Greg and Dad

I didn't notice until we got to the game that Miss Sally had picked out the Homestar Runner t-shirt for Greg. With me in my Midnight Mountain Club t-shirt, we make a good pair.

WTF: Dude at Panera with desktop computer

Either that dude couldn't wait to get home for the unboxing or he was Jonesin' for some wi-fi.

Photo courtesy of @tgoodnight


The Phertatradon is the most feared dinosaur in the world. If you take its photo, it will charge and more than likely kill the photographer.

Fear the Phertatradon.

Transcript of the Patton Oswalt "Black Angus" stand-up

Patton Oswalt - Black Angus

I am getting a st… I'm gonin’.. when I fly back to LA tomorrow I am going to the Buggy Whip restaurant and getting a giant fucking steak. You heard me! I enjoy steak too much because I hate hippies so much. You know what I mean. I enjoy it more than I think I actually enjoy it. Every time you eat a steak, like a hippy’s hacky sack goes down the gutter, you know, “Oh man, oh dude, what the fuck man.” Every time you eat a steak a hippy’s hacky sack goes into the sewer. Always remember that.

And I like the… I mean I’ll go to Lawrys and Ruth’s Chris, the really high end steak houses. But I’ll go to the shitball steak house, I don’t care. Outback. Blank Angus. I’m there, it’s steak. Not so much Black Angus, thought. Cause do you remember how friendly the ads for Black Angus use to be? They like, Come on in! Have a steak. How about a baked potato? You’re like, how bout yeah! I’ll see you tomorrow night. Table for two, 7:15.

Now the ads for Black Angus, have you noticed how it’s turned into this gauntlet of angry food? It’s almost like they’re like challenging you?

“At Black Angus, we’ll start you off with our appetizer platter, featuring five jumbo deep fried gulf shrimp, served on a disk of salted butter, with 15 of our potato bacon bombs and a big bowl of pork cracklins with our cheese and butter dippin’ sauce. “

Your like, um we’re all gonna split that…

“Awe, you’ll each get your own!”

“Then well take you to our mile long soup and salad bar featuring bacon and cheese cream soup and our five head of ice burg lettuce He-Man salad, served in a punch bowl with 18 pounds of ranch dressing, pork stuff deep fried croutons and, what the hell, a couple of corn dogs.”

Uh, hey man, I tell you what, I’ll just get like a mixed green salad.

“Hey, I’ll suck a cock on the Golden Gate Bridge before I bring you a mixed green buddy.”

I.. what? I?

“Then we’ll wheel out our bottomless trough of friend dough.”

Wait a minute, am I getting a steak?

“Oh you’ll get a fucking steak. Cause then we’ll bring out our 55 ounce Lost Mesa, He-Man steak slab, served with a deep fried pumpkin, stuffed with buttered scallops and 53 of our potato bacon bombs.”

Oh dude, I don’t think…

“And then bend over Abigail May cause here comes the gravy pipe.”


“Black Angus, door are locked from the outside, faggot!”

But, no. What, when did I?

“At Black Angus, your name is Peaches.”

Lollapalooza iTunes Card

The official program of the 2010 Lollapalooza came with an iTunes card glued in the back. Upon inspection, it read that the card was good for 40 free songs. 40 FREE SONGS! And they were handing out the programs like candy!

The process in my head, which I call math, started to ask for additional processing resources, so I stopped in my tracks and started to figure out how many of these cards I would need to break even on my ticket price.

Greg saw me come to a complete stop and noticed the tell tale signs that I was thinking. He knew what was going on in my head.

"The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."

"Oh, that sucks."

So I stuffed the card in my wallet for when I got home.

Later that day, we saw a dude going through a recycling bin, pulling out programs and looking for the iTunes card in the back. We didn't say anything to him, but I assume that he figured it out on his own once he got home.

On our last day of Lollapalooza, Kit and I were standing at the Blogger stage when three very good looking, blind girls approached us. We thought it odd that the blind girls didn't have guide dogs or walking sticks. It took us a moment to figure out that the three very good looking girls were actually NOT blind and were asking us where the Adidas Stage was. Kit said he thought it was at the other end of the park and pulled out his Program to confirm it. Their destination was at the other end of the park and I would have thought their next move would have been to run from us post-haste. But instead they began chatting with us. One of the girls pointed at Kit's program and said, "Did you know that there is a iTunes card in there that gives you 40 dollars worth of free songs?"

I, in my 40 year old know-it-all-voice, said, "The card is good for only 40 specific songs. You can't use it to buy anything else."

"Oh, that sucks."

And with that, the imaginary, shimmering bubble that surround us burst and they said thanks and walked off.

I downloaded the 40 songs and it turned out there were 45. They should edited the graphic on the card to read, "4 songs you will like and a shitload of others that suck balls and make you wonder why you dug through the recycling for hours to collect these fucking things."

The Container and The Contents

We took a Spring Break trip to Myrtle Beach two years before we turned 21. That was the awkward time of wanting to acquire alcohol right before being legally able to buy it. I had tasted the devil’s sweat and couldn’t wait to do it again without worrying about getting busted. When on home turf, there were always older friends to buy or bars that friend’s dad owned. On the road, it was a little tougher. That’s why we decided to take our own. Not in bottles, cans or in wine skins. But in a 5 gallon, insulated coffee dispenser in the form of Hairy Buffalo.

There are two parts of this story: The Container and The Contents.

The Container

Eric went to school at Miami of Ohio’s Western campus. Or as it’s know to those who really care, The School of Interdisciplinary Studies/Western College Program at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. We knew it as the hippy side of Miami U. It’s a very liberal college where everyone seemed to have long hair (back when it wasn’t fashionable) and hairy armpits (which is never fashionable.) Notwithstanding my mocking, it was a wonderful school and Eric loved it.

During Eric’s tenure at Western, Folgers Coffee had a marketing campaign aimed at getting college kids addicted to coffee again. (This was back when Starbucks only had 125 stores. They were all within three blocks of each other, but you get my drift.) To get the kids addiction rolling, they strategically placed 5 gallon, insulated, coffee dispensers all around the Miami and Western campuses. In the mornings, a truck would drive around with full containers. A dude would climb out of the truck, unchain the hopefully empty 5 gallon container, replace it with a full container, refill the cups and toss the empty container back in the truck. It would take the guy about ninety seconds to complete the transaction.

You may not know this, but Eric has the unique ability to borrow a 5 gallon, insulated, coffee dispenser off the back of a truck in about thirty seconds. Though it was not in his plans, the one he borrowed was full of hot coffee. For you that are unfamiliar, five gallons of hot coffee weighs about 41.8 lbs. With the container at a slim 16 pounds, he was lugging a total hot load of 57.8 lbs. If you did not check out the link above, you will not know that the container was tall and thin with handles at the top. One would have to lug the container with arms hanging down and legs spread apart in a sort of half crab walk.

Eighty seconds into his delivery, the coffee dude turned around to see a long haired asshole, half crab walking across the green carrying off one of his containers of coffee. Eric had a fifty second lead and all the guy could do was yell and take a few worthless steps in Eric’s direction.

I’m sure this container, God knows where it is today, could tell a number of stories of the original coffee that was drank from it and the dozens of other liquids that filled it during it’s time in Eric’s dorm room, then law school and perhaps all the way to Chicago. Since the container is not here, I will tell the one story that I know.

The Contents

I think the whole reason we decided to take Hairy Buffalo was based on the fear of getting busted for speeding on the way down to Myrtle Beach and having the cops search our car and take away any bottles of liquor. Somehow, a huge five gallon container of red liquor fortified punch would slip by the eye of Deputy Dawg in his search for contraband.

Somehow, Eric had acquired an insulated, five gallon container that would be perfect for transporting hairy buffalo. It had a locking lid and a spigot at the bottom for easy dispensing. We were divided up into two groups: those finding the required alcohol and those buying the fruit and mixers. I can’t remember what group I was in. What I do remember is that Russ was in the latter group and arrived at Eric’s house with rhubarb. Rhubarb? What the fuck is rhubarb? Rhubarb is basically a weed that you find next to okra in the Natural Foods section of the supermarket. See, Russ had been eating Rhubarb for years in his mom’s cherry-rhubarb pie. As a pie, it was like tasty celery swimming with cherries in a crust. Why wouldn’t it taste good in a hairy buff? For one thing, you have to drown rhubarb in sugar to make it palatable. It’s also a good idea to bake it as well. Russ wouldn’t have any of that and chopped it up along with the watermelon and strawberries.

The dudes who were in charge of alcohol did well and came back with various bottles of alcohol as well as sugary liquors like DeKuypers. A fine mix of alcohol to mix with the juices and the other fruit and the fucking rhubarb which I’m sure is a vegetable.

So we placed the 5 gallon container in the middle of Eric’s mom’s priceless, hand-woven Turkish carpet and began to pour the bottle of liquor in it. We had dumped about four bottles in when someone noticed that the container was not filling up. That statement made everyone shut up just long enough for us to hear the noise of liquid pouring out on to a priceless, hand-woven Turkish carpet. We had cleaned and rinsed the container out and in doing so the convenient spigot at the bottom of the container was open and the liquor was pouring out and on to the thirsty carpet.

This was a problem for two reasons: First, almost a third of the alcohol was not going to be leaving Ohio. Second, we just figured out how to turn priceless rug into a less-price rug. Eric was a little pissed off, but shit, it was his container. He should have checked the integrity of the tap before handing it over.

We closed the tap and pulled the container away from the spillage area. There was a growing two foot diameter stain. Towels were brought in and we scrubbed and cleaned as best we could. I’m unsure if Zud is the best stain remover for Turkish carpets, but that’s what we found under the kitchen sink.

We cleaned the top as best we could and then rolled back the carpet to see what had happened to the underside. The padding under the carpet was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was like a natural mesh of unwoven reeds or weeds or jute. Whatever it was, it was soaked in liquor. The natural material had taken a liking to the liquor and wasn’t about to let go of the red coloration. We soaked up what we could and laid the carpet back down.

There was still a red stain on the carpet at the point of impact. It was about the size of the bottom of a vacuum cleaner. As luck would have it, Eric had a vacuum cleaner and we placed it directly over the stain. No one would ever suspect a thing. At least until we were out of state. Three hours later we were out of state with a 5 gallon, insulated coffee container that was not full enough of hairy buffalo.

There is much more to tell about this Myrtle Beach Trip: Tony’s sunburn, the MMS, the pummeling on the beach, Shag, Vertical Smile, Papa’s Pasta Palace, and the Oil Leak. But let me leave you with this: After two days the slices of rhubarb grew fuzzy and with the addition of alcohol still tasted like shit. Who the f puts rhubarb in a f’ing hairy buffalo?

**** *******
Editor's Update

I found a photo of the dudes from the Spring Break trip.

From left to right: Eric, Brett, Russ, Greg and Tony. Kit is smack dab in the middle. (I'm taking the photo. I might have been wearing a t-shirt that said "Nothing phases a ceramic engineer.")

Brett reminded me that it was the bananas in the Hairy Buff that went fuzzy. The rhubarb just absorbed the alcohol and converted it to starch.

How to Disable Facebook's "Places."

"Places" might be a wonderful option for some people, but I'd rather not let my entire collection of "friends" or the whole of the internet know where I am at. "Places" also allows other people to 'check you in' so that they can tattle on me when I am at the nudie bar seeing my favorite dancer act, Doris.

Here is how to disable places:

1. Go to Account > Privacy Settings on top right.

2. Click on ‘Customize Settings‘ link at the bottom of that page.

3. Next to “Places I check in” use the drop down box to select ‘Only Me‘.

4. Make sure to ‘uncheck” the ‘Include me in “People Here Now” after I check in’ box.

5. Further down under “Things others share” select ‘Disabled’ next to “Friends can check me in to places.”

Allow me to explain

I created a list yesterday of the Top Ten Worst Stripper Names. Not my best work by far. In that list, amongst the wretched and disgusting names, was my grandmother's unique name. My thinking was that it would be awful to have the memory of one's grandmother tarnished by being a stripper's name. Funny, right?


My relatives did not find that humorous and to quote my cousin, I should, "die of shame for even having her name in this listing you unholy maggot."

So while my intent was for the sake of humor it did not come across that way. I can't really say that I'm sorry except that I'm sorry I didn't explain the joke the right way and that perhaps it was a bit unholy and maggoty.

So I edited my post and changed it to "satin peach" which is the nickname we gave a co-worker's shirt.

I hope this will not ruin our relationship.



Top Ten Worst Stripper Names

It’s best if you read these prefaced by saying, “And now welcome to the main stage the lovely…”

1. Smegma

2. Androgyny

3. Infectious

4. Satin Peach

5. Cesarean

6. Garlic

7. Mrs. Henderson

8. Ted

9. Carbon

10. Crustina

Bag o' Money winner!

We finally got a winner in the Bag o' Money contest. John from North Carolina correctly guessed $16.91.

Here's the goods before they were sent out. (The cash was in my car. I did actually send it.)

Here is the letter I sent along:

Dear John,

Thank you for entering and winning the “How Much Money is in the Bag” contest on While I almost had to spoon feed my readers the answer, you were the one with the wherewithal and the quickest correct guess of $16.91.

While you are taking food from the mouths of my children with this win, I do want you to spend this money appropriately. May I suggest one of the following:

16.9 condoms (use the .9 condom if you are planning on reproducing)
1 really, really cheap hooker
1/10 of a more expensive hooker
67 games of Donkey Kong at the retro arcade
33 games of Dragon’s Lair at the retro arcade
5 bags of Swedish Fish (Damn, they are addictive)
4 Happy Meals that my children will not be eating

Best of luck!

HolyJuan, Esquire

PS. Please use the included HolyJuan refrigerator magnet at your discretion. Your friends may actually find out what you have been up to.


And after spending $45.56 on postage, here is John with the goods!

"I always wanted a sack with $$ on it. Thanks Holy Juan!"

Leah Lou

Billy invited us up to Cleveland to go see a few bands at the Beachland Ballroom. Billy has very good taste in music and has yet to let us down. While we actually went to see the headliner, Marc Broussard, I was much more intrigued by the opener Leah Lou.

WARNING! You will either dig this chick's music or not. I like her. If you do not, you obviously have crappy taste in music.

Check her out at

And while I am not a starfucker, the opportunity did arise and I got a photo with my new girlfriend.

Stoned Stoneder Stonederiest

Oddly enough, we thought of these t-shirts while we were at Lollapalooza.


If you and your two stoned friends want t-shirts, you can buy them here:


Lillian Marie

Anne had a baby this morning. A little girl named Lillian Marie.

Happy happy!

Tips for Women: How to Keep a Guy From Thinking He's Going to Get Laid

If you are a female, it's pretty easy to have sex. I think all you need to do is open the window and yell and three or four guys will appear. But sometimes you just want to hang out with a guy, have some friendly conversation and then leave. But guys will never figure that out, so it is best to prepare the guy for the inevitable shutdown. Here are some helpful tips to ensure the dude knows that he's not going to get any. For this lesson, the prospective not-getting-laid guy’s name is Carl. (Sorry to all the guys named Carl.)

Step One: Do not say drink in the invitation
When a guy hears "drink" he thinks sex. Don't invite the guy out for a drink. Instead, invite Carl out for lunch or early dinner. Lunch is a definite boner bender. Early dinner suggests you’ve got other people to bang later. I’m not saying you can’t get a drink when you are out, just don’t suggest it in the invite.

Step Two: Call it a meeting

Meetings suck the life out of anyone. No one gets laid at a meeting. When you invite Carl to lunch, say you want to discuss a specific topic that does not include ex-boyfriends. Architecture and retirement are great topics to keep Carl from boning up. Again, you don’t have to discuss that at lunch, but it will keep Carl’s expectations at a bare minimum.

Step Three: Schedule a gynecologist visit right before your meeting

You are weak and might fuck Carl despite your attempt to con yourself into thinking you don’t want to. As a back up, schedule a Pap or a regular gyno visit right before your meeting with Carl. This will destroy any chance of you wanting to get busy. Ensure you mention that you are late to the lunch because of the gyno appointment and, for added realism, let a speculum fall out of your purse and on to the table. Follow that up with a, “So that’s where that went.”

Step Four: Order Wings
Wings are greasy, disgusting and delicious. A chick eating wings is hot only is she is eating them off your chest during sex. Watching you suck down twelve, greasy wings will turn Carl off. If he starts to get excited watching you lick the sauce off your fingers, remember to mention that wings give you the shits.

Step Five: The Shits
Leave the table several times during the night. Make sure you just run off at random times with one hand on your guts and the other on your butt. Splash water on your face in the bathroom and return to the table with lines like, "I hate splashback." or "It didn't look like that going in."

Step Six: Burning Itch
Scratch a lot. Complain of burning while you pee. Ask Carl what has been happening in local politics since you’ve been overseas in Thailand.

Step Seven: Dutch

Splitting the bill is the universal sign that no one is getting laid. If Carl insists on paying, wait until he hands the waiter his credit card and say your good-bye, insisting that you are about to have a blow-out from the wings tearing through your intestines. If he pays in cash and tells the waiter to keep the change, ask him in a loud voice how his counterfeiting operation is doing. Sneak out when the manager comes to the table.

Step Eight: Fuck him
Oh well. At least you gave it your best shot.

Twitter's new zombie-user policy

If we are notified that a Twitter user has turned into a Zombie, we can remove their account or assist family members in translating their loved one’s moans and death rattles into 140 character Tweets.

Please contact us with the following information:

1. Your full name, contact information (including email address), and your relationship to the Zombie.
2. The username of the Twitter account, or a link to the last Tweet they made suggesting that they were bit and feel ill.
3. A link to a news article or video of the Zombie eating brains.

You can contact us at, or by mail or fax:
Twitter Inc.,
c/o: Zombified
795 Folsom Street, Suite 600

San Francisco, CA 94107
Fax: 415-222-9958

We will respond by email with any additional information we might need including what new Zombie user name they might want. Please note that we cannot make Twitter @name exceptions for long Zombie names like Mmmmmmhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggggggggggg.

Please note that we cannot do anything about loved ones who turn into vampires. We don’t deal with that shit.

The Invitation and Then What We Did Once We Realized We Actually Weren't Invited

One plugged flat tire and 250 miles later we were within 20 minutes of Eric’s place in Chicago. We texted back and forth to coordinate when we would be arriving. Eric said that he would be at a party and that we should come over to the party. In Ohio, we call that an invitation.

Greg’s TomTom was re-programmed and we were on our way. There was parking right in front of the apartment and we jumped out and stretched. We called Eric and he came out of the party and warmly greeted us as only Eric can.

“Hey guys. The party is breaking up.”
That’s fine.
“Just a minute.”

Eric went back in.

We waited about five minutes standing outside the car. A couple walked out and then went down the street. Eric came out about three minutes after that.

“Things are still breaking up. Let me grab some folks and we’ll head back to my place.”
Should we come in?
“Um, no. Wait just a minute.”

Eric went back in. About two minutes later he emerged with a girl who was very fun and a guy with a football. The girl laughed and talked to us and we threw the ball back and forth with football guy. At some point, a guy stuck his head out the door, eyed us up and went back in. I assume that was the host of the party that was breaking up.

Eric admitted that there had been a bit of a mix up. He told the people at the party that he was having a few high school friends over. The host of the party thought that Eric was bringing over people that were in high school and not happy about that. Eric went back in.

So we stood outside and waited for a total of about twenty-five minutes for the party that was breaking up to break up.

The party broke up. Several piled into Eric’s car. If I was better with names, I would tell the name of the one guy who got into Greg’s. He was a cool dude. We chatted on the way over to Eric's.

We arrived at Eric place. He’s got an awesome house. His awesome house has an even more awesome deck that we sat on under the hazy stars, drank beer, talked and laughed with Eric and his friends. We mocked Eric for inviting us to a party we were not allowed to enter. We talked of our past transgressions. Eric played music from his computer. We discussed Lollapalooza. We laughed.

Kit went to bed. I took a group shot a little while later.

Other Photos

Your Relationship as defined by Sesame Street Characters

Some people will spend a lifetime trying to figure out their relationship. Using simple correlations between Sesame Street characters and typical, screwed up relationships, I have created a way for you to understand where you are in your love sphere and how quickly that bubble will probably burst.

The Kermit and Miss Piggy
This is the most basic of all relationships. The girl knows exactly what she wants. The guy isn't so sure. Pretty soon, she convinces him through a combination of sweet talk, screaming and simple karate chops that they should be together forever.

The Grover

You have no idea why you are dating this person. They drive you nuts. They don’t know what they want. They annoy the fuck out of you. All you know is that they give good hugs and you can't help but love them.

The Cookie Monster
Desire is the foundation to any relationship. Cookie Monster desires only one thing. Men only desire one thing. Men will promise you dinner for the cookie. They will promise you faithfulness for the cookie. They will marry you for the cookie. Once you stop giving them the cookie or if the cookie starts to have less chips and more saturated fats, they may look for another cookie jar. C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me.

The Snuffleupagus
The worst kind of a relationship. You tell all your friends about this great person that you’ve met and they don’t believe you because they never actually seen them. You tell your firends to meet you out at the bar and when they show up, your date has just left. What’s worse is that they begin to think you are completely crazy and when they do meet this person, they think that they are a paid escort and will never take you seriously again. You start to think that maybe your lover doesn’t want anyone to know about the relationship. But your doubt is overcome by your love. You are fucked, Bird.

The Sugapuelffuns or The Reverse Snuffleupagus
This is a relationship where you do not what your friends to know about your lover. They will see you with someone, ask about who they are and you will reply, “I don’t know who you are talking about.” You’ll be seen together at a restaurant and later deny it. You will avoid each other at parties, but sneak out at the same time. You lover will ask, “When will I get to meet your friends?” and you will not have a good answer. This relationship is destined not to end well.

The Bob
You are too smart and witty to realize that YOU ARE GAY! Quit wearing Maria as a beard and sing this phrase after me, "H is for Homosexual, that's good enough for me!"

The Oscar the Grouch
When given the choice between adapting to societal norms or living alone in a garbage can, you made the right decision. You are the smartest person alive. And the grumpiest because you aren't getting any.

The Elmo
Sometimes the shy type will win you over. Mainly because you can dominate them and make them do whatever you want. Going out with friends for ten nights in a row can strain a relationship. When you date an Elmo, just give them a little tickle and head out the door. If you bring home another "friend" for the evening, go inside alone and turn Elmo to face the pillows. What Elmo doesn't know can't hurt Elmo.

The Count von Count

Two words: anal retentive. If you are dating the Count, be prepared to be told how many times you’ve left the seat up/down and how many days it’s been since you’ve said I love you. Sure, the eyepiece is romantic at first, but you will soon grow weary of the cape cleaning bills, the sharp nose pokes to the eye and the fangs. The only good thing is that you will know when they are done criticizing you once the lighting bolt strikes. Ah ah ah!

The Ernie and Bert

You will probably be very happy in this bi-polar relationship, but you will also be very gay.

The Gordon and Susan
The perfect relationship. She loves him. He loves her. Sometimes they fight, but they always work it out in the end. The reason why this relationship works so well has to do with love, but has to do more with the fact that she thinks she is slightly better than him and he thinks he is slightly better than her. As long as they keep that to themselves, they will always be together.

The Linda
You act tough during the day about how being single is empowering and that no other person or disability can keep you from reaching your goals as an individual. At night you masturbate yourself to sleep and wake up more depressed than the day before when you can’t hear the alarm clock go off.

The Yip Yips

No one understands your relationship. No one needs to. You go everywhere together. You both need each other to survive. You may disagree with each other at first, but you will always agree in the end. You read the same Earth book, book books. You run off the same clock. Bong! Bong! And at the end of a long day, you swallow your own head and rest peacefully until the next morning. Oh, did I mention no sex?

The Mr. Hooper

You are too old to care. You just want the stupid kids to buy something and get out. You'll die lonely, but content.

The Luis and Maria
You cannot have this relationship because it is fake. For years, many were conned into thinking that this couple were married in real life. They were not. Like Mary, mother of Jesus, Maria was knocked up by someone else and poor Luis had to take the blame. They raised the child together on the show, but we all know who the real father is. I'm looking at you, inchworm.

A Rough Start *or* When Open 24 Hours Means Something Else

Thursday at 5:30pm, Kit called to say he was in the parking lot. I had just finished changing clothes and making sure that I was only forgetting two or three things. Greg arrived a few minutes later and we filled his already full trunk with our bags.

We were off to Chicago.

Traffic out of Columbus was for crap and construction had us slowed to a crawl. Slow enough so that a car next to us had the time and opportunity to make the necessary jestures to explain that we had a flat tire. We waved a thanks and pulled off.

We had the aspirations of a pit crew as we simultaneously leapt from the car to change the tire, but the ballet of clumbsiness that followed was laughable.

The fully packed trunk was evacuated of our bags and a soccer coach's collection of stuff. Greg was on the jack and Kit and I we responsible for extracting the spare tire from the bottom of the trunk.

But the spare tire had other plans. The plastic cap holding down the spare would not relent. Not to my girly grip nor Kit's steely grasp could unscrew that cap. Kit whipped out his trusty Leatherman and he applied leverage. Leverage did its job and broke off half of the plastic cap. With only half the cap left, we used Greg's wide array of truck tools to ensure we would break off the other half. With a rusty phillips screw driver and a piece of metal that looked like it once had a purpose in life, we applied a different kind of leverage that broke the other tab off.

With no intelligent choice left, we used brute force and over then next ten minutes we bloodied nuckles and bent tools. We realized that if we chipped away enough of the plastic, we could pull the tire up and off of the stuck cap. With 75% of it chipped away, we used the spare to pull up ad break that mother fucking thing off.

Greg applied the spare.

We loaded everything back in the truck and drove to the next exit. With the approval of the gods, that exit had a business called "24 Hour Tire Repair" right off the exit.

The 24 Hour Tire Repair shop was closed.

We had two scenarios. One scenario is that we drive through to Chicago on a 50 MPH spare tire. This was dangerous and would slow our drive to a crawl. The other scenario is that we call AAA to have the car towed to a shop that was actually open to have the tire fixed or replaced. This would take hours.

But Greg saw a Third Scenario.

We drove to the Pilot gas station across the street. Greg said, "When you are in the store, look for a tire plug kit." I thought he was joking because no manufacturer would create a product that regular idiots like me might use that could result in exploding tires and car accidents. So I didn't even look for a tie patching kit. I looked for Swedish Fish instead. Kit got the number for a different repair shop from the nice lady at the counter. I called and left a message for Bruce that we were in dire need of help. Kit and I watched Greg emerge from the gas station holding a tire plug kit. They actually sell them.

We moved the car to a lonely spot in the parking lot and empied the trunk again. Kit pulled out the flat and Greg redied the kit. We found the most likely spot where the hole might be. Greg used the shiv looking device to ream out the hole location. It was tearing the crap out of the tire and bits and chunks of rubber crumbled to the ground. I feared the worse. The next step involved threading a strip of rubber that looked like licorice through something that looked like a cross between a needle and a wine bottle opener. He applied a pungant adhesive from a tube to the licorice.

The whole lot was then shoved into the now gaping tire hole.

When Greg pulled the needle device from the hole, a sharpe edge cut the licorice strip in half, leaving it behind in the hole. A nub of patch and gooey adhesive stuck out of the tire.

Kit rolled the tire to the air station and filled it. It held. While they were filling I jacked the car up. Greg and Kit applied the patched tire.

Ten seconds after this photo was taken, the car rocked back off of the jack and came slamming down. Luckily the tire was completely on and we all had time to back away to watch it fall off the jack at a distance. Safety Tip #103: Always put your parking brake on while changing a tire.

We loaded the trunk and piled in. Greg took a test drive down the road and back again. We stopped at the 24 hour tire repair parking lot (still closed) and checked out the tire. It was holding. We got back on the highway.

The tire held and we made it to Chicago with enough time to go to a party that we were not allowed to enter. But that's a story for another time.

Here's a photo of Kit taking his turn at the wheel, driving up 65 with a patched tire and three very excited boys on their way to Lollapalooza 2010.

Archived HolyJuan Stories and Thanks

In January of 2006, I started HolyJuan. It was Lia that said, “You should start a blog,” and I did.

My first story was a work related trip to Chicago and how I ended up spending the night at somewhere that was not my hotel room.

Since that story I’ve created 1,289 posts. Some stories. Some lies. Some rants. Some terrible cartoons. More lies.

Sadly, I am a much better story teller than a webpage person. Many of the wonderful HolyJuan stories are buried deep within the tubes of the internet. Someday, when I am famous and I thank all of you for getting me there, I’ll find a way to make the archives a bit more accessible. Until then I am going to begin dredging some of them up and reposting them at the top of the website. While many might call me lazy for reposting old stuff, I hope a few of you might appreciate some of my dustier memories.

I’d like to thank you for your continued readership. You e-mails and comments let me know that you all love me almost as much as I love myself. I’m always accessible by e-mail at I usually reply within a few days. Some of my best posts are Ask HolyJuan e-mails. Try me sometime.

Thanks again.


How To Sleep in Chicago

I love Chicago. My buddies Doob, Doug (not Dave) and Paul all live there. Great food. Great people. Lots to drink and all hours of the night to drink it in.

I had the fortune of heading up there for a work related training in the Summer of 2005. My boss and I drove up from Columbus. The hotel was in one of the 23,546 suburbs of Chicago that ends in the word Park. We were meeting the client at a Cubs’ game, so we threw our bags on the hotel room floor and drove a number of miles over to my boss' friend’s house. At the house, we picked up three other guys and took someone else’s car to a train station. We rode the train for about 40 minutes and got off at a very non-descript station. We walked about 8 blocks to a bar and had a quick three drinks. (Drink count: 3) We tumbled out of the bar and crammed into a cab (Note: we = 6. Luckily, I was the only fat fucker.)

The cabbie was kind enough to take a few short cuts and the locals accused him of trying to find the worst traffic to raise the meter. I don’t think Apeluriphediakni spoke much English. We made it downtown via curbs and sidewalks to the Cubs’ game.

Ah, the Game! The Cubs were playing the Red Sox for the first time since 1918. I’m not a huge fan of baseball, but this was a big game and everyone in town teemed with excitement. Our company paid for all the guys plus the client to go to the game. (Client = smoking hot MILF in her very early 40’s.) Todd, one of my boss’ friends, explained that we would be “standing on the curb” at the game.

Standing on the curb turns out to be exactly that. There is a concrete curb that spans the bleacher seating area. A chain link fence follows down the middle of the curb around the upper walkway and dead ends into the stands. There is standing room only along the walkway, so to gain an additional 6” above everyone else’s head, you can stand on the curb. The problem is that there is only about 3” of curb to stand on, so it is necessary to hold on with one hand to keep your balance. This proves tricky when attempting to drink your fifth draft beer (Drink count: 8) and eat a brat with mostly everything on, beside and under it.

Game ends. Cubs lose. (Drink count: 9ish)

We immediately head over to a bar called Sluggers. Sluggers is an all-in-one alcoholic stop. It’s got batting cages, dance floors, pool tables, dueling pianos and Capt. Morgan’s. And jell-o shots. And Bacardi. And various liquors that when mixed together taste like either a candy apple or Dr. Pepper. (Drink count: unknownish) We got hammered as my boss flirted with the client.

At some point later in the evening, I decided that I wanted Taco Bell. Ta-da, there was a Taco Bell next door. I did not tell anyone that I was going to go to Taco Bell because that would involve me actually speaking. At the Taco Bell, I used a number of mumbles and various hand signals to order about 14 burritos. I took them back over to Sluggers and sat outside on the step and ate. And ate.

Minutes passed and no one I knew came out of the bar. I stumbled into the bar and looked around for about ten minutes. No one I knew was there. I was alone in Chicago.

I called my boss on his cell phone. We both slurred at each other for a minute or two. The rough translation of the conversation is as follows:

ME: “You leave me alone at bar.”
BOSS: “You not in bar. We go.”
ME: “You bang client lady?”
BOSS: “Me bang client lady soon.”

That son of a bitch. In an effort to get back to the hotel to fuck the client, he left a soldier behind. Fucker. He said that the hotel was a Marriot in something something Park. I repeated, OK, Marriot something something Park.

I stopped at an ATM and got $200 out. At least I have a timestamp. 2:47am. I stopped a cab and asked him to take me to the Marriot in something something Park. He had no idea where the heck I was talking about. I attempted to explain that it was in a suburb. I let him move on and called my boss to get better directions. He wouldn’t answer. He did not answer for the rest of the night. Banging the client does that to you.

In my drunken state, I assumed I could walk to my friend Doob’s apartment. I mean, how big could Chicago be? As I stumbled through the neighborhoods and surrounding shops, I called my boss several times to explain how I was discontented and that I wanted to no longer continue our work relationship. (I said that he was a fucker and that I was quitting and flying home the next day and that he was FUCKED.) I tried calling Doob, but he didn’t answer.

After about another hour of walking, I gave up. I wasn’t going to find Doob’s and my boss wasn’t going to answer his phone. So this is what I did:

I found a house that was under construction. There was an alley next to the house. In the alley there was a pile of gravel, a stack of 2x4’s and some demolition materials. I stole a newspaper off a neighbor’s porch. I spread out a layer of newspaper in the center of these construction materials. A nest. I lay down. I covered myself in the rest of the newspaper. I slept.

I woke up at about 6:00am. I had no idea where I was except that it was outside. That was fucked up.

Sat up and it all (well, some of it) came oozing back. The game. The bar. The taco bell. The walk. The quitting. The nest.

I got up and started walking. Again. This time, I listened for the 'L' and found a set of tracks and followed them to a station. I bought a ticket (how the hell did I get $200 cash?) and rode the train west to the last station. I got off and re-boarded on the eastbound to downtown Chicago. Once I made it downtown, it was about 7:00am and I called into the office back in Ohio. I got the address of the hotel from Lori who didn’t ask any questions. I had to write the address down using a cigarette butt and the ATM receipt. Stopped a cab and he drove me $75 to the hotel in Orland Park.

When I got there my boss was not in the room. He was still with the client, taking one for the team. (He took another one for the team the next night, too. Fucker.) I slept again.

I did not quit. I did not fly home. Later that evening, at the training, my boss mentioned how funny my messages about quitting were. I laughed, knowing I had meant every word.

Storm about to take a bite out of Columbus

If you look really hard, you can see Jesus' nose and eye.

Gold Bond Pancake

I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow with Greg and Kit. We'll be staying at Doob's over the weekend for Lollapalooza. I have never had the opportunity to go and am very excited, knowing full well that most of the fun and memorable bits will happen outside the venue and on the trip there and back again.

Greg is a Lollapalooza veteran and I asked him for tips on what I should bring. He, knowing that there's a bit of chafing with all the walking that happens during the weekend, suggested Gold Bond and I took him at his word. A few days ago while we were finalizing the details for the trip, he laughed about his Gold Bond suggestion saying, "I really don't think you'll want to be putting Gold Bond in your shorts. With all the sweat mixed in, you'll have a Gold Bond pancake."

I had a good laugh at that.

I'll post what I can from Chicago over the weekend. Let me know if you'll be there.