I am utterly incapable of falling to sleep without my fan on.

I recently spent the night at my parents place, and like a toddler with his blankie, I brought along my fan to assist me in falling asleep. Yes, my parents have many fans at their place, but none are quite able to do the trick like my fan. My fan’s breeze intensity is rock-solid, and its tone frequency is supple and soothing. Besides, if I had slept with another fan I would have been wracked with guilt all night. How could I ever explain this other fan to my fan? My fan would be so jealous, and it would have held its wind-love away from me out of retribution. No, the only solution is to bring my fan with me everywhere I go so that it won’t get suspicious and so that I can continue to peacefully slumber.

But tragically, when I was packing up to go back home the next day, I somehow forgot to pack my fan.

The next night, laying alone in my bed, was perhaps the low-point of my life. Weeping bitterly, I repeatedly cried out in anguish for my fan, writhing and groaning through haggard, tear-choked shouts. “FAN!!! I’M SORRY!!!” I bellowed, “PLEASE FORGIVE ME, FAN!!” before drifting off into wails and assorted obscenities. After a few hours, my roommate Andrew popped his head into my room and asked me to quiet down so he could sleep. Grudgingly, I stilled myself and crafted a new plan to hang myself. I reneged on that plan though, when I remembered that I’m none too good with knots. That night, as I sat in complete stillness, in a vaccuum of fan-less sound, I waited for dawn to finally arrive. I knew that I was capable of facing the day without the fan, unlike twilight when the fan is my soul’s closest companion.

When the sun finally came, I dressed and prepared for work. I made plans to go back to retrieve my fan that evening, and when that sweet moment came, love and tenderness poured forth from me like it never had before for any human being. I tenderly caressed my fan, kissing it gently, pausing briefly to aggressively straddle it. Things were now as they should be. Everything was right with the world again. My fan was home.

I think it must be a rule that every little crappy town in Minnesota offer a Dairy Queen.

I wouldn’t be suprised at all to find that when Minnesota’s constitution was written in 1858, they included an article that called for the establishment of one DQ for every 30 people. This Constitution also apparently specified that the men of northern Minnesota must grow wispy mustaches, be mumbly and inarticulate, and support motor sports of all varieties.

A week ago I had the lovely opportunity to travel to Virginia, MN with my girlfriend Bridgette, and in the 4-hour drive, we passed approximately 782 Dairy Queens. That’s a hell of a lot of Brownie Batter Blizzards, let me tell you. As Bridgette drove her Jeep Cherokee, I slouched in the back seat consuming artificial ice cream treats at an alarming rate. I was able to successfully ingest a dozen Blizzard treats before becoming massively ill. I soon began to defecate uncontrollably, destroying not only my underwear and pants, but my socks, shoes, and eyeglasses. Bridgette’s backseat was now a sticky, malodorous bed of chocolate and loose feces. We continued stopping at every DQ in sight, as mandated by the Minnesota constitution. By this point I had grown weary of the Oreo or Brownie Batter Blizzards that I had thus far consumed, and so I commanded the horrified employees to make me a Barbequed Pork Blizzard. By this point my body, wracked with torturous spasms, was rejecting all food, so I spread the cool, seasoned meat and cream all about, groaning with agony-cloaked pleasure. My stomach was distended, my knees were dislocated, and my clothing was rent in twain. Hours later, I passed out from dehydration and massive blood loss.

When I awoke to notice that I was being hosed off by Bridgette’s father, I reflected on our journey. These were the moments that you savor. It’s not every day that you are able to consume 38 gallons of DQ treats and experience a loose, bloody bowel movement lasting continually for 4 hours. As somebody once said, these could be the good old days. Dare I say it, this had probably been the greatest experience of my life.

Recently I got an email out of the blue from an old high school friend asking if I want to get together for a beer. I happily agreed to the idea, provided that we instead go out, score some blow, and get coked-up out of our minds.

Setting that joke aside for the moment, it was strange for me to think about all the changes that have gone on in my life since I was last in contact with this guy. How could I adequately explain everything? Would we still have much in common? I happen to know that he’s now married, so that went and blew my plan of breaking the ice with some classy hookers.

So I guess he and I will be getting together sometime in the next week or two. This could go a few different directions:

a) We might have a pleasant time, and after dinner agree to go our separate ways and do this again in another 5 years.

b) Tempers might flare and the evening would devolve into another argument about why I stole his girlfriend in 10th grade, even though she clearly liked me more and he told her she was fat so what did he care anyway?

c) My father, Chet, might arbitrarily join us, causing confusion and discomfort in all parties involved.

d) We might be visited by the Ghost of Christmas past and be made to revisit the errors of the past (i.e. stealing girlfriends, etc.)

e) Fisticuffs.

A lot has changed for me since I was 21 and last knew him. Most noticably, I have gained about 15 pounds. In addition, I have fathered a family of rabbits. They are delightful and cuddly, and I seek to lovingly provide for them, just as any father would. I also punish them when necessary. With a wooden pole. Most of my rabbits are now dead.

You see, I am a whole different person now. What connections might there still be with my old friend? Does he also now harbor an insatiable lust for peanut brittle? Does he now also listen exclusively to Night Ranger’s last 3 albums? Is he also in talks with major Hollywood players to produce the long-awaited “The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Thrice”? Are we leading parallel lives?

I can only hope…