I've moved!!!

The new blog address is:

http://justgiveup.shaunbroyls.com/

Don't worry, the daily blogs will continue, so you'll get your laughs...we just changed web addresses...Also...check out the new, supercool website:

http://shaunbroyls.com/

Thanks for the support!

Okay...Bye Bye Blogspot!!

Oh thank God it's Friday.  All week I've been working on my new website...and it's coming together quite nicely.  In fact, the woman at Go Daddy when I called to figure out something said, "Wow! Your website looks really nice!"  That makes me happy since I've never done anything like this in my life.  Usually I like inexperienced...but that's when it comes to detained lovers.  This, on the other hand, is different.  It's like putting together a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces are spread on opposite sides of the house.  However, it's been fun, but time-consuming.

The point is, the site should be ready to launch on Monday.  It has links to everything right there, including the Just Give Up Youtube Channel where you can see ALL the previous VLOGS, videos, etc., the Facebook page, Twitter, along with everything a normal website offers.  Right now, it's only five pages, but once the book is published, I'll be bumping it up to ten so that I'll have pages to sell the book, merchandise, as well as a section that changes every day.  It'll be a lot of work but I'm looking at this as a full-time job.  The only difference will be:

- A new blog.  This blog here at Blogspot will still be up in case you want to read or re-live blogs from the past.  However, there's a blog through my website that will be where all the new blogs go.  Blogspot's been fun, but doing the blog through my own website lets me do much more in terms of having it seen on search engines and whatnot, while Blogspot blogs just really go to Blogspot and sit there.  

Hopefully this doesn't inconvenience anyone...I'm still stunned with how many hits this blog here has gotten.  As of today, there have been just under 10,000 hits on this blog since I started it in October.  Thanks guys for the support.  It's ridiculous how many reads these posts are getting.  And I won't be changing a thing as far as content.  We'll still be talking about Armenian hookers, drunk escapades and celebrity bullshit, only at a different address.  On Monday I'll post the address here as well as on Facebook so you can adjust your bookmarks/favorites/RSS feeds(Greg) accordingly.  Okay, I have to get back to getting this shit done now so I can drink tonight.  Thanks again for the support these last three months guys...the book will be out between March and April, and I need all the buzz I can get.  Have a great weekend and get ready for the new website on Monday!

UHHHHHHHHHHH

The Wife:  "Did you sleep?"

I get up to this email EVERY day of the year.  I'm not sure how many of you have sleeping issues, but for Christ sake.  The thing about not being able to sleep is that you spend the entire day in a fog, and then there's really no chance to ever "catch up" on the sleep you missed since you can't sleep anyway.  It's stupid.  However, there are some pretty weird things that go on when you can't sleep that, if you can believe it, are really more annoying than simply the act of not being able to sleep.

GOING INSANE

It's absolutely nuts some of the shit that goes on in one's brain when they're running on two hours of sleep in 50 hours.  I'll be sitting laying in bed, and in 12th of a second in my brain will flash a picture of a cannon from the Civil War, a voice saying "The new year brings specials on microdermabrasion", an epiphany that if Bruce Jenner didn't look like such a ghoul and and Christopher Reeve wasn't dead, they'd look a lot alike...well, Jenner actually looks like Reeve probably does now anyway...and, of course, Justin Bieber.  Don't ask what Justin Bieber's doing in there.  It's not my fault. I'm exhausted from no sleep, remember?  NO I don't have a mancrush on the boy.  I hate him.  Sure his fresh skin and pouty lips reminds one of a young Bruce Jenner, but...wait a minute, do I have a mancrush on Bruce Jenner?  Jesus.  Moving on.

HEARING THINGS

I swear I put this picture in because it was actually appropriate for the category.  It had nothing to do with the low-cut dress or look in her eye that says, "Shaun, you hot black negro.  It's been awhile since I've had a hot black negro."  It simply has to do with the "hearing things" category.  So where was I.  Yes.  Hot black negro.  So when you can't sleep, you hear EVERY. SINGLE. SOUND.  EVER.  Two nights ago when I got two hours of sleep, on and off, I heard a really loud creaking in the attic.  I just kept staring above me, shit racing through my head. The thought process actually went like this:  I thought that maybe it was the wind.  Then I thought, shit, something's in the attic.  Then I thought, do we even have an attic? Then I thought, oh shit, the 1/2 inch of snow has collected on the roof and it's going to collapse.  Then I thought, you know, if the roof collapses, although we'd be out on the street, if we lucked out to survive, maybe it'd be totaled enough where insurance would pay it out and we'd be rid of this hunk of shit.  Then I thought I heard the creaking moving from one side to another, and that it was either a bunch of squirrels, or a ghost.  And for some reason I didn't sleep that night.

YOU HAVE TIME TO THINK ABOUT YOUR DEMISE

For some reason lying awake in bed is open season for thoughts of death to creep into one's head.  And the stupid thing is you have the time to start going through scenarios.  In my case, I start going through things like "Does The Wife know where all the financial information is?" and "Hope she'll be able to sell this house because God knows without my unemployment checks they'd be screwed."  And every sound is an axe murder breaking into the house to kill you and your family.  I actually have thought it through about if a killer actually busted into the room.  We'd all be dead because although I am the Hot Black Negro, (wait a minute, now I capitalize it, like it's a superhero or something? Wow.  Insane, remember?) I'm blind as one of those crazy witch oracles you see in the old movies who can predict the future but can't see the boil-filled, shriveled up, gray hand right in front of their face.  I go through fight scenarios and think, "Okay, if I can throw the fan or the end table at them, it may give me time to reach my glasses and lunge for the gun before they shoot The Wife and then tell me to get face down, ass up."  

The moral of this story is that being nearsighted will get you raped.

POTENTIAL HEALTH ISSUES SURFACE.  CHECK THAT: ANY HEALTH ISSUES SURFACE.

This is probably the worst one of them all.  Every little thing you feel, taste or see has you thinking brain tumor.  And then half the reason you can't sleep is because you're trying to diagnose whatever illness it is in your head before going to talk to your best friend, WebMD. Last night for example, I had, and actually still have a pain in my lower abdomen.  Because I'm in Kansas City, I've heard nothing but news this past week about the Chiefs' quarterback, Matt Cassel, who underwent an emergency appendectomy and had to sit out the game.  So what do I do? The first thing is go to the computer and google "Appendix location".  Then, since the pain isn't in that spot, I moved on to googling "organ locations" to see if anything else was in the vicinity.  In the end, I self-diagnosed myself that I may have a hernia of some sort.  Chances are I don't.  Actually I probably just strained myself picking up something, but that didn't keep me from going to bed, dismissing my hernia diagnosis and laying awake thinking of if it is an abdominal tumor.  I can't tell you how many times I've been in bed, it's 4am, and I run to take aspirin because I think my arm is numb and I'm having a heart attack.  It's ridiculous.

BULLSHIT DOCTORS

 

As annoying and frustrating as all of the above experiences are, they don't hold a candle to dealing with the goddamn doctors who treat insomnia like it's a disease, which is ironic because it IS a disease which they should be treating like it's a disease.  Instead, they don't want to touch it.  Seriously, I was in the doctor the other day, a doctor who is steadfast in his refusal to actually prescribe sleep-aids to aid in sleep, because of their "addictive tendencies", yet after giving me an exam for my shoulder which I said over-and-over was a LOT better than it was six weeks ago, and only really hurt when I touched it, he was ready and willing to prescribe me pain pills.  This after I JUST said it hardly hurt.  And the last time I checked, pain pills were pretty addictive.  But when I want to JUST. GO. TO SLEEP., he gives me anti-depressants that while they make you drowsy, I guess, they say right on the bottle that one of their main side effects is insomnia.  Come on, man.  But at least he's giving me SOMETHING.  This is the first doctor in my entire life who has actually prescribed something, ANYTHING, for my sleep problems.  The rest have told me flat out they wouldn't, or that I need to read a book.  Okay, the screen's getting blurry.  I'd better stop before I start talking nonsense.  Wait...don't say it...I'll say it myself:

"What do you mean, START talking nonsense? Ha ha ha ha".

Yeah, that's funny.  Now look in the mirror.  What do you see?  That's right.  NOT a Hot Black Negro.  That job is taken.  Check and mate, sucka.   

Mall Santas are Dicks.

Okay, maybe not the Mall SANTA in general, but the freaking experience.  I've seen shorter lines when Six Flags unveils a new ride.  It's ridiculous.  Now maybe it's my fault for listening to the wife when she says "Let's go to the mall to see Santa...this SATURDAY".  Or like last night when she said, "Bass Pro Shop has Santa for free.  Let's go."  First of all, just looking at me one could figure out that I've never been to a Bass Pro Shop, and later when we got there I could see that I've never been wanted at a Bass Pro Shop.  Now for sure, if you're a white dude with grit in your teeth and a furrow in your brow and you bleed worm juice, then goddammit this is the place for you.  Otherwise I was about as out of place as a cross at a suicide bombing.

Anyway, the kids are super excited, as can be seen here:

Cutest. List. Ever.

And we leave after dinner.  Now on a weekday even I'll admit I didn't figure we'd have too long to wait. Uh, yeah.  We pull in at 6:45, the woman hands me a sign that says 8:30.  I ask what that means.  She says that's the earliest we can see Santa.  I say well that's two hours.  She says yes and she didn't realize my kind could count. So I bought a tackle box and we left, without seeing Santa.  Now, luckily I have great kids and they were fine with coming back another time, but The Wife immediately reminds me that we haven't had too good a luck with Santas over the last couple of years.  Case in point...last year...about a year to the day, we had what could be considered one of THE worst Santa experiences in the history of mankind.  So I figured I'd put up the post I wrote immediately following it.  It was called:  

"HO HO WTF WAS THAT ALL ABOUT??"  Enjoy.

December 18, 2009

You know, I've said it before and I'll say it again...sometimes I believe my life is my own personal Truman Show. The stuff that happens to me is so odd that the only good that comes from these experiences are these blogs, and a ton of scenes that I have stocked up for future scripts. Case in point, today at the mall...a story as unbelievable as it is ridiculous.

So today we went to the local mall, for those of you here in Kansas City, it was the Oak Park Mall. A self-proclaimed "upscale" mall that recently made news for kiosks selling generic toys but saying they're the name brand and selling them at the name brand prices. Yeah. Upscale. That's like a pimp saying his hookers are "upscale" just because they don't do the needle drugs and only have ONE VD. But I digress.

We went to the mall for the annual "Take the Kids To See Santa" excursion. Despite being hungover, I was excited because the kids were excited. They'd brought their lists and even wore Christmas hats. See:

I don't really need a Christmas present. This is good enough. Awwwww. Shut up.

Anywho, after standing in line for about a half-hour, we get to the inside area of Santa's den. Heh heh...Santa's inside area. Now, as with every Santa display we've ever gone to, they offer these photos for an ungodly amount of money. However, you just take pictures with your own camera and call it good. This place even had a sign once you got inside the den. It said "No cameras past this point". Fine, no problem. So I decided I'd just go outside the den and take pictures from the mall floor. Well, that wouldn't be as easy as it sounds.

I get out there as Amaya sits on Santa's lap. I pull out my camera and a guy comes out with literally two teeth in the bottom row of his mouth, but wearing a tie as if the tie somehow made it okay to be a gargoyle on meth. Anyway, he comes to me, STANDS IN FRONT OF MY CAMERA and says "NO PICTURES SIR. NO PICTURES." Now mind you, I'm outside the barrier, not even near the fence to the den. I'll try as best I can to transcribe what happened next because I don't know how much I can remember from the situation as my blood was boiling.

Me: I'm outside the barrier.

Him: It doesn't matter. No pictures.

Me: That's not what your sign says. It says no pictures inside. I'm outside. 

Him: It doesn't matter. We own the setup and you can't take pictures.

Now at this point I get really angry. Amaya's on the freaking fat man's lap and I'm missing it because some jackass on a power trip is trying to be Hard Guy Johnson. Our voices are raised. I'm aware people are looking at us. The Wife says Santa kept looking at us as well. 

Me: YOUR SIGN SAYS NO PICTURES INSIDE. You're going to forbid me from taking pictures anywhere in the mall?

Him: Sir, it's a business. We don't let anyone take any pictures.

Me: (PATENTED SB FRUSTATED/SARCASTIC CHUCKLE) Why are you being such a weirdo about this? 

Him: We own this setup. 

Me: Well, I'm going to take a picture of my daughter then.

Him: SIR YOU CAN'T. NO PICTURES OF SANTA! Santa works for us!

Me: I'm taking a picture of my daughter.

Him: No! No pictures of Santa!

Me: I DIDN'T SAY SANTA! I'll crop the picture so it's just my daughter!

I move to the side, raise the camera and snap. Dude literally races over to jump in front of the camera:

Asshole.

At this point I'm enraged.

Me: You're out of your mind. How do you know Santa's even in the picture? How can you see what I'm taking?

Then The Wife and the kids come out. I realize I've missed everything. I didn't see Amaya or Sydney on Santa's lap, I don't have any photos, I am pissed. And even more than that I'm pissed because Methhead Reynolds won. He beat me. But for those of you who know me I don't easily let things go. Whether I file a compaint with the mall, the photo studio, whatever, I'm doing something...because this ain't over, bitches.

EPILOGUE:

So anyway I don't think I ever did anything.  I probably got drunk or something.  Or left a message and forgot about it.  Either way.  Here's a picture of me with a bear.

Marriage Doesn't HAVE To Be This Way

The other day, I called The Wife with some exciting news that I'd be taking part in the tour of a local brewery, Boulevard Beer.  Yes, in the Broyls' lives, exciting news from the adults' standpoint is either touring a brewery, getting off a couple hours early from work, or getting off at all (seriously, we HAD to move into a neighborhood with NO red dots on the houses.  There's no one here to take your kids off your hands for a couple of hours when you want to do a little schmeny schmeny).  The point is, I'd been looking forward to taking a tour of this thing since I moved here.  The Wife was happy that I was happy, and we were on the same page for once.

We were not on the same page.  That was made very clear when I got home, a bit...well...here's what I was:

Because, you see, a brewery tour isn't just a tour of a stinky, smelly, dingy old brewery where you watch tapes and learn the difference between filtration and distilling.  That's only about an hour of the thing.  The rest of the time you're pretty much waiting for this thing to end so that you can be rewarded for taking the tour by drinking free beer.  And this was no exception.  You walk into the door and they hand you bottle caps which signify how many free beers you get.  You got anywhere from four to eight depending on how black you are.  I got four.  So the guy who handed out the bottle caps was also the tour leader.  He rounds us all up and leads us out the door, leaving the bucket of caps by itself behind the counter.  I turned to the guys I was with and said:

"Um...did he just leave the bucket of caps by itself behind the counter?"

So by the time we got to the end of the tour at the drinking stage, we probably had about 30 caps.  So by the time I got home, I had somehow stopped at the store, bought a rotisserie chicken, and was ready to feed the family, which of course, already had made dinner.  Whatever.  I'll eat this stupid bird myself then.

And that's why "going on a brewery tour" means "going to get drunk."

Here's some other commonly used words and phrases by men which are "misheard" by their significant others.

"I'M GOING OUT FOR A BEER."

"A" beer means a minimum 10-14 beers.  Going out for "a beer" means getting destroyed. No man just "goes out for a beer".  A man does not have the mental or physical ability to be able to stop after "a" beer.  Especially if he gives you this line at 8pm on a Friday night.  Don't fool yourself into thinking that he will go out for a beer, be in a great mood for once, and come home at 9:30 ready to cuddle on the couch and watch "Drop Dead Diva".   Just expect not to see him until 2am at the very minimum, or 10am if you have to pick him up the next morning at the police station for being drunk and disorderly.  

"Sooo..."

Nothing that follows this can be good.  Either he wants you to do something or he's got something really terrible he needs to tell you.  Something like, "You and I are booked on the first flight to New York tomorrow...we're going to be on the Maury show."  Anything from he wants to go to Vegas with the guys to he's decided to quit his job and become an ice fisherman to he's been cheating and has another kid to he's got so many kinds of herpes that he's got two weeks to live.  Either way, if you hear "Sooo...", just say, "Nooo..." and leave the room.

"HUH?"

He heard EXACTLY what you said.  EXACTLY.  But he wants no part of it.  You could have asked him something as easy as helping with opening a jar of pickles but for Christ's sake the game's on and he can't be bothered.  This also is used when you ask, "So...how do I look?"  or "Who didn't flush the toilet?"  Another phrase that also goes with "Huh?" is "I don't know what you mean."  Of course he knows what you mean.  A guy knows what everything means.  We're smarter than you.

"HEY! COME SEE THIS!"

Stay away from this.  Don't "come see" whatever it is he wants to show you.  You think it's something good like a check in the mail from your in-laws for $500 to fix the water heater.  No.  Not only is the water heater going to stay broken, but "this" is probably his erect penis.  Either that or he's created some sort of optical illusion by swinging his penis in a circle.  The point is, "Come see this" will, in 98.3% of the time, involve his penis.  Either that, or porn, and some sort of brand new position he'd like you to try.  But the point is, if you're not horny at the time, don't come see anything.  The situation will work itself out if you leave him alone for, oh, about 2 1/2 minutes.  

"UH, THE BABY SMELLS."

This is pretty much self-explanatory.  It means the baby smells, I'm busy doing something of the utmost importance like trying to figure out on google who played the bellhop in the Yakuza episode of T.J. Hooker because I think I just saw him in a Mastercard commercial, and you need to change the baby's diaper.  "Uh, the baby smells" means, "You have a choice.  Either you can change the baby's diaper and leave me to my important dealings, or you can make me change the diaper, and afterwards, disgusted and pissed off, I'll get a bottle of Jack Daniels and you won't see me for 30-48 hours.  So it's your choice."  Most women just choose to change the diaper.

"YOUR MOM IS STAYING HOW LONG? A WEEK? OKAY."

No, not okay.  Your husband doesn't want your mother staying with you an hour, let alone a week.  "Okay" means that he's okay with your mother staying there as long as you're okay with the fact that for this week he'll be doing everything he can not to be around the house...fixing shit, changing the oil, filling up the cars with gas, shopping...HE'LL BE SHOPPING FOR GOD'S SAKE...and of course, being out at the bar.  You can probably expect that for the week your mom is there, your husband will be out at the bar 4-5 nights, and in the basement the rest of the time.  So yes, enjoy your mother's company and reminisce about your boyfriend in college who turned out to be the nuclear engineer.  Fine.  Enjoy yourselves. I'll be taking my unemployed ass downstairs.  There's a Beavis and Butthead marathon on.

"I HAD TO USE A SOUP LADLE TO EAT MY CEREAL THIS MORNING."

Clean the fucking dishes.  Look, I get it.  It sucks.  I know.  But guys hate doing the dishes about as much as changing the aforementioned baby's diaper.  I can't explain it but it's the case.  That's why when I do the dishes once every 8-10 months, The Wife is not only surprised, she's ecstatic.  But in the same vein, this is why we have to take care of all the "man" stuff that happens.  We are in charge of fixing anything that breaks, or making appointments for someone to come by who CAN fix it, taking the car places to get work done, and, uh...hmmm...we really don't do much around here.  Yet for some reason doing the dishes is out of our jurisdiction.  Well, uh...okay...YOU guys get to have babies!  Right then.  Now get them dishes cleaned, you babymaking woman, you.  I want to have a baby.

"YEAH, SHE'S OKAY LOOKING, I GUESS."

She's the hottest thing he's ever seen.  He would cut off his own arm if he thinks it would make her happy.  If she even hinted she'd be with him if he wasn't married, he wouldn't even take the time to PLAN your demise.  He'd just force a bucket of Crisco down your throat and tell police that you were fat and liked to eat it.  "She's okay" means "The next time we have sex I'll be doing it with her so don't get all indignant if I call out her name by mistake."  You'd rather have a guy say, "HOLY SHIT IS SHE HOT!!" than "She's okay".  That's why I just go with the "HOLY SHIT!" route when it comes to anybody The Wife asks me about.  Whether it's Eva Longoria or Betty White.  I want all my bases covered.

and finally...

"YOU'RE RIGHT."

Are you out of your mind?  You're not right, you're never right, and there's no way on this planet he even has 1% of a point in his brain that would consider you even being right.  "You're right" comes out when the conversation has been going on for 4 1/2 hours and he's tired of arguing the point that you're obviously never going to get.  My wife has figured this one out and I can't even use it anymore because the response I get to "You're right" is always, "Yeah, you don't think that. You just want this conversation to end."  She's right.  I do.  But there's really no way to end a conversation like this one unless you say "You're right" or you leave the house.  Ladies, I would suggest you DON'T fall for the "You're right", because then he'll leave, and you can laugh at how you got him all riled up, and then when he comes back after "a" beer, he'll be ready for makeup sex.  And makeup sex is okay, I guess.  

Gifts That Suck.

Oh my God.  I have no idea what this even is. And are you seriously telling me that even the densest of gate personnel at a ballgame wouldn't be able to tell that you're holding pretty much the equivalent of two 40oz' of beer under this monstrosity of a contraption?  I think there's probably a reason I haven't seen this advertised alongside the Shake Weight, and have never heard the booming voice of the Ghost of Billy Mays yelling at me about how the "Beer Beard is the perfect addition to any drunk's liquor cabinet!!!"  The point is, I found this picture on a website of "bad gifts", and this would certainly fit the bill.

Now although you usually don't have to go to the length of the Beer Beard to give a bad gift, there are many other things we consistently wrap and put under the tree that give off the impression that not only did you get this at the last minute, in buying this gift you pretty much just wanted to fulfill the obligation of buying something.  I remember every year I used to go to Target on Christmas Eve, and buy every gift for everybody in about a 10 minute span.  Nowadays, however, I have to actually buy gifts that matter because people actually expect you to go into deep thought to think about them and their personal preferences before buying anything.  In my mind that sort of thinking is extremely inconsiderate and if I want to get you a potato peeler because I think you would benefit from some fresh cut french fries from time-to-time, then you should trust my judgement and enjoy this potato peeler.  Hell, AND I bought you a sack of potatoes too.  NOT sure what else you want.  REALLY not sure.  Anywho, here are five gifts that we give all the time but really suck.

GIFT CERTIFICATES

The ultimate in "I could give a crap."  There's a great line from King of the Hill that goes something along the lines of "So Bobby, you want to give your father, a man who worked so hard to conceive you, the same thing we give the mailman."  Well said, Peggy Hill.  I mean, I guess if you have a teenager who doesn't like or appreciate anything you ever give her, then it is appropriate to give a gift certificate with a card that says, "I'm sick of trying.  Buy your own goddamn gift.  Don't do drugs." (You always have to slip the drug talk in anywhere you can).  But seriously.  If you're going to spend $50 on a gift card, at least hedge your bets...go to Kohl's, buy a whole bunch of slop, throw it at the wall and see what sticks.  At least one of the bullshit things you buy with that $50 has to be something they like.  I suggest a light saber. Everyone likes light sabers.

TIES

I'll admit, this was THE gift I gave my dad every year.  Every. Single. Year.  A tie and maybe some boxer shorts.  I have no idea why I thought this was something he'd really love.  I mean, I'm a dad now and if my kids gave me a tie and boxer shorts I'd snatch up the video game system I gave them and not only change the sticker from "From Santa to Kids" to "From Santa to Dad", I'd also put "From DAD to Dad" just to let them know what's really going on in life.  Okay, relax people.  Christ.  I would NEVER do that.  I'd simply put on the tie, smile and tell them that I appreciate the tie but daddy doesn't have a job and never will...oh, and we'll be losing the house soon so we'll be living in the van.  Other than that, I love the gift!

REGIFTS.

Speaking of my dad, maybe I shouldn't feel so bad for getting him all of those ties because he is the KING of regifting.  Not a freaking birthday or holiday goes by where he isn't wrapping some bullshit up that he never opened and passing it off as a thoughtful, expensive gift.  The thing about my parents is that they are big-time gamblers.  Pretty much every weekend they're gone to the casino.  This past week...no joke...she calls me on Thursday and says, "Um...we told you we're in Atlantic City, right?"  I said, "No...so you're going to Atlantic City this weekend?" She said, "No, we're here."  Outstanding.  So anyway they are Super Double Diamond Big Time High Roller Members at the Harrah's (not sure if that's the actual name but you get the idea).  Anywho, they get all of these free gifts all throughout the year.  The casino says come pick up your free, um, I don't know, CD player, in the hopes that while they're there picking it up, they'll drop $100 in a slot, which usually happens.  So they have an entire basement storage room filled with these things...DVD players, toasters, clothes, all sorts of shit.  He actually had to build a shelving unit to house all this stuff.  What was my point here?  Oh yeah.  Regifts blow.  Takes the spirit out of giving and all that crap.  Although I guess this is how my parents can afford all of these gambling excursions...they never spend any money on gifts.

SNUGGIES

Seriously.  It's over.  Stop it.  This bullshit thing needs to come to an end.  Anybody who got a Snuggie for a gift last year is no longer using it, and anyone who got a Snuggie two years ago has already thrown it out.  This novelty is good all of about a week, and then you realize how stupid it actually is.  And good God, please don't buy the really cheap ones.  My mother-in-law, while well-intentioned, bought some really odd "Snuggies" with buttons running up and down the sides, and if you don't button them just right, they're only blankets with buttons.  They've honestly become throw rugs on our couch.  They're the weirdest things ever.  And the Snuggies we got the kids last year...one is a blanket and the other I don't know where that thing went.  I bought my sister a U of M one last year which I'm sure in less than a week went the way of an unwanted baby.  Unless you're like these schmoes in the picture and are using the Snuggies as a photo op or as part of some drinking game, these things are terrible gifts. 

DVDs

I'm not sure who took this picture, but it had to be at the bargain bin at Costco.  Hitch? Hostage?  Any season of Futurama?  Good Lord.  First of all, NEVER buy anyone a DVD. Ever.  DVDs are over and if they don't have a Blu-Ray player, then by Christ they don't deserve a movie anyway.  And have you ever seen the look on the face of a person who DOES have a Blu-Ray player who opens up a regular DVD?  It's a look of, "Well, I would return this but I don't think $3 is worth my trip across town to the Best Buy."  First of all, movies suck nowadays (Good God, A Guy Thing??? Who's crap ass movie shelf IS this!?!?)  Secondly, if you're going to buy someone movies, make sure that they 1) watch movies at home, and 2) like the type of movie you bought.  No.1 is key.  Sometimes you've got a big movie fan who, for whatever reason, loves movies but either doesn't like or have the time to spend two hours at home to watch one.  No. 2 is also important.  Whether it's from talking to The Wife, or whatever, my brother-in-law is very good at knowing exactly the movie that I will watch.  There may be ONE movie that I'll take time to watch at home, and he gets it for me.  Others, however, have failed miserably in this attempt.  It's the same thing with music.  My wife once got me Ginuwine's "Differences" (the maxi-single if that tells you how old I am), but didn't realize I had already downloaded it to the computer.  Times have changed.  The big movie shelf with 2,000 movies is over.  You rent it on Netflix or online or through the cable company.  THINK before you go this route.  Otherwise after they open it, you could be told there's no Santa. 

Let's Do This.

So the last couple of months have been pretty stupid.  When I injured my back while sneezing, it started a chain of events that kept me from doing any workouts of any kind and morphing into a breathing pile of dung.  The Wife, on the other hand, in taking a second job, ditched the workouts AND the Weight Watchers, and has gotten out of shape as well.  Stress levels have been through the roof and because of it so has the cholesterol.  For me, football season happens and I singlehandedly keep Miller Lite in business every week.  It's been a downward slide that has resulted in a ton of fast food, an appreciation of sweatpants, and the fear that while walking down the street, our torsos will one day show up on those news programs about fat people.

So we've decided to get back on the horse, the wagon, the cheerleader, anything you're supposed to "get on" that means to start doing right again.  The last two weeks have been tough because with the refrigerator out, we haven't been able to do a lot of cooking because there's been no place to put leftovers.  So that means a lot of Golden Corral where really, if you can't look at the clientele and say to yourself, "Jesus Christ", then you really have no chance of being motivated and you might as well hunker down at the trough with one spoon in the white gravy and the other in the brown.

Thank God for the hippie who came up with this pill-popping, crank-addicted superdog. 

However, when one falls of the wagon and decides to get back on, you can't just "get back on".  To reward yourself for all your glutony, you have to have one last big hurrah so you can do as much damage as you can do and feel better about going on the straight and narrow.  There have been many times I've fallen off the wagon when it comes to diet and fitness.  And the same thing happens, I look at myself in the mirror, say "Goddammit", and decide to do better....On Monday.  Yes, it doesn't matter what day it is that this realization happens. If it's on Saturday, the change happens on Monday.  If it's on Tuesday, then it's "Okay, this is the last week of this shit", and the change happens on Monday.  If it's on Monday, then it's "You know what, this is bullshit.  But the week has already started so starting next Monday, I'm good."  

This is where the wife and I are at this point.  Monday is the day.  Which works fine for me since Sunday I get obliterated watching football and don't want to eat anything that day anyway.  Well, we've ALSO already started, and started planning our last big hurrah so that come Monday we're so gorged out we welcome the blandness and boredom that the healthy diet provides.  For example:

- Wednesday.  The declaration happened. We realized things weren't good and needed to change.  She came downstairs so we could watch Modern Family and Hell's Kitchen.  I suggested that in honor of our new pact, we should celebrate with a pint of ice cream.  She agreed (I wish I could say "reluctantly") and although it was after 9pm I threw on my flip-flops, ran to the store and got some Ben & Jerry's.  (My God, they've got this Stephen Colbert flavor called "Americone Dream" with caramel and chocolate waffle cone pieces....OOOOH!!!)  I literally haven't eaten a pint of ice cream in years.  But when you've lost control, you've lost control.  The woman at the register asked, "Did you find everything okay?"  I said, "Unfortunately, yes."

- Thursday.  We had spaghetti for dinner on Wednesday, and leftovers on Thursday.  Again, since we're going out with a blast, I called The Wife as she was driving home and asked, "Um, do you want regular spaghetti or do you want me to fry it?"  Before I could even finish the sentence she said, "FRY IT."  O...k.  It's something I invented where I take spaghetti, somehow bread it, fry it on both sides and holy shit.  Take a look:

Between this and Katy Perry's breasts, I'm not sure what looks more appetizing.

And last night's version was JUST as delectable.  We were both smacking our lips like we were at the Jenkins family BBQ.  Man, was that racist.  The point is, it was good...and fattening.  Then, to top it off, I stopped on the way to our daughter's choir concert to get a bag of kettle chips to eat during the performance.  I WAS ALREADY FULL from the spaghetti but for some reason bought chips.  Full tailspin, my friends.  The bag's in my sweatshirt and I'm reaching in slowly, sneaking each chip out like I'm an alcoholic and that bag is actually a flask.  That was pretty sad.

-Friday.  No clue but I'm sure it'll be bad.  For one, I'm going to a tour of the local brewery.  Heh.  I've been wanting to go to this thing since I moved here and finally get to go.  I'm sure there will be some tasting involved.  My friend also said he may call and we'll go out before hand for a beer.  And depending on how long it goes, if my wife leaves work and I'm not here yet.  She won't stop to buy anything to make for dinner.  She'll stop at somebody who's already making dinner and get dinner from there.  That usually means McDonald's, Culver's, etc.  This day won't go well.  And if I come back and I'm buzzed, and there actually IS something healthy that she's miraculously cooked, I won't be in the mood and will be craving something greasy anyway.  So today's shot, too.

-Weekend.  Now see, our first plan was to start eating better on Thursday.  The pint was supposed to signify the end of being bad and the next day the start of being good.  We blew that by the fried spaghetti and sweater chips.  So yesterday I saw a commercial, ran upstairs, and told The Wife that the new diet and way of living well would have to wait until Monday.  She said, "What?" I said:

"PAPA JOHNS HAS A DOUBLE BACON, SIX CHEESE PIZZA."

She looked at me and could tell there was no budging from this stance.  Then I said it was $11.99 and she was totally on-board.  So we've got the pizza this weekend, the beer, and whatever else comes our way which we decide is a proper send off to our devilish way of living, eating and such.  So, wish us luck.  I'm just hoping that next Wednesday I'm not eating a stack of frozen White Castles saying, "Yeah, we'll start it up on Monday."