I’m currently sitting at home in front of the TV and wearing pants with an elastic waistband.

Yeah, it’s that kind of night.

What kind of night, you might ask? Well let me proceed to describe to you in disturbing detail the kind of night it has been.

It’s been the kind of night where I can still taste the beef and wild rice soup on my whiskers a full 4 hours after dinner and I couldn’t care less. The kind of night where my back feels as if its been used as a pummel horse by a sprightly Romanian gymnast. The sort of evening where I could care less about personal appearance, hygiene, or general happiness because I’ve been slaving away getting stuff done for work ever since I got home from work. The kind of night when beached otters answer my haggard shouts of yearning. It’s been the sort of night where actual human touch would be met by my startled revulsion, as if I were a wizened troll unfamiliar with companionship. The kind of night where my feet are ripe with the stench of radish-laden diarrhea. The kind of night where my primeval instincts to make fire and seek shelter lay muted beneath my insatiable desire to eat fruit cocktail right out of the damned can. It’s been the kind of night where a feral raccoon could lay its poisoned eggs in my abdomen and I would wait until a commercial break to alert the paramedics.

Yes, I’m drinking deep from the cup of marriage, my friends.

So anyway, I finally took a knife to my car today.

Long story short, somehow the buckle on the shoulder strap of my seat belt made its way into the tiny slot-hole by the drivers-side door of my car. No idea how it got there, but it meant that I had to make the drive to and from work without a seat belt on. This was really no matter to me, since I rarely bother to use seat belts, mirrors, or brakes when driving. They cramp my style (e.g., insane cartoon villain).

Also, I’m afraid that if I wear a seatbelt people might think I’m gay.

At any rate, when I got home I knew I had to do something about this situation. Again, not because I need a functioning seat belt, but because I didn’t want to hurt the retail value of my 1996 Chevy Lumina with 220,000 miles on it. So I went upstairs and got my Leatherman. With its trusty adaptable blade I cut open the seat belt slot by a couple inches. I then switched the tool to pliers mode and ripped the plastic away, creating a gaping plastic chasm that the seat belt now empties into. In so doing, I both retrieved the buckle and added to the bold ruggedness of my car’s interior. This story demonstrates that I am a strong, decisive man.

Then I used the blade to scratch up some other dude’s car real bad.

Oh Christmas tree, oh christmas tree - how lovely are your branches!

I’m serious, they look amazing. Have you been working out? No? Just watching what you eat? Yeah, I can definitely tell.

No, I didn’t mean to infer that you used to be fat, I just meant it as a compliment. You look really good.

Yes, you looked fine before, but just in a jolly-Christmas-tree way. Now you look fit and lean, both are nice.

Of course you don’t look inappropriately lean! What kind of stupid comment is that? People will obviously know that you’re still a Christmas tree because you’ve got all the ornaments on.

Look, I don’t know why I looked at that elm tree the other day! I told you I was sorry, but I still maintain that I wasn’t staring at it. What, a guy can’t admire a nice elm tree every now and again?!

Okay, I don’t want to argue about this - I just wanted to tell you that you look nice. So what if I used to have a elm tree in the backyard?! I cut it down a long time ago! I burned it as firewood for crying out loud, and you keep bringing it up!

Why would you even say that? Sure I’ve put on a couple pounds over the years, but that was totally uncalled for! Leave my mother out of this!

I’ve got to get out of here. No, I’m not going to the Christmas tree lot, I’m going to Embers! Get off my back already!

This morning I’m stuck typing up the program for the wedding. I’m annoyed because these tend to be pretty boring and devoid of personality, and it feels unavoidable that ours will be, as well. Here’s my first draft:

Processional
Giving of the Bride
Welcome
The Shearing of Thomas
Exchange of Vows
Ceremonial Cleansing of the Audience
Unity Candle
NBA Mascot Dunk Contest
Pronouncement
Free Chili
Recessional

When reading other people’s wedding programs, I like to read the section where they write messages to the people in their wedding party thanking them and pledging their eternal fidelity and friendship. Those things are so stupid. Here’s my section.

Brent Berg - I now regret choosing you as my best man, but it’s probably too late to do anything about that. Just try not to ruin anything else. Unbelievable…

Patrick Welle - I guess I have to have you in the wedding. Mom got mad.

Adam Omelianchuk - You’re less annoying than you used to be.

Brian Welle - ditto Patrick, only moreso.

Todd Luker - Yeah, have fun ushering in my relatives…

Matt Terry - Congratulations, you’re my 6th best friend.

Any other suggestions?

Man Kills Buck With Bare Hands in Bedroom

BENTONVILLE, Ark. (Nov. 1) - It looked like a crime scene, but no charges will be filed after Wayne Goldsberry killed a buck with his bare hands in his daughter’s bedroom.

The engagement lasted an exhausting 40 minutes, but Goldsberry finally subdued the five-point whitetail deer that crashed through a bedroom window at his daughter’s home Friday. When it was over, blood splattered the walls and the deer lay on the bedroom floor, its neck broken.

Goldsberry was at his daughter’s home when he heard glass breaking. He went back to check on the noise and found the deer.

“I was standing about like this peeking around the corner when the deer came out of the bedroom,” said Goldsberry, demonstrating while peering around his kitchen wall. The deer ran down the hall and into the master bedroom - “jumping back and forth across the bed.”

Goldsberry entered the bedroom to confront the deer and, after a brief struggle, emerged to tell his wife to call police. After returning to the bedroom, the fight continued. Goldsberry finally was able to grip the animal and twist its neck, killing it.

“He was trying to get up a corner wall and I just came in behind him and grabbed him by the horns and just started pushing down,” said Goldsberry.

Goldsberry, sore from the struggle, dragged the dead animal out of the house. He said he intended to have the deer processed for its meat.

This man needs to be the next president of the United States.

During this time of cultural malaise and partisan bickering, America needs a president who will come in, quickly assess the situation, and then viciously snap the neck of all who oppose him. Does anybody doubt that Wayne Goldsberry could kill Osama Bin Laden with his bare hands before processing him for his tough, sinewy meat?

If Goldsberry is elected, I would advise that he immediately kill another stag in front of the White House press corps in the Rose Garden, allowing the hot buck blood to drip down his chin for the American public to see and for the world to fear. He should then cry out in a haggard shout, “AMERICA! JOIN ME IN A FEAST OF BUCK BLOOD!”, before collapsing over the podium.

God, I’m getting fired up for this already!

I went bowling on Saturday night, and it was good.

I did not bowl as myself, however. I am but a mere mortal in the divine tragedy of bowling. When I bowl, I assume the identity of a hearty, confident beast of a man. I become Brogan.

Brogan is a man both large in stature and in volume. As Brogan, the level of my voice raises 15 decibels and I punctuate my sentances by pointing my finger aggressively at whomever I choose. Brogan’s bowling strategy is all about velocity. He likes to whip the ball as hard as he can with little regard for aim or favorable outcome. Brogan just goes in with guns firing and lets the pins fall where they may. In the case of Saturday night, the pins mostly just stayed standing as the ball rocketed down the gutter.

Brogan also don’t like to be told what to do. If you try taking Brogan on, you’re liable to end up face down in the Caspian Sea. Brogan will seriously hurt you. It’s bad.

As my bowling-mates found out, Brogan also likes to scream a lot as he’s releasing the ball. It’s because he’s so strong and virile, the power just has to come out somehow, Brogan-style.

Later on, Bridgette told me I can’t be Brogan anymore.