Do I Know You?

I was out with a couple friends from college this weekend and the worst thing happened to me. I ran into somebody from college who I "kind of" knew. You know, the ones you knew OF, but never really want to take the time to actually know or be friends with. I seem to uncover about two per weekend. It's so awkward—especially when they remember you, but you have absolutely no idea who they are. They walk over to say hello, and you're like, "Heeeeey maaaaaaan!" (those get protracted so as to buy more time to figure out who the they are, what their name is and why the hell they're talking to you.) Then you start asking questions, hoping to somehow remember one thing that's going to spark one iota of memory as to who this person is. The only problem is that the questions make it seem like you give a damn, when you could care less if they went to grad school or just got back from a small island in the Pacific where they really found themselves working for the Peace Corps. But your questions keep them talking. All the while you're looking at your warm beer getting warmer, the clock ticking towards last call and the drunk girl you were trying to talk to leaving with some fortunate soul who DIDN'T go to a rich-kid school where everybody moves to New York after graduation.
It's even worse when it's somebody you remember—but only in the sense that you remember you hated them. So you're standing there doing the question thing and it hits you, I despised you in college. And then you're really mad. Not only is your beer getting cold and your drunk girl leaving, but it's because you got caught up in a conversation with some asshole you never liked anyway. Then you like them even less. We weren't friends before, and if my beer sweats any more we'll be even less friends than that tomorrow. Going to the same college doesn't make us friends. I went to a pretty small college, so the fact that we both went there and I never knew you should say something. It was probably on purpose. And it should definitely say something if we both went there and I didn't like you (I don't make a habit of not liking people). Your post-college stories of law school, your ex-girlfriend, who I also don't remember, and how you wished we would've talked more in college are not enriching my life. Yeah, it's been five years since we graduated and I've burried the hatchet, but I still don't want to be friends. I didn't like you then and I probably wouldn't like you now. And whatever it is you hated about me, I probably haven't changed.
And then you get to the awkward ending. How do you end this oh-so-awkward conversation? Unfortunately it usually ends like this: Annoying guy you hated says, "Say man, we should definitely hang out sometime."
And you, disingenuously as possible say, "Yeaaah, man" (this part is more or less friendly depending on how drunk you are). Then there's an awkward exchange of numbers where you pretend to enter his when you're really not, only to have them ask you to call so they he'll have your number. And then you have to act like you have a new phone and haven't gotten a hang of it yet so you need to get the number again. I hate it. I wish they'd just be rude when they walk by me and not say anything. That's what I'd do to them. At least it would reinforce the hatred.

That Shit's R. Kelly Good

Yes friends, it's true. R. Kelly has another inappropriate song that's so bad it's good. This one subtly titled Get You Pregnant. As in, "Girl, you make me wanna get you pregnant." I couldn't believe my ears. And then I listened to it. As stupid as the lyrics and title may be, it definitely got my head bobbing. How is it that R. Kelly songs are so bad, yet so good at the same time? They lead you to lose all faith in humanity, but also to the dance floor to get down—albeit faithlessly and shaking your head—at the very same time? That's R. Kelly for you. His honestly is amazing. That's one of the reasons I really believe it wasn't him in that video peeing on that girl. He would've written a song about it already. It would've been titled, "Yeah, I Peed on That Underage Girl". But he hasn't. And since all of his songs seem to be stream of consciousness, it's pretty obvious he didn't do it. This man probably writes songs just walking down the street. He sees a booty he likes, he writes a song called, "Damn, I Love Yo Booty". He sees a girl with panty lines, he writes another called, "Should've Worn Yo Thong". He sees a girl who looks like a jeep, he writes a song called—wait, he already did that. I think that song was the start of his stream of consciousness R&B. And I almost have to give him credit (almost). I mean, his mind is working on overtime with every single girl that walks passed. How can he ever NOT be writing a song? Every girl that he passes is a potential gold or platinum recording. I only wish I could keep that many award-winning songs straight in my head. In a nod to his obvious song-writing genius, MTV is adding a new category to their awards list: The R. Kelly Lifetime Achievement Award for Songfoolery. The winner of this category will be a songwriter who writes a song that makes people bob their heads, with a look of confused, what the hell was he thinking bewilderment on their face. A look that usually illicits the response, "Mmm, that shit's R. Kelly good."

Par for the Course II

In honor of Tiger Woods cheating, I'm going to post some of the best jokes I've seen about the scandal.

What did you expect, the guy is paid to but the ball in the hole.

Tiger cheated with two women. Is that a double bogey or a hole in two?

Guess he couldn't keep his clubs in the bag.

Tiger got a hole in two. If his wife is keeping score, that's a double bogey.

He should have kept it in the short grass.

I wonder if he was playing the back 9?

I actually like Tiger Woods more now. I hope when Stuart Scott comes to interview him for ESPN during his record setting Master's win, he just flips him off and tells ESPN to go f*$$ themselves as he's walking away with four strippers.

Maybe she cleans his balls better than his wife does. I mean you have to have clean balls to win majors.

Tiger had more girls than he had golf clubs.

I wonder if the women wore tiger print panties?

Now we know how he got the name Tiger.

I wonder how many holes Tiger has played over the years. Sounds like quite a few.

Lock your wives up when the PGA Tour comes to your town; Tiger is swinging the driver.

Tiger, when apologizing to your wife DO NOT use the words SCREWED in any of your sentences. No screwed up, it was screwy, or I had a screw loose.

and the biggest joke of all is his phone call to one of the chicks to get her to change her number. He sounds like a man defeated. Pimp down! Pimp down!

Par for the Course

As you probably already know, Tiger Woods just got jammed up for cheating on his wife after wrapping his car around a fire hydrant and then a tree. There's speculation all around as to how/if the cheating and the accident are related.
I'm not buying the first part of the video—that she came to his rescue crap. Why in the world would she knock out the back window to save him if he's in the front? And how would a 110 pound woman, soaking wet holding two golf bags, pull a 200 pound man from a car? Not buying it.
The more believable story is the second part. I'll sum that up for those of you who don't follow Mandarin: Ole girl found out Tiger was cheating, slapped him around a little bit, and when he got in the car to leave she chased him down the street with a golf club. At that point Tiger turned around like, what is this B!t©h doin, and he ran into the hydrant and then the tree. The only thing fishy about that is the chasing him down the street with a golf club thing. Everybody knows white girls don't run down the street chasing men with the closest thing available (pots, pans, lamps, toy racecar tracks and golf clubs). That's reserved for the sistah's. White girls key cars, slash tires and cut off wangs.
Another story, straight from the mind of C.J., is that the whole thing was a setup. It follows the same line above: Ole girl found out Tiger was cheating and slapped him around a bit. Realizing he couldn't go to the next tournament looking like he got in a fight with Thing from the Addams Family, he smashed the car up to explain the scratches on his face.
And now everybody's in an uproar. I say, who cares? So the guy cheated. I'm not saying it's right; I'm just saying who's surprised? Yes, he's Tiger Woods and supposedly a good guy and all. But above all that is that he's a man. He has the same urges and tendencies as any other man, he just has more money and celebrity to make it all happen. I'm never surprised when I hear these stories. And to the he's supposed to be a role model crowd, raise your own kids. That guy has enough to worry about without babysitting your kids from inside the television. Parents need to start teaching their kids that, while these athletes have been blessed with what seems like super-human talent, they are still human, and just as fallible as anybody else. So it's ok to watch them and be in awe of their ability, but it by no means that the things that they do off the playing surface, or sometimes on it, are acceptable. That will put all this role model stuff to bed.

Keep It Simple Stupid

Since being in New York I've realized a couple things. One of them is that there is a disproportionate amount of douche bags, lame guys, creeps weirdos and cornballs in the city. I'm not saying I'm Don Juan or anything, but there are a lot of guys here who have no idea how to talk to girls. There are some things you just don't say or do. I went out about two weeks ago with two girl friends and I saw and heard some of the most ridiculous stuff.

One guy came up to one of the girls and said "So, what's the thing you regret most in your life?" What? What ever happened to questions like 'what's your name?' and 'hi, how're you?' He skipped to the 5th or 6th date before he even asked the girl her name or told her his. Not good. If you're already riding the relationship Delorean before you've properly met, then what's that say about two months down the line? Are you going to introduce her to your parents on the third date and propose on the fifth? Keep it simple stupid.

Another guy came up, while I was dancing with one of the girls and cut in. I didn't necessarily care because she wasn't my girlfriend but, as I discussed before, she could've been. So this guy comes up between us while we're dancing and gives her a rose. But he doesn't just give her the rose, he puts in her hair sensually, like it was in Spain or someting. We're not in Spain. What the hell are you doing? That's creepy. Keep it simple stupid.

Another guy just came up and started dancing. Nothig wrong with that, depending on how you do it. This guy's approach was to dance close enough to say, hey, I wanna dance with you, but far enough away that if she wasn't going for it it would look like he was just dancing by himself and enjoying the music. But she humored him and danced for a bit. The only words he said to her the whole time were, "You're hot." I don't need to tell you all the reasons why that's bad.

And finally, another guy just stared from afar. But not in a shy 'I want you to notice me noticing you so you'll think I'm cute and come over and talk' way. Most guys that do that sort of turn away sheepishly when they get caught. This guy just kept looking—like he thought he was smooth or something. Only thing is this guy never got the memo that that doesn't come across as smooth. It comes across as creepy. But my friend made the mistake of telling us, which made us look over at him, which gave him the idea she was talking about him, which made him come over. That's the worst thing he could've done in that situation. Bad idea. It's one thing to be a starer, but I think a girl would rather be creeped out from afar than close range. The only thing worse than a stareer is the starer who comes over to talk. Keep it simple stupid.

And that is all the advice I have. Don't try to impress a girl, just be impressive. Just tell her your name. Ask her hers. It seems lame, but in a place where people are killing themselves before they even get introduced, somebody keeping it simple is a welcomed relief.

Dance At Your Own Risk

I can't stand dancing with girls when they're drunk. Don't get it twisted, it's not because I don't like drunk girls. I just hate it when you can't tell whether she's actually dancing or about to fall. Every time she makes a move you have to stop dancing for a split second—with your hands and arms extended like you're accepting one of those huge high school lunch trays—to get yourself in position to catch her. Not because you're worried about her safety, but because, like it or not, if you're on the dance floor with somebody, they're yours. For five minutes and fourteen seconds, or for however long music shall play and you two shall dance, to everybody in that bar, that's your girlfriend—for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till next song due you part, for as long as you two shall dance. As long as you're dancing with her, guys aren't going to approach her, and if you're cute, girls are going to look at her like she's a slut for being with you (if you're ugly they could care less). If she falls, the egg is on you too. If she looks stupid, you look stupid. You're her "dancefloor" boyfriend. For the rest of the night people are going to whisper to their friends, "That's that guy who let his girlfriend fall down on the dance floor," when you pass by. You're stuck. And no guy is going to step in and take her from you. First, you may be her boyfriend. Second, who wants to be seen with the girl who everybody already saw belligerently fall down while dancing? That makes you no better than an ambulance-chasing lawyer or a hunter who only goes after the young, sick and wounded. Nobody wants that. Even if a girl is hot, she's just the hot girl who got drunk and fell at the bar. Not sexy. Inevitably, once you get comfortable and start thinking she's not that drunk or she isn't going to fall, she's going to fall. And you're left to pick up the pieces. Because if she's drunk enough, she will cry. And there she is, drunk-whimpering on the floor, while you stand there, arms out, with that "she's not my girlfriend, I don't even know her" look on your face. So don't do it. DO NOT dance with drunk girls.

How Cruel is That?

You know what sucks: the physical inability to pronounce the very disease or impediment that burdens you. Cancer patients can say cancer. People with arthritis can say arthritis, but people with a lisp can't say lisp to save their lives. You know it's bad when you have something and can't say it. What's worse is the technical term is called sigmatism. Even more s's. Terrible. Who's in charge of naming these things? They have a pretty good sense of humor. First they name a disease characterized by bad breath halitosis. A word that begins with an h, when everybody knows you don't want people with bad breath saying h-words. Then they make the impediment that makes people unable to pronounce s-words full of s's.