I blame my father.

You see, when a young boy asks his father what a soldier is, he takes his father’s words as gospel. He doesn’t understand how his father might see his questioning as a means to alleviate his boring afternoon of housebound babysitting. The boy wouldn’t see the gleam of mischief in his father’s eye as anything other than eagerness to answer his question. He wouldn’t even begin to comprehend the cruelty of his father’s seemingly innocent inquiry as to whether the boy’s younger brother might also like to know.

The two boys aren’t stupid, they’re just naïve.

And when the father of these two impressionable children decided that mere words might not be enough, that perhaps they would better understand what it meant to be a soldier if they were to dress up like real army men, these two angelic children might simply laugh and exclaim at what a wonderful idea that was.

And then the horror would begin.

The two boys were dressed helmets, belts, pouches and canteens. When they told their father that they wanted to have medals like a real soldier they were given “purple hearts” made from red Valentine’s Day stickers. Then they were taught the proper way to salute by their supposedly loving father. The very same father who, holding back what at the time seemed to the young boys to be tears of joy, ran to the bedroom to grab his camera and take a picture of “his little soldiers” for posterity’s sake.

Sigh; at least I’m not the one who looks like Mini-Benny Hill.
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Some pictures from my walk across the Manhattan Bridge yesterday.

It was a very nice day.

I’m trying to be a good boy today.

I was told to clean, do laundry, find an MC & DJ, research florists and make a list of the songs I think would make great ‘first dance’ songs for the wedding. That means that I have almost no time to write about how beautiful my day was yesterday and how I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge just because I could. I guess I’ll just let these pictures speak for themselves and skip the funny anecdotes for today.

Hey, even my life can be good sometimes.

OK, let me see if I understand this.

I’m not a real person. I’m actually an artistic representation of a medieval saint carved in marble and displayed at the foot of some stairs inside Saint Marks Cathedral in New York. Never mind what a York is, let alone a new one, I’ll just accept the fact that I’m in a really famous and holy church somewhere and leave it at that.

At least I’ve got steady employment.

So, I’m made of marble. And what does that mean to me? It means that I’ll never be able to move, not even a little bit, no matter how hard I try. In other words, I’ve been wasting my time for the last 100 frickin’ years trying to move my left hand so I could scratch my god damn nose. So, I’m going to have this annoying itch on the tip of my unmoving, marble nose for the rest of my frickin’ existence, right?

Damn.

So, if I’m a saint, tell me why I’m wearing this stupid sombrero. What? It’s not a sombrero? A halo? Really? Well slap my ass and steal my sandals! For the last 200 hundred years here I am thinking that I’m a Mexican with the ugliest poncho in existence when I’m actually not Mexican at all.

No wonder I can’t understand Spanish.

Hey! I bet the hotties really dig a guy with a halo. I mean, intellectually I know all about that whole celibacy thing, but that’s only when I’m on duty, right? When I punch out at five or whatever I can still go down to the local house of sin with my homeys and get jiggy with it, right? Right?

Crap.

And what’s up with my vice-like death grip on this humongous key? I haven’t been able to feel my fingers for the last 80 freaking years. Do you think I might be able to put it down, just for a minute? Come on, I’ve got a bad case of carpel tunnel syndrome in my right hand and that’s the hand I refer to as my ‘personal masseuse’, if you catch my drift. Honestly, just 30 seconds. Give a saint a break, will ya?

Bastard.

OK, ok. Fine. I can deal with all this. I’m made of marble, I’m a saint and I’ll never be able to know the pleasures of the flesh or even scratch my own damn nose. Great. Perfect. No problem.

But, before you go, could you please just answer one question for me?

If I’m such a holy person, and this is such a holy place, why the hell do those little carvings on my left look like erect and flaccid penis’? How’s a saint supposed to contemplate the meaning of life, the word of god and all that other holy crap while staring at male genitalia all day? I mean, honestly. Who am I? Saint Dick?

What? Son of a bitch!

Wanting to get involved in a meaningful movement before graduating college, and before it becomes trendy, Suzie MacDuffus and her friend Jennifer Berkowitz are seen here doing what they call ‘BlogChalking’.

Suzi was all too happy to explain the BlogChalking movement.

“It’s, like, a way for us to let the world know about our Blogs. This way, when someone wants to know more about, you know, a Blog, they can just read the sidewalk and find out more about it. So, for example, if someone wanted to know more about my Blog, they could just come here and read this BlogChalk on the street and know that I’m a girl, I like Bon Jovi, I go to school around here and other neat stuff like that.”

When asked what a Blog is, Suzie just shrugs her shoulders.

“I’m not really sure but, like, I think it’s some sort of alternate energy source? Or maybe it’s a way to harness karma or something? To tell the truth I don’t think it really matters what a Blog is because it’s the BlogChalking movement that’s important. Everyone should be doing this because if we don’t, then the terrorists win, right? And who could argue with that?”

Passersby were not impressed with Suzi and Jen’s dedication.

“These girls are wackos.” Said James Douglass, a pamphleteer and part-time musician. “They’re here every day, writing all their vital statistics on the sidewalk for anyone to read. Where they live, what they do, their ages, cup size. Everything! Any psychopath could walk by and learn everything he needed to know about those two morons. Don’t they own a computer? Everyone knows that BlogChalking is a way for Bloggers to find other Bloggers in the same geographical location as themselves. It’s for the web, not the sidewalk. How the hell did they find out about BlogChalking if they aren’t on the web? They’re so freaking stupid!”

Jen feels differently.

“It’s people like that who make me just want to BlogChalk even more. If they only took the time to learn the facts they’d know that BlogChalking can help the starving children in Pakistan.” When asked where Pakistan was on a map Jen replied, “I think it’s somewhere in Ohio. Or maybe Oregon.”

Ignoring the hecklers on the street, Suzi and Jen BlogChalk until all their chalk is gone.

“We don’t really mind all these people making fun of us.” Claims Suzi. “We know that BlogChalking is, like, the only way to help all the families who have lost their homes to the floods in China. And one day, all these people will want to BlogChalk with us to help them and, you know, all the poor, defenseless animals in pharmaceutical science labs, too. Jen and I always join movements and causes at school right when they go out of favor, but not this time. This time we’re, like, first and stuff, so when all these other people want to join, Jen and I will be, like, the president and vice president of the BlogChalk Movement. That’ll be cool.”

Jen adds, “We’re going to BlogChalk until Palestine and Israel make peace because, really, isn’t that what BlogChalking is all about?”

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“Pssst.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you looking at?”

“The humans.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet. But it should get interesting soon.”

“Yeah? Can I watch, too?”

“Sure, but be quiet.”

“…”

“…”

“Which one’s the male?”

“The one on its knees.”

“Is that normal?”

“I think so, he does it every night as far as I can tell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really know. I think, and this is only a guess mind you, but I think he’s trying to mate.”

“Does water always leek from his eyes?”

“Not every time, no. But when it’s been a long time since their last coupling he goes through this very peculiar ritual that our scientists have named, ‘begging’. I’m trying to figure out why he keeps ‘begging’ when it never seems to work.”

“And?”

“And, so far my only theory is that it’s some kind of ritual necessary for the male to successfully entice the female to copulate. Similar to a peacocks feather display, or a baboons butt coloration.”

“Oh.”

“…”

“…”

“So that one’s the female?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t seem to be too taken with the male’s approach, does she?”

“Actually, this approach never seems to work for the male.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Well, if it never works why do you suppose he keeps employing it?”

“You know, I was sent here months ago and after observing these two in action for all this time, I think I can actually answer that question.”

“So? What’s your answer? Why does this male human keep ‘begging’ to mate with his female when that approach has, time and time again, only lead him to failure?”

“He’s a Geek.”

“No!”

“Yes. And furthermore, I believe that he keeps attempting this approach towards copulation in the vain hope that one day his woman will pity him enough to consent.”

“That is so sad.”

“I know.”

“…”

“…”

“Wow, look at him ‘beg’! He really is pathetic. Do you think we should put him down and find her another, more suitable, male?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Think, my man. Think! He’s a sexually frustrated Geek! It’s a hell of a lot of fun to watch him suffer. Look at him cry like a baby. Look at him!”

“…”

“…”

“Heh.”

“Hehehe.”

[both] “HAHAHAHAHahahahahahahaHAHAHAHahaha!”

“Whew.”

“Oh, yeah. That was good. I’m crying here.”

“That was awesome! I’m glad I saw that. Funny as hell. Priceless.”

“Damn right, that was priceless. I laugh like that almost every night. He’s one stupid, pathetic Geek and I just love to watch him make an ass of himself.”

“You’re a cruel gargoyle, man. But I like that about you.”

“Yeah, I know. Now shut up, I think he’s going to try to touch her boobies…”

[slap]

HAHAHAHAHahahahahaHAHAHAHAHA!

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Time for another round of personal torture therapy.

Before I begin, I would like to offer up a warning to those of you who have not plucked out your own eyeballs and smashed them underfoot upon catching a glimpse of the picture I have chosen for today. What you see to the left of these words may shred any and all faith you have in the intellectual superiority of humans over the less evolved creatures of the world. By allowing you to view this picture, I may very well become known as the man who destroyed civilization as it is and set humanity’s evolutionary clock back by a thousand years or more.

Remember, you were warned.

For those of you who have made it this far, allow me to explain that what you are seeing in this picture is not my prepubescent attempt to become the worlds first disco-ballerina. Nor is it my frantic attempt to stop myself from wetting my pants in public. What is happening here is much, much worse than anything you might be able to imagine on your own.

You see, I am attempting to bowl.

Notice my teeny, tiny, extra tight, powder blue shorts. See how they hug my nonexistent buttocks in an attempt to cut off circulation to my legs and thus force me to fall, convulsing, onto the local Bowl-O-Rama’s floor? Look carefully and become amazed at my complete lack of male genitalia.

And we won’t even get started on the haircut.

Am I not the epitome of style, with my Adidas wrist band and tri-band socks pulled up nearly to my knees? Do you not swoon in adoration at my stoic and manly pose of bowling professionalism? My jutting lower jaw, flopping, useless arms and blindingly white, sticklike legs ensured that only the most attractive of the “Super-Fly Bowl-O-Rama Hotties” hanging around would dare to approach me. And, if I remember correctly, not one of them was brave enough to even make the attempt.

I was that sexy. Believe it.

One last thing to note, this picture was actually taken at my birthday party as I attempted to make the most difficult spare in the sport of bowling. That’s right, the dreaded seven-ten split. This would help explain my use of the never before caught on film, patented “I’m a Little Teapot”, ball-control-through-body-English, bowling ball toss. It also helps explain why all my friends called me “The Gay Bowler” for a few months after the party.

Bastards.

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