The French term “Mardis Gras” translated into English is “Fat Tuesday”. I don’t care much for the French, and I certainly don’t like being fat. That leads me to the one thing I’m giving up for Lent – carbs.
As a Catholic, I’m supposed to give up meat on Ash Wednesday and Fridays. I’ve spoken to God about this, and he said it’s okay for me to eat meat on these days provided my intention is to prevent the development of man boobs.
I actually tried starting a low carb diet last week when I was at lunch with Issac.
“You better get those french fries away from me. I’m trying to lose weight,” I told him.
“French fries are the least of your worries,” he responded.
I plan on weighing myself in the morning, but I’m going to toss down a few cold beers tonight.
Oh, and to whoever left that piece of cheesecake in the Melrose Place refrigerator – “Thanks.”
Well you know just what you do to me. The way you move soft and slippery.
This world lost a special person yesterday. Our friend, Jo B, lost her nearly 2-year battle with cancer in the early hours of Sunday morning.
Jo was one of those rare people you meet in life that never had a bad thing to say about anyone. And no one ever had a bad thing to say about her.
I can count on one hand the number of people I can say that about. And I’m certainly not one of them. I’m lucky if I can make it through a day without saying something bad about someone – although, it usually involves the idiot driving in front of me.
We were fortunate enough to celebrate Jo’s life a little over a week ago while she was still with us. Hundreds of people gathered for her 23rd Friday After Thanksgiving Party. It took us until February to finally get together, but I’ll never forget her dancing to Jim Croce’s Bad, Bad Leroy Brown with all of her friends and family surrounding her.
Jo will be remembered for her passion for life, love for her daughter and the many friendships she forged and maintained over the years. If there is a good thing to come out her illness, it would be the many relationships that have been rekindled. I think more people attended her party than our last class reunion.
I’ll always remember the time she called laughing last summer after reading the SOB and said, “You’re living quite the life down there, Benny.”
“Yeah, I know,” I replied.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but she was the one who was living quite the life.
Thank you for being my friend, Jo.
But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them.
I got a new a new cell phone tonight. You know, one of those PDA/smartphones that will allow me to receive emails and make posts to the SOB from almost anywhere.
The only bad thing is my new plan requires me to change my telephone number. But instead of receiving a message that states my number is no longer in service, I’m going to give callers a few choices:
Hi, this is Benny, and the number you called is no longer in service. Please choose from one of the following options:
Press #1 if you are a friend of mine.
Press #2 if you received my resume, and would like to speak with me about a job.
Press #3 if I used to date you.
Press #4 if I owe you money.
Recorded message for #1:
I’m sorry, but if you were a friend, you would have been included in one of the many emails and text messages I sent. And since I didn’t, take this opportunity to accept the fact that I never really liked you, and think you are a jackass.
Recorded message for #2:
If you are looking for either a radio personality, comedy writer or any position within the Kansas City Chiefs organization, please send an email to the address on my resume. Otherwise, please hang up as I have already found gainful employment as a validation engineer.
Recorded message for #3: I’m sure we had a great time when we were together. But after years of looking, I think I have found my soul mate. However, if you are the girl I banged on the hood of the car in the alley outside of the Sigma Chi house in the fall of ’84, please call Ameristar Casino and ask for Ally. Give her the secret code of ‘salad tosser’, and she will provide information on how to contact me.
Recorded message for #4: We are sorry to inform you that Benny is no longer with us. Sadly, he took his own life after narrowly missing the final leg of a Pick 6 at Aqueduct when the 2-1 chalk hung in the stretch. We politely ask you to keep him in your thoughts, and please scratch him from your A/R report. Have a blessed day.
Lots of new friends with the same old problems. Open your eyes, you might see. If our lives were that simple, we’d live in the past. If the phone doesn’t ring, it’s me.
Surprisingly, I got a bit of good news today from my doctor – no more crutches. She told me to wear the AirCast boot for another three weeks, but that beats any alternative.
“Just don’t do anything stupid like go the gym and run on it,” she told me.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied.
I was a little worried after she called on Monday to tell me the radiologist at Urgent Care diagnosed me with a broken fibula in addition to a fractured ankle. Idiot. But after she reviewed the X-rays Doug Wetback brought her, it’s all good.
Doug wanted to meet her after seeing her picture in a brochure I brought home. Actually, he begged me to break his ankle.
Now, I admit that she’s an attractive woman. I mean, if Playboy ever did a spread on female doctors, she would certainly be considered for the centerfold.
Drink, I said spread.
After my girlfriend saw her picture, she said, “I can see why you don’t want your foot to get better” (It sounds funnier if you say it in a sarcastic chick voice).
Unfortunately for Doug, she wasn’t in the office when he dropped off the X-rays. But the lady at the front desk asked for my legal name, date of birth and contact telephone number. He knew all three by memory. WTF?
President Obama has decided to bring the U.S. Census Bureau under White House jurisdiction. I didn’t like the sound of that, so I did some research on the topic. The estimated cost for the next census is $10 Billion. But I can do it for a cool mill. Here’s how:
Number of SSNs minus number of deaths plus number of births
Problem solved… And I’m rich, bitch.
I’m ready and hyped plus I’m amped. Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps.
Friday night I went to Kansas City for Jo’s Friday After Thanksgiving Party. I came back on Saturday night to spend Valentine’s Day with my girlfriend. Sunday I watched the Daytona 500 at BWW. And on Monday, which was supposed to be my day off, I made some extra cabbage building a website.
Thankfully, I had to work today, so I was able to catch up on a little sleep.
I watched a couple of basketball games at a bar on Saturday while waiting for my ride home. I didn’t realize this, but to a woman, 2:00 means sometime around 3:30.
That got me to thinking about the time I got reprimanded by my girlfriend for not knowing that washing the sheets also means washing the pillow cases.
You know what gets me? – How women set their clocks 20-minutes fast, and then hit the snooze button for twenty minutes before they get up.
I just looked at my X-rays, and when my doctor gets the results from the radiologist, I’m going to be so fucked. In fact, I’m going to be so fucked that Tom d G is going to have to push me around in a wheelchair.
That’s it – I’m going to keep weight off of my foot – starting now.
I realize that I’m not going to be able to do this alone. That’s why I’m grateful to have the help of my good buddy, Jimmy Beam. He packs a lot of love inside that pint size bottle of his. And he travels real nice inside the front pocket of my backpack.
A good thing about being on crutches is how nice complete strangers treat me. They open doors, get out of the way when I walk by, and driving that little scooter at the grocery store is so sweet. I prefer the ones with a tall orange flag and horn because you show people who’s in charge real fast.
I almost got into a fight with a group of thugs tonight, though. They were walking out of the gas station in front of me, and the last one just let the door slam.
“Thanks for the help, Boyz II Men,” I said.
“What the fuck you say, mutha fucka?” one of them responded.
At this moment, I was prepared for either (a) an ass-whooping, or (b) a self-defense move using my crutches as a weapon of mass destruction.
Fortunately (for them), a big Harley-looking dude walked up to intervene. He saw what went down, and when he gave them a look, they walked away.
But I know they went home feeling lucky I hadn’t turned their asses into a boy band piñata.