Yesterday I had a guy come up to me and ask, “are you ready for 2012?”

Looking around to make sure someone was witnessing this insanity, I quickly said, “Ummm…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I’ve saved-up a few bucks so I can afford to see the flick.”

“No…the REAL 2012. We’re all gonna die. You know that you will die in 2012, right? We all will. You, your family, your neighbors, all the countries…literally millions will die. Humankind will be nothing but documents and badly done museum exhibitions.”

Then it clicked…you know, I COULD actually take a dirt nap in 2012. Maybe the Mayans had a little something something going on with their magical mystery calendar.

Twenty minutes later my man finished shoving my brain into the depths of depression and allowed me to frantically sit down, digest all that was said, and conclude: “I need a fucking 2012 Bucket List!!!”

So…without further adieu:

Yo…It’s My 2012 Bucket List!

1) I’ve got to spend at least one day wearing adult diapers. I mean come on…those things were engineered by wizards from another world. Un-cloth-like thingies that wrap themselves around your entire torso allowing you to wiz all day long without having to stand, lift lids, or aim for urinal cakes. AND they’re disposable!!

2) Huge fan of the Kinks. I won’t lie. I’d like Jager, a keg, and a karaoke machine rigged to place me on stage in front of 20,000 rowdy friends all singing “Lola” at the top of their lungs.

3) Is there really a place on this planet where you’re asked if you’d “like a happy ending?” I’d love to lie on a massage table just once and be asked “you want happy ending?”

4) Take Sarah Palin on the Maury Show and do a paternity test to reveal who the real “baby daddy” is for Trig. We all know how that’s going to turn out…

5) Drink a beer with Bobcat Goldthwait. But only if he uses his old-school “Police Academy” voice the whole time.

6) Start making love to a Porn Star, then get all Gordon Ramsay on her ass and scream, “it’s like crap, served up with crap, with a side of crap. SHUT IT DOWN!!!”

7) Walk through Grand Central Station singing “come on ride the train…hey ride it! Whoo woo” until I get at least a 100-person train going.

8) Find Erno Rubik (inventor of the Rubik’s Cube) and beat his ass to death with his puzzle.

9) Hear Super Nanny tell me to “get on my naughty step.”

And the final, most amazing feat I’d like to pull off before all human life as we know it rots into this sweet sweet rock in space in 2012…..

10) To go on a shopping spree in Victoria’s Secret with Jennifer Aniston then have her do yoga in front of me while wearing that Cheerleader outfit she wore in that one episode on Friends.

The-to-the-End

It’s true…I’m anything but a man’s man.

Actually let’s clarify that a bit. I’m not metrosexual by any stretch. In fact, I’ve had the same wardrobe for probably two decades now and when I smell Axe body spray it makes me want to throw bricks at the dude’s head.

No, I just mean that I can’t do a single handy-man thing to save my life.

I could sit and talk soccer, biking, running, and beer with the best of them. But anything beyond that…I’m struggling.

Plumbing

A few years ago I rip my shirt off one Saturday morning, beat the hell out of my chest, and claim “today I will change out the garbage disposal.”

I grab a couple wrenches, place myself in precarious positions, and smile occasionally at the wife who’s standing there just shaking her head. Ten minutes later, I’m holding two pipes together as best I can to keep water from flooding our entire house while my wife frantically calls a plumber who says, “you know it’s a Saturday and I’m gonna charge you triple over time to come out there?”

For one damn hour I held those pipes together before paying some dude $150 to turn a shut-off valve that was less than 30 yards from where I laid. We then paid him another $300 to fix what I clearly fucked up.

Cars

The worst is when I take my car in to be worked on. Inevitably I’m asked, “what make, model, and year is your car?”

I’m always “…uhh…it’s a….ummm…”

Then I immediately act like I’m getting a phone call on my cell phone and I’m all, “oh..hold on, I’ve got a call” which I fake while I walk outside and fumble through the glove box to find anything that will tell me what in the hell I’m driving.

Tools

When my wife moved in with me back in 1997 (holy shit I’m old) she brought with her a phenomenal collection of really “cute” tools. They are all sized to fit perfectly in your tiny purse so that no one could ever know you were wielding a Phillips head or flat nosed. (I had to Google those to know what I was talking about.)

I’ve bought some tools over the years, but the cutesy, very very tiny screw drivers still dominate the tool collection. And yes, there’s been many a time when friends have come to my rescue to help with a job and said, “throw me a Phillips head” and I embarrassingly drop my head in shame as I hand them this tiny, itsy bitsy tool that could only help if your model trains broke down in your basement.

So in short…if you need serious work done on your house, car….or well shit, anything…don’t call me.

But if you want someone to stand idly by drinking beer, making you laugh, and referring to shitting as “going boom boom” – well then I’m your guy!!

Oh, and I can cut the living hell out of some grass.



I may have mentioned a time or two that I kinda have a gap between my two front teeth. If you haven’t heard me say that before well…I’ve got a gap between my two front teeth.

Between that, my Dumbo ears, and my oversized head I’ve given quite a number of people plenty of teasing material over the decades I’ve stomped around on this crazy planet. But it’s all good. I’ve embraced my “uniqueness” – which is what my wife calls my distorted attributes.

So, it’s in that same vein that I gathered the family last night and sent them on a quick hunt to find two things each they’d like to see me shove in-between my two front teeth.

You want to see the results don’t you? Well here it goes:

The Wife Chose:

8 business-sized envelopes

My Blackberry charger cord while still attached to my phone

The Daughter Chose:

Barbie’s hand. And the whole time I did this one Ken was in the corner laughing like a school girl. Sick bastard.

8 Silly Bandz...stupid Silly Bandz.

The Boy Chose:

Yes…that’s a nickel. The fattest of the pocket change being circulated in this great country.

A Lego ladder with SpongeBob and Patrick attached. I guess they’re ornamental?

So that’s it people. Now you’ve seen the gap in full display. I hope you’re happy cause my damn teeth hurt like hell now!

A few days ago the one and only Sarah Palin decided to patriotically step outside the English language and start creating her own words. She flat out “refudiated” the hell out of a proposed Ground Zero 13-story, $100 million Mosque to be constructed.

Ok…so Ground Zero sentiments can definitely knock us off our game enough to allow us to make up stupid words. So let’s all apologize, laugh about it and move on.

No…Not Ms. Palin. No…she adjusts her balls and goes another step further and covers-up her made-up word by comparing herself to…..Shakespeare!!

The master of the English language and storytelling. Yes…the man himself. Mr. Shakespeare is who Palin compares herself to.

But it’s OK. Fortunately I have an open mind and decided you know what? If “refudiated” is possibly Shakespearian, then damn it…I’m going to start using it.

So….here’s what’s going to happen. I’ve poured a nice full stout and will now use “refudiated” in a number of sentences, and then I will ask you Dear Reader, to please use “refudiated” in your own sentence in the comments of this blog post.

Refudiated:

Me: “Hey uh…I’m gonna go put the kids to bed, why don’t you ‘refudiate’ yourself in the basement and I’ll be there shortly?”

Grayson: “But dad, I just ‘refudiated’ Macy, I had no clue it would do that to her!!!!”

Macy: “Aaaawwww…I don’t wanna ‘refudiate’ my room dad!!! Geeze!!!”

Wifey: “Did you forget to ‘refudiate’ the toilet again Grayson?”

Me at Work: “Hey, I’m going to need you to take this and ‘refudiate’ it immediately!”

Me Driving: “Nice!!! Real freakin’ nice!!! Go ‘refudiate’ yourself why don’t ya!”

The Wife & I Having Relations: “Please tell me you did NOT just ‘refudiate’ that quickly!!”

It is pretty damn universal! So hey, why don’t you try now! Leave a comment using the word “refudiate” and lets see what you’ve got!



True confessions…when I get nervous, my butt sweats.

There, I’ve said it and it’s out there for the world to know.

Headed in to a job interview…I can feel my ass sweat. The first date I had with the wife when we were 16…moist ass. Minutes away from giving a presentation to board members…you guessed it…wet butt.

It’s not a nasty swamp-ass kind of sweat. It’s like your armpits sweating, but just on the cheeks of my ass and without all the hair and stench. Actually…it’s nothing like armpit sweat.

The worst thing about it is if I’m sitting down whilst getting nervous, a lovely couple of wet spots appear on the back of my pants. So when I stand up, I get even more nervous and self-conscious about the fact I now look like my ass peed itself.

So I end up trying to walk in angles that won’t allow people to see my drippy butt marks.

When I was in college I’d wear basketball shorts under my regular shorts because it was normal after class to pass by friends on their way to play ultimate Frisbee, flag football, basketball, and I wanted to be ready to hop in the car and go.

It was during that time I realized they provided a Maxi-Pad-like protection against the ass moisture. I was invincible!!

I could plan to streak the next football game and kick-back, enjoying my nervousness without having to worry about my friends having to carry my damp underwear back to the police station with them to pick me up.

But I couldn’t go on living life wearing two pairs of pants forever.

So now I worry about passing this godforsaken trait on to my kid. Will he someday find himself sitting next to a really pretty girl and suddenly realize an uncomfortable dampness?

The poor guy already has my big ears, gapped front teeth, uncontrollable thick hair, Tourettes. I just hope to hell he was spared the ass-sweats.

And just to let you know how hard it was for me to reveal this little fact, I’m going to have to go change my shorts now. And no…not for the good reason.

So there…now I’ve revealed what my body does when I get nervous…now it’s your chance. Man-up and tell me what yours does!! Sweaty armpits, back sweat, habitually glance at pictures of Gary Busey? Whatever you do, let’s hear it!!