Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a pre-season Vikings game at no charge, thanks to the guile and quickery of my friend Tami.

Before I thank her too heartily, however, I should add that we had the second-worst seats in the house - 2nd to last row in the northeast corner of the Metrodome.

Now, don’t get me wrong - I love the Vikings, and I was happy to be there, but these seats were ridiculous. You seriously got vertigo looking down at the field from this height. As we made our way up the stairs, waiting for row 27 of the upper deck to arrive, we were all getting a little tired.

21…….22…….23………24………25……..26…….27! Alright! We made it!

Now, where can I puke?

Determined not to have to climb that ascent again unnecessarily, I decided not to visit the concession stand and instead scavenged for discarded chunks of hot dog buns and Cracker Jack fragments. I applied a set of clamps to my groin area to avoid having to go the bathroom while mocking my sweaty, out-of-breath friends who had just returned from such a trip. Otherwise, I sat and watched the ant-like players move slowly at a great distance, and when the crowd seemed to get excited I stood and cheered like the spineless sheep that I am.

But hey, at least we weren’t the dudes in the last row!

I just got back from celebrating my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary in the fine town of Royalton, MN. Actually, Royalton is really an awful, terrible crapstain on the face of central Minnesota, but that isn’t actually the point of my blog (maybe some other time…)

Anyway, while celebrating their amazing feat at Royalton’s American Legion, we were treated to an immensely satisfying pot-luck dinner. Noodle salad, roast beef sandwiches, and an estimated 36 pans of brownies awaited us at the buffet table. There was, however, one dish that satisfied like no other. One item at the table filled out bellies with it’s brown, savory goodness…

That item was baked bean hotdish.

Baked beans, mixed with a few lima beans, with savory bacon and sausage added. It was a feast like no other. The grandest pharaoh in Egypt never experienced cuisine this savory. In fact, I’ll bet that Pharaoh Ramses II’s food tasted like Sphinx puke compared with these baked beans. I scooped two ladle-fuls of beans onto my paper plate and eagerly devoured them when I returned to the table. I made my satisfaction known to those around me in non-verbal fashion by repeatedly banging my fist onto the table as hard as I could. Let me tell you, these beans were fricking amazing.

It turns out that I was even more out of control than I had realized. Once I stood up out of my chair, Bridgette quickly spotted that I had multiple beans stains on my shirt, as well as a series of spills on my pants. I wish I were kidding about that. Looking sheepishly at my soiled clothing, it was obvious that my bean-lust was out of control. I had somehow crossed the line between everyday bean enjoyment to full-on animalistic bean passion. Sure it’s a little embarassing to admit that publicly, and it was utterly humiliating to walk around the rest of the afternoon with beans all over my clothes like I was a two-year old. I can admit that.

But you must understand that I have no choice. I am a slave to the bean, and it is important for all of you to understand this.

Sincerly,
Mr. Bean II

The other night, while packing up her things to move out of her apartment, Bridgette thought she saw a mouse run under the couch from the corner of her eye. She said she only glimpsed it for a moment, and it was something smallish and dark scooting across the room. Whether it was a mouse or not, she was pretty spooked. I told her not to worry about it. After all, it might turn out to be a poisonous snake.

Yeah, the way I figure it, Bridgette’s probably got another damned cobra coiled under her couch, and soon enough I’m going to have to go deal with it. With my luck, it’ll plunge it’s yellow fangs into my neck-flesh and send deadly venom coursing through my bloodstream before I have the chance to stun it with a mallet. Then I’ll end up at the hospital on a lousy respirator, tenderly whispering my final words to my loved ones before my heart explodes. Then my coffin will be stuffed with writhing cobras, (as per my last request) allowing the cobras to hollow out my corpse and nest inside my husk until they run out of food and devour each other. And after all that, Bridgette’s still stuck with something alive in her apartment.

Oh well, whatever it is, she can probably just gas it to death.

I’m wearing a suit today, and it feels nice.

Yes, it’s good to dress up for work from time to dime. It makes me feel all dapper and sassy and crap. My suit is pressed, and tailored to fit my body’s every nook and crevasse. In fact, it was hand-crafted by Kaiser Wilhelm’s personal tailor, who is now old and infirm, but still deft with a needle, or a riddle if you are so lucky (I was not).

People like me in this suit. The ladies smile their approval, and then men wink their satisfaction. As I walk in my suit, my mind surges with ultra-confidence and I calmly, cooly tell those nearby me what they are doing wrong and how I want them to solve their problems. They smile gratefully and genuflect reverently, and I walk on, pulsating with the power of my suit.

Sometimes my suit makes me hot, though, and then it doesn’t feel as good. Suit-sweat (not to be confused with a sweatsuit) is of a strange, bitter variety that tends to attract feral badgers. However, the sweat can be dabbed away with a handkerchief and the badgers can be bludgeoned to death with a crescent wrench - what matters is that the suit is classy. My suit is awesome. If you ask if you can borrow it, I will tell you to shut up. My suit is better than fudge and Wisconsin Dells combined.

Seriously though, it’s a good suit.

My back really hurts.

It feels like I was giving 400-meter piggy-back rides to the Sasquatch.

It feels like the dinner table was accidentally placed atop my spine, and then a 6-course meal was served.

It feels like my spine has been worked over by rowdy goats.

It feels like I was forced to work in an undersized munchkin factory for 14-hour days breathing in the hot, muggy coal dust, causing me to get black munchkin-lung.

It feels like I sat on Satan’s anal pike.

It feels like truant teens filled my spinal column with fire ants.

It feels like the NBA draft lottery was held using my vertibrae instead of ping-pong balls.

It feels like if I cracked my back, it would pop into dust and my torso would flop backward unnaturally.

So yeah, my back really hurts…

Good news everybody: I’m no longer living in Rochester anymore!

As you’re reading this, no doubt many of you are momentarily throwing your arms into the air in celebration before thinking, “Wait, Peter was living in Rochester? Since when?” To everybody who did that, I hate you.

Yes, I’ve spent the better part of the last 45 days in the fair burg of Rochester, MN - home of the world-renowned Mayo Clinic and the somewhat-less-renowned McDonalds on 2nd street where I used to go when I was in high school. The city welcomed me back with open arms. Perhaps I should clarify - the bums of the city welcomed me with open arms and their beautiful mountain-love. It was a homecoming that I won’t soon forget, though I would certainly like to.

Anyway, long story short, I’m back. No more hour-long commutes to work in Inver Grove Heights. No more frenzied ape-riots. My Rochester experience is over. It feels good to be back in the Twin Cities, where my friends are, and where wizened donkey generals rule with an iron fist and mustaches like Stalin.

Truth be told, I have no idea what I’m writing here. This is just a stream-of-consciousness exploration of the flaccid recesses of my mind. I’m sure that all of you expect no less from the John Larroquette Project. I’m only too happy to oblige you with my tales of sorcery and horse-lust.

Oh, and before I forget to tell you, I sucked all the fluid out of a highlighter yesterday.