Well, Media Whore Week is over and to be honest I felt like starting the Wolfjeep and closing the garage door yesterday. I'm five years free of purple pills prescribed by a doctor who doesn't deal in blood and guts, if you know what I'm sayin', but I could have used some grape colored M&M looking mudderphutters. Lack of sleep, overexercising, dehyrdation, and getting bought at the bachelor auction by a coug so old she's a sabertooth has taken a toll on my arse and I think I got out of balance, chemically speaking. Damnit. But I'm back on track now thank you very much.
A month ago things looked like in 2009 I'd walk down the hill and f-word them all and now I'm lucky a great-grandma forked over big game cheese for El Sandinista. She won me for 70 or 80 duckets BUT later wrote a check for $500 to the youth orchestra. Put another one in the W column for the Jock of the Rock. That Coastie with the Gel Hawk in his hair (that ten year old kids were doing in Cali two years ago) who sold for $220...sorry Player, this is my town. Hopefully I can get my dinner at the K.I. wit' her before she croaks.
I won't even discuss Prom Date who showed up with a co-worker from The-Job-I-REALLY-Wish-I-Could-Talk-About-But-Can't. The stories that go untold. You have no idea. Barely related, I finally realized how my work hours kind of kill some opportunities to socialize. Its like I walk amongst yall in my own time zone. Its like everyone else is on Eastern Standard Time and I'm here by myself sometimes.
Add to this the NFL season has ended and its two and a half months from the draft with the annual V-Day kick to the nizzuts and the removal of four wisdom teeth to come this week things aren't looking happy shiny. I repeat: V-Day was designed to punish malekind for ignoring the significant Chickface for the past 20 Sundays when a man is weakest; after the Pro Bowl. The holiday traces back to former New York Met Bobby Valentine who forsaw pigskin becoming more popular than MLB and created a this day as revenge. It has nothing to do with love. He also owns a 43% minority share in Kay Jewelers and I'm completely full of schmitt.
February and March in Kodiak are no doubt the toughest time of year. Cabin fever is shifting into the next gear and the national scene is so scary I think 'Merica can't avoid a depression. No drugs for that. Plus I didn't win a gawd damn Grammy yesterday. I feel like Rihanna's face. Plus I'm so old I don't know the difference between Radiohead and Coldplay. They can both suck my arse sideways in sawdust.
Anywho, I feel obligated to make a statement regarding the 14th as I did last year. The A-Bomb Mother of All Attention Getters (aka overpriced AlaskaMen magazine) has failed to produce for the most part although there is one Jane Doe sorta in the picture. That reminds me I should sent that latest big mama a lil Thanks But I'm Taken/I'm Lying To You note.
So now what?
I see no point to BIATCHing about The Ratio anymore. We've all beat that dead horse beyond recognition. Might have to put my PFD bounty idea into effect offering my 49er check to the one who finds me Miss Sweet Tits along with a long term contract. I know, I'm so romantic. Of course this year's dividend might be smaller than my Bristol Bay Exxon settlements rumored to be arriving next month and valued between beer money and bail so it wouldn't be much on an incentive.
I have been sitting on another idea. The King stumbled upon it the other day on the secret server operating under the Penthouse. I call it Outta The Wild, based on the book and film but done in Benji Button style. That's right, instead of coming to Alaska and becoming pure I leave my home state for the 48 and jackarse my way across country and meeting as many human females as possible. Blog and video in tow. This would require a leave of absence from the Boss Woman and all those I can't speak of. That might be the biggest hurdle. Although I get better looking daily I'm still not getting any younger. I could have the finest girl in Kodiak in bed and there is still a chance I'd fall asleep before the fireworks if its after 2:37am. In other words, if I'm going to do this I shouldn't wait for the big Four-Oh. Like The Detroit Lions, I'm on the clock.
Here's a taste of the action from the bachelor/bachelorette auction on Saturday. Check out this idiot. Wait, that's me. I'm an idiot. Props to 101.1FM's Sarah Morris for putting up with my routine. Her involvement was completely unplanned. And thanks to Cynthia for getting me that beer.
A month ago things looked like in 2009 I'd walk down the hill and f-word them all and now I'm lucky a great-grandma forked over big game cheese for El Sandinista. She won me for 70 or 80 duckets BUT later wrote a check for $500 to the youth orchestra. Put another one in the W column for the Jock of the Rock. That Coastie with the Gel Hawk in his hair (that ten year old kids were doing in Cali two years ago) who sold for $220...sorry Player, this is my town. Hopefully I can get my dinner at the K.I. wit' her before she croaks.
I won't even discuss Prom Date who showed up with a co-worker from The-Job-I-REALLY-Wish-I-Could-Talk-About-But-Can't. The stories that go untold. You have no idea. Barely related, I finally realized how my work hours kind of kill some opportunities to socialize. Its like I walk amongst yall in my own time zone. Its like everyone else is on Eastern Standard Time and I'm here by myself sometimes.
Add to this the NFL season has ended and its two and a half months from the draft with the annual V-Day kick to the nizzuts and the removal of four wisdom teeth to come this week things aren't looking happy shiny. I repeat: V-Day was designed to punish malekind for ignoring the significant Chickface for the past 20 Sundays when a man is weakest; after the Pro Bowl. The holiday traces back to former New York Met Bobby Valentine who forsaw pigskin becoming more popular than MLB and created a this day as revenge. It has nothing to do with love. He also owns a 43% minority share in Kay Jewelers and I'm completely full of schmitt.
February and March in Kodiak are no doubt the toughest time of year. Cabin fever is shifting into the next gear and the national scene is so scary I think 'Merica can't avoid a depression. No drugs for that. Plus I didn't win a gawd damn Grammy yesterday. I feel like Rihanna's face. Plus I'm so old I don't know the difference between Radiohead and Coldplay. They can both suck my arse sideways in sawdust.
Anywho, I feel obligated to make a statement regarding the 14th as I did last year. The A-Bomb Mother of All Attention Getters (aka overpriced AlaskaMen magazine) has failed to produce for the most part although there is one Jane Doe sorta in the picture. That reminds me I should sent that latest big mama a lil Thanks But I'm Taken/I'm Lying To You note.
So now what?
I see no point to BIATCHing about The Ratio anymore. We've all beat that dead horse beyond recognition. Might have to put my PFD bounty idea into effect offering my 49er check to the one who finds me Miss Sweet Tits along with a long term contract. I know, I'm so romantic. Of course this year's dividend might be smaller than my Bristol Bay Exxon settlements rumored to be arriving next month and valued between beer money and bail so it wouldn't be much on an incentive.
I have been sitting on another idea. The King stumbled upon it the other day on the secret server operating under the Penthouse. I call it Outta The Wild, based on the book and film but done in Benji Button style. That's right, instead of coming to Alaska and becoming pure I leave my home state for the 48 and jackarse my way across country and meeting as many human females as possible. Blog and video in tow. This would require a leave of absence from the Boss Woman and all those I can't speak of. That might be the biggest hurdle. Although I get better looking daily I'm still not getting any younger. I could have the finest girl in Kodiak in bed and there is still a chance I'd fall asleep before the fireworks if its after 2:37am. In other words, if I'm going to do this I shouldn't wait for the big Four-Oh. Like The Detroit Lions, I'm on the clock.
Here's a taste of the action from the bachelor/bachelorette auction on Saturday. Check out this idiot. Wait, that's me. I'm an idiot. Props to 101.1FM's Sarah Morris for putting up with my routine. Her involvement was completely unplanned. And thanks to Cynthia for getting me that beer.
