Rudy the Basil Plant

My girlfriend recently bought a basil plant. We named it Rudy - after Rutherford B. Hayes (true). This is my first bout with parenthood. Like a child, Rudy needs constant nourishing. He needs attention on a daily basis, needs to be fed when he's hungry, and turns brown from time to time.

I think about Rudy constantly. When I'm sleeping, I dream of Rudy. When I'm walking I walk with Rudy. When I'm on the phone - it's Rudy. "Hi Rudy, how are you? What's that? You need water? Why? I fed you this morning. Rudy? Are you there? Why aren't you answering? Rudy? RUDY? RUDY! Where are you? Are you OK? Oh Jesus no. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO"

I raced home. Rudy was fine. He's a plant.
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"People tell me that Senator Edwards got picked for his good looks, his sex appeal, and his great hair. I say to them, How do you think I got the job?" - Dick Cheney

The President at Notre Dame

I'm about to head to Notre Dame for their graduation ceremonies. In case you haven't read the news in the past week, President Obama is speaking. But that's hardly the most newsworthy part of this weekend. There are lots and lots and lots of protesters. They claim that President Obama is anti-Catholic because of his stance on abortion. All politics aside, I have a plan. Here's how it's going to go...

Me: What do you want from me?
Protester: I want you to join the boycott of President Obama
Me: Why?
Protester: He is pro-choice.
Me: But this is graduation, not a pro-abortion rally. Shouldn't we be celebrating the graduates?
Protester: Yeah, but by bringing him here, Notre Dame is agreeing with his policies. And that makes me upset as an American.
Me: Well, I'm going to hear the President of the United States while you stare at pictures of dead unborn people. Have fun with that.
Protester: K, Bye.
Me: Bye.

Really Rubbery

I have a serious dilemma on my hands. I have a pair of Converse All Stars - black and white. Real slick, real trendy. I enjoy wearing them...it makes me feel like I'm Ben Folds or the guy from Weezer or Pee Wee Herman.

What's the dilemma? They smell like rubber. I mean rubber rubber. Really rubbery. When I'm not wearing them, I have to wrap them in a plastic Kohls bag and stuff it in the back of my closet by the bike I never ride.

It's a hard decision to make. Do I throw them away and rid myself and my apartment of the rubber factory stink or be cool? I was taught as a young boy to always put looking awesome over anything else. When I was 6 I got a tattoo of Michael Jackson on my back. When I was 12 I got a tattoo of Donnie Wahlberg on my chest.

Yeah, I think I'll throw away the shoes.

Maple Syrup Marmalade

You know the drill. You've all been to a restaurant. You sit down and get your water, you get your menus, look it over for a bit and the waiter/tress comes over to you. They ask if you want a cocktail or beverage of any type and then begin to tell you the specials for that day. This is where the metaphoric shit hits the metaphoric fan.

It's one of the most awkward positions to be in. It's like wearing a banana suit on bandanna day. It's like being a 14 year old boy with a full beard and a forest in your pants the size of the Amazon. It's just a situation you don't want to be in. Here's why -

What do you do? Do you keep staring at the waiter while he reads to you? Then it's just a stare-off. You know the waiter won't break eye contact with you and you don't want to be rude. The waiter knows you don't want to stare, hell he doesn't want to stare. But it's ingrained in us. You just stare. So as Francisco (the waiter) tells you about the duck confit with a maple syrup marmalade and the shaved oregano salad with mango chutney and the Hamburger Helper special, you have a decision to make. Do you care if the waiter thinks you're rude? Uh, does the pope wear a funny hat? Being rude to people to deal with your food is like being rude to your acupuncturist.

So I think you just stare back and smile. Even if it's for a while.

Supple Like My Thighs

I went to Ft. Wayne, IN yesterday (true.) The place is magical. They have unicorns flying over buildings, free street cars that play whimsical melodies leisurely strolling through the thoroughfares, and children everywhere! The air is supple - like my thighs. The sun is always shining. The cows produce such great milk that it really does do your body good. The trees are tall and the ladies are sexy. The grass is green(ish) and there's not a cloud in the sky. Everyone is in peak physical condition.

I hear they are thinking about holding the 2020 World's Fair in Ft. Wayne. It wouldn't be a bad idea.

Rip Rip One Two

Editor's Note: Before I start, I want to make something clear - I usually don't make fun of people or complain and I usually don't tell true stories. The story you are about to enjoy involves all three: truth, making fun of someone and complaints. If you are the guy referenced in this post - GRRRRRRR.
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I went to the Cubs game this afternoon. By myself. I had nothing else to do and I live so close to Wrigley Field, it was really a no-brainer. Just a quick walk. I was sitting in section 206 behind the Cubs bullpen in left field. (I just wanted to give you all a reference point.) There was this guy sitting behind me who was either really drunk or really dumb. I was leaning toward dumb because I didn't see him imbibe anything other than Diet Coke. He was wearing over sized aviator glasses (it was very cloudy), a plaid shirt with snap buttons open to his hairy chest, skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. He was about 24-25 years old. Oh and he had a Budweiser trucker hat on.

Every time a girl walked in front of him, he would start on this bizarre baseball lingo that I'm pretty sure he made up. It went something like this: "Come on baby baby, little rip rip one two rip rip you got it rip rip baby baby oh baby one two." Then the girl would pass and he would go back to his other rants that went like this: "Let's go Cubs, you got this! We can do this!" It didn't matter at all what was happening on the field. The grounds crew could have been out sweeping the infield and he would say, "COME ON BABY WE GOT THIS! ONE TWO ONE TWO RIP RIP RIP."

As the game went on and the Cubs looked like they were going to lose, he turns to his friend and says, "I am so drunk, dude." So I guess he was drunk and I was wrong. But I'd rather be wrong than be that guy. Rip Rip Rip One Two One Two Rip One Two Rip Rip Here We Go Baby Baby Oh Baby Rip Rip Rip.

Fighting an Ex-Marine

I decided to join the ranks of professional boxing. After watching the Hatton vs. Pacquiao fight, I was so impressed that I thought I needed to be a part of it. I spent a full week dancing around my apartment on my toes, cloaked in loose boxer shorts and stripper boots. My man boobs were flying around, it made me feel fierce, determined, and oddly turned on.

My first task was to choose a nickname. All the greats have a nickname: Cassius "Muhammad Ali" Clay, George "The Griller" Foreman, Mike "Captain Insane-o" Tyson, etc. I came up with Gabe "Harry Truman" Culberg.

I hired a promoter/trainer, Jackie Garabond, some Jewish guy from Naples, Florida. He promised me a world of hurt and glory and he just wanted 40% of my profit. It sounded like a good deal. He arranged a fight with Gary "The Ex-Marine" Anderson. I guess he was in the military. The ding-ding sounded and I got a good look at my opponent. He was a huge mofo. He had tattoos all over his arms and neck. He was foaming at the mouth. I was peeing in my pants. I was so scared. Immediately I knew this was the wrong choice. I should have never quit my job as a ice cream salesman. I was KO'd in the first round, in the first 10 seconds to be exact. I now have 4 teeth left and a broken collar bone. Was it worth it? Hell no.

As for Jackie Garabond...well, as soon as the ding-ding sounded, he grabbed my wallet and ran out of the building. What a sucker - there was nothing in my wallet except for a coupon to Mel's ice cream parlor. Jackie Garabond is lactose intolerant.