At what point in my life am I going to stop embarrassing myself?

As a child, there’s always an excuse for making an utter mockery of oneself. Puked during class? Farted in front of a girl you like? Ah, you’re just a kid, don’t worry about it. Biffed your piano recital? Pretended you had polio and that you’d been paralyzed from the waist down only to have your mother find out the truth three years later? Forget about it, you little rascal. Now get back down in the basement and don’t come back until sunup!

As an adult, however, those moments tend to stick a bit deeper into our psyche. Little things, like getting a performance review while there’s a huge rip in the crotch of your pants come to mind. Yikes. That was a meatgrinder of a morning.

Things haven’t really gotten much better since then, either. Just yesterday, while discussing the pyramids and religious rites of the Mayans, my bladder emptied itself into my pants. Fortunately, I was able to smooth over the situation by reassuring those present that I hadn’t actually pissed myself. I told them that I was stricken with a rare malady that occasionally causes about a pint of sweat to pour forth from my crotchal region. When this didn’t seem to quite satisfy their curiosity, I told them that I also have AIDS. Then they felt sorry for me.

Problem solved.

I suppose, given my volatile disposition and preponderance toward gin, I may never stop embarrassing myself. This doesn’t give me much pause. As long as I have this blog to cauterize those wounds into whimsical tales of merriment, and my trusty pretend-to-have-a-fatal-illness ploy to fall back on, I should be just fine.

Why am I so tired this week? What did you do to me?

I’m telling you, if I had a pillow with me right now, I could set it atop my desk and I’d be asleep in less than two minutes. I’d snore right through my morning classes, and my students would take careful notes as I muttered in my sleep about ancient India’s Mauryan Empire. It’s an absolutely foolproof plan, and I could count on the NEA to back me up with millions of dollars of litigation.

Seriously though, why have you made me this tired? What have I done to you (besides slashing your tires on Thanksgiving morning)? Why would you be so hateful to me by making me drowsy? I don’t even understand how you made me this drowsy? Did you put cold medicine in my morning porridge? What a hateful act! A man’s morning porridge is sacred (unless it’s apple cinnamon flavor, in which case it is blasphemous and shall be damned to porridge-perdition).

I’m like Droopy McSlumber over here today. I’m so tired I could sleep right through the majesty that was Wrestlemania III, when Hogan fought Andre the Giant. In my weariness would miss out on Hulk Hogan, glowing in his balding majesty, whipping the crowd into a rabid frenzy as he body slammed the 415 pound behemoth. But instead of screaming in rapturous ecstacy, I would be sound asleep, dreaming of forbidden gnome ceremonies.

It’s enough to drive a man to meth.

Thanks a lot, buddy. Thanks for making me so tired, and for my eventual meth-mouth. This is all somehow your fault.

Last night, as I graded exams I popped in one of my favorite Marx Bros. films, A Day at the Races.

When you’ve seen a movie like that as many times as I have, you have time to pause and reflect on the minor elements of the film while watching it. I couldn’t help but be struck at how Groucho spent half the movie fawning over a lady who could charitably be described as “handsome”.

Have tastes in beauty really changed that much? I don’t want to sound like some lecherous jerk, but I had a hard time seeing what everybody was so excited about. The above image isn’t such a bad shot of her, but it isn’t representative of what I saw. During a dance scene with Groucho, for instance, she towered over him and wore a pulverizingly unflattering dress. Her appearance inspired cowardice in me. On several occasions I literally winced in revulsion and desired to leap in front of a swift-moving vehicle.

Oh well. I guess times have simply changed. Perhaps in 2077, somebody will come across my photograph and remark that I make Johnny Depp look like Rodney Dangerfield.

Unfortunately for me, by 2077 Rodney Dangerfield will represent the pinnacle of human beauty and aesthetics, so I’ll still be out of luck.

HEY!!

Sorry, I guess I’m still a little energized from my weekend. Sometimes it’s hard to control all my impulses.

YULETIME CHEER! BOOOM!!

This weekend was a celebration of Thanksgiving and my one-year anniversary with Bridgette. We spent our time indulging in sweets, listening to Christmas songs, and brightening our home with holiday decorations of all varieties.

CHESTNUTS ROASTING ON AN OPEN FIRE!!!! NNNNNNNNGGHGH!

It was a lovely respite from my otherwise frantic schedule, and a time to slow down, relax, and perhaps experience an emotion or two (though I did not).

SLEIGH RIDE!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!

It was also a great opportunity to visit with my family. I bonded once again with my brothers while playing a particularly violent few games of NBA Live ‘97 on our aged Sega Genesis. Using the 1996 Atlanta Hawks, we were able to defeat our opponents by over 100 points and commit nearly 25 flagrant fouls a game.

SUCCULENT TURKEY BONES IN MY MOUTH!!!!!

Here’s wishing you the same joyously exuberant, marshmallow-filled holiday tidings!

This will be my final transmission to you this week.

Soon, my beloved and I will descend into the nether-regions of Rochester for a familial gathering of gluttony and troll-feasts. We will greet each other with hugs and pleasantries before quickly getting to business. In two days, my family and loved ones must devour 3 whole turkeys, 14 lbs. of stuffing, 17 pumpkin pies, a 4 foot high stack of cool whips, a bathtub full of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of leftover french onion soup. We’ll then wash down our meal and refresh our palette with a large glass brimming with warm, whole milk.

My mouth is watering with anticipation right now at the very prospect of it. Just now, a small dallop of saliva dripped onto the ‘B’ key of this computer. I cannot help myself. It is who I am. I could no sooner stop drooling than I could stop throwing rocks at cars. It is my culture, and you are racist for suggesting I should behave otherwise. Just stop it. Stop being a racist.

See all you racist bastards on Monday.

You know, I’ve put up with this for a long time, and it’s finally gotten to the point where I need to make an issue out of it.

Every kiss does NOT begin with Kay [Jewelers].

I mean seriously, how much of this are we expected to put up with? There are more lies flying out of that particular ad campaign than Mike Hatch in apologize mode.

This Sunday, I will have been married to Bridgette for exactly one year. Throughout the last 12 months, we must have kissed at least 30 times. Of those, perhaps 10 began with Kay.

That’s one out of every three kisses. Far short of the promises strewn about by Kay Jewelers.

It’s time to ‘fess up and stop the lies, Kay. We see through your web of deception and misinformation. Americans deserve better.

And while you’re at it, will you get rid of that preposterous commercial where Santa is buying jewelry at your store for Mrs. Claus? Seeing that ad makes me wish I owned a gun.