Penn State, You Broke My Heart

A funny thing happened to me while I was writing that post about the French chick. All those thoughts and feelings I conjured up to write that memoir made me think of the other girl I met on that Paris trip. If you don’t remember, it was the girl that lost the opportunity to date me because of my faulty cell phone plan. Going forward, we’ll refer to this girl as Penn State because that’s how I remember her even though she really went to some small school in Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of before.

Anyways, Penn State facebooked me (I absolutely loathe that verb, but goddamn if it doesn’t explain all) when we got home from France and she’s been one of the hundreds of my closest friends ever since. I haven’t communicated with her since our minor falling out, so I had the bright idea of rekindling the flame by leaving an insanely clever piece of wit on her facebook wall. After all, there’s no time like the random. To my dismay, she was gone from my list.

Penn State dropped me as her facebook friend!

Can you believe the nerve of this girl? Talk about the ultimate insult. This feels worse than the time my shitty roommate stole this girl I was seeing away from me while we were on Spring Break a few years back. That happenstance felt like puppy dogs and ice cream compared to this incident.

I just wish there some kind of warning. Or at the very least, a notification so you can reflect on why you were so lame. I can already see my inbox: You have a message from Penn State. She would like to sever all ties with you and completely disavow your entire existence. Do you accept? Yes or No.

Hell NO! Penn State, we’ve been through some rough patches before but I know in my heart we can make it though this mess. It was all my fault that I was too cheap to call you on my own shitty phone. But I’m a changed man. I have nationwide calling now. Just give me another chance! We can make it, baby! We can make it!

Something tells me I’ll never hear from my miscellaneous friend again. Call it a hunch.

But it does raise a very interesting question: Will breaking up with somebody ever be acceptable via facebook? Can ending a meaningful relationship be as simple as delisting that person from relationship status?

I guess, I’m cool with that, I only pray that I don’t ever get dumped by someone leaving a message on my wall. That would only force me to retaliate by forming some kind of club against her…

B for Bendetta: Part III of Not Picking Up Foreign Chicks

The message was from “Cat”. Apparently, we we’re now on some kind of informal nickname basis.

I was extremely excited by this playful turn of events. Even though the e-mail was simple and succinct due to her lack of English skills, my imagination started to run wild. Only I could interpret “How was your trip? I hope you had good time” into the underpinnings of some of kind of epic romance with international intrigue.

Our correspondence went back and forth about every other day. We would send a couple of pictures with each message along with the story behind the picture in order to get to know each other a little bit better. It was a great system and things got flirtier and flirtier as time progressed. Her initial e-mails concluded with Yours, Cat but that evolved to Kisses, Cat and at the height of our relationship, A Thousand Kisses, Cat. You can’t make this stuff up.

Everything was going great until we hit our first snag. She wanted me to learn French so she started writing to me exclusively in French, thus forcing me to learn their crazy language. I said I would but the closest I got was checking out a few French dictionaries at the library. My first idea to avoid this task was to enlist the help of one of my French speaking real estate professors, who thought the whole situation very amusing. That worked for awhile, but I knew the solution was only temporary.

Just when I thought the letters we’re going to have to end, I discovered a web site that does free instant translating for any language. Eureka! My problems were solved. I just wrote what I wanted to say in English, copied and pasted it into this site, and Voila! I was instantly a cunning linguist in the most romantic language in the world. But rather than lead this girl into thinking I was some kind of prodigy, I instead, took the translation, deleted a word here, switched a few letters there, and liberally sprinkled random apostrophes all over the place.

It was a grammatical nightmare. Any respectable Frenchmen would have been disgusted with what I did to their beautiful language. However, Catherine thought it was adorable so they can all kiss my ass.

By now you’re probably thinking, Ben, you’re on a gravy train with biscuit wheels, how did you manage to biff this one?

Well, I thought Catherine had a sense of humor well enough to understand the genius behind everyone’s favorite periodical, The Onion. She didn’t. I found an extremely poignant article that related to how we first met. The title of the report was U.S. Foreign Policy Hurting American Students’ Chances of Getting Laid Abroad. The title pretty much explains itself but there was one particular line that went along the lines of, “I was dancing with this Italian girl and I swear to God I on was on the cusp of a handjob until she heard my American accent. Then she wanted to argue why we didn’t sign the Kyoto Treaty.” I’m sorry, but that’s just great writing, I don’t care who you are.

Apparently, Catherine just didn’t get it. I even explained to her that I was just kidding about the whole article and that The Onion isn’t even a real newspaper. It’s all fake news and satire. Still, she never wrote to me again after I sent that article.

I’m glad the relationship ended the way it did though because it really had no chance of going anywhere. I really didn’t look forward to the prospect of frog blood running through the veins of my kin. The last thing I need is a bunch of unemployed socialists running around my house. I already live with one right now and it’s hard enough as it is. Sacre’ Bleu!

What was the whole point of this long-winded post? Oh yeah, socialism doesn’t work. God Bless America.


Will somebody PLEASE give this guy a job? God!

How NOT to pick up Foreign Chicks - Part II

So when the Doctor told me I didn’t have worms any more, that was the best summer ever!

Whoops, wrong story. Back to my torrid love affair with the very fair Catherine of Marseille.

I was trying to gain the attention of the bartender for another Fosters (which was the only beer on tap at the Australian themed club) when these two cute girls tried to get the drop on me for their drinks. This was unacceptable. Cuteness aside, no one gets between me and my thirst in a crowded bar when beer comes sparingly. I promptly boxed them out, Dennis Rodman style. Then the girls started gibbering at me in a foreign language. I’m pretty sure it was French.

I didn’t apologize. In fact, I rubbed it in their faces and bet them a Euro that I could get a drink before they could. One of the girls spoke English and she agreed to the wager. I somehow got my drink first so I made the talky one pay up. That’s when I found out her name was Catherine, she was 25, and she was visiting Paris from Marseille, the second biggest city in France. She learned to speak English studying abroad in Australia.

Catherine is very tall, and very slender, and very French looking. She was a classic beauty and once I started talking to her, I immediately regretted acting like the stereotypical jackass American that I am. I tried to gain back some ground by swearing my allegiance to Canada but my cover was blown when I correctly pronounced the word about instead of aboot.

So I did the next obvious maneuver, I played the I Hate Bush card. This trick is just like the fragrance Sex Panther. 60% of the time, it works, aaaaaaaaall the time. In this case, it worked extremely well, because I ended up chatting it up with her friends, grinding with her, and eventually doing a little necking on the dance floor. It was sweet.

My friends, also known as my “union buddies” as my Australian friends that I met that night referred to them as, were impressed. Unfortunately, my plane was leaving the next day so I knew my time with Catherine would be short. At the end of the night, we said our good-byes and I gave her my e-mail address out of courtesy. I never really expected to hear from her again.

But when I got back home to the states, my inbox had a very peculiar message in it…Oh the suspense!

How NOT to pick up Foreign Chicks - Part I

Wow, what a boring week. I can honestly say that nothing eventful in the slightest degree happened to me since my last post.

I did learn a very valuable lesson though. NEVER provide roommates with ammunition to easily annoy you. In my case, I learned that lesson the hard way with my rant on pennies. At first I thought it was kind of funny when my friends started leaving all of their dirty old pennies all over my room, and I even laughed a bit when I realized I had a penny in my shoe at work last Friday, but I had to draw the line when I rolled over in my sleep last night and got three cold pennies embedded in my back. It’s like they think my bed is a goddamn wishing well or something.

Next time I’m ranting about quarters. I could’ve accumulated enough change to have a pretty fun afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese by now.

I also realize that I haven’t offered any valuable insight on the male perspective in awhile and I know many of you out there are craving some deeply guided knowledge from the guru of relationships himself so I will offer up some juicy advice on how to NOT impress women from foreign lands.

The foreign land in question here is France. Surely, if you have been reading this blog for any period of time, then you know by now that I am by no means a “pick up artist” but I did manage to seduce a beautiful French girl in one of the most hostile hook up environments the world has ever known. Well, for Americans at least.

And by seduce, I mean, made out a little bit, but still, it was pretty awesome.

Anyways, I was on this Paris trip for a Real Estate class and the last night there, I and my friends pulled out all of the stops. We didn’t let language barriers or our complete lack of culture get in the way of hitting on every girl we saw at the club that night. Things we’re looking grim between the three of us until I met Catherine.

You know, I really hate to write over two pages in one sitting so I am going to leave you all in suspense before I finish my tale of overseas woe.

To be continued…


A good analogy for this post would be: Ben is to the women of France as David Hasselhoff is to the frauleins of Germany. Wow, can that man croon!

I Hate Pennies Because They Are Stupid

Let me reiterate: I HATE pennies.

There are so many reasons to abolish the penny but I want to focus on three main points:

1. Pennies cost more to produce than what they’re worth
2. Pennies are a pain in the ass
3. Pennies are gross

First, I realize that pennies aren’t made out of the valuable commodity copper anymore but I can’t imagine zinc being any cheaper to mine and mold for one goddamn cent. Imagine how meaningless your life would be working for a manufacturer that produces a product that is essentially worthless by the time it gets into the hands of consumers. When the penny is abolished, we’ll shut down all the penny factories and convert them to nickel and dime factories, essentially diverting precious time and resources to currencies that actually have value.

Second, I am more than willing to let the government have a one time sales tax increase to round up transactions to the nearest five cent increment in order to never have to look at another stupid penny for the rest of my life. The windfall from such a tax could halt our skyrocketing deficit from growing for at least a couple of hours and more importantly; I’ll never have to deal with dirty looks from cashiers when I try to dump my change on them for a soda or a bag of chips or whatever.

You know that dirty look I’m talking about, that look of contempt for wasting 2 seconds of their time to count and sort the change into the right bin. I am actually more discouraged by the half ass sympathy smile that follows the transaction that just says, hey dude, maybe some day things will turn around for you so that you’ll be able to purchase goods and services using REAL currency like dollar bills and credit cards. Seriously, who wants to deal with that when they have a snack attack?

Third, pennies are disgusting and they stink something fierce. Think of the smelliest, most disease infested areas you can imagine and I’ll bet you there will be at least three pennies on the sticky ground of that place. I actually get nauseous when I see a grime covered penny sitting on the bottom of a urinal (this is where pennies congregate when they’re not gathering dust in piggy banks) because I know someday that cocksucker is going to end up right back in my hands along with my order the next time I go to McDonalds. Excuse me, I didn’t order diphtheria with my double cheeseburger, I don’t care if I only paid a buck for it.

The world is going to be a better and cleaner place when the penny is gone. As the leading champion of this movement, may I suggest that we take all of the left over pennies from circulation and melt them down to create a monument in my honor. If it was my choice, the monument would be a giant statue of me knocking out Abraham Lincoln. Your days are numbered, penny, mark my words!

And I was kidding about Honest Abe, he’s easily in my top five favorite presidents of all time, right between Millard Fillmore and Ronald Reagan. I’m also a huge fan of the five spot and have no intention of declaring war on that monetary unit. Yet…



There are 200,035,318,672 pennies in circulation today. That's 200,035,318,672 reasons not to get out of bed each morning.

Sex in the Zombie World...um...sort of

I just got back from another session at Barnes & Noble and I’m pretty happy about it. I polished off two books tonight, both incredibly unrelated to each other.

The first book I read was the Unhooked Generation by Jillian Straus, which I read because I wanted to figure out why I was single. It turns out it’s because I’m immature. I was really pissed when I was finished with the book because I already knew that. I probably could have saved myself a few hours if I just would have read the synopsis on Amazon.com instead. Live and learn, I guess.

The second book I read was Cell by Stephen King. It was about, you guessed it, zombies. I find zombie origin stories incredibly interesting. In this case, mankind was doomed by a pulse sent by a terrorist hacker that turned people into crazy zombies through cell phones. I thoroughly enjoyed that aspect of the book. I really can’t explain my utterly hypnotic fascination with zombiism.

God only knows how many conversations I’ve had with my roommate Joe going over what-if scenarios given certain zombie predicaments. Questions range from the most obvious, Who would you try to save during the first hours of a zombie attack? to the slightly more thought provoking, Do you think nine millimeter bullets would be an effective deterrent against a bull rush attack from three zombies? to the positively hypothetical, What would you rather have in zombie world, a double barrel shotgun with infinity ammo or have Chuck Norris as your companion?

Now that I think about it, that last question has a pretty obvious answer. Irregardless of the questions asked, it’s the topic itself that is generally an effective way to clear tables around you at Starbucks. I just think it’s sad that people are afraid to talk about zombie attacks in public. I know for a fact that I am not the only one losing sleep over these matters. Pity.

Cell kind of let me down in the end though because around half way through the book, the zombies starting gaining telepathy and levitating skills which is NOT cool. Although I feel I have a fairly active imagination, the idea of zombies having any kind of intelligence or finely tuned motor skills is just too much of a stretch for me.

I actually think that’s why I feel the idea of zombies is so intriguing. It’s such a simple concept but so many people manage to screw it up. People die. They come back to life. They’re hungry. They like brains. It’s not rocket science, people. But the difference between a great movie like Dawn of the Dead and a shitty movie like Resident Evil 2 is honestly light years.

You would think that the zombie genre wouldn’t translate from the big screen to books since zombies are so visually engaging, but I think J.K. Rowling dispelled that myth when she wrote Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. When the zombies came out of the water to attack Harry and Dumbledore in that crazy cave, I remember thinking, Wow. This is it. This is the end of literature. Nothing is going to top this. I’m glad it only took a children’s novelist to finally capture the true terror that the undead are notorious for.

You know it’s funny; my original intention of this post was to write a humorous satire utilizing knowledge I gained from that dumb relationship book to give advice to love stricken individuals in zombie world. It was going to be my bizarro version of Sex in the City. Well, realistically, if it’s me we’re talking about here, a more appropriate column title would be Not Getting Laid In A College Town. I’ll save that idea for a rainy day.

Why can’t I just meet a nice girl who can appreciate a good zombie movie? It probably goes to back to that immaturity thing I was harping about before…


The man, Chuck Norris, our greatest weapon in the war on zombies. Hopefully the same force that resurrects dead humans can also resurrect his career.

The Not-So-Special Olympics

Another Winter Olympics have come and gone. I wish there was a single word I could use to describe the event. If I had to venture, I would say yawn.

I’m sorry but the Olympics are boring.

I don’t even care that the United States didn’t win the final medal count. In the world economic Olympics, we’re still number one. Just having a GDP per capita high enough to support a winter Olympic team is an achievement in and of itself. Choke on that, any country from South America!

I would now like to highlight a five-point plan to make the Olympics awesome again. My first and I think most important recommendation for the 2008 games in Beijing is that we need to simplify the events so that they actually have meaning again. For instance, of the many pointless sports being reviewed under Olympic Committee, Korfball has a legitimate chance at becoming a contender in the upcoming summer games.

Korfball is a sport that is a funky combination of football, basketball, and ultimate Frisbee played in the Netherlands. It’s played with two teams of four with two women and two men on each team. There is some type of hoop thingy on both ends of the court and scoring involves throwing a football shaped object through the hoop. You can only pass (no dribbling or running with the ball) and men can only cover other men and women can only cover other women.

Proponents of the sport applaud its emphasis on teamwork since you have to constantly work with each other to move the ball down the court. There is also a lot of strategy involved so being tactical is valued over sheer physical strength from any one player. Finally, the progressives love it because it combines both genders where everyone plays an equal role.

Though those are all intriguing arguments, I think I have a trump card for why it still shouldn’t be allowed in the Olympics: Because it’s fucking KORFBALL!

So we’re just going to let any crazy sport in the Olympics now? We’re going to diminish the already weakened value of medals from our core events like running, jumping, swimming, and Ping Pong? Enough is enough!

If we’re going to let Korfball in, then what about the sport that I invented? It’s called Wollball and the premise is simple. The sport is played on a 10 meter by 10 foot meter court with a brick wall measuring 3.542 meters high in the center. A player takes a regulation Wollball weighing 205 kilograms and then places it on the ground. The player then walks up to the brick wall and then bashes his or her head against the wall until the world starts making sense. This basically means knocking yourself unconscious. The fastest time wins!

The remaining four points are relatively simple. First, we need to provide a team for North Korea or Iran so there is at least one evil country that we can all rally against. Second, all events should be broadcast in montage form with Survivor playing in the background. Third, we need to take a cue from the Biathlon and start adding a gun element to all the events because guns are cool. Fourth, every country needs to do their part to start producing hotter athletes.

Now that I think about it, we should also go back to the Greek days where Olympians performed all the events in the nude. I think that would do wonders for the television ratings on women’s ice hockey.



Another litmus test to determine if an event should be in the Olympics or not is that there shouldn’t be the possibility that you could actually get better at it if you started drinking heavily. That would definitely rule out Curling in 2010.

Facebook is SO taut!

Finally! Someone has invented a way for me to network without physically having to meet people or make any kind of verbal communication whatsoever. Woo Hoo!

Every once in awhile someone comes along and coins a new word and that word becomes the cool new buzz word of the week. I’ve always wanted to be one of those word inventing guys in the worst way. I almost got one started once with the word taut as in “the cargo net was difficult to climb because the ropes were not taut” in a fashion such as “that club was really cool, I mean it was seriously taut, man.”

I got a couple of my friends to use taut in a sentence once but I think I they were only humoring me. They probably remembered the fact that I was raised by a loving upper middle class family in an affluent suburb and not a superstar rapper from the streets of Compton and therefore had no chance inserting hip hop type language into mainstream pop culture. My friends are quite astute, I’ll give them that.

I got a new word though and I think it might catch on. It’s clearly a derivative from the oh-so popular metrosexual but at least the connotations to the trendy stereotype will make it easier to understand. The word I invented is netrosexual.

A netrosexual is someone who became addicted and now almost exclusively meets and communicates with people through Internet social networking type sites, most notably Facebook, but also includes MySpace, Hot or Not, Friendster, etc. They have hundreds of random friends who in turn have hundreds of random friends, which ultimately means that tens of thousands of total strangers have unlimited access to incriminating photos, gossip from your friends, and almost every conceivable way to contact you. Doesn’t THAT make you feel safe when you sleep at night!?

I happen to be a huge proponent of the netrosexual revolution and have whole-heartedly embraced this new technology the day I was introduced to it. I use Facebook for e-mail, keeping in touch with friends out of town, and generating traffic for this blog. Where Facebook has really enriched my life though, is that it has made it SO much easier for me to stalk people. No more sneaking off like a specter in the middle night to peep into windows for me!

Okay, that may be a stretch, but seriously, some people put a little TOO much in their profiles. I’ve run into some pictures of girls on Spring Break that are clearly getting back at their daddies for some kind of neglect in their childhood. It’s a good thing I’m only having sons when I get married.

But back to the stalking thing, I really wish Facebook offered more options for the relationship section in the personal profile. It’s nice that you can see what kind of douchebag a chick is dating but it doesn’t give you any idea what the status of that relationship is. Is the flame still strong, is it faltering, is she just waiting for someone better to come along, what’s the deal? Some kind of numeric scale would be nice. I could then input the status of a relationship in an Excel spreadsheet so I could track future trends and maybe plan a weekend around a projected rebound.

How awesome would it be to know the exact probability of getting ass on a given night? Over 50%? Sweet! I’ll wear my clean boxers tonight!

I feel it is just a matter of time before EVERYONE knows EVERYTHING about EVERYONE at ANY given moment. Although sarcasm is my specialty, lying is not, so I’m okay with this new world of ours where everything is transparent. Life could be a lot a worse for the netrosexual that I am. I love Big Brother..err…I mean Facebook.

I just hope no one invents a way to electronically break into houses in order to stare at people asleep in their beds for hours at a time. That would REALLY cramp my weekdays…

Karma, Where Art Thou?

So it turns out I didn’t win the Powerball.

Again.

I really don’t mind paying the “Doesn’t Understand Simple Probability” Tax every once in awhile as long as the jackpot is over $300 Million dollars. Because anything less that would just be a complete waste of time, right? Winning the lottery, is in fact, part of my five year plan, but I still have a ways to go until then, so I’ll just keep sluggin’ it out at the office and hope I hit get hit by the Karma train like it hit Earl.

Whatever the lottery gods have in store for me in the future, I sure could have used those cool millions at the clubs in Phoenix this week.

The whole club scene is a relatively foreign concept to me, being from the Midwest. Especially being from Green Bay where talking to chicks only requires a modest sense of humor and the ability to hold your liquor more than the guy standing next to you. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve met from making fun of my buddies passed out on the bar stool next to me. It’s like a really unhealthy version of Survivor.

But clubbing is a lot different because the stakes are a lot higher. At least in Phoenix it is because apparently Arizona State University is a breeding ground for the nation’s hottest women albeit unapproachablest women I have ever met. For one thing, the girls there don’t cut you any slack for adding any tundra pounds that are so prevalent in the carbohydrate hoarding winters of the North. And second, I get the impression that chicks outside of the Midwest are less impressed with how MUCH you can drink as opposed to your ability to PAY for those overpriced drinks.

All of these clubs have these things called VIP rooms which are swanky lounges that overlook the peons on the dance floor. In order to gain access to these bastions of affluence, you need to wear asshole attire which is basically any clothing that costs half a paycheck to assemble and would make you feel like a complete jackass if you wore them anywhere else in public. You also have to give the host a fat tip, and then buy a bottle of booze from their bar. But we’re not talking a bottle of Kessler at wholesale here; you have to buy Grey Goose or some shit like that and then pay $300 for it.

I have to admit, after going through all that trouble, it must feel pretty rewarding to have these women actually make eye contact with you. I can only imagine what it takes to have them maintain that eye contact with you, let alone bring them home. My guess is that you are either talking about the ups and downs of playing in the NBA or have access to all sorts of drugs. I wouldn’t know because I only made it up two steps before security was so kind as to escort me back to reality. Have no fear though, I vow to one day infiltrate a VIP room and find out the truth of what really goes on up there.

I hope I am dead wrong about my assumptions above and it’s actually just a bunch of people playing Monopoly. That would be sweet, I love that game.

In spite of my utter failure to communicate with ASU’s finest, I still had a good trip. My rental car for the week was a bright yellow Hummer, in which I took full use of its off-road capabilities on every available desert lot in Southeastern Phoenix. It was also especially gratifying to bask in the 80 degree weather while Wisconsin got dumped with 12 inches of snow and a wind chill I can’t even imagine.

Now that I think about it, the wind chill probably wasn’t nearly as cold as the shoulder I got from the Barbie Doll I tried to talk to on Wednesday night. Ouch.


The first thing I'll do when I win the Powerball is grow a huge moustache. Then I'm going to ask out Jamie Presley.

Happy Freedom Day, Singles!

Let’s see here, hmmm, I feel like I was supposed to do something today. I know it was something important. God! It’s right on the tip of my tongue; don’t you hate it when that happens? Hold on a sec, let me check my calendar. February 14th. Okay, I got that presentation at work covered and I picked up my dry-cleaning, oh here’s what I’m looking for: NOT have a girlfriend. Whew! I’m glad I remembered to do that!

If you were expecting a scathing Valentines Day post from yours truly, well, you came to the right place. Like all red-blooded American guys, I feel that Valentines Day is a crock of a holiday that probably brings more misery than happiness to all that decide to observe the results of Hallmark’s lobbying efforts from back in the day when a couple of genius marketing execs were brainstorming a way to combat a perennial winter sales slump for greeting cards. If you’re single, the day just reminds you of how pathetic you are, and if you are seeing someone, then you have to either cope with the stress of finding a gift that sends the appropriate message or receiving a gift that is inevitably going to carry a different message than you were hoping for. It’s a lose/lose situation for everybody.

Even though I tore Valentines Day a new asshole just now, I’m actually starting to warm up to the idea. It just requires a change in attitude. First, you have to ignore the actual title of Valentines Day and start referring to it as Freedom Day. It should be a night where you go out with all of your drinking buddies and get as messed up as possible, celebrating the fact you don’t have to beg and plea and justify your actions to ANYONE to get as messed up as you just did. No obligations, no problems! Whoo!

Also, you would have to be out of your gourd to try picking up a chick in a bar on Valentines Day so that takes a lot of the pressure off as well. If I was a bar owner, I would have a strict dress code to only let people in with sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts, because if no one is going to be hooking up, you might as well be comfortable. What a great idea for a promotion!

The second reason I kind of like Valentines Day is not the day itself but the day after. Why? Because even though most people had a lot of fun rocking apart Freedom Day the night before, they are still going to come to next day realizations that there is not a bouquet of flowers on their desk or going home with their right hand again just ain’t what it used to be. This phenomenon should be called Cupid’s Hangover.

Cupid’s Hangover should be the start of mating season if ever such a thing should exist. It’s a time a where people should switch into vulture mode and prey on all the vulnerable people out in wild. It’s a perfect opportunity to ask the cutie in class for a cup of coffee after lecture or that co-worker out for a drink to bite the dog that bit you the previous night. You’ve got no excuses. As another incentive, it’s the day that marks the longest possible time between more Valentines Day. Yahtzee!

Happy Freedom Day, everybody! I’ll see you at Wando’s tonight. I’ll be the one with my head in a fishbowl.