GnR me ASAP

I’m going to a Guns N’ Roses concert in Milwaukee on Wednesday and I’m pretty excited. I was never really THAT big of a fan of GnR but there have been a few standout songs of theirs that have always struck a chord with me:

Welcome to the Jungle
I have some conflicting feelings about this song. On the one hand, it’s like, oh, man, I LOVE this song; it totally reminds of me of high school football. On the other hand, it’s like, aww shit, I HATE this song; it totally reminds of me of high school football.

My Michelle
We used to have this smokin’ hot intern at our office named Michelle and it was damn near impossible for me not to hear the riff from this song inside my head whenever she walked by my cubicle:

‘Whoa Whoa Whoa, you never can tell, Whoa Whoa Whoa, my Michelle!’

One time, she actually caught me playing air guitar after she borrowed a pen from me. It was awkward. I had to pretend I was stretching, but I think she knew I was rocking out. She probably gets that a lot.

Incidentally, have you ever discounted a potential dating partner’s intelligence, looks, or personality solely because their name is featured in a song you really like? I think that would make a good topic for a future blog post…

Sweet Child O’Mine
That’s just a really good song. I don’t care what anybody says.

Paradise City
Remember that one scene in Can’t Hardly Wait where that lovable nerdy kid that looks like Matt Becker lip synchs to this song? There’s a point where he falls off the table and the music stops and you’re thinking, “that's too bad, that lovable nerdy kid that looks like Matt Becker had a nice run there, he almost assimilated himself with all the cool people at the party,” and then all of a sudden BAM! He hops back up on the table and the microphone shoots up in super slo-mo and the music starts again and it looks like he never missed a beat. That was awesome. Can’t Hardly Wait pretty much sucked ass but that one scene is one of my favorite movie moments of all time.

So that’s that. I guess you could say that as long as they play anything from the Appetite for Destruction album, I’m going to get my money’s worth.

More coverage to follow this week…


Wanna know something funny? I'm pretty sure Kyle Nelson bought the soundtrack from this shitty movie when it first came out. What a dork!

The Girl of My Dreams

When I first looked into her eyes, she took my breath away. I’ve never seen a girl like that in my entire life. I was trembling with excitement, I could barely think straight. It was getting late so I knew I had to act fast, but I was beginning to hesitate. Do I really have a shot at this girl? Then she looked up at me and I knew it was time to pull the trigger.

Ka-POW!

The smell of spent gun powder stung my nostrils as I sat back in my deer stand. After the ringing in my ears stopped, I went over to my bait pile to see if my shot was true. It was. I had bagged my first deer, a great big doe. And it only took me 11 years!

Some of you may remember my I am Blaze Orange Cowboy post last November where I arrogantly asserted my ability to dominate the white-tailed deer of Northern Wisconsin. I even went as far as saying that I had a hair on my chest for every deer I shot and that my chest was likened to Austin Powers. These bold statements were far from the truth. In fact, up until last Saturday, I hadn’t even earned the one straggler on my chest that I have to shave every other day. I am such a poser.

Well now I’ve finally earned the right to let that hair grow out and reach its full potential…but I’m probably going to keep shaving that little bastard anyways. It looks kind of ridiculous, but at least now I don’t have to feel guilty about it!

Now I would like to address the pundits out there who are thinking to themselves how cruel I am for shooting Bambi’s mother. Let me just say right now, you are absolutely right. I did not want to shoot Bambi’s mother. I would have much rather shot Bambi’s father. Especially if Bambi’s father was a 10 point buck with a 20 inch spread.

The fact remains that deer overpopulate the state of Wisconsin every year, causing economic hardship to farmers and tens of thousands of car accidents. The Department of Natural Resources issues a set amount of tags each year to regulate the herd and keep things in check. Hunters are just doing their duty. Enough said.

Another thing that hunters do is sit around in the woods all day with nothing to do. Besides catching up on zzz’s, it’s also a really great time to get some serious thinking done. I am willing to bet that some of the most innovative and influential ideas of the past century were conjured up while hunkering down in a deer blind. Did you know that Albert Einstein came up with the theory of Relativity while bow hunting in upstate New York? (Note: I totaled made up that last fact, but it’s probably true).

I usually come up with some whiz-bang ideas myself over opening season, but for some reason all I could think about was how much I like squirrels. I’ve always been a big fan of squirrels; after all, they do have puff tails. But for some reason, I just found them tremendously entertaining this year, scurrying around the forest like they were constantly late for some real important meeting. Plus, there was this one red squirrel that actually came into my deer stand and it looked at me. The squirrel’s name was Jim. It was hilarious.

So, to sum up: I shot my first deer and squirrels are my new favorite animal. Overall, it was a pretty productive weekend.



If anyone out there is wondering what else to get me for Christmas besides a Playstation 3, I would gladly accept a domesticated squirrel for a present. Actually, if you do happen to run across a merchant of domesticated squirrels; go ahead and pick up as many as you can and I’ll pay you back for them. What could possibly be more fun than having seven or eight of those little guys running around the house?

My Christmas Dilemma

I can’t decide what I want for Christmas more: A girlfriend or a Playstation 3.

It’s really a tough choice. Do I REALLY want to get something that’s going to be expensive, tough to figure out, and take up lots of my time or do I want to play the best video games on the market. Sure, you can the make the argument that an inanimate object won’t keep you warm at night, but who’s to say that sucker won’t run hot after a marathon session of crashing cars and shooting Nazis?

“I love you, Playstation 3. Let’s cuddle up and go to bed. We’ve got a lot of gaming to do tomorrow.”

Okay, that’s a little weird, but I still think that until women start offering 1,080 scanning lines of high definition graphics, wireless controllers standard, and a 20 gigabyte hard drive; I’ll probably be choosing companionship through the Sony Corporation.

Make fun of me all you want, ladies, but when was the last time you killed a weekend with a necklace or a pair of earrings?

Hey-Oh!



Damn! Check out those sexy curves!

Starbucks Coffee: The Next Best Thing To Beer

I know a lot has been said on the subject, but I think it’s a subject worth exploring.

Starbucks is to coffee like Brett Favre is to quarterbacking: they are the absolute greatest in their respective categories. I’ve been hooked on the brown stuff since my sophomore year of college and have never looked back since. Everybody needs a vice, and I like to rationalize that caffeine is the lesser of all the evils out there. Simply put, Starbucks has been fueling my crippling addiction to the real vitamin C for the past several years and I feel all the happier albeit slightly more jittery because of it.

But Starbucks ain’t perfect.

One thing I don’t care for is their sizing system: Tall, Grande, and Venti. What the hell does that mean!? They all sound like the exact same thing. It’s like to going to McDonalds and seeing that their French Fries come in sizes of large, big, and huge.

I’m exaggerating, it’s a pretty easy system to figure out, and I’m sure a lot of people think it’s real cute. But the joke wears thin real quickly, if you ask me. And everybody takes it SO seriously. If you don’t believe me, try ordering something the next you walk into a Starbucks and call it by its proper name. You’ll get a dirty look every time, like you’re some kind of dufus.

I do this purposely now for the shear entertainment of watching these baristas get all riled up.

“Um, excuse me, server, I would like a medium coffee, please, no room for cream.”

The server (baristas HATE being called servers) knows damn well that I’m not new because only a Starbucks veteran would perform a pre-emptive strike on the question of whether or not I wanted room for cream. The server’s only retaliation is to bark my order to the other coffee bartender person, accentuating Grande coffee in the most condescending way possible, as one final rebuttal to get me to play by their rules.

My response? In an unwavering manner, look them straight in the eye as they hand me my beverage, and coldly say, “yeah, thanks again for that medium coffee.”

Take THAT, Seattle!

I’m only kidding about that last transaction. I would never order a medium coffee. It’s all or nothing for me, and if you get anything less, you are getting hosed. Here’s why:

Small: 12 Ounces $1.50
Medium: 16 Ounces $1.70
Road Rage: 20 Ounces $1.80

You get an additional 8 ounces of coffee for 30 cents! To keep the math simple, think of it this way, 20 ounces is almost DOUBLE of 12 ounces and 30 cents is worth almost NOTHING by itself so basically you’re getting twice the coffee for free. Think about it.

The only argument against my logic is that these prices vary from city to city, so if live in a market where the Road Rage size puts you over the $2.00 threshold and you don’t want to deal with a butt load of stupid stinky change, opting out of the 20 ouncer is completely understandable.

Well all this talk is making thirsty. It’s time for some SB action. My heart is palpitating irregularly just thinking about it…



I’d like to see Starbucks come up with some sort of big gulp 64 ounce size to satisfy my daily requirement of Vitamin C. Maybe they could put a little handle on there, too. Not bad, huh? Cool, well, see ya later!

Shit That Happened to Me in 7th Grade: Everything I Know About Girls 1998

Before I get going on this hilarious post, I’d just like to show you the cover of my most prized possession:

When archaeologists unearth this journal from some dig a thousand years from now, the argument that “Green Day Rules” is blatantly scrawled out on the grocery bag cover (damn parents couldn’t even buy me a composition book, jeez!) should put to rest any debate on the authentication of this artifact. In addition, the 8-ball drawn on the top left-hand corner actually does a better job of tracing the journal back to 1995 A.D. than carbon-dating ever could.

I don’t know why people thought 8-Balls were so cool during middle school. At first I thought Zak and I were the only ones that thought they were cool but Joey later confirmed for me that 8-Balls were revered by everyone at that time. All I know is that when I first dusted off my journal after remaining hidden for so many years to write this piece, I actually found a bunch of 8-Ball POGS in between the pages. Sweet!

But enough about 8-Ball POGS, let’s delve into what exactly I knew about women around February 4, 1998:


Wow, I was pretty wise back then! A lot of that stuff still holds up today. The one thing I would definitely change though is that first piece of knowledge about upper classmen because I was an upper classmen for five years (God bless that bonus Senior year of college!) on two non-consecutive occasions and that never really panned out for me in the girlfriend department.

I deliberately left in that top section about the Wollin Beatdowns. The whole Wollin Beatdown thing was a dark, dark, very dark period of my past where my posse of friends would commit random acts of assault upon me. Someone would yell, “ Wollin Beatdown!” at some random time when we were all hanging out and then everyone would stop whatever they would doing and proceed to tackle me and inflict various forms of pain, most commonly punches to the back, shoulders, and kidneys while I was in the fetal position. It was kind of like when someone said the word of the day on Pee Wee’s Playhouse but with more atomic wedgies.

Don’t you love the oxymoronic-ness of me claiming I know these “facts” about girls, yet I also claim that they don’t make any sense to me, thus negating all those little bits of sage wisdom in the first place?

Well, I think from this journal entry that it is clear that I knew a thing or two about the subtle nuances of the opposite sex back in high school. Well, that’s not entirely true…

Yeah, so that’s an equation that I wrote about three weeks later on what it would take for me to go out with Tricia, the girl that I liked at the time.

Incidentally, what is the passage of time that needs to elapse before it’s appropriate to talk about old crushes on the World Wide Web? 10 years? 9 Years? 8 Years, 8 Months, and 12 Days? I would like to provide an equal opportunity to embarrass ALL the girls I ever liked in Middle School and High School (how progressive of me!) but to play it safe, I’ll keep my posts limited to the girls I liked before Junior year.

Back to the equation, I guess I also thought that being tan and freckleless was another important factor to pick up chicks. I sure was a confused lad back then.

It’s kind of funny, the crush I had on Tricia back when I was a Freshmen was completely hopeless, but towards Senior year, we actually got to be pretty good friends and she even picked me to be her partner for our Senior Homecoming Pep Rally skit/dance thingy. If I could go back in time and tell myself that something like that was going to happen to me two years down the road, I probably would have called my future self a dirty rotten liar and then would have attempted to kick my own ass.

This would probably be very embarrassing for the both us, since I didn’t know how to fight back then and I certainly don’t know how to fight right now. But after exhausting ourselves from all the arm flailing, I would smooth things over by reminding me that life would get a lot better from here on out.

Then I would give myself a Sports Almanac from today, in the hopes of creating an alternate 2006 where I am a shady industrialist and the kingpin of a vast gambling empire.

Hey, if it worked for Biff, it could work for me!


Now that I think about it, I would easily trade in my future as a casino tycoon to own a flying DeLorean. It doesn't even need time-traveling capabilities. Ooh, yeah, I want a hoverboard, too.