Several years ago I had a landline telephone number that was nearly identical to that of the Dodge dealership across the street. I think they were the same except for the last number.

By the way kids, people used to have telephones that were connected to a jack in the wall. You can Google it if you want, but I’m going to include a chapter on this topic in the book I’m writing: Electronics for Dummies - How to get your TV to work without plugging in that cable thingy (and more do-it-yourself tips).

Anyway, I was constantly receiving wrong number calls. One Saturday I received a call and decided enough was enough.

“Is this the Dodge dealership?” asked the man when I answered the phone.

“Yeah, how can I help you?” I replied.

“Can you transfer me to the service department?”

“No problem.”

I took a few sips from my pork chop in a can, altered my voice, and said, “Service department, can I help you?”

“This is Bart Bishop, and I’m calling to see if my car is ready.”

“Hold on,” I told him.

I held the phone in the air, scratched my nuts, and after 30 seconds or so, replied, “Nope.”

“But you told me it would be ready today,” he explained.

“And now I’m telling you it’s not.”

“This is total bullsh*t! We’re supposed to leave on vacation tomorrow. Let me talk to the manager.”

“You’re talking to him, big guy. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about your vacation because we’re ass-deep in alligators here. But we do have a rental car desk in the lobby if you’re interested.”

“I’m coming up there right now and you better have the keys to my car.”

“No problem, meat smack. Make sure you ask for the service manager.”

I thought about walking over there to see what happened. But I was watching college football, and rooting for a back door cover on a 3-team parlay.

I’m beginning to think, Baby you don’t know.

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.

My coffee cartel was exposed this morning. You see, I’ve been using the hotel down the street as my own personal Starbucks for years. A few times a week I would enter the property through a guest entrance, take the elevator to the lobby, and grab a complimentary cup of coffee and a USA Today.

And three times a week I will require a cannoli.

But this morning the manager noticed a golf shirt I was wearing from a course in Las Vegas, and started a conversation about how he once played there. Unless I somehow convince him that I’m Howard Hughes, I’m going to keep it on the DL for a while.

I devised a similar plan to get a free continental breakfast last Sunday. I set out on foot and stopped at the same hotel since I was familiar with the surroundings. They offered a pretty nice spread, but charged for the buffet. I walked a half-mile or so to the next one - same story. I tried yet another, but the only food they offered came in a vending machine.

I had walked over two miles in search of a free meal, without success, and finally decided to get breakfast the old-fashioned way - I went to McDonalds. But I had forgotten that I don’t carry my wallet during these excursions. If I’m ever asked to identify myself by the po po, I will be known only as “Crowe Dog.”

When I got home, I jumped into the car, drove to the store, and bought a 12-pack. My breakfast ended up being a few potato chips and an InBev Light.

- Janers shot this video of a guy sitting next to her in a coffee shop in NYC.

I’m a loser, what a joker. I’m playing my jokes upon you.

The day was July 3, 1990, and I had an opportunity to alter my destiny. Five weeks earlier, I had won a preliminary stand-up comedy contest and the final competition was being held the night before Independence Day.

I had never done any stand-up before, but some friends convinced me to give it a try. I wrote down five minutes of comedy and advanced to the finals on my first attempt. Keep in mind that several weeks had passed between the prelim and the finals, and I had made no attempt to memorize the jokes I had written.

I left work early on the day of the show and headed to the race track. I thought drinking a few cold ones while playing the ponies would calm my nerves. My girlfriend drove to the comedy club that night because I was already over the legal limit. The contestants drew numbers, and I was 6 of eight - plenty of time to down several bourbons.

When I took the stage, the lights hit me, the crowd stared, and I realized I was too drunk to speak. I somehow managed to slur a few jokes, but the emcee began giving signs that my time was up. I let a few expletives fly, and the microphone was shut off. I did the walk of shame through the crowd, stumbled outside to the parking lot, and passed out on the hood of my girlfriend’s car.

I woke up the next morning at the foot of her waterbed, curled up in a fetal position. My underwear was soaked, as was the bed - which I thought had sprung a leak. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was the one that had sprung a leak.

“Did I win?” I asked.

“Are you fu**king kidding me? she replied. Classy gal…

“I’ll take that as a no. By the way, your waterbed is leaking.”

Not only had I lost a chance to perform at a Chicago comedy club - which was the first place prize - I had wet the bed for the first time as an adult.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

This Day in Benny History

1971: Jim Morrison dies

1990: Kicked off stage during a stand-up comedy contest. Wet the bed for the first time since completing potty training

2001: Lost job; golf at Annbriar

2003: Oceans of Fun with Lil’ Bro and family

2005: Cards game; Jake’s Leg at Fair St. Louis

2006: Vacation day; pool; saw Gina Party’s boobs for the first time

2007: Pool

- The Riverfront Times selected the SOB as the Local Blog O’ the Week in their July 3-9 issue. You’ll have to scroll down to find the plug.

Love me tonight for I may never see you again.

Daddy-O putting together a 9-team parlay

Today’s picture is Mr. O.’s dad wearing his SOB T-shirt into a sports book in Las Vegas. Sweet.

I haven’t made a post this week because I’ve been in jury duty. I was supposed to appear last January, but had a prior commitment. And by commitment, I mean I don’t like cold weather. The instructions on the summons stated that I was allowed one postponement, and had to choose another week within six months to be available. I thought by choosing a holiday week, my chances of being selected would be reduced.

Wrong.

My name was called along with 35 others, and we were led into a courtroom. The judge introduced the defendant who was accused of robbery, armed criminal action, rape and sodomy - six counts in all.

Both attorneys asked a number of questions to the prospective jurors. Some of these people were obviously too stupid to serve on a jury. If I was one of the attorneys, and heard some of the answers given, I would have shown them the door.

When we broke for lunch, the judge instructed us to be back in the courtroom by 1:30, and the jury panel would be selected. They called 12 names, and mine wasn’t one of them. Now, I’ll admit that I’m not a law scholar, but I’ve seen 12 Angry Men, so I thought I was safe.

Wrong.

The bailiff called my name as the alternate - unlucky no. 13.

The people not chosen were told their services were no longer needed for the week, and they were free to leave. As I watched their smiling asses walk out of the courtroom, I shot a glance at a couple of the dumber ones.

I saw and heard things during the trial that were unbelievable. The alleged victim and defendant both took the stand. And I was thinking to myself - neither one of these people needs to be walking the streets.

During the defendant’s testimony, his attorney had to interrupt and ask him explain to the jury what “snappin’ on” means. Apparently, it means the same things as nagging. Who knew?

One of the defendant’s buddies shot me a Shug Knight look during the trial. So, I shot a look back thinking, “I’m the alternate, douche bag.”

After hearing closing arguments, the judge instructed the jury to elect a foreperson and begin deliberations. He told me that my services were no longer needed, and I could go.

I read today that the defendant was found guilty on 2 of the six charges. The jury must have reached their decision while I was sipping on a cold one at the pool.

The lawyers clean up all details, since daddy had to lie.

I almost got my ass kicked at the pool on Sunday by that guy. You’ve all seen this guy before. The guy that goes out on the weekend looking for a fight.

This Billy Idol looking mo-fo brought a boom box to the pool and proceeded to turn on the Cardinals game loud enough to drown out the sound of the Melrose Place speakers. I wouldn’t have minded listening to the game, but took issue with some douche walking around like he was Hugh Hefner at the Playboy Mansion. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“Listening to the Cardinals game. You got a problem with that?” he replied.

“Actually I do. I’m a Royals fan.”

“Too f-cking bad. What are they? - 20 games under .500?”

“I don’t think their record is the issue. The issue is you treating the pool like you own it.”

There were a couple of other words exchanged. And then he approached me, stuck his finger in my face and said, “You’re a prick! And if you say another word, I’m going to knock those sunglasses off your f-cking face, old man!”

Since there was no one around that had my back, I resisted the urge to tell him how much I enjoyed his White Wedding video.

I ended up turning the game on, and he apologized after the Cards lost in 13 innings. By the way, the Royals won.

In the midnight hour she cried, “More more more!”