Homos are fine, you homo!

First off, by saying "homos are fine," I don't mean...

"Homos are fine!!!"

I'm just saying that some people need to stop worrying about the sexual preference of others. Namely, homos. I mean, who gives a shit if two guys like trading spit and/or (*gasp!*) other bodily fluids? I sure as shit don't, and neither should you.

"Oh noes!, Brett sympathizes with homosexuality ... he must be teh ghey!!1!"

Wrong. I just don't see what the big fucking deal is. Grow up, morons.

For starters, it's not like the gay community is asking your dumbass to join in. Have you ever had a member knock on your door and ask you to join their pole-smoking cult? Didn't think so. Much less can be said for certain religious groups out there, and no one seems to have a problem with them.

I swear Jehovah's Witnesses only wake me up on Sunday mornings to see whether or not I'll actually strangle an old lady (or two). Sorry, but when I'm extremely hungover and my head is pounding from a night of drinking and little or no sleep, the last thing I want is some old hag driving the Ice Pick of Stupidity (-15 to Wisdom) into my left temple. GO... AWAY...I don't want to read your Watchtower bullshit or hear about how I'm going to hell if I don't change my ways. Of course you think you're doing me a favor, but YOU'RE NOT. Telling me that there's still time to be saved if I embrace Jesus now has to be the worst sales pitch out there. Everyone knows that Jesus will forgive you for whatever you've done, whenever you ask, so what's the rush? With that being said, I think I'll be repenting on my deathbed. Granted I don't get hit by a bus and die unexpectedly, I think I've got it covered. I will also be praying to Yahweh, Allah, Brahman, Flying Spaghetti Monster, Phil the Magical Centaur, and anyone else up there that may be listening in (read: no one).

If at this point you're thinking, "Here goes Brett on yet another religious tangent...what the hell do Jehovah Witnesses have to do with homosexuality anyway?!"

You're gay.

I'm obviously just trying to demonstrate that homos are a lot less annoying than other social groups out there, yet they still take a lot of heat. Bible-thumpers just happen to be my least favorite.

How the hell are some people so anti-gay that they want to "kill all fags?" What the fuck is wrong with people? Fred Phelps should be sodomized with a rubber fist. Homos just want the same rights and freedoms that heterosexual people have. What's wrong with that?? Let them get married for christ's sake. Or not for christ's sake, who cares. But who the hell are you to say that only male+female relationships are entitled to tax breaks? WAKE UP.

I say let them adopt, too. If your entire argument against that is, "But, the children will be confused!," apparently you've never watched TV or spent more than five minutes on teh intarwebz. Homosexuality is a hell of a lot less confusing than most of the shit kids are going to encounter these days...and probably by the time they've reached the ripe old age of seven. If you think my generation is screwed up, wait 'til these kids are all grown up....they're going to think Yiffers are no big deal.

[simultaneously laughing and shaking off the willies, as I know you're typing "Yiffers" in another window/tab right now...]

Homos aren't going door-to-door, nor are they handing out stupid "Be Saved!" flyers at the bus stop. Hell, they're not even sending out spam mailers with "L0SE TEH VAg, J0IN TEH C0CK R3V0LUs10N!"

And to make a point, just what if some homo asked you to join his party at the Phallus Palace? Would you be offended/outraged? Why? It sounds like a compliment to me. Just firmly say "NO THANKS," if you're not interested. If some gay guy can twist your arm enough to give him a complimentary reach around, you're probably gayer than a roller skating orange merchant anyway. You might as well get hopped up on Skittles and start giving $3 handjobs now.

To reiterate, I'm not asking you to embrace teh ghey, just to merely acknowledge that it's an issue that's not going away anytime soon. Gays exist. Get over it. I'll be the first one to admit that I also internally cringe upon seeing a couple of dudes liplock, but at least I realize it's only because I've been conditioned to do so.

It's like trying to eat that green ketchup. Stay with me here.... Even though you're 100% sure that it's just ordinary ketchup with the addition of green food coloring when you place it on your food, the fact that it's fucking GREEN makes your stomach turn. Likewise, there's nothing intrinsically wrong with seeing two people kiss, but when it just happens to be guy-on-guy action, it's gross.

"AAAHHRGHHH! Don't put GREEN on my french fries!!!"

Does that make sense? If not, just remember that green ketchup sucks.

Anyway, you should probably be glad that gay people exist. Thanks to them there's less competition swirling around in the hetero dating pool, and more fatty-boom-balatties (spellcheck explodes) have converted to lesbianism as a result of its acceptance.

Regardless of whether or not being gay is a conscious decision or a direct result of some genetic predisposition, it's really no here nor there. Same result. I personally think it's a choice, but only because I believe we're all walking bags of dirt too smart for our own good. We're stuck with an animal's sex drive that we're forced to bury thanks to the laws of society, STDs and impending child support fears. Stupid brain! Deep down, I think we all just want to hump everything in sight.

Except for bears, they're scary.

Scubalubachubasnuba

Last January I spent ten days in beautiful Curaçao developing a taste for the life aquatic and scuba diving on a daily basis. Plunging to depths of up to 85 ft. (and destroying my watch in the process), I spent about an hour underwater, twice a day, for seven straight days. Accompanying me were my Stepdad Jack, and two of his buddies from work, Greg and John. All three of them had been scuba diving approximately eleventeen times before, and obviously knew what the hell they were doing. I wasn't so sure I did at first, but apparently I do or right now I'd be fish food somewhere off the coast of Venezuela.

In short, scuba diving is awesome. The only comparative analogy I can come up with is, "birdwatching in outer space." Of course I've never been birdwatching, but the only thing you're really doing while you're scuba diving is looking for stuff. However unlike birdwatching, you're face-to-face with everything you encounter rather than staring through a pair of binoculars at some tree god-knows-how-far-away and asking your spouse (the one next to you also wearing a stupid hat),

Do I see a Whatnow?

Sorry, but birdwatching is dumb.

Anyway, I compare scuba diving to being in outer space because the feeling of knowing that you're a few stories below the ocean surface and being subjected to pressures roughly 3-4 times greater than that of standard atmospheric pressure is pretty cool/eerie. Combine that feeling with sweet visuals and coral structures large enough to park your car on (with color schemes capable of causing epileptic seizures in small children, no less) and an abundance of life so great that you begin to take seeing 500 fish swim across your face for granted, I think it's pretty fucking cool.

To make things even easier on your undersea exploration, you're essentially weightless and exert little energy in getting around. Somehow you still end up exhausted when you're done though... Beats me. There's really no right or wrong way to do anything either. There's only a few rules you need to abide by and you don't have to be a great swimmer to be able to do it. You don't even need to be able to hold your breath for more than a few seconds (although it might help in the case of an emergency). As long as you can keep your composure when/if something goes terribly wrong, say, your equipment fails or if Jaws starts swimming your way, you're fine. Pissing yourself is definitely ok, but racing to the surface to save your ass is probably a bad idea. Having nitrogen bubbles diffuse through your flesh at in insane rate sounds pretty gnarsty to me. It's also pretty interesting and simple to understand, so Wiki "the bends" if you aren't sure what it entails. Okay, I get it. You're lazy. Here.

In any case, I highly recommend enrolling in a scuba course as soon as you can. If the water isn't your thing (Hey, Scott!), buy some lessons for your parents or a friend instead. Not only is scuba diving fun, but it's an awesome excuse to go on vacation somewhere in the tropics next winter. If your parents are into it, they might just bring your freeloading ass along on their next sunshine-infested getaway. Just an idea.

If you're lucky enough, you'll dive with someone that has an underwater camera (you actually only need a case) and you'll have some sweet photos to remember your adventure.

Aforementioned Sweet Photos

In Defense of Staib

I'm sick of everyone saying that Staib has a big head. He doesn't. If anyone has a big head, it's Diksa and/or Permar. I love both those guys, but their hat sizes are at least 7-5/8". Colossal. If you're a girl or a pansy ass and aren't familiar with your hat size, 7"-7¼" is considered average. To figure out your own you can either take a trip to Lids and dirty up their wide assortment of fitted caps, or you're welcome to try mine on. It's the standard 7", but contains eleventeen different types of bacteria and other living things that put the black mold to shame, and it smells like Neil's feet. It has a sweat line that rivals John Wetteland's '96 cap and is a winner on so many different levels that it deserves its own article (and will...). In other words, it's way cooler than Jake's poser Cal hat.

I'll try and forget how cool my hat is for just one second though and return to the topic at hand...er....head. That's right, take a step back and look at your own noggin' before you start poking fun of Staibermon's. I'm guessing that you've put on a few pounds since high school and don't exactly look like you did when you were 18. Sure, your hat size might still be the same and you can proudly say that you're well under the Diksa/Permar Line, but I bet you've still managed to put on a few pounds above the neck anyway.

Pictures don't lie my friend, and I'm not that great with Photoshop. The moral of the story here is that all of our heads are filling out and it's either the curse of old-age, or proof that we drink entirely too much.

Observe...

Then : Now

Adam apparently went through some "other" changes as well.

Screw you, Bader. I'm only two in and you're fuckin' up my theory already.

This superhomo still owns the same shirt. What a frugal dickface!

Crista, the only girl brave enough to be up here, has somehow lost her vibrant red hair.

Evans retains his "brick wall" status.

Frank, I hate you.

Didn't think I had any pictures of you, did you Jacob?

Jason looks the same. Although this range is 23:28, so it's apples and oranges.

Johnny, I almost posted your 4th grade masterpiece.

Moleman discovered poker and tinga over this time period. You can see his elation.

Neil's dream to develop rockstar facial hair finally came true.

Pat is a turd, but he's a happy turd.

Can't sleep because his bed's on fire... Qu'est-ce que c'est?

Sorry your picture is screwed up, Permar. I'm lazy.

R.B. - I like your style, weird guy.

Rob has his hands on someone or something in both of these photos, it's a shame you can't see what they are.

Ryan - Sorry, I'm too drunk to take pictures when we hang out.

On second thought, no I'm not. I've seen you naked one too many times.

SMAC FTW! Hahahahahaha for both.

Staib. Big head? No, it's just a zoom lens!

Okay... so a few of you have escaped the big head theory. And the Brett's Theory Officially Fucking Sucks Award goes to Frank for completely contradicting everything I said above. Frank's face is actually slimmer now than it was in his "Then" picture -- and that was taken over 6 years ago. I'll be writing a letter to my friends over at the Human Genome Project requesting that he be sequenced immediately. He could be an alien . . . or worse . . . a mutant cow.

Anyway, that's it. If you're picture isn't up here yet, it isn't because I do or don't like you, or consider you one of my very bestest friends. It's probably because I don't have a proper headshot of you from a few years back, or possibly even from now. So unless your name is SMAC and you consistently take ridiculous photos that I can't help but post, email me some pictures. On the other hand, if you just want to make fun of someone we know (read: Gia), I have no problem with doing that either. I'll be more than happy to twist, crop, modify or add a giant penis, so send away.

Oh, and if you're still looking to make fun of Staib, why don't you just point out the fact that he has grey hair.

Or just yell "ANITA!!!!!" at the top of your lungs.

Tales from the Call Center

Another masterpiece by Belly.

You've just graduated from a university ranked among the top 25 in the nation! And with honors! So, what are you going to do for the next year?!?!? That's right, you're going to work as a telemarketer signing people up for a weight loss program! Can you believe your luck!?!?!

Note: All text in parentheses are the private thoughts that were running through the head of the author during this conversation. This account is not typical of the authors working conditions, however, that does not mean that this is an embellished story in any way. This is an almost complete word-for-word account.

Phone rings

Me: Thanks for calling ---, my name is John, can I ask your name please?

Caller: Billie-Joe.

Me: (You've got to be kidding me, is she calling from a NASCAR race? In fact, she probably just got back from a lynching. Now come on John, remember the diversity training the company just gave you. Treat everyone the same and you're going to get more sales in the end. Translation: even some of these trailer-trash degenerates have credit cards. Alright, give her the spiel, at the very least you're building up good karma.)

How're you doing today Billie-Joe? Good? That's great! Let me give you some information on the --- weight loss program. By the way, how much weight would you like to lose? 100 pounds (Jesus, just kill yourself now, Cardio-vascular Disease is a busy person in this country, save him the trouble)? That is no problem at all on our program (spiel ensues, takes about 2-3 minutes)

So Billie-Joe, do you want to get started with the --- program?

Billie-Joe: Uh, yeah.

Me: (Of course you do you disgusting pig) Great! (And now the weeding out question) What kind of credit card will you be using to get started today?

Billie-Joe: Visa.

Me: (Wow, she said that without hesitation. Maybe this actually did pay off, this treating everyone equally idea is great!) Okay just need to get some information from you. What's your zip code?

Okay, are you in Biloxi, Mississippi? (Shock). Great. (proceeding to fill out shipping and billing information).

Alright Billie-Joe, you can go ahead with that Visa card number.

Billie-Joe: 6-8-4

Me: (Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?) Um, Billie-Joe, most Visa cards start with a 4, are you sure your card doesn't start with a 4?

Billie-Joe: Uh-uh, mine starts with a 6 (note to reader: all Visa cards start with a 4)

Me: (Well, I've already wasted all this time, I might as well stretch this out and see what a complete waste of life this mong is.) Okay Billie-Joe, go ahead with that Visa number.

Billie-Joe: 6-8-4-1-3-7-7-9.

Me: Um, Billie-Joe (I don't think I've ever spoken to anyone in a more patronizing manner) that's only eight numbers. Most credit cards have 16 numbers. Are you sure your credit card doesn't have 16 numbers?

Billie-Joe: Oh yeah, here's the real number (I actually typed this in to see how many numbers she would give me by the way)

Me: Billie-Joe, that's 17 numbers, are you sure you have a real credit card there?

Billie-Joe: Uh, yeah, just leave off the last number.

Me: Okey-dokey. So what's the expiration date on that there Visa card?

Billie-Joe: Umm, April 17th, 2007.

Me: (The hits just keep on coming.) Billie-Joe, most credit cards just have a month and a year for the expiration date. Are you sure yours doesn't have just a month and a year?

Billie-Joe: Uh, yeah, just use that month and year.

Me: (This is almost making me feel bad, what does this pathetic creature hope to accomplish?) Okay I'm putting the card through, hold on, its processing (I obviously did not even try to process this random string of numbers) Oh, I'm sorry Billie-Joe, your card was declined! I'm sure you or your husband has another card though, right? Or a debit card linked to your checking account? We could take that method of payment as well (I just spent over 7 minutes talking to this thing that probably has a lower IQ than an amoeba, I am livid at this point.)

Billie-Joe: You know what? (I can sense she has finally detected my sarcasm.)

Me: (I completely drop the fake phone voice, and in the most belligerent tone I can muster) What?

Billie-Joe: You sound gay.

Me: (Wow, that is the ultimate insult to these red-state Neanderthals, isn't it?)
Well Billie-Joe, I'm not, but I hope you have a lot of fun being obese and living in poverty. Hang up.

(Well, at least the end of that conversation was almost as satisfying as getting a commission. Fucking diversity training.)

I live in a box with a bay window

My apartment is ridiculously small. To call it an efficiency or even suggest that I live in your typical studio apartment would either be extremely generous, or an outright lie.

It's a fucking box.

I've been holed up in said box for over a year now, so I figured I'd give you a general recap of the advantages/disadvantages to living in something the size of Discovery Zone's newest ball pit on a daily basis.

I live alone because there's no way in hell I could possibly share my apartment with anyone else. The sheer amount of shit one acquires over their lifetime just takes up way too much space. In my case, that includes a shitload of half-functioning electronics, a closet full of clothes that I refuse to get rid of, and an unnecessary amount of auditory firepower. Living on top of someone is fine, but trying to live on top of someone and their worthless junk is annoying, if not impossible.

Advantages:

Believe it or not, being cooped up in an oversized box all the time does have its advantages.

For example . . .

• I live in a place where I can stir pasta noodles with my left hand, whilst perusing the wonders of YouTube with my right. How else could I find so many obscure vids on teh intarwebz?

• It only takes 2 minutes to vacuum my entire apartment and a mere 10 minutes to scrub my bathroom, kitchen, and foyer floors with a sponge. That's right, no "messy mops" necessary.

• I never have to worry about people snooping around my apartment sticking their nose where it shouldn't be, indulging in their cleptomaniacal urges, or from secretly taking over my room to screw their newly acquired bar floozie. Suffice it to say that if you're standing anywhere in my apartment, I can probably reach you with a flying dropkick. Chuck Norris approves.

• A single AC unit can easily cool my entire apartment in under 15 minutes. When it's hotter than hell outside and I've just come home from work, this is beyond clutch. It also cuts down on electricity costs because I don't have to keep it on all day. Speaking of which, do you want to know what my average electric bill is? $20. Not too shabby.

• Getting up to grab a beer or take a leak is an afterthought in my place. No need to go up and down a flight of stairs just to get something to drink. This spells convenience (and sometimes destruction) on Friday and Saturday nights.

Disadvantages:

• With my futon extended, I have exactly zero floorspace. This means there's nowhere else to crash unless you're hopping in bed with me. In other words, housing drunk friends that can't drive home quickly turns into Homo-erotic Snorefest. I don't mind sleeping next to my drunk friends, but blacking out and waking up in your skivvies next to this guy would make anyone question their sexuality.

• I have exactly 3 electric sockets, and one is a two-pronger that's underneath my radiator - pretty worthless. Because of this, I've had up to three surge protectors on one outlet. Have you ever seen A Christmas Story? I can't exactly get to the fuse box in the basement...

• I always have to consider time constraints and impending company before cooking and/or taking a dump. I try and refrain from overloading my guests olfactory systems upon their arrival, and either case guarantees my apartment will reek for at least 20 minutes. I don't do it out of common courtesy, I do it because it's an absolute necessity. Tunafish? Forget it.

• Speaking of guests, it's almost impossible to have more than 6 people in my apartment. Hell, even having 4 can be cramped if the furniture isn't aligned just right. When new acquaintances are brought into the "circle of trust," they have to be comfortable with sitting on top of a complete stranger almost immediately. If you have any sense of personal space, leave it at the door.

Advantages to merely living alone:

Waking up to the same song everyday, full blast, with at least 7 snooze intervals?

No problem. Over the Hills and Far Away, by the way.

Getting blackout drunk and passing out in a naked heap?

"Noooo big deal" (unless the door is unlocked ... sorry, Dunst).

Morning wood?

No need to wait! I rock it all the way to the bathroom and try to knock a few cups over along the way.

Taking ridiculously long showers?

No worries, there's no one to bitch and moan that they need to take a crap while you're washing your hair and/or trimming your nether regions.

Accidentally leaving pr0n clips looping before bed?

Makes a great wake-up call.

Don't know what pr0n is?

You're an idiot!

Knowing that you have a secluded safe-haven when you're extremely intoxicated and/or really fucked up?

Priceless.

So there it is ... I live in a box, and I love it.

Winning Hearts and Minds

This post comes to you all the way from Iraq, compliments of my brother, Jason.

Ok, so here is a story I may have told some of you while I was home on leave, but for the rest of you I felt that this just about sums up the dangerous/ridiculous factors we deal with here.

So our platoon was tasked with a mission to go "west", into the wild west you could say; out where there ain't shit but desert, power lines, chewed up road and the locals point at you and say "DIE, DIE."

This trip we were on the lookout for white pickup trucks because intel had said that there were at least 12 suspected bombs loaded into white pickups. Now saying "be on the lookout for a white pickup" is like telling someone back home to "look out for a Japanese made car on I-95." Anyway, we are hour 4 into our 8 hour drive and we get a call over the radio saying that there is a white pickup with a propane tank in the bed. Great, a propane tank, the latest and greatest in insurgent technology to help accentuate the deadliness of their homemade bombs. Now in Iraq, civilian traffic pulls off the road to let military convoys pass, and this white pickup has pulled off the road alright.... WAY off the road. Now our interests are peeked because most people only pull off far enough to let us know they don't want any trouble. This guy has pulled at least 100 yards off the road and is pointing out into the middle of the desert. We interpret this as "this guy wants absolutely no part of us." Naturally, we are determined to find out why. So three Humvees circle the truck with machine guns and two soldiers approach him to search the vehicle. The driver gets out and opens the hood to show no bomb, however the passenger is a little reluctant to get out. This makes the two guys who are searching the vehicle a little nervous and they ask the passenger to get out. Now everyone is kind of on edge and you can feel the tension mounting. Is this guy gonna try something funny? The door swings open and the passenger gets out and puts his arms up, then quickly hops on one foot reaching for the bed of the truck. To get a gun? To get a bomb? . . . No, to get his crutches. Yes, the liberators of Iraq here to bring peace, democracy and freedom have pulled over the one legged man and his brother. They were carrying fruits and vegetables to their home, which is apparently out in the middle of the desert, and the turn they needed to make just happened to be right where we passed. This was why he had pulled over so far, not to avoid us, but to go home. Needless to say we all laughed our asses off at the misfortune of this miserable duo and our shitty luck to harass two locals just trying to get their groceries home. The kicker of the whole situation was that the two in the pickup never got pissed off, argued or acted annoyed. They even saluted the guys who searched the truck and drove off into the desert waving to all of us merrily. What a day, we get all worked up and everyone has their finger on the trigger and is praying to God to make it through; and you get saluted by the One Legged Man.

Rball, my favorite text message

Engineer v. Chemist: The Saga Continues (Wu-Tang?)

We're either trying to punch each other in the face or frame Mole's confusion.

Either way, Gia sucks at keeping a straight face.

During yet another drunken haze at Catherine Rooney's, my evil friend Gia proposed that we start playing racquetball for money. Gia and I had played several times before, and although our games were usually ridiculously close, he usually got the better of me. I'd say he won at least 60-70% of the time. But after a few weeks of things starting to go my way, the outcome of our games had finally become a coinflip. In light of this, and the fact that we're competitive idiots, we agreed to finally up the stakes and find out who was indeed, "The Champ" (see above photo for non-existent promo). In the end, we decided that the loser of a 9-game set would have to pay for the other's YMCA membership for one month. That's exactly 44 big ones. I'm normally not a gambling man, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have an end-all, battle royale with cheese, with bragging rights on the side.

Before you hear the outcome of said event, you may not think racquetball is "cool." In fact, you may think racquetball is for fags. If that's the case, I can assure you that you've never actually played racquetball. It's not a tough sport by any means, but it requires more athletic ability than you think, some strategery, and a rotator cuff willing to blast little blue balls at speeds of 100+ mph. At least, if you want to be any good that is. To those of you who haven't played, try and picture playing tennis in your family room. You can play any wall, including the ceiling and the wall behind you (you know, the one with that horrible picture of you during your "awkward" phase), and volleys can last anywhere between 2 seconds and 2 minutes. The rules are simple. To continue a volley, you have to return the ball before it bounces twice, while also forcing it to hit the front wall in the air (regardless of how it gets there). Serving is also pretty easy, but if you're really interested in the nitty-gritty of how to play, Google it.

Now that that's settled, Gia and I set off to play our deathmatch in the official, "gambling on these premises is definitely a good idea," glass courts. These are the nice courts that the kill-shot blasting old dudes and the "I'm nationally ranked" guys play on. They're well-lit, lack any kind of crazy surface for your ball to do something retarded off of (like a door-hinge, or a bad ceiling tile), and the floors are actually wiped down on a regular basis. They're pristine.

When all was said and done, we probably played 6 out of the 9 games on them. And yes, we required all 9 games to decide a winner.

Who won?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

This guy.

Update:

Gia and I agreed to play another best-of-9, $44 playoff sometime in March. On March 21st, Gia completed his quest to win his money back. He won 5-4, with an 11-9 victory in the final game.

He still sucks giant wang.

Proof.

Overall game stats as of November 2, 2006:

Brett 27 - Gia 18

Winning percentage = 60%

Doubles Matches:

Brett + Gia vs. The World

2 - 0

Winning percentage = 100%

We're awesome.

I love the bus, crazies and all

Most people think of public transportation and cringe, but I'm on a mission to change all that. Thanks to grants from both the Delaware Department of Transportation and the Wilmington branch of The Nature Conservancy, I have been commuting by and large via the environmentally friendly, yet dependable and efficient, DART bus.

Of course that's a lie, but it sounds better than saying "I'm a cheap bastard and enjoy saving thousands of dollars every year by not switching to Geico."

Or maybe not. I imagine that saving thousands of dollars yearly appeals to just about anyone. And I'm not really cheap per se, I'm just a bit on the frugal side (someone that is cheap doesn't tip well, I do). I have a full-time job and make decent money, but blowing it on gasoline and some piece of shit car is really not my idea of money well spent. Especially when I'm within a fifteen minute walk from both my job and my favorite bar. If I need to, I can ride the bus to anywhere in New Castle County for a paltry $1.15.

That's right, for the same price you're currently paying to buy half a gallon of gasoline (or less), I'm buying a one-way ticket to lazyman's paradise. While you're pissed off because some asshole cut you off, I'm reading cheesy sci-fi, listening to Led Zeppelin, and contemplating the topic of my next article on RaggleSnaggle.

But I understand your need for a car, I really do. I just happen to have the perfect setup for riding the bus right now and figured I'd fill you in on what you're missing.

If you're a fellow Delawarean (which 97.4% of RaggleSnaggle readers are), you're probably unaware of the fact that our public transportation system rocks. In fact, I think it's safe to say that DART is rocking the casbah harder than anyone in Delaware. Google "casbah" and you may just figure out what the hell I'm talking about. Afterwards you can rest assured knowing that Sharif don't like it.

In the interest of saving time and money, I recommend riding the bus to anyone commuting to downtown Wilmington on a regular basis. If you work in the city, you're well-aware of the insane parking costs (upwards of $9/day) and the headaches involved with trying to get in and out, before and after work. But for the low-low price of $2.40, you could be purchasing a Day Pass and bypassing the headaches and wallet-kicks altogether. That's just $12/week, or the cost of approximately 1.5 days worth of parking, not to mention all the money you'll be saving on gas. You do the math.

So if you do decide to start riding the bus, here's what you have to look forward to (besides saving lots of hard-earned cash and avoiding gridlock):

1. Endless entertainment.

That's right, you would not believe the amount of entertainers that ride the bus on an everyday basis. From lively merchants trying to sell you the latest goods from the local marketplace, to aspiring vocalists singing their hearts out, the bus has got 'em all. Some riders also enjoy talking about their various adventures, much like the story-telling bards that were once an intricate part of Greek civilization. In other words, you can buy a pair of fOakleys while listening to some guy rapping in one ear, and have some bum giving you an in-depth, fully-animated recount of his lifelong, Eastern-seaboard odyssey in the other. There's never a dull moment on the bus.

2. Daily "life-appreciation" boosts.

I must say that a good 10% of all DART bus riders make you feel better about yourself, or just your situation in life, in some way. Some of them are a few French fries short of a Happy Meal (and probably on their way to work at McDonald's anyway), while others enjoy broadcasting that they "CAN'T WAIT to get home and take their Xanax." Some are a few twitches short of full-blown Tourette's, while others are merely paranoid because they think the government is after them for some reason or another.

One rider has a conspiracy theory that she's been constantly babbling about for years. And when I say constantly, I mean non-stop, "Repeat-1", incoherent blabberspeak. After many attempts to decipher the crackpot logic behind her apocalyptic rhetoric, I've come up with the following:

Please ensure that your tinfoil hat is securely fastened before reading...

The failure of a military operation code-named "Christmas in July" in 1992 can be attributed to a few rebellious American citizens and their trusty computers. These "l33t h4x0rz" somehow managed to intercept highly confidential, NSA-encrypted, government documents using their blazing fast 14,400 bps modems and some super-decrypter program running out of MS-DOS. After stealing said documents, information was leaked, soldiers died, and "Christmas in July" failed. These hackers have been on the run ever since thanks to Big Brother satellites tracking our every movement (which have been active since Ross Perot tried to run for office).

She also mumbles something about communists, but I've never really figured it out. I can only assume that "Christmas in July" took place in some Communist country. But here comes the kicker - the only thing that can protect these individuals from being tracked by satellite is a wardrobe composed of multiple, plastic garments. And these aren't just any plastic garments, they're CLEAR, PLASTIC, TRASH BAGS.

If you're a Wilmingtonian, you probably already know her as "The Bag Lady." She's walked over 10,000 miles in her lifetime, survived a nasty hit & run, wears the sweetest duct tape kicks on the market, can usually be found around Augustine Cutoff at midnight, and has been spotted purchasing god-knows-what at the Christiana Mall many a time. She's an avid bus-rider when she's tired of walking (I see her on the 10 a lot), and apparently she loves Brookstone (can you blame her?) She's a schizophrenic mess, but harmless. And the above story? It's complete crap. I have heard her say the words "communist," "Christmas in July," and "Ross Perot" multiple times, but I have no idea what she's talking about. It's always unintelligible gibberish, but at least I try.

But back to bus-awesomeness...

3. Time to think/relax

The bus not only gets you from Point A to Point B cheaply and effectively, but gives you the opportunity to think about stuff that you normally wouldn't have time for. Sure the bus is a noisy place with loudmouthed passengers and their constantly chirping Nextels, but I find it to be a surprisingly relaxing environment. Screw the library and its overrated silence. Silence puts me to sleep, pal. When I was riding the 6 to Newark on an everyday basis, you would think that a 50 minute bus ride would have become an annoying hell. Quite the contrary. On the bus I used to finish my homework, study for the test I was on my way to take, or think about random stuff that I didn't have time for on the shitter (or was just too busy thinking "Why the hell did I eat 2 packs of Pecan Twirls this morning?!). Even the audible bus stop alerts are relaxing. Every time I hear one I know I'm a little bit closer to my final destination, and if I've managed to pass out during my trip, they gently wake me up and let me know I'm home.

4. Funny story generator.

As you can probably imagine, I've encountered some pretty off-the-wall people on the bus. Sure, some of them you wish you could forget, like the guy wearing the Cubs jacket that sat in the front and smelled so bad that at least 6 people moved away from him in the span of 2 minutes. But for the most part, you're only an observer.

I once saw a guy so high/comatose that he fell face-first into the aisle after a vicious 10 mph, 90 degree right-turn. He shot up, looked around bug-eyed, and ran to the front of the bus wanting to get off immediately. The bus erupted in laughter and I think he probably had one of the most traumatic experiences of his life.

On my way back to Newark after work one night (when I lived on North Chapel), I had a guy ask me for $10 because he had just got out of jail. After replying "Sorry pal, I'm broke" he pulled out his release papers and showed me that he had indeed got out of jail that day for assault or some bullshit involving his ex-girlfriend. The rest of our convo went something like this:

Me: Uh, I really am broke. Do you think I'd be riding the bus at 10:30 at night on a Wednesday if I wasn't? I'm a student, and on my way back from work.

Jail Guy: Yeah, I guess so. I'm just tryin' to get something to eat, man. (sad face)

Me: Alright, fair enough. So where are you going right now anyway?

Jail Guy: To my mom's house.

Me: Well, your mom will give you 10 bucks, dude. If not, she'll definitely make you something to eat. She's your mom.

Jail Guy: I guess you're right. (dejected face)

I could only laugh to myself when I got home. What a moron! Who tries to bum 10 bucks with the "I'm on my way to mom's house" story? Fucking amateur.

But he doesn't touch the next guy on the Doofus-meter.

On my way to Wilmington one afternoon (on the 6), this teenage kid gets on carrying a shoebox in Elsmere. After standing there for a good 10-15 seconds trying to insert his bus pass into the ticket console, the bus driver inquisitively asks "So what's in the box?," to which the kid replies scornfully, "Nothin', man." I thought nothing of it until he sat down a couple rows ahead of me. After maybe a minute or so, I realized the kid didn't need to open the box for me (or anyone else in a 10 ft. radius) to know exactly what was in there. It fucking REEKED of pot. I mean, the box must have been filled to the fucking brim. WHAT A FUCKING MORON! I wanted to explain to him that a shoebox wasn't exactly an air-tight container, getting on the bus with a crapload of pot probably wasn't the best idea anyway, and that Elsmere was full of cops looking to bust some dipshit like him. I'm quite certain he was thumped at the Elsmere McDonald's shortly thereafter.

Patience, Fat Friend

This post is by Belly. Not me. Stop asking who the fatty is.

Be patient Fat Friend. You know your time will come.

10:30 pm. It's still quite early and I'm only on my third drink. Right now my attentions are focused on the tight-bodied brunette that you are accompanying this night. While I am cordially including you in the conversation, my attitude toward you is condescending. You eye me hungrily. I assume that you are just hungry. At this point my niceties toward you are committed purely with the ulterior motive of making your Hot Friend think I am a decent guy; but you know your time will come.

11:15 pm. More drinks have been drunk. You have faded into the background at this point, like some sort of tragically obese chameleon. The only thing more invisible to young, privileged, white males than a poverty stricken black man is the Fat Friend at the bar; for now at least. I have mustered the courage to dance with Hot Friend. She is suggestively leading me on. I ask her what she is doing later on tonight. The reply I receive, "probably staying here, I just love to dance!" I translate this to mean that she is a whore for attention who is not intelligent enough to validate her own existence so she measures her self-worth by how many guys rub their semi-erect penises on her in one night. Spurned, I excuse myself to get a drink without offering her one. I find some guys and tell them about what a cock tease Hot Friend is as I see her begin to suck face with some greasy-haired tool with his shirt halfway unbuttoned.

11:40 pm. I take a couple rounds of shots with great exuberance to mask my anger and insecurity. I spent like 45 minutes on that whore, she should be blowing me in the bathroom! What a waste. But the night is young, and though there are many fit women at this bar, do not lose hope Fat Friend, your time will come, as you well know. At this point I have reached a level of intoxication that permits me to talk to you even though you are not in the presence of Hot Friend. I smile in your direction and ask you something inane like, "Having fun yet?" You assure me that you are even though you have been standing in the same spot by the bar, sipping the same drink, talking to no one, while you watch Hot Friend receive the attention of dozens of men.

Midnight. I cut off our meaningless banter to 'go find my friends.' By this I mean patrol the dance floor looking for girls that would be easy prey. I come up behind one and rub my crotch against her enticing, gyrating hips and say, "Hey I'm Dan, want to dance?" She replies that she only dances with her friends, not with guys. The depth of the wound to my ego is surpassed only by the depth of my hatred for all of womankind. This ritual is repeated until I find the One (who is receptive to my incoherent advances). I ask her name under the pretense that I can actually interpret the sensory perceptions that are bombarding me at this point. We dance for about 10 minutes before I try to make out with her. She asks me her name and I guess "Ashley," which turns out to be incorrect. I walk away knowing that I let an opportunity slip through my fingers and cursing her for not acting like the whore that she is.

1:15 am. At this point desperation sets in. I return to the bar to drown my sorrows and find you waiting patiently, Fat Friend. Now is your time. Earlier I was disgusted by your E cup breasts, perched precariously on top of your gut. Now all I can see is the deep, beautiful ravine of your cleavage stretching before me as if I were watching an Imax film on the Grand Canyon. Your figure has mysteriously morphed from an amoeboid blob into something quite shapely. This is the power of your patience. Still, I suggest we take a shot of Jager in an attempt to steel my nerves for what is about to happen. And by an attempt to steel my nerves, I mean an attempt to black out so that I can justify what is about to happen, somewhat at least.

1:30 am. I lead you to the furthest, darkest corner of the dance floor where no one will see what is about to transpire, though I know someone always does. At this point my friends, who are supposed to be looking out for me, are clandestinely observing as I attempt some sort of elephant seal mating dance. This night your patience has paid off Fat Friend. I wrap my arms around you (as far around you as they will go at least) and sway with the tender chords of Little John's latest ballad. I think that there are advantages to my current situation, such as being able to grab onto you when I am about to fall over and not pull you down with me as I would with a girl of lesser heft. Truly your patience has paid off this night.

1:50 am. Last call is announced. I suggest we do one more shot. You decline, I accept. You suggest we go back to your place. After a quick glance about to make sure that my friends are not watching (though I'm unable to see more than three feet in front of my face) I accept and we walk outside to get a cab.

2:05 am. You hail a cab while I sit, slumped over in an ATM alcove. I stumble into the taxi after you and somehow I notice the driver is smirking at me. Damn foreigners, pointing out my horrible, regrettable decisions after it's too late to turn back. I try to justify the events that are occurring with the always useful proverb, 'pussy is pussy.' I admit the truth to myself that it most definitely is not and ask if you have anything to drink at your place.

2:15 am. We arrive to your immaculately clean and well-decorated apartment. I marvel at the irony that one who possesses the presence of mind to take care of their surroundings with such care can lack that same faculty with regard to their own body and health (as if I am concerned with your health, yet the thought still crosses my mind). You indulge my every wish, Fat Friend, you do not want to lose this opportunity that you have waited so patiently for. Though all you have to drink is some pink Boone's Farm I gulp it greedily, as if I were drinking from the Holy Grail. I do not seek the bliss of everlasting life, however, but the familiar, welcoming bliss of the alcohol-induced blackout.

2:20 am. Now we are in your bedroom, Fat Friend, and you are truly about to receive your prize. I enthusiastically make out and grope your breasts in an attempt to arouse myself, but the combination of your stretch marks and my quickly fading consciousness ensures that I do not get it up. Perhaps, Fat Friend, you were a bit too patient this night. I silently thank Zeus (I believe that only a pagan god could sanction what passes for my life and offer me any sort of salvation) for my self-inflicted impotency while I halfheartedly apologize to you, Fat Friend.

2:30 am. I excuse myself to the bathroom where I would be in a panic if I weren't so sedated. I wonder what I am doing as I begin to block her sink drain with a hand towel. I urinate, wash my hands, and leave the water running. It quickly fills the sink and overflows onto the floor. At this point my fight or flight response kicks in and, knowing that I would be venturing far out of my weight class in any sort of confrontation, I take flight. You will not be able to catch me, Fat Friend. While you possess the attribute of patience, you lack a fleetness of foot. I sprint past your bedroom and out your apartment door before you can even raise your sizable frame onto your swollen ankles. As I race into the night I mutter another prayer to Zeus that we will never cross each others' paths again, though I realize the futility of this plea even as it leaves my lips. I know we will meet again, Fat Friend. And you will be waiting for me when we do, patiently, as always.