Argh, I just wasn't made for these times

My workplace had its annual summer potluck.

The theme was pirates.

I brought a sack of limes.

No one had scurvy, so no one needed them.

Times they are a changin’.

Getting to Know Dave's Body: Part 1 of an Ongoing Series

I woke up this morning and stumbled into the bathroom to shower before going to the office. Seeing how I sleep through the night wherever I end up passing out, I'm occasionally welcomed to a new day by temporary but strange imprints on random places on my body. For example, falling asleep using corduroy pants as a makeshift pillow produces interesting results; one time I had an imprint of the Virgin Mary wearing a sombrero.

This particular morning I checked my elbow and found a curious new companion. Not a fair weather friend of an imprint that debuts with much fanfare but disappointingly fades away, but rather a growth of curious proportions. Amongst the vast wasteland of scar tissue that is my right elbow rises this rebellious upstart of a hair:

Verily, this growth has fuzzy neighbors of the same brethren, but its size and location are extraordinary. It's as if at conception, the hair's elders pointed a labor-worn finger into the vast wilderness of Elbow Scabion Majora, and said 'Go forth my child, into the undiscovered country and prosper for generations'.

Taking this edict as its manifest destiny, this young pioneer ventured forth through the desolate plains of deceased hair follicles wiped out long ago by catastrophic skin abrasions, to arrive upon its Zion, a fertile oasis of prosperity the likes of which rival the mythical lands of Rogaine.

With no one to rely upon other than itself, this upstart has skyrocketed from obscurity to ultimately tower supreme over its lesser kinsmen that chose the safer and well-trodden realms of hairdom. As its keeper, how do I reward this hair's bold streak of independence and tenacious toil in such an inhospitable precipice as a weather-worn elbow?

As it is the natural instinct of any man-child, I reached for the bottle of lighter fluid resting next to the Pantene hair gel. Contorting my body so that the lit match in my teeth is within the line of squirt of the lighter fluid bottle in my left hand, I looked at the renegade hair's reflection in bathroom mirror. What did I see?

I saw my child. As a man I will never experience firsthand the hassle, I mean, the miracle of childbirth, therefore I must treasure such abnormal growths as my own grotesque parody of procreation. It pales in comparison to the feat accomplished by real mothers, but cherish the moment I will.

I wanted a monocle

After a 12 year hiatus, I've started wearing eyeglasses again.

In addition to other mundane hassles such as strapping on a bicycle helmet, heeding medication side effect warnings, and wearing pants, I've been known to be stubborn in properly maintaining my eye sight. I was prescribed very minor corrective eyeglasses in 1996 and used them for about two years. They were useful in making out fine details at long distances, but beyond that, I could see just fine. For reasons I fail to recollect, I stopped using them and carried on without incidence.

After 5 years, I noticed my overall vision was getting worse, particularly at night and at long distance. I tried using my sense of smell to balance out my visual deficiencies, but years of cocaine use put that plan to a quick end.

Author's note: If any of my nephews or nieces are read this, Uncle Dave is just kidding with the Big People. If you treasure my ability to build you awesome Lego airplanes, you should immediately go to your parents and tell them that they are an epic failure at monitoring your internet use.

I could still get by, but occasions where I would fail to recognize familiar people until they were within 10 feet were becoming far too numerous for my reclusive personality. Thus, for the sake of my reclusive lifestyle (and to avoid petting possums that vaguely resemble housecats), I ordered some contact lenses. But Dave being Dave, I didn't pick them up from the Optometrist office until 4 months later.

After five years of regular contact lenses use, I've purchased eyeglasses as a backup. Despite my Optometrist's best efforts to fit me a be-jeweled monocle, I settled for a pair of foo-foo Pradas:

Seeing how it's the first day, I'm rather self-conscious wearing glasses. Of the people that have seen them on me, they say I look smart in them. Hearing this only makes me suspicious, as it reminds me of the Simpsons episode where Homer finds Henry Kissinger's glasses in a toilet, puts them on and says 'The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side!', to which a man in the next bathroom stall yells 'That's a right triangle, you idiot!'. D'oh!

End of the Affair

Dave,

We need to talk.

I've been thinking about this for quite a while and I think we need to spend some time away from each other. The whole time we've been together I've felt like something wasn't right but just haven't been able to put a finger on it. I recently had a moment of clarity that allowed me to figure out what it was.

The truth is I wasn't meant for just one person. Don't get me wrong; the voracious appetite you've shown for me could fulfill my purpose in life a thousand times over. I love the attention you give; caringly opening me to the world so as to avoid ripping me in half and exploding my contents across the room. Your tender hands rolling me tight and secure, my inner soul feeling alive with crisp and zest.

But it must come to a stop; I'm hurting you and you won't realize it until it's too late. At first I took your gold-tinted fingernails as a sign of affection, but the permanent hazard orange stains have become worrying. To be brutally honest, you are getting fat too. It's something that normally happens in my relationships, but I can't let it happen this time. You are a good person that knows better but just got caught up in the passion of the moment.

Get yourself together. Wipe away my crustiness from your lips. Go out and meet someone special. Get married. Have kids. When it feels like you're a family, let me back in your life and share me with your loved ones.

With love and friendship,

Post Script

Initially this was conceived as a letter issued by a corporate Frito-Lay representative imploring one of its customers to stop buying family-sized packages for individual consumption, but I was inspired to revise it into a pseudo love letter between an over-sized bag of chips and its co-dependent husky lover. This idea came to me late one night as I was pouring myself a helping. Rolling the bag of chips closed, I noticed the big bold 'Family-Size' letters emblazoned on the crackly bag. Then it dawned upon me; it's 2am on a Saturday night, the house is dead quiet, and I am pouring myself a bowl of chips from a bag intended for families- Something is wrong.

Dubious Baby Names

Whenever the merry announcement of pregnancy is announced, I have the habit of offering questionable suggestions concerning namesakes for the forthcoming bundles of joy. The following are for my sister Thuy:

Baby Name Suggestion #1: Sinbad

With the general election still tilting in favor of a Democratic candidate, the future of America is destined for one outcome. In Mitt Romney's concession speech to the National Man Boy Love Association (or, as it is officially known, the Conservative Political Action Conference), that progressive destiny is a surrender to terror. Apart from his equivocating stance on 'Who let the Dogs Out?", teh Mittens is FTW.

As such, we might as well begin assimilating our way of life to "Islamofascism". One way to do that is to name newborns after beloved characters of Arabic literature destined to be hijacked and bastardized into animated Disney characters (Which reminds me- when the hell is Disney going to release their 1922 adaptation of Marquis de Sade's 'School of Licentiousness'?).

Since the conception of this baby name, Thuy and Matt have announced that they are expecting a baby boy. While this makes this name suggestion still in play, would I have suggested it for a girl's name too? Indeed - given the hypothetical context of an Islamo-fascist government that mandates head to toe modesty for women, names don't really matter. Speaking as a bachelor, it all becomes a crap shoot when physical attributes are excluded from the equation and all that you have to rely upon is fluency in proper grammar and the firmness of a handshake.

Baby Name Suggestion #2: Excelsior

Meaning "higher" in Latin, pop culture connoisseurs will recognize this as homage to Marvel Comics legend Stan Lee's trademark sign-off from his editorial column. While the former definition may lend credibility among the college-educated and other pencil-wrist eggheads, it is the later reference that holds promise, albeit of a double-edged nature. To legally bestow such a name to your own kin smacks of hipster-dufusry at its most obscene. Other than the troubling resurgence of Al-Queda to pre-9/11 levels, the diminishing efficacy of antibiotics, and the revival of 'American Gladiator' as prime-time TV, hipster-dufusry and its the long-term ramifications are a looming maelstrom that our nation must inevitably weather in a most hot-tranny-mess fashion.

So why christen your child with such a cross to bear for their lifetime? Easy- It's not your problem. Let's face it sibs, we are losing our cool. While we currently bask in the glow of being the cool aunties and uncles that will explain what 'Don't Taze me, bro!" to your kid's Youth Soccer League teammates and allow them to sample our prescription drugs, the machinery of our cultural apoptosis is spooling up to maximum revolutions to fully render our hip affectations and stylings obsolete. Thus, you parents among us must get while the gettin's good. At most, names such as these will extend your youthful relevance among your peers until your child reaches puberty (or at least until you are arrested for punching the parent of the kid that stretched young Excelsior's underwear to serve double-duty as a headband).

While such a distinct name railroads the fate of the child to either a career in costume management at the local burlesque theatre or as journeyman in the harried trade of chainsaw juggling, it serves a more narcissistic purpose of acting as a tombstone, nay- a monument to a past life that was once full of elan and vigor. When questioned about the origin of his name, your child will deeply sigh, flick the smoldering butt to their spent cigarette, and simply state 'my parents were cool once...and young'.

Baby Name Suggestion #3: Mofo

OK, not really. I think most people (i.e. everyone but me) can all agree that this would be a highly inappropriate baby name. But to investigate its potential, I googled the term 'mofo'. Other than the expected references to the West Virginia Board of Tourism and the Heritage Foundation, the most relevant link is to www.mofo.com, the official website of Morrison & Foerster LLP, a transnational law firm whose transaction and litigation expertise lies in fields of finance, life sciences, and technology.

To confirm its legitimacy, I clicked around the site and it appears to be on the up and up. I found it humorous that on a website titled 'mofo.com', there are the typical navigational tabs such as 'Achievements', 'Offices', and most curious, 'MoFo in the Community'. MoFo's current slogan is particularly captivated fetching, but I think it can be improved upon:

If this cheekiness becomes more widespread in the legal community, I anxiously await for the law offices of New London's Susan Asselin and San Diego's Frank S. Clowney III to form the legal power house of AssClown and Associates.

And so ends my latest foray into children names. According to the Union of Concerned Scientists, procreation on my part is unadvised; therefore I hope Thuy and Matt utilize one of these names so that my dubious legacy lives on.

The Man Comes Around

And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder
one of the four beasts sang 'Come and See'
and I saw and behold...a half-assed web log.

Revelation 6:1-2

What better way to re-launch my secular web log than to spit some hot biblical verses documenting the End of Days?

Much like our Lord Jesus rising from the dead (or, if you are prefer a less ecumenical analogy, zombies bursting from their resting places to seek out fresh human brains) , the more socially-engaging Mr. Hyde counterpart to my usual Dr. Jekyll persona has awakened and seeks an audience for his curious yarns.

What are these curious yarns that I speak of?

Compelling treatises concerning the human condition?

Bygone tales from fabled lands of yore?

Alas, no. I have nothing of such a grandiose nature, at least not yet. Although I wish to provide a hearty Beef and Cheddar sandwich to satiate your hunger for all things Dave, I humbly offer a forthcoming amuse bouche to pique your interest.

In the midst of the four beasts, I heard a voice
I looked and behold a jackass
and his name that set on him was Dave
and tomfoolery followed with him

Revelation 6:6, 8

The Sauce

Oh Fudge.

Clear the streets.

Secure all livestock and heavy machinery.

Hide the cutlery and left-handed scissors.

Dave is off the sauce.

I shall not fear. Fear is the mind killer.

Given a childhood of being indoctrinated in the Catholic faith, it is difficult for my secular and rational adult self to shake the notion that there is a supernatural embodiment of evil known as Satan. Late at night lying in my bed in the dark, the unsettling side of imagination occasionally creeps into my thoughts and hinders my ability to peacefully fall asleep.

To neutralize such irrational thoughts, I introduce an element of absurdity to disarm the imagined danger. My reigning champion of imaginary demon-slaying and scourge to fictitious minions of the devil?

Kittens. Swarms upon swarms of kittens. When summoned, they latch onto and engulf the unspeakable horror until it disappears in a malevolent storm of squeaky meows and fluff. All the +3 blades of Morgul or enchanted Goblin helms of Intimidation in the world cannot stop this steamroller of cuteness.

A recent image posted on a defense industry blog has further bolstered my faith in salvation by kitten:

Violence only begets more violence, thus the rifle only shoots tightly packed kittens that inflate to full size after exiting the barrel. Kittens. With sniper rifles. Adorably genius.

Two-Wheeled Vomit Comet to Nubile Hill

I almost vomited while riding my bike. Almost.

The day's conditions were a perfect storm for the explosive chundering of energy drink and Clif bars. Failing to start at the 'optimistic' time of 10am, I ventured out at the sizzling hour of 1pm. Seeing how the big ride in July is expected to be considerably warmer, I decided that it would be a good time to start conditioning my body to handle the scorching heat of 80 degrees. The days plan was to ride the 64-mile metric century route of the Seven Hills of Kirkland. Seeing how this is an extended route, there are actually 11 hills, totaling 4700 feet of climbing. I didn't want to drive my car to the official 7HK starting point at the Kirkland Marina Park, so I decided to ride approximately 9 miles north on the Burke-Gilman trail until I linked up to the ride route near Bothell.

Things went a little wacky 10 miles into the ride. As some people know, I have the navigation skills of a blind, deaf and mute amputee with a balance-impairing ear infection. Misreading one of the road markers, I drifted off by a mile or so. After sheepishly coasting down hills while thinking “will I be climbing back up this way if I'm actually off course?” and indeed backtracking up those roads again, I rode back to where I was led astray and found my bearings.

At mile 20, the metric century route branches off further east, tacking on two extra hills and 20 miles to the traditional 7HK. At this point, the heat was starting to get to me. I thought I was staying well hydrated and fed, but the heat makes me very susceptible to headaches. I would be fine with the discomfort were I stationary, but the bumps and imperfections in the road compounded the headache considerably. Due to this slightly-altered mind state, I began to think silly thoughts.

Trudging along at a steady pace up Novelty Hill, I decided to rename the landmark to Nubile Hill; imagining it to be the exclusive neighborhood for all the attractive young women of the surrounding area. Other than some shapely trees and the occasional buxom mailbox (all with great personalities, I'm sure), there is no evidence to qualify this renaming, but that is what exhaustion can do to an impressionable mind. Ultimately, my paranoia of the opposite sex began to set, leading me to believe that the denizens of Nubile Hill would detect my presence, deem me a blight upon their Valhalla of Hotness, and would run me off the premises with a posse mounted on gleaming-white unicorns. Of course, this unjustified fear made me pedal faster, thus making it a win-win situation for myself and my imagined oppressors.

Reaching the Kirkland Marina at mile 50, I felt like I was in the homestretch. Continuing the remaining 10 miles back to the Burke-Gilman, I cleared Market Hill and Juanita Hill without any drama. But it would be Seminary Hill that would be my vomit temptress of the day. For the most part, it is not the most extraordinary hill. What makes it interesting is its length and curviness. At the approach, I decided to just sit and spin my way to the top. For the first couple of blind upward curves I was fine, but with no leveling of the road to allow some recovery time, the lactic acid started to build up. Just when I thought the summit was around the next blind right-hand bend, the road continued to curve upwards. Sadly, with a name like ‘Seminary Hill’, the thought of child molester priests did not incite the same motivation as that of the lovely ladies of Nubile Hill. At some point, I started to wobble and considered stopping for a breather. But the stubborn portion of my brain by the name of 'Pride' decided to interject:

"Are you serious? If we stop now, you might as well put the bike down and catch the next bus to Losertown. Population: You. Plus, I think I see a child molester hiding behind the bushes up ahead. Peddle faster, dammit.”

My body, in all its infinite wisdom in self-preservation, suggested "Get bent. Seriously. Get bent. I want to puke and I don’t want to get any on our clothes."

Pride retorted "Want to puke or need to puke? Unless you've been injected by a poisonous dart from one of those pissed off hot chicks from Nubile Hill and NEED to expel the toxins, I suggest you shut your cake hole. The child molester is gaining on us- hurry up”.

“You're an asshole” Said Body.

“Duh. Didn't you get the memo? Oh, by the way, you're fat.” Pride contemptuously replied.

And so forth. To be honest, the urge to vomit could have been more serious; I had yet to sense the acrid taste in mouth and my stomach was not at full boil, but the big lump in my throat had turned on its 'outgoing traffic only' sign, suggesting that a hearty chundering was about to occur.

Alas, with a stoplight ahead and the course marker indicating a left hand decline, salvation was at hand. Summiting the hill, I dropped my bike and took a seat in the dirt. After a 5 minute breather, I ventured on without any further drama. My body was no longer on 'imminent launch' mode, so I took an energy gel and finished off the last of my fig newtons.

Rolling into my driveway, the day’s mileage totaled 85 miles (64 mile route + 18 mile transit from the trail + 3 miles worth of straying off course). I've been more exhausted from other rides, but I collapsing like a rag doll onto my lawn, which felt really, really good. As I was laying in the fetal position, I ran through the day’s lessons for the next training session: eat and drink even more, start riding earlier in the day, bring ibuprofen for headaches, and most importantly, talk to the imagined hot girls on Nubile Hill.

Hey, man, is that freedom rock?

Through a 'friend of a friend that knows someone', I obtained the Time-Life Collection 10-disc set of 'Ultimate' 70s music. Starting from 1970, I've noticed that each proceeding year gets embarrassingly more schmaltzy and butt-rocky.

Currently, I’m knee-deep in the constipated bowels of 1976 music. I just finished listening to the disco anthem 'You Should Be Dancing', the Bee Gees’ breakthrough single that debuted Barry Gibb’s ‘castration set to melody’ signature sound. The combination of infectious rhythms, brassy horns, and high falsettos make me want to snort some blow, do burnouts in a 1970 Firebird, and contemplate the stagflative malaise of Detroit’s industrial sector.

If 1984 was ‘Morning in America’, 1976 can fairly be titled ‘Afternoon Butt Scratch’.

Adorable newborns, unite!

My new niece, Mae, throwing up an oh-so-cute fist of solidarity.

Although her knowledge of guerrilla warfare may not be up to snuff, I think many a revolutionary insurgent could learn a lot from her. For example- the cuddly light-yellow knit sweater that she is wearing. You're not going to win any friends wearing a red-starred beret with an AK-47 slung over your shoulder. And what about those rosey cheeks?!? If you want freedom for your people, you're going to have to lose the ski mask and the weeks-worth of scratchy stubble beneath it.

We shall... We shall... We shall overcome drool...

My, what a curious odor you've discovered

Out of the blue, I just sensed the faint aroma of cilantro. The stink of desperation, fear and potatoes normally clouds my sense of smell, so the scent of far away spices is a pleasant respite from the usual olfactory grind. I'm sitting at my desk right now with my office door and window closed, so this fleeting scent is particularly curious.

It's just about my lunch time; therefore the thought of cilantro has my stomach all a flutter with happy memories of Pho and Vietnamese sandwiches.

Seeing how my current lunch regiment consists of a bowl of cereal and yogurt, I might as well swallow a handful of thumbtacks, because anything short of a French baguette stuffed with a bounty of fresh goodness will simply not do. Maybe I should check out the 7-Eleven convenience store across the street to see if they have any pate I can stir into my bowl of Special K.

Self-amputation: the future of sports medicine

In an uncharacteristic move of forethought for the big ride in July, I went on a Saturday 'morning' solo training ride. Unlike my usual weekend routine of getting out of bed at the 'late' break of dawn (i.e. 1:00pm), I rolled out at the ungodly hour of 10am. Seeing how traffic was light and few people were out and about, I think there is some law I am unaware of that prohibits people from roaming the streets before noon (I think it has to do with sunlight-sensitive zombies roaming the streets before the sun reaches its peak).




After riding downtown and a short ferry cruise to Bainbridge Island, I attempted the Chilly Hilly bike route but got lost and cut the 40 mile route by 5 miles. Still feeling frisky, I decided to ride to the Vashon ferry dock in West Seattle. I was staying hydrated (I'm still digging the Nuun tablets) and fed (Vanilla Gu and a couple of bugs that flew into my mouth) the whole time, so I was able to maintain a good pace (of which, much to my later chagrin, accidentally caused me to blow through a Pioneer Square construction zone, irking some city road workers).




Almost reaching the beachfront Lincoln park near the ferry dock, my lower left side of my back and leg started to get whiny about some sort of discomfort and pain. This is nothing new, seeing how my left leg is longer than my right, resulting in a compromised bike fit that accommodates both legs. The conflicting thought processes of each leg humored me along the way. My left leg was bitching along the lines of 'Dear God, please stop so that we can stretch. Otherwise, just chew me off and leave me behind' (I attempted to find a picture of an elderly person stretching by googling 'elderly stretch', resulting in this picture of two dudes with what looks like a twin-spout flamethrower).




The rest of my body was all 'Fuck you, left leg. We got a good rhythm going, so suck it'. This arguing kept on going for a good 15 minutes, until a decided to compromise by letting my left leg unclip and dangle while the right leg continued to pump away. Once I reached the Vashon docks, I did some lengthy stretching, preventing any further discomfort on the way home. The day's mileage totaled 67.5 miles (I rode up and down the driveway a couple of times to round up the number to that magical 0.5). The Chilly Hilly elevation gain is 2675 feet, but I think exceeded that by tacking on West Seattle and riding to and from Northgate. This sort of mileage and saddle time is in line with what the RAMROD training guide suggests, but I have yet to see any documentation detailing how to gnaw off whiny appendages like a squirrel with a leg caught in a trap.

Highway to the Danger Zone

With exception to a brief career as a professional prosthetic-limb league cage fighter, I haven't done anything consciously stupid of late. Thus, I've signed up for the Ride Around Mount Rainier in One Day (RAMROD) 'ultra-marathon'; a single day 150 mile bike ride with 10,000 feet of climbing.

Such a physical endeavor requires preparation; therefore I've considered the following to ensure a successful outcome:

MOTIVATION: While methods of motivation run the gamut, I tend to find 'the stick' method much more convincing than that of the coddling that is 'the carrot' persuasion. Therefore, I think I might just rock these bad boy duds during the ride:

I'm sure there are those that would agree with me in finding this Nalini Naturino uniform atrociously Euro-trashy, but I can't imagine any other set of clothing that would motivate me to ride faster and harder. Not so much that it has some special design to maximize pedaling efficiency or comfort, but rather it would be sheer embarrassment that would motivate me to finish the ride as quickly as possible so as to unburden myself of the scorn and mockery that wearing these outfit entails.

MIND SET: To help whittle away the hours of toil and sweat, a theme song comes in handy. In this instance, it doesn't get any better than Kenny Loggins 'Highway to the Danger Zone' from the Top Gun soundtrack.

Sure, I've considered Eminem's 8-Mile theme 'Lose Yourself' or System Of A Down's thrash metal 'BYOB', but for this mission, the K-Man is the peanut butter to my slice-banana bacon sandwich. Whenever my pedal stroke begins to slow and falter, I'll just imagine myself as Tom Cruise on his motorbike racing a Tomcat at takeoff, pumping his fist as the jet passes, with good ol' Kenny preachin' truth to the beat of some hardcore synth-rock. Man, thinking about it right now just makes me want to go lift some weights and get a tattoo.

PREPARATION: Treading known paths that others have pioneered will limit the impact of unknown variables and likely increase the chance of success traversing from point A to B, but what's the fun of that? Therefore, my training will be based on the following untested 3-day plan. Here's how it goes:

Day One: Take all of the milestones of a 4 month training session and cram it into 12 hours (this plan still allows you to sleep in till noon).

Day Two: Assess how you did on day one. Make up for any perceived shortcomings with repeated vomiting.

In this process, be sure to replenish lost body fluids with only whole milk and/or chicken broth (vegetable broth is not an acceptable substitute).

Day Three: Kick back, sit a spell. Hungry? Go have a bucket of chicken. Still feeling fat? Go ahead and vomit some more. Oh yeah, don't forget to put some extra air in the bike tires before leaving the house.

The road to hell is paved with...kittens?

With the last day to legally use studded tires passing, I recently removed the snow tires from my car and mounted the all-weather street tires. By the beard of almighty Zeus is there a difference in ride quality. Unlike the tank-like Carmageddon rumbling that accompanies studded snow tires, the street tires deliver a whispery ride, conveying a sense that you’re traversing over a road made of fluffy kittens.

I’ve never traveled over kitten-paved roads before, but I’d imagine this is the closest I’ll ever achieve in having such an experience.

The Origins of Crap

First Annual Etymological Symposium on Scatological Terminology



Panel Members:

Thuy V, PhD.
Professor Emeritus of Canadian Cinema
Kingsport Ladies College

Matt D, MD.
Chancellor of Theoretical Bus Driving Dynamics
Harvard School of Driving

Dave V, BS
Bowel Tai-Chi Zen Master
Bob Jones Seminary

Transcript of Proceedings:

Thuy V: Here's a French word for you

crapulerie (krap-ew-lair-ee) noun, feminine
1. villainy
2. a dishonest act

[from "crapule" (scoundrel) and borrowed from the latin "crapula"
(intoxication") -- synonyms include "la canaillerie" (a low trick)
and "la fripouillerie" (roguishness)]

Matt D: Did our word "crap" come from this?

Dave V: According to the history channel, no. 'Crap' originated in 1200 BC when a caveman stepped in a pile of T-Rex turds and grunted 'crap'.

Matt D: T-Rexs were around in 1200 BC? I don't know Dave, that sounds a bit suspicious to me.

Dave V: According to the caveman who stepped into the fresh load, there certainly were T-Rexs in 1200 BC. Seriously, why would someone who stepped into a knee-high mound of turds lie about this? C'mon Matt, you gotta see the forest from the trees.

Thuy V: I can't believe matt believed that 1) someone was witness to 2) a caveman stepping on t-rex turds, 3) thought to record the reaction and 4) decided that out of it all, to question the part about the t-rex. hehehhe

Matt D: Well the t-rex is at the root of it all! the t-rex was alive in 1200 BC, birthed the turd in the right spot that led to the caveman coining the word "crap". so we have the mighty t-rex to thank for all this crap.

Dave V: Thuy, you previously said '...someone was witness to 2)' which can be interpreted as 'someone was witness to the bowel movement'. Given the context of our discussion on crap, were you intentionally trying to be clever or was it just a coincidence? Well played, good lady.

I would SO take this off some sweet jumps

Had I the disposable income of a third world country ruled by a ruthless cabal of oil barons, mercenaries, and syphillitic socialites, I would buy this custom, man-sized tricycle. It doesn't look like it has the agility of a low-slung Big Wheel, but when you're rockin' this much style, you want to take your time. And seeing how it only has one gear, I'd also have 'Single and Sassy' airbrushed onto the downtube.

Ahoy matey!

Laugh! Sing! Dance!

For today is a new day, and Dave hath set sail on a fantastic voyage of a literary endeavor aboard the jolly good ship USS Dainty Scamp. Tis a hearty and stout ship; having recently served a long and respectable duty as an ocean cruise liner for the adventurous vacationer yearning for the excitement of being trapped on a coffin-like vessel but with the amenities of four star hotel, the Dainty Scamp has heard the siren call of the open seas and has responded in kind with a hearty ‘Aye matey, we rides tonight like the homeys roll deep to da club’.

Surely, these writing seas are beset with many a peril: pirates who be bitin’ other people’s shit, mythical sea monstrosities that swallow ships whole (or, anything else that cuts into writing time, otherwise known as jobs, the distraction of loved ones, the daily upkeep of hygiene, etc.), and the most evil of all evils, the dreaded libel laws of ‘the man’ that keep many a good baseless and slanderous yarn from seeing the light of day.

But with an overactive imagination, a gross misunderstanding of social norms and conventions, and an excellent HMO plan to address known neurosis and those yet to manifest, I have full confidence the good captain ‘chairmandave’ can traverse any rough seas on the horizon.

It feels good to set sail, for Dave has long been at bay and has longed for the open sea...