likes salsa and hip-hop, whereas I'm a doughy white guy who prefers classic rock and '80's Brit-Pop.

What did make me feel bad/weird/awkward is that everyone that we were on the trip with did think that she would fall madly in love with me after the performance, and when they saw us in the following days, standing near each other but not interacting, they must have thought, "Jesus - how much of a shit dude can this guy be? He sings to her in front of 500 people, gets them on their feet, and now he can't even talk to her?"

And they're right - what the hell is wrong with me? I can sing to a girl, dedicate a song to her about how beautiful I am, getting a standing ovation, but then not get any attention after that? Holy shit balls! What more do I have to do? Maybe the next time I sing, I'll give the girl a check for $1000 as soon as I'm done. Will that help? Anyone? Bueller?

I'm going to see if my e*Harmony profile has been approved, so I can start cyber-dating. If for some reason it gets rejected, I'm donating my genitals to science. Because really, I don't need them. At this point, they're like a figurehead monarch - there for show, and comforting at times, but when it comes down to it, completely and totally useless.

The Bahamas, Part II: Love, Sports and Booze
In addition to being an all-around great time, two of the most important events of my life occurred in The Bahamas. I will now discuss them in a round-about way, going off on several tangents and peppering my explanation with inappropriate and tasteless jokes (just in case you didn’t know what you were in for).

I have never been much of an athlete. From a young age, my proclivity for both milkshakes and sloth combined to destroy any athleticism I had inherited from my parents. I tried out for football, but quit in less than a week when I learned how much running was involved. This was a good thing too, because football teams were organized by weight (i.e. 60 pounders, 70 pounders, etc). Had I stayed with it, I would have been a fat 9 year old playing against svelte 12 year olds who surely would have taken great pride in beating my ass daily while I wept to myself and wished for pudding pops.

[By the way, whatever happened to pudding pops? Are these still around? They were awesome. Someone please help me find them.]

I didn’t play hockey because skating requires balance, and when you are young and top-heavy, hockey really isn’t the ideal activity for you. And basketball, well, see the “running” excuse for baseball.

[It should be noted that my lack of athleticism was not limited to team sports: I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 10, and couldn’t swim until I was 12. God I wish I was joking right now.]

Baseball was the one sport that I sort of took to. And by “sort of took to” I mean “continued to show up at games for the McDonald’s that usually came afterward.” I played baseball for two years, and they were easily the worst two years of my life. However, my crowning sports achievement came in those two years, when I scored the winning run from first on a double hit by my teammate Greg.

Scoring a run from first on a double is an almost expected occurrence in baseball, but there were extraneous circumstances that made this case extraordinary. First, I stink at sports, and everyone at the ballpark that day knew it. Second, there was a play at the plate and I beat the catcher’s tag to be called safe to be embraced by my swarming and cheering teammates.

It was undoubtedly the greatest athletic achievement of my life. Until this weekend.

Athletics take on a different role in our lives as we get older. Once we’ve hit our ceiling and we realize that no, we will not be the first member of the 800 club because every time we swing a bat something in our elbow rips, or no, we won’t be breaking Wilt Chamberlain’s scoring record of 100 points in a game because the last time we ran the length of a basketball court we missed Christmas because one of our lungs collapsed, we take a more passive role in athletics. Meaning we become content to watch and cheer for the exploits of others, because we know that we just can’t fucking do it ourselves. This is the case until we have children of our own, and force them to dribble a basketball eight hours a day under penalty of electrocution.

In The Bahamas this weekend, the main activity of the weekend was swimming. I’m not much of a swimmer, as I haven’t swum in about ten years because of the body hair that has attacked my body, changing it from a torso to a really shaggy greasy rug that sheds. Nay, I stayed on the sidelines of the pool, watching others swim while I had fruity drink after fruity drink.

As you might guess, I got very drunk while everyone else swam. Sitting by myself, waving to others, and shrugging them off when they asked me to jump in the pool got very exhausting for me (this may have had something to do with the drinks and the heat, but let’s not make that judgment here).

After piña colada number thirty (or so), I decided to take a walk on the beach to try to sober up. This did nothing. I figured that if I was going to make it the rest of the night, I would have to leave everyone at the pool and head in for a quick nap.

[The scene is now set. Finally.]

I walked from the beach up to the edge of the pool that all my friends were swimming to wash the sand from my feet. The ledge was very slippery. Also, I am typically very clumsy. Also, my blood alcohol level was about .41.

While dipping one foot in the pool, still sipping a full piña colada, I began to lose my balance. I knew I was ultimately going to fall in, but instinctively I started doing the “I’m slowly going to fall but I’m going to flail my arms around say ‘whoa’ and try to save myself” dance.

As everyone watched, I fell into the pool. But in mid-fall I adjusted my body just so that I managed to gently toss my full piña colada into the air, the drink landing softly on the ledge of the pool. So while I crashed into the pool with a giant splash that only a major fat body can create, the drink landed perfectly, right side up, without spilling a sip.

When I came back from under the water, everyone was applauding. I saw the drink sitting quietly on the ledge, almost saying to me, “Are you done horsing around so you can get back to drinking me now?” I felt an overwhelming sense of pride in myself for the first time in since the Philadelphia City Spelling Bee, and I knew that it just didn’t get any better.

I got out of the pool and was patted on the back by all those around me. I picked up the piña colada, apologized profusely, and together we walked slowly back to the room, reunited, and locked in an embrace of love and mutual admiration.

[What did you expect? Did you think I was going to run a fucking triathlon?]

Tuesday, August 10, 2004
The Bahamas, Part I: The Twelve Epiphanies
The Bahamas: GOOD LORD. Today is probably the saddest day of my life, as I sit at my desk, staring listlessly at my frozen yogurt, drinking my Nestle Quik, eating two oatmeal cookies, a pot of mac and cheese, and a reuben.

As Frank the Tank said, "I had an awesome time." I learned so much about myself and life in this trip, I can’t even being to list them.

So here goes:

1) I hate Italian people. On a cloudy morning at LaGuardia airport, my brother and I braved long queues that were once reserved for Russian bread lines and Congolese polio-vaccination giveaways but are now commonplace in American airports. I didn’t mind the wait; my sense of time, space, and decency was warped by the Xanax I had taken as soon as I woke up (more on this later), so much so that I was able to stand only with the help of the posts that zig-zag around the check-in lines and spent most of the wait shamelessly staring at every breast that entered my field of vision.

What I did mind was the two families of Long Island Italian-Americans who were standing in front of us.

To say that these families did more damage to the Italian stereotype than The Sopranos ever could is like saying I’ve only paid for sex "a few" times. Each family had a man as the head of the household, who chewed gum voraciously and wore gaudy watches and fine-linked bracelets and barked commands at his wife and his children.

"The wives were tan." You could describe them like that. You could also say, "The deepness of the tans of the women was so incredible that I had to restrain myself from walking up to them, tugging at their skin to see if they were real, and asking, ‘Were you in some like bizarre microwave explosion accident or something?’"

Each family had a daughter who was about 14 or 15 years old. Of course, they looked as though they were at least 22, and had banged half the guys in G-Unit. I only know their age because once the alpha-males realized that they were from the same social group (obnoxious LI Italiano), they immediately struck up a friendship, and I overheard the daughters talking to each other about high school.

For the entirety of the wait, my brother and I had to sit there and listen to the families talk about all things Italian and all things Long Island. It was like our own personal live viewing of Growing Up Gotti, which, by the way, made me throw up seven times when I watched it last night.

The result: I hate Italians. This applies to both Italian-Americans and native Italians, since the women have no interest in me and all the men look like AJ from the Backstreet Boys and think it’s totally ok to go up to a random woman in a bar and grab her crotch.

Ok, so the crotch grabbing I’m ok with, but I still hate Italians.

2) I am in love with Lindsay Boyd of Brentwood, TN. Lindsay, I stood behind you in line in customs upon arrival in The Bahamas (Editor’s note: the "The" in "The Bahamas" must always be capitalized). In case you’re wondering, you didn’t tell me your name; I stared at your landing card until I could make it out. I did this not out of creepiness but out of love, and love that comes from deep within (my crotch).

You are beautiful and I mean it when I say that you should come live with me in my spacious New York City apartment, or at the very least come for a long weekend and let me videotape you in the shower.

One problem: you may, though probably not, but you may be under 18. If you are, I was totally kidding about videotaping you in the shower. That would be wrong and illegal, and everyone knows how much I love and respect the law. So good luck with trigonometry; it can be a bitch.

But if you are 18 or over, I’m not kidding. I just got a new digital camera, and I promise I will record you sudsing your tan, nubile body with integrity and in good taste, and will only do so when you are comfortable, or when you’ve taken enough Rohypnol that you have no idea where the fuck you are.

Speaking of drugs…

3) I am in love with Xanax. When I flew to London in February, my old crappy doctor prescribed me some Xanax over the phone for my fear of flying. These pills did very little to calm me down, so I spent the entire flight to jolly ole England drinking Bailey’s, getting huge pit stains, constantly massaging my legs to avoid DVT, and writing goodbye letters to all the celebrities I wanted to sleep with.

I called my new super cool doctor to get different, more potent drugs for this flight. When he recommended Xanax, I told him that I had taken it before and it didn’t help. My old doctor said to take one pill, which is .25 milligrams. My new doctor, god bless ‘em, told me to take four pills, a whole milligram. Since I’m kinda husky, I figured I should take a fifth pill to make sure they worked.

And boy, did they work. I fell asleep as soon as my fat ass hit the seat, and woke up only when we were landing. After clearing customs and getting to the hotel in Nassau, I sat on my bed to take off my shoes before getting changed go out and take advantage of my new surroundings. When I woke up four hours later, I had to have three Red Bulls to balance myself out.

Thanks be to god for giving us chemicals, and dependencies.

4) The Bahamas is the most beautiful place on earth. Admittedly, this is coming from a guy who usually takes his vacations in Europe because ever since the Spice Girls he thinks he’s destined to marry a European (hopefully British) woman who will finally understand him unlike the women in the US.

But I was completely dumbstruck by the natural beauty of the land [Editor’s Note: that was the gayest sentence I’ve ever written]. You can actually see the ocean floor when you’re swimming, unlike the beaches I’ve been to on the Jersey shore, where the only thing you can see in the ocean are tattooed, musclehead douchebags fucking their tramp girlfriends while drinking cans of Coors Light.

5) I am the worst gambler in the world. For tax purposes, I don’t want to say how much I lost, but here’s a sampling of things I could have done with money I blew at the casino at the hotel:

- get a new I-Pod (or two)

- take a long weekend trip someplace nice

- get the royal treatment at a strip club

- hire two hookers to have sex in front of me while I did jumping-jacks

- rent a limo, fill it with 300 cans of Budweiser, and drive it around NYC on a Saturday night yelling at minorities

- buy $700 worth of cocaine

I mean, fuck.

6) If given the chance, I would probably give up food altogether and drink piña coladas all day long. I am usually very regular with my drinks: beer, vodka, shots. However, when in Rome, you know, um, do what the Romans do. The piña colada is like dessert, and I don’t think we need to revisit how much I like dessert. I probably had over 100 in the weekend, and it wasn’t enough. Don’t be surprised if I start drinking these at bars. Do be surprised if I start working out. Because then something is seriously wrong.

7) Having a wedding in a tropical place is a tremendous idea. Weddings can be hit or miss. Under the right circumstances, they can be a blast. Conversely, they can be a costly exercise in awkward conversation and contrived civility.

Having a wedding in a tropical place is an excellent idea. Sure, it’s expensive, but if I went to a wedding in the tri-state area, I’d probably spend half of what I spent on my five-day, four-night all-inclusive vacation, and I’d only have one night of open bar to show for it. This wedding was like a vacation with sixty of my friends. If I actually had sixty friends. Awesome!

8) Sending me someplace that has unlimited food and drink is a terrible idea. I still haven’t figured out if my cousin Lindsay had her wedding at an all-inclusive place because she thought it’d be fun or she wanted me dead. My goodness – gluttony has always been my favorite deadly sin, but this was just too extreme. We’re talking multiple entrees and desserts with every meal, quadruple fisting drinks all day and night, and generally ordering anything and everything "because we can." I’m convinced that if this trip wasn’t all-inclusive, I would have spent $4000 on booze, food, and room service.

9) Traveling with your family can be taxing. At this wedding were my mom, dad, brother, sister, grandmom, and aunt. I roomed with my brother. I'm the type of guy who, on the day of the check-out, wakes up three hours early, even though he packed the night before, just to make sure he has everything. My brother is the type of guy who you have to wake up on the last day, and who gets out of bed ten minutes before check-out time, throws his shit in his suitcase, and leaves. To someone as anal as me, this can be infuriating.

My dad is equally as infuriating. Twenty of us had to take a shuttle bus to the airport. The shuttle was supposed to arrive at 11am. At 11:02, my dad decides to go shopping in the hotel mall. I don't know why he waited until the last minute (or rather two minutes after the last minute), but I guess he thought the shuttle wouldn't be at the hotel for a while. When the bus showed up two minutes later, we went looking for him and couldn't find him. He showed up ten minutes later with a hand-full of crappy tourist t-shirts, while everyone on the bus waited and sweat.

Again, infuriating.

10) You should really bring a date to a wedding. I’m not saying you should bring a date to get some, although from what I recall getting some is nice. I’m saying that it’s good to have someone there so that your entire family doesn’t think you’re gay because you have a high speaking voice, live in New York City, love Janet Jackson, and haven’t brought a girl home in over two years.

11) The humidity in The Bahamas is 140% all the time. You know when, in the summer, you're at a bar, and it's hot and crowded inside, so you step outside just to get some fresh air, and a nice breeze will hit you, and you'll think, "Yes, now I can go back in and resuming killing myself with Jack Daniels"?

You can't do that in The Bahamas. If you're in a bar and it's hot, and you go outside to refresh yourself, odds are you're going to collapse. Even at midnight, the heat index is over 90 degrees. I sweat the ENTIRE vacation. I know I say that I sweat a lot, but please, understand me when I say without a hint of exaggeration that I sweat the ENTIRE time. Add the constant consumption of alcohol to this, and by Day 2 of the trip I had the paramedics following me everywhere I went, just in case.

12) The Bahamians love inefficiency. Well, I don’t know if all Bahamians do, but everyone knows how much I love stereotyping. Waiting for a drink could often be excruciating. The best part about the slow service is it’s not like they don’t notice you waiting; many a time the bartender would look at me, I’d nod my head, and he’d look away to another customer. That’s fine once, but after five or so times, it gets a little old.

The problem is that the bartender would be the one getting fucked in the long run. The longer I waited, the more people would yell, "Yo Jay, get me two strawberry daiquiris" or "Hey Jas, get four Miller Lites" or "Christ Jason, you pissed all over yourself - again."

And the airport...my goodness. I know what would be easier: getting through and out of the Nassau airport or escaping from Buchenwald. Lines after lines after lines, sparsely staffed with people who didn’t give a fuck or didn’t know where the hell they were. I don’t know if these airport employees had managers or they just kinda showed up every day and played it by ear.

[I’m still not ready to talk about this. I should stop before someone (i.e. me) gets hurt.]


What an incredible time. Tomorrow (or later today), in Part II I'll give some highlights of the trip.

Until then, I'm heading out of the office to search for a piña colada.

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