Monday, December 20, 2004
four notes about the weekend
This was a very tame weekend. Not "lame", but "tame". Lots of holiday parties with cheese plates and wine in gorgeous apartments with views of the NYC skyline. Civilized conversation about things like museums, real estate, and literature. Me checking out hot classy girls and thinking, "Man, I'd pay at least $340 to see her bottomless. I wonder how much pubic hair she has?" Hot classy girls looking at me thinking, "Who the hell let him in here? He looks like a homeless person with that dreadful beard. Is that a piece of bologna sticking out from his shirt pocket?"
It's really funny because when I have to be, I can be very civilized. When I flip into Cultured Jason mode, it always makes me chuckle a little bit, because the sophisticated people I'm hob-nobbing with have no idea that only two hours earlier I was in the shower simultaneously bathing and drinking a 16oz can of Bud and listening to Def Leppard.
[There is nothing better than drinking in the shower. I can't stress this enough. Being able to drink a beer while you're soaking wet in the steamy shower, your testes all lathered up, especially doing so while listening to Def Leppard, is the very definition of decadence. Aside from Thursday mornings when I have mozzarella sticks for breakfast with my French toast, this is my favorite part of the week. One caveat: drink only cans in the shower. You don't want to drop a bottle of beer and cut your foot open. I did this once in college and had to go to the hospital, and it made for a very bad conversation with my mom:
Me: "Don't freak out, but I'm in the hospital."
Mom: [freaking the fuck out] "What??? What happened???"
Me: "Well, long story short, I was drinking a bottle of beer in the shower when I dropped it, it shattered, and I cut my foot open."
Mom: [silence for three seconds] "You are an asshole."
Me: "Well, yeah, probably."]
But I managed to have a good weekend, and I was well-behaved and didn't get too shit-housed and thus wasn't hungover. It's amazing how much better your Saturday and Sunday mornings/early afternoons can be when you don't drink everything that's put in front of you the night before. Really, who knew?
The best (or most humorous) part of the weekend was me shopping for Christmas gifts for my family. However, I can't write about this, lest I ruin surprises.
And yes, I know that it's strange that I can write on the internet for anyone to see about being at a party and wondering how much pubic hair a girl has, but I can't say that I went to ________ to buy my sister __________ for Christmas.
[I'm such an enigma. And it makes me so much more attractive. And by "attractive" I mean "sexually aggressive to the point of being criminal".]
It's good to see the Philadelphia Eagles playing their worst football of the season in December. This is very comforting to me.
After blowing out everyone in the NFC (The Eli Manning Conference), the Eagles have played like shit the past two games against the Redskins, who I'm pretty sure would not place at a Special Olympics flag football tournament, and the Cowboys, who actually called me last week to see if I was interested in becoming their new quarterback, what with my stellar experience as a field general in Madden video games. Unfortunately, my commitments being an internet quasi-celebrity prevented me from this. Also, I'm required by law to stay out of all men's locker rooms in Texas (and New Jersey, New York, Virginia, Georgia, and Florida) because of what happened last Halloween.
But still the Eagles are the class of the NFC, but that isn't saying much because I was watching SportsCenter this morning and it turns out that my roommate Ben is still in the race for the wild card. So good job Ben, and remember: winners always win. And strong men also cry.
Meanwhile in the AFC (The Peyton Manning Conference), there are six teams that if the Eagles played them next week, they would lose by at least 7 (possibly much more): the Steelers, Patriots, Colts, Chargers, Jets, and Bills. So much for parity.
I love the Eagles. I always have, and I always will. But it's hard not to doubt them when they put me through so much pain the past few years. Maybe trashing them and not believing is my own little voodoo, a sort of reverse psychology. But it's like dating a girl who you really like: a girl who's hot, likes to booze, and most importantly, laughs at all your jokes and has great boobs. Though still in its incipient stages, the relationship is going great, and then bam - she makes out with someone else. You're hurt, but she was really drunk and only kissed him at a bar, so you forgive her and move on.
And so you keep dating and get more serious. You meet her parents, she meets yours, and things get pretty intense. Also, she is an awesome lay and lets you do pretty much whatever you want to her. You start to think that you love her. And then bam - she goes and gets trashed and gives some dude a handjob. You're crushed, but you really care about her, and she apologizes profusely and begs for forgiveness, so you stick with her.
And things go great again - you take a vacation to the Caribbean together, start saying "I love you", and the sex is still awesome. You celebrate a milestone anniversary and think that she may be the one. But then, disaster. One night she sleeps with some random guy, but she thinks someone slipped her something and she doesn't remember much. Your world is totally destroyed, and you break it off with her. That's it. It's over.
But she still calls every day and begs you to take her back, telling you that she loves you, that she's never felt this way before. She starts changing. She stops boozing. She stops hanging around with that whore Stacy who offered to masturbate in front of you for $8. She tells you that she's changing for the better for you. Though you've spoken to her almost every day, you haven't seen her in two months. Finally, you meet her for some coffee, and see that she went and got gigantic fake boobs and she's been working out. She cries, and asks for forgiveness. You give in and take her back.
And again, things are great. Even better than before. You are sure she's the one. You're starting a ring fund. This is how love is supposed to work.
Then one night she tells you that she's going to a party and her ex will be there. She says she's over him, but you know that she was madly in love with him, and she has a history of cheating on you. She goes to the party, and you wait by the phone, desperately hoping she'll call and tell you she's safe at home, alone.
That's where the Philadelphia Eagles are with me. I'm saving for the ring, and they're at the party with the ex. I love them and I'm pretty sure I trust them, but if they fuck me over, I'm going to snap.
So please, for the love of god, don't fuck me on this. Because I will use that ring fund money on cocaine which not go up my nose, but rather in a massive hole in my chest that I have created with a butterknife. I am not a strong man, and can not handle adversity well. Pretty please.
I have a final this evening for my Russian history class. By all accounts, this class has been a disaster. I did essentially nothing for this class, and last night I was too busy thinking about Christmas and having a series of mini panic attacks to study for the final, so I'm going in with only a rudimentary knowledge of Russian history (i.e. I can show you where Russia is on a globe) and my oodles and oodles of personal charm.
I started studying at 10:30 last night. At about 10:34, I said to myself, "What the fuck am I doing? Didn't I go through all this shit for 16 years so I'd never have to do it again? I have a full time job and I'm fucking famous, but I'm supposed to learn about some jerkoff named Boris Gudonov? What the F?"
After an intense self-love session which cleared my head mighty good, a compromise was reached: I would focus and study hard core until midnight, but then that would be it. The test will be based on eight class lectures. During each class, Professor Old Balls talks incessantly while his students write furiously to record every word he says, and there is no discussion at all. The result is that in my 5x7 notebook, each class has about 20 pages of notes.
Since I am not a good studier and was easily distracted by such impulses as, "I haven't trimmed my pubes in a while - I should do that now" and "I wonder what it would taste like if I mixed pancake syrup and chocolate syrup [answer: delicious]?", by the time midnight rolled around I had finished reviewing notes from one of the eight lectures that the test will be based on. Fuck.
I tried reading on the subway this morning, but I was so tired I couldn't keep my eyes open. I can't study at work, because, well, who wants to study at work (and, oh yeah, I have to do stuff)? I know there's choice on the exam, something like I'll have to choose three of six topics to write about. My only hope is that some of the topics are:
- "Do you like chicken parm?"
- "Please discuss the pros and cons of being an internet quasi-celebrity."
- "Seriously, how hot is Adriana Lima?"
So I expect my come-uppance around 6pm est. At this point, I don't even care. I just want it to be over with, so I can focus on Christmas and, more importantly, the kielbasa that my family has on Christmas.
God I fucking love kielbasa.
[And really, how hot is Adriana Lima? Did you see that picture? Imagine having that greet you when you get home after sixteen vodka tonics. Holy fucking shit.]