I received a letter yesterday from a previous, albeit brief, employer. They were writing to let me know that their computer equipment containing employee payroll records had been stolen, and I should contact the three major credit bureau agencies to issue a fraud alert.

The news didn’t worry me much because the most someone is going to get using my credit score is a payday loan.

But I sent a response to make three key points.

1. Your letter is dated July 15, 2008, but the ‘recent security incident’ occurred on April 27, 2008. That’s almost 3 months. Thanks for the heads-up, douche bags.
2. I should contact the major credit bureaus? I look forward to spending an entire day being passed around the globe talking with reps that barely speak English. I’m sure they’ll have no problem understanding my situation. I’ll keep track of my time, and bill you accordingly.
3. You state that the computer containing employee payroll records was ‘double password protected’. WTF does that mean anyway? How about double password protecting the doors, dumb asses.

 - St. Louis will host a World Naked Bike Ride this Saturday night at Tower Grove Park. I’m thinking lawn chair, camera and a cooler…

- Some idiot bets with weed at a casino. Was he playing Caribbean Bud? How much was in the pot? This guy has created too many jokes to count. I’m just being blunt.

- If you’ve already mastered Guitar Hero, try Vagina Hero. NSFW

- Clucking combines climbing, and well, you know. NSFW

Life’s the same except for my shoes.

I came home tonight to find the website in chaos. The only page that displayed properly was the main page, and the others didn’t exist. They were just gone. This included Photos, Archives, etc…

I called the web hosting company in a panic and they told me the .htaccess files had been overwritten.

“Oh, I was wondering if that was the problem,” I responded, trying not to sound stupid.

What I was thinking was, “.htaccess files? What am I - Bill Gates?”

Thankfully, they fixed the problem in a few minutes by replacing the script. That’s what I would have done.

Abby got recognized at a bar on Friday night. I got nervous when she asked if I knew a tall, bald guy named Josh. Because I do, and didn’t really want to hear the rest.

Here’s her version of the story…

“Are you Abby from the Summer of Benny?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Do you want to make out?”

She turned him down, but can you blame the guy for trying? One thing’s for certain - he sure doesn’t beat around the bush. Drink, I said bush.

I learned something this weekend. People can be quite judgmental when you bring a sofa cushion to the pool, so it can dry out in the hot sun.

It’s such a wavy midnight. And you slip into insane.

Gina Potty 

Melrose Place is losing a couple of cast members.

My neighbor, Tory K., moved out last weekend and became a first-time home owner. I’m okay with his departure because we’ll see each other during football season, and he’s a stupid Broncos fan. I certainly won’t miss the disturbing sounds of porn from above.

But I’m concerned about his replacement being an Indian (Customer Support, not Casino.) If that happens, I’m going to fire up the ol’ smoker and the stench of curry will quickly be replaced with the savory scent of baby back ribs.

The shocking news came on Tuesday when Gina Party told me that she was moving. This was like a kick in the nuts because GP is one of my favorite people on the planet. While I’m happy for her being a new home owner, I’m concerned about the distance between us. Sure it’s only 10 miles or so, but that’s a $20 cab ride ($25 if you tip my new neighbor.)

But I promise you this - Gina Party will always be a part of the SOB. Negotiations are already underway for a webcam because there is no way I’m going months without seeing her boobies. Hell, as long as the thing isn’t dusty, she probably won’t even notice it’s there.

Get ready for Titty Tuesdays.

This Day in Benny History

1983: Heard infamous ‘Pine Tar’ call on radio

1995: 3 mile walk

1997: Flew to Las Vegas with Lisa Doggie Style

1998: Party at the Park (Fairmount Park)

2002: Drove Red to Pierre Marquette in AM

2003: 3 mile run

2004: Melrose Place Pool Party with Janers, G-Man and Mrs. O

- The butt sniffing dog.

- Referee shows up drunk for a soccer match.

I can’t sleep at night. I keep on dreaming you’re gone.

R.I.P., PAP

I went to my first Parties at the Plaza of the year last week. For those not familiar with St. Louis, PAP is held every 3rd Thursday of the month between April and September. It’s always been a great place to have a few pops outdoors and listen to live music.

This month’s entertainment was a hip-hop group, and I still can’t name a single song they played. And by played, I mean screamed into a microphone over music - mostly spun by a DJ.

I asked one of the chamber of commerce ladies if they ever listen to the acts before they book them. Because if they don’t - jot me down for next April. Crowe Dog can sing show tunes, and I’ll occasionally jump on stage and yell, “How you doing out there St. Louis!”

She finally admitted that she hadn’t seen them perform before, but knew they were a hip-hop group. Hip-hop? I’ve been going to PAP for years, and it’s more of a 3 Doors Down crowd than Three 6 Mafia.

Whatever.

Our Silver and Gold Party on Sunday was a good time. I vaguely remember a couple of stripper-looking chicks walking in with bleach blonde hair, big fake boobs and high heels. Someone asked if they lived at Melrose Place. I responded by telling them to mind their own business because chicks that look like that are welcome at the pool anytime.

Have you ever been asked by a neighbor to close your curtains if you’re going to walk around naked?

Me neither.

Check out the Photos page after Dani-girl uploaded a couple of new albums. I’m still waiting for pictures from Abby’s night out last Friday. I heard a few of them feature lipstick imprints on her left cheek - and I’m not talking about her face.

But I knew I was out of luck. The day the music died.

Happy Birthday, Abby.

Abby is 25 today, and Cathy G. turns 50, so we’re having a Silver and Gold Party at the pool.

A few weeks ago when we were discussing the idea for a party, I told the birthday ladies that one of my goals was to sleep with a 25-year old and a 50-year old in the same year.

“Why don’t you wait until July 20th, and you can hit us both the same day,” Abby sarcastically responded.

Done and done.

Here’s a typical conversation with Crowe Dog:

Crowe Dog: Benny, what’s your favorite television show of all-time?

Benny: Seinfeld.

Crowe Dog: Mine would have to be Saved By the Bell.

Benny: Good talk.

You say it’s your birthday. It’s my birthday too – yeah.

Happy Birthday, Tom. 

I received a call around 10:30 on the night of December 18, 2004. In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t answered it because drunk Tom was on the other end.

“Benny Boy, meet me at my place in five minutes,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We’re going to the Bottleneck Blues Bar at Ameristar.”

“Giggety, giggety, giggety. I’ll see you in five.”

His call couldn’t have come at a better time. I was trapped in some whacko chick’s apartment at Melrose Place. She was spinning vinyl records, and trying to convince me to play backgammon. Nut job. I pretended the call was an emergency, and got out of there faster than Jesse Jackson leaving the set of Fox News.

When I got to Tom’s, I met his girlfriend, but there seemed to be some tension in the air. They had spent the evening at his company Christmas Party. She hadn’t had a drop to drink, and agreed to drive our drunk asses across the river.

As we got on the road, Tom turned to her from the passenger side and said, “I just don’t understand why you’re so mad.”

“I’m not having this conversation in front of your friend,” she replied as she gave me a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

Five minutes of silence passed when Tom went at her again. ”Why don’t you just tell me what I did?”

“Fine,” she responded. “If you want to have this conversation now, let’s do it. I don’t appreciate being invited to your company party, and then watch you hit on the bartender.”

“I handed her a 20-dollar bill for a tip.” 

“You wrote your phone number on it!”

Akward.

I bolted from the car once we got to the casino. I turned around to find Tom still arguing his case. He looked like he was going to be there for a while, so I ducked into a bar.

Almost an hour passed, and no sign of Tom. No phone call. Nothing. Suddenly, I heard my name being paged over the loud speaker to meet my party in the poker room. “Tom doesn’t play poker,” I said to myself.

“Where’s your poker room?” I asked an employee.

“Take the elevator to the second floor, and it’s down the hallway on the left.”

I walked off the elevator, turned left, and saw Tom sitting in a wheelchair with two security guards standing behind him. I would later learn that he found the abandoned wheelchair next to a slot machine, and started pushing himself around the casino. He eventually got tired, passed out, and accepted the security guards’ offer of assistance.

They were at the far end of the hallway, but close enough that I could see the smirk on Tom’s face. I decided that I didn’t want any part of whatever he was up to, so I turned around and started walking back to the elevator.

“Sir, don’t you want to help your friend?” one of the guards yelled.

I just gave them a half-hearted wave good-bye, and went downstairs.

I decided to give Tom five minutes to get his act together, and waited in an open area on the main floor between the gaming tables and the elevator. A few minutes later, the doors opened, and here came Tom - still being pushed in the wheelchair by security - and still smirking.

The guards gave me a look like I was the worst person in the world. “Do you think you can take care of your friend from here, or is that asking too much?” one of them inquired.

“Leave him here.”

An argument ensued when Tom tried to convince me to push him to the bar. After I refused, he hurled himself out of the wheelchair and started yelling, “Benny, Benny, help me up!”

I stood there stunned as he began pulling his body towards the chair using only his arms to propel himself across the floor. Now the casino patrons were looking at me like I was the worst person in the world. I left the scene, but saw a few people helping him back into the wheelchair when I turned around.

I walked outside to the valet, and asked him to hail a cab. It took a few minutes, but I noticed the red and white colors of a County Cab on the horizon coming towards me. As it got closer, I heard a couple of loud crashing noises. I knew I shouldn’t look, but couldn’t help myself. Tom had straightened out the right leg of the wheelchair, and was trying to push himself through the revolving doors.

When I got into the cab, he left the chair stuck inside, and jumped into the back seat of the cab next to me.

“The cab ride’s on me tonight” he said.

“Ya think?”

Won’t you fill up the tank, let’s go for a ride.

Google is no longer providing advertisements to the SOB website. Their decision is explained below:

As stated in our program policies, AdSense publishers are not permitted to place Google ads on pages with adult or mature content.

As a result, we have disabled ad serving to the site.

WTF?

SOBs don’t click on their links anyway. What we need are actual sponsors - like Chico’s Bail Bonds in Bad News Bears.

But their email reminded me of a funny story from college.

I had only known my roommate a few hours when he took me to my first fraternity party. He was a sophomore, and was catching a lot of grief from his buddies because it had been a while since he got stinky on his pinky.

I left the party with a voluptuous Gamma Phi whose name escapes me. And by escapes, I mean I probably didn’t know it that night either.

We got Funky Cold Medina behind the bushes outside her sorority house. When the deal was done, I hopped up, and ran back to the dorm because I couldn’t wait to tell my new roomie about it.

He was asleep when I got there, so I strategically placed my fingers in a closed peace sign position underneath his nose and said, “You recognize that smell little fellar?”

“WTF are you doing?” he asked as he raised his head off the pillow.

“Just letting you know that everything’s going to be alright.”

My baby she like to rock. My baby she like to roll.