I simply have one question for the interweb today.

A or B?

Tell me.

The duct tape commercial is done.

CHECK IT

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

Just moments ago, I was sitting at my desk minding my own when suddenly I heard the friendly ding sound of my computer alerting me of a new e-mail. Lower mortgage payments? Lonely girls who can't afford clothing? Increased length and girth? What could it be?

Just a simple note.

The name of the sender was foreign to me, so I threw up my nets of skepticism and began reading. I noticed the sender's e-mail address was from a publishing company and all the recipients (except for me) were from a student newspaper at Northeastern College.

Hi gang,
I just wanted to write a quick note of congrats/good luck with the new News staff. The issue this week looks great – you should all be really proud. This is probably the last year where I’ll recognize the masthead, but I’m sure you’re training some more “best and brightest” to keep the years and years of tradition alive. I know that sounds sappier than Vermont, but I want you all to know I’m still an avid reader and I’m happy to see you all doing so well!

Steve, you were included because you’re so dang hott – that’s right, two Ts. And, you also managed to get the word “gist” into a lede.

T-bone – I’m going to be in NBPT this weekend, I’ll think of you if I pass by Amesbury or Salisbury, because that’s another kind of steak.

Take care,
Lauren Rouleau

Okay, so wait. While the names of the sender and all other recipients had no correlation to me, there was a specific call-out that did. It admitted to the possiblity that I might be confused by being included in such an innocuous bit of correspondence. So that part was true. It also admitted to me being so dang hott - that's right, two Ts. But how did I get included in this? I needed to make sense of this. I hit reply.

Hi. While I don't refute your claim of me being hot with two T's, I can't help but think you e-mailed the wrong Steve. This Steve lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I waited.

Suddenly, another "ding."

Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! Have a good day none the less.

So the question still remains.

Am I hott with two T's or three?

I have a confession.


I've never missed an episode of The OC.




(awkard pause)




Man, that felt good.

Speaking of, tonight is the season finale. As I was driving into work this morning I heard a radio promo suggest that, "tonight, someone will die!" Holy crap! This is serious. They mean business! Who could it be? I began cataloging the cast in my mind, sifting out the dispensable. Then it hit me like a whiffle bat to the groin. It'll be the loser surfer guy that Marissa is all hot on. He's nothing but trouble and Marissa has potential. She's just confused and doesn't know what she wants. She was a lesbian for a few weeks but that didn't stick. How is this any different? She'll pioneer through this. I just know she will. She's a trooper. A quasi-lesbian, almost-alcoholic, nearly teen-runaway trooper. Go get 'em Marissa! Tonight, I'm all yours.

What?

CLICK HERE

History has proven that there are essentially two types of guys in the world.

1. Hat guys.
2. Not hat guys.

At some point, every man must stare this division square in the face. They must discover the type to which they belong. They must accept it as gospel and never forsake it. So here I am, throwing myself to the jury. I'm ready to accept my fate. Give it to me.





HAILEY: "Steve, some guys just aren't hat guys. They just don't look good in them. You are one of those guys."

ME: "I'll only believe you if random people from the internet agree."

Have you ever sauntered into your place of employment thinking to yourself, "You know, I would really like to duct tape a guy to a light pole today."

If you're anything like me, you certainly have. And fortunately for me, today that dream was realized. Early this morning I found myself uncomfortably close to the groinal region of a portly fellow fashioned in a sweat suit of royal blue persuasion. With the help of a small production crew, we secured said portly to a light pole by way of three rolls of duct tape. Once the final strip was put into place the moment of truth arrived. Slowly, we removed the bucket he was standing on for support. The small crowd of homeless people mingled with concerned working mothers sporting cross trainers for their lunch break power walk stood on pins and needles.

The city fell silent. Testing gravity, he wiggled his feet.

It worked!

Our protagonist, while gasping for air, hung securely.

A random woman with ankles the size of mini vans let out a small applause as she heaved herself up onto a bus.

Once hung, our small version of Gallagher instantly became the centerpiece of attention for confused onlookers with camera phones. Meter maids phoned for back up. Cars circled the parameter. Neighboring office buildings spilled out onto sidewalks as though following fire drill protocol.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

Another thing checked off my list of things I must do in this life.


Please enjoy the following complimentary photo montage coupled with informative captions.

The Pep Talk
"Now trust me. I've done this a million times. You'll be fine. And yes, that harness we just fashioned out of duct tape will easily support your weight. How's that feeling by the way?"


The Pep Talk Continued
"No seriously, they are just checking the pole for any defects that could prove detrimental. We engage all saftey precautions. The well being of our crew is always job one."


The Doubting Thomas
"You really think this is going to work? I don't know man, I don't think this is going to hold." "Trust me, she'll hold."


The David Copperfield
"Look closely folks. No fishing line, no hooks. Just tape."


The Aggro Taper Pose
"Hey Jennifer. Take a picture of me like this! It'll be so awesome" *click* "Let me see it. Did it turn out awesome?"


The Bonding Moment
"You know John. I really feel close to you now. I'm glad we had this time together." "I can't breathe."


The Dismount
"Careful now. Spencer, how are you coming with cutting the tape? Chad, put your hands on his breasts. No seriously."


The Harassment Suit
"Okay Chad. That's enough."

I have a question.

Why is it that people on television and in movies never offer salutations to conclude their cell phone conversations? Is there some unwritten law that states all actors must suddenly end their calls by whipping their flip top phones shut? No, "see ya later." No, "buh bye." No, "alright, take it easy." Just flip. What gives?

Airbrush murals just don't get the respect they deserve anymore. Especially in the category of vehicle application. It's sad really.

On my way back from breakfast this morning, I spied this little gem.



Instantly, I was intrigued. I found myself in a state of concentrated gaze, much like one would experience whilst interacting with one of those nifty computer-generated 3D picture things that were all the rage circa the hypercolor T-shirt era. I couldn't help but believe the owner of said truck was attempting to tell a story, perhaps even a novella, with this beautiful depiction of his vehicle being the mystic portal between Chitzen Itza and Delicate Arch. What a fantastic quasi-reality. The mural itself stood as a shrine to the very vehicle to which it was applied. I basked in its glory. I considered the heavens. I felt small. What, in my possession, could command such a journey? What could boast such historical significance? Void of an appropriate answer, I hung my head. I said farewell to the lord of lowriders and continued back to my office. Now, even as I post this blog, I can't help but realize my insignificance. I can't help but long for something more. And so my journey begins...

Strange things are afoot at the Circle K. And my inbox.

I received two very atypical bits of electronic correspondence this morning. One, of course, was from a Nigerian prince who desperately needed a place to store his substantial fortune. The other, however, was of a different nature. At first, it appeared as nothing more than incoherent babble. But as I looked deeper, I began to sense something else. Something important. Something secret. It is now my belief that the following message is actually a block of encrypted code of which I am supposed to decipher and then act upon. I believe lives, economies, and possible increased length and girth are at stake here. So it is with a sense of panic that I plead with you - help me. Help me, help you. You had me at hello. You complete me.

flowers sick funeral after orphans visit widows
fatherless write letters invitation condolence establish
missions

And now, another blog installment on the subject of my infamous father-in-law, Keith.

The following is an actual phone conversation that happened between my wife and her father. The names were changed to protect the innocent and then changed back to avoid unnecessary confusion.

HAILEY: Hey dad, we're going to come visit you on the the 29th. Will you be very busy?

KEITH: You'll be here on the 29th?

HAILEY: Yeah.

KEITH: Guess I'll get married on that day then.

HAILEY: Married?

KEITH: *muffled hand covering up the phone* Excuse me folks, could I interest you in a river trip? Perhaps a jeep tour?

HAILEY: Dad?

KEITH: *click*