<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/mormons-752435.jpg"><img style="float:left;cursor:hand;margin:0 10px 10px 0;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/mormons-750679.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Mike: I don’t know about this place. It’s supposed to be a sports bar, but they hand out silverware.<br />Me: So?<br />Mike: Who the hell eats burgers and chicken wings with silverware?<br />Me: The bartender’s a guy.<br />Mike: We’re leaving.<br /><br /><br />Me: So this one Points in Case blogger is doing her own snippets.<br />Mike: Is she hot?<br />Me: I’ve never seen her, really. Her picture looks cute.<br />Mike: You should tell her to come visit you, and you’ll teach her the art of the snippet.<br />Me: What art? It’s just chunks of conversation.<br />Mike: No it isn’t, Nathan. It’s your divine passion, your lifeblood, and if she would like to learn your secrets, she needs to come down here and suck them out of your cock.<br />Me: Does your brain ever lead you anywhere besides sex and food?<br />Mike: Yes. Sometimes it leads me to money.<br />Me: But you only make money so you can have sex.<br />Mike: And eat food.<br />Me: Good point.<br />Alex: What point? Seriously, not one fucking point has been made since I sat down. Who talks like this?<br />Mike: I have another point to make, Nathan.<br />Me: What’s that, Mike?<br />Mike: Alex regularly gets head from his mom.<br />Me: Good point.<br />Alex: That wasn’t a fucking point. God, you guys are idiots.<br />Me: Shut up you literal mother fucker.<br />Mike: Nice point, Nathan. Nice.<br />Alex: What point? He didn’t say I fucked my Mom. He just said I get head from her.<br />Mike: You get head from your mom?<br />Me: Y’all know the entire bar is looking at us right now.<br />Alex: I fucking hate you guys.<br />Waitress: Honestly, you guys are really sick.<br />Mike: Don’t look at me. He’s the guy who talks about his mom sucking him off.<br />Waitress: Well then, he’s a sicko.<br />Me: Good point.<br />Alex: That’s it. I’m outta here.<br /><br />Deanna: What was up with that guy? He gets head from his mom?<br />Mike: That guy couldn’t get head from his sister.<br />Me: That don’t make no sense.<br />Mike: Obviously, you’ve never met his sister.<br />Me: Touché.<br /><br />Me: Do you ever think—<br />Dave: No.<br />Me: I didn’t finish.<br />Dave: I don’t care. You’re about to say something stupid and I’ve had enough stupidity for one day.<br />Me: Seriously though—<br />Dave: No, Nate. Whatever you’re about to say will not be serious. I know you, and whatever you’re thinking right now is stupid.<br />Me: I just don’t understand why there’s no Mormon porn.<br />Dave: It’s not a brain. It’s a funhouse for the mentally retarded.<br />Me: Wow, you just used a metaphor.<br />Dave: And I wouldn’t have to talk like this if I wasn’t talking to you, asshole.<br /><br />Me: You ever wonder why there’s no Mormon porn?<br />Cliff: No. No, I don’t.<br /><br />Me: I mean think about it, they allow bigamy. You could be going at it with your six wives, demanding that they do all kinds of dirty shit because you’re the man and those are the rules. And if the girls got out of line, you could slap the crap out of them.<br />Jamie: What’s he talking about?<br />Cliff: Mormon porn.<br />Jamie: Sweet Jesus.<br /><br />Me: You know what I don’t get? Why didn’t New Orleans have an evacuation plan? Every coastal city has one. Hell, Tampa’s evacuation plan is in every one of the city’s phone books.<br />Darren: They had an evacuation plan.<br />Me: What was it?<br />Darren: Go to the Superdome. Wait there until the government actually does something proactive. Bitch about racism.<br />Me: A three part plan. Nice.<br /><br />Subway Girl: Have a great day.<br />Darren: No. No, I will not have a great day. I will have a pissed off, angry, shit-fuck of a day.<br />Me: Sorry about him. His cat just died and well, he’s a little sensitive.<br />Subway Girl: That’s all right. My dog died last year and it took forever for me to get over it.<br />Me: You have a great day.<br />Subway Girl: I’m not going there again. Bye.<br /><br />Tom: So I was walking in to open this place up and I saw a trail of blood, a tooth, and splinters of wood all across the sidewalk, and I thought, ‘well, another typical Monday night at The [Local Pub].’<br />Me: I love this bar.<br /><br />Me: I can’t wait until I can go outside in the daytime again. I hate having popped blood vessels in my face.<br />Tom: Yeah, I know what that’s like. I’m Irish. I always get the red cheeks.<br />Me: I’m not Irish, dude.<br />Tom: No, but you are extremely Caucasian.<br />Me: Good point.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/sportsbar-723688.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/sportsbar-721545.jpg" border="0" /></a>Football season is upon us, and I think it’s time I told y’all what, in my humble opinion, would make a perfect sports bar. So, because introductions, segues, transitions and anything else related to the actual technical side of writing are not my cup of beer, let’s just move on to the meat of this issue and gnaw it to the bone. Brush your teeth and wash your hands. We’re going to the sports bar.<br /><br /><u>The Televisions</u><br />The ideal sports bar would have televisions everywhere. I mean, everywhere. If I go to the bathroom, I don’t want to miss a play. If I turn around to order a beer, I better be able to look right over my waitress and see a game. All of these TVs must be on professional or college sports, but only the big four: football, basketball, baseball and hockey. You must have the MLB and NFL packages as well. Also, no WNBA game can be broadcast at any time or I will leave. Seriously, don’t touch that remote.<br /><br /><u>The Staff</u><br />Hot, hardworking women only. All others need not apply.<br /><br /><u>The Menu</u><br />The ideal sports bar would have a very simple menu consisting only of burgers, fries, wings, sandwiches, soups, chili and (possibly) some specialty items, but only if they’re some of the best specialty items in area. If you happen to have the world’s best tuna casserole, then feel free to throw it on the menu, but if you have a whole bunch of menu items that keep the cook from worrying about my wings and keep the waitresses from delivering my beer, you are not my ideal sports bar.<br /><br />Also, there must be beer pitcher and wing specials during the broadcast of each home team’s game. If there’s a free buffet, all the better. But I’m not holding my breath, here.<br /><br /><u>The Clientele<br /></u>Ideally, you would like a clientele that consists solely of people who are rooting for your team. In a transient culture, such as Tampa, such a clientele is not possible. So I will settle for seventy-five percent of the bar consisting of home team fans. This way, when some overzealous fans (I’m looking at you, Franky and Randy) start screaming about something that happened in their game, the rest of the bar gets to look over, see what all the fuss is about, and then turn back to the game that matters. By having the majority of the clientele rooting for your team, you increase the chances of high-fiving random strangers, one-upping one another as you insult the referees, coaches and players, and drowning out the noise created by the damn Bears and Steelers fans (again, I’m looking at you, Franky and Randy). This creates camaraderie, which is one of the reasons we watch these games in bars anyway.<br /><br /><u>The Jukebox</u><br />During football games, the jukebox must be shut off. Football can be a fast game at times, and there’s stuff we might miss. We actually need to hear football announcers. During baseball games, the jukebox must be on. Baseball is slow at times and the announcers suck.<br /><br /><u>The Marketers<br /></u>If anyone tries to sell some new alcohol, tobacco or food product to me while I’m watching a game, I reserve the right to whip out a bitch slap. In an ideal sports bar, there would be a sign that reads, “If you’re trying to sell something, wait until half-time or you will get bitch slapped. Thanks. Management.”<br /><br />The ideal sports bar has a simple menu, a plethora of viewing options, a staff of female hotties, a home-team oriented clientele, a properly managed sound system and no marketers during games. It really is a simple formula, if you know what you’re doing.<br /><br />And if you’re opening a sports bar near me, I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/chargers-715520.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/chargers-713421.jpg" border="0" /></a>The coolest thing about the NFL kicking off another season is not how much fun it is to watch football, or how cool it is to throw beer on the guy who says, “I know we need more points, but the opposing team’s defense is on my fantasy team” or even the new and improved cheerleader outfits (by the way, congratulations to the Patriots on this one. Those girls looked like they were wearing bikinis from the 1960s. How long until thongs are allowed? Can we have full nudity any time soon? When will the cheerleaders start climbing the uprights like overzealous strippers? Janet Jackson’s nipple was not the last one we’ll see in a televised football game in my lifetime. And in case you were wondering, I’m all for this). The coolest thing about the NFL season is tradition. Let’s look at some of my favorites.<br /><br /><u>High Fiving the Random Stranger</u><br />Now, I’m a random people person. I love meeting a total stranger, hanging out with him or her over the course of a bizarre evening, meeting other strangers and saying stuff to them like, “No really, I just met her tonight” or, “Really, we don’t know each other.” When people actually think you’re lying about how well you know a complete stranger, you are having a fun night. But no random people moment (other than the one night stand) comes close to the high fiving of a total stranger. Here’s why:<br /><br />You don’t know this guy. You may not even like this guy. This guy could be wanted in three states for child molesting, but you don’t give two rat turds because your team just won, scored, or did something else high five worthy and you need to slap someone in the damn hands. And he’s right there for you. For that one moment, you and the guy who may have robbed your apartment and beat up your best friend are one and all is right with the universe. That’s .3 seconds of true love. I’m getting emotional.<br /><br /><u>Tony and the Gambling<br /></u>On Thursday afternoons, Tony and I meet up at The Local Pub and debate the upcoming football picks. (By the way, the Patriots covered, so I’m 1-0 with my football gambling this year. If I had just bet my car, I could have called it a season.) We argue, we make fun of each other, and in the end, we whittle it down to two or three pics. Tony takes one. I take another.<br /><br />Monday afternoon, Tony and I meet up at The Local Pub and see who was right about their pick. This can break down any one of four ways: Tony buys me a beer because I lost money, or I buy him a beer because he lost money, or we both drink draft beer because we both lost money, or, when we both win money, we laugh and smile and say things like, “What do they say about great minds?” To which the response from the local patrons is almost invariably, “They’re ain’t none in here.” Ah, tradition.<br /><br /><u>Super Bowl Chili<br /></u>My dad makes this chili with actual steak. It’s the best chili you’ll ever have. It’s not even really chili. It’s like a gourmet, spicy stew. Anyway, he used to make it only once a year, during the Super Bowl. But now he makes it during the one game a year we get to watch together (when I’m in St. Louis for Christmas). I don’t have a joke here. It’s just damn good chili.<br /><br /><u>Sunday at the Local Pub<br /></u>During the off-season, the local pub is empty on Sundays. So empty that the girl working behind the bar stares blankly at some TNT movie while the two patrons in the place do their best to keep some kind of conversation going, lest they step on the tumbleweeds rolling across the sticky floor. But, once football season hits, The Local Pub not only becomes busy, it becomes what I call “Good Busy.” Good Busy can be defined by the number of times people shout “Hey!” because someone who they have not seen in a while just walked in. You know what I mean, right? You’re sitting in the bar, and Bob from St. Pete walks in and you haven’t seen him in a few months so you yell, “Hey! What’s up? It’s Bob. Shit, I ain’t seen Bob in a coon’s age. Someone buy him a beer.” And then Frank walks in, and you haven’t seen him in forever because he just started a new job so you shout, “Hey! What’s up Frank? How’s the job? You want a beer?” And then Jerry walks in, and you haven’t seen him since his girlfriend overdosed on heroin so you shout, “Hey! What’s up Jerry? Sorry, I missed the funeral. Lemme buy you a beer.” And on and on.<br /><br />And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why NFL football is so great. It creates a back slapping, hey-shouting, high-fiving, chili-sucking, place-your-bets good time.<br /><br />Which leads me to my next gimmick. I’m gonna try to do a weekly feature where I make one pick against the spread. They will all be written on Sunday morning, right after I place my bet. This way, you can follow my gambling this year as I tell you what I wagered and on whom. For the record, I bet $50 on the Patriots Thursday, so I’m off to a good start. Anyway, here’s my pick.<br /><br />Take San Diego over Dallas. For whatever reason (cough, Parcels is overrated, cough), San Diego is giving 4.5 points. So that’s my pick. I wagered $50 on this. My juice is $2.<br /><br />Total Yearly Earnings: $48<br />Total Record: 1 – 0.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/boxofrain-746245.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/boxofrain-744154.jpg" border="0" /></a>I’ve heard a lot of people, like Colin Powell, say that those folks left stranded in the wake of hurricane Katrina were not left because they were black. According to Powell (and others) they were left because they were poor, and blacks constitute most of the poor in New Orleans. Must be nice for the rich people to have the majority of the impoverished wearing dark skin—makes them easy to spot in a huge crowd of suffering refugees.<br /><br />I’m sorry but, “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” is the funniest line of 2005. I want to see T-shirts, hats and other memorabilia sporting this line. I hope the folks at Connected Ventures are reading this.<br /><br />Moments after getting picked up to blog for Points in Case, E. Mike Tuckerson was forced to evacuate his home in New Orleans. Now, I’m not comparing my pain and suffering to Tuckerson’s. But shortly after I started blogging for 幽默大师, I suffered ten stitches in my right hand, two popped blood vessels in my face and was in two minor car accidents. Is there such a thing as an e-curse?<br /><br />If someone refuses to leave their home in demolished New Orleans, can they be legally killed? If so, that seems counter-productive. I mean, if you killed someone for staying in town, wouldn’t you just add to the disaster’s body count? And yes, this is the kind of crap I think about when I’m sober.<br /><br />Every time there’s a hurricane, people freak out and blame each other. Later, they get nasty and sue each other. Politicians, power companies, militaries, police, citizens, everyone (basically) points fingers and places blame after a natural disaster. After 9/11, we were all nice to each other because our fingers were collectively pointed at some dude named Osama (who is laughing his oil-rich ass off right now). As long as we have a common enemy, we get along. But when your common enemy is weather, well, I mean how can you destroy a hurricane? (Come to think of it, how do you find Osama?)<br /><br />And finally, because this is one of those entries where I rip fluidity from its concrete foundation, I leave you with the following, which is from a Grateful Dead song:<br /><br />It's just a box of rain,<br />I don't know who put it there.<br />Believe it if you need it<br />Or leave it if you dare.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/moskips-714319.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/moskips-711832.jpg" border="0" /></a>Dave: Nice face, Raggedy Andy.<br />Me: Hey man, I have popped blood vessels in my face. Show some sympathy.<br />Dave: No.<br /><br />Me: So, what made you decide to come to Skipper’s?<br />Vera: I’m not a stripper. I’m a waitress.<br />Me: No. I asked you why you decided to come here.<br />Vera: Why else? I came to America to make money.<br />Me: No, why did you come here, to this bar: Skipper’s?<br />Vera: Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just so used to answering the same questions. I’m waiting for you to ask me how I like it in America, like everyone else.<br />Me: Do people usually ask you if you’re a stripper?<br />Vera: I’ve been told I look like a stripper.<br />Me: My name’s Nate.<br /><br />Dennis: I don’t think those guys like me.<br />Me: Who cares?<br />Dennis: I think I’m scaring them off or something. What do you think?<br />Me: I don’t know.<br />Dennis: Why don’t you ask them for me?<br />Me: Because I don’t care.<br />Dennis: You really don’t give a fuck about anything do you?<br />Me: I like fried chicken.<br /><br />Me: So I’d really like a chance to hang out with you again.<br />Vera: Yes, that would be nice.<br />Me: I mean, I feel a nice vibe here. You seem like a cool girl.<br />Vera: Thanks. You seem very nice and funny. And cute.<br />Me: Thanks. So…<br />Vera: So, are you going to ask me for my number?<br />Me: I guess I was waiting for you to suggest that.<br />Vera: I guess I just did.<br />Me: I’m really slick, huh?<br />Vera: Oh yeah. You are super cool.<br /><br />Dennis: How’d you get that hot brunette chick to dance around like that?<br />Me: She asked me to guess how old she was, so I said, ‘that’s awesome, an excuse to blatantly check you out.’ And she just started gyrating around.<br />Dennis: Dude, you made that happen. You have a gift.<br />Me: You are very drunk.<br /><br />Me: All right, I’m calling your phone to make sure you didn’t give me a fake number.<br />Vera: I’m not that kind of girl. If I didn’t like you, you wouldn’t get a number, period.<br />Me: I don’t know about that. I come off pretty intimidating. You may be trying to blow me off.<br />Vera: Trust me, you would know if I was trying to blow you.<br />Me: Okay, you know that’s not what I meant.<br />Vera: You don’t want me to blow you?<br />Me: Now, you’re just messing with me.<br /><br />Me: If you were a professional athlete, would you use steroids?<br />Dave: If I had to, then I’d have to.<br />Me: Wow, that was deep.<br /><br />Brian: So do you make any money off that web site?<br />Me: No.<br />Brian: So what do you get?<br />Me: Readers, I hope.<br />Brian: Yeah, they’re hard to find.<br /><br />Chris: I have an idea for your snippets.<br />Me: You can’t have an idea for the snippets. They just happen.<br />Steve: Like babies.<br /><br />Chris: No seriously, you should just go around and ask a whole bunch of women how they feel about their vaginas. The responses would be priceless, and you could have a whole bunch of vagina snippets.<br />Me: And a whole lot less women to choose from.<br />Chris: You just don’t know a good idea when you hear one.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/buddyboy-708797.bmp"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/buddyboy-707272.bmp" border="0" /></a>I’m sick of soap-box-building journalists complaining that steroid use has hurt professional baseball. I know I’m a huge nobody (Peter Gammons is yet to return even one of my many calls) but I think I can explain why everyone should just calm down about baseball (and other sports) being “ruined” by steroids.<br /><br />Sports are, for better or worse, a reflection of the society that worships them. And in the real world people cheat (and in the case of baseball, steroid use wasn’t even technically cheating until this season because there really wasn’t a rule against it, but whatever). I don’t care who you are, in your life, you have cheated on something or someone. In professional sports, these guys do what they have to do. I’m excluding college sports from this opinion because those kids aren’t paid (stop laughing) and they are supposed to be getting the most from their minds and bodies in a nurturing environment. When I hear about a college kid cheating, I get mad. When I hear about a professional cheating, I shrug.<br /><br />If you’re on a team that I root for and your cheating brings us a championship, all the better. Call me cynical, call me mean, hell don’t return any of my calls period (I’m looking at you, Gammons), but why should I care if a pro cheats? A pro has a job to do, a family to feed (insert your own joke here) and a career to extend. I want to win. And if you can get away with killing the quarterback that just threw three TDs in the first quarter against my team, I think you should grab that QB’s knee and break it in half. That’s life. And if the family of that quarterback happens to kill you during the off-season, we will replace you. Again, that’s life. It ain’t easy.<br /><br />(Side note: how the hell is Jose Canseco still alive? I know baseball fights always look really pansy if Nolan Ryan isn’t involved, but do these guys really let rats just get away with stuff? Playground rules dictate that Canseco be killed. I’m not advocating his murder. I’m just wondering is all.)<br /><br />I expressed my opinion on sports cheating to an older gentleman whose name I forgot (I’m a random people person) and he said (I think) the following: “It’s about integrity. You have to have integrity in the workplace, in sports, in politics, in everything.”<br /><br />To which I replied, “Give me an example of integrity in sports, politics or business.”<br /><br />“All right,” he said. “So I can’t do it. But it’s supposed to be there.”<br /><br />Yes it is. It’s supposed to be there. But it’s not. I live at 511 Real World Avenue, USA, Planet Earth, and I can tell you that no one here expects honesty or fair play. People should not be credited for doing what they are supposed to do, but they are. In St. Louis, they love Albert Pujols because, in addition to being one of the best hitters in baseball, he is hard working, he donates money to charities, he doesn’t use drugs and he is a family man. Does that mean every baseball player has to be Andy freaking Griffith? Absolutely not. It means that our standards are so low that when a pro behaves like a decent human being, he is heralded as a hero. No one would care how nice Albert Pujols is if he didn’t play so well. It’s only after we watch the players win that we worry about their depth of character. And if they have no depth of character, we just shrug and say, “Who cares? The guy wins us games.” Winning always comes first, and these sappy, woe-is-the-state-of-sports journalists know that better than any other non-athlete. Here’s something else these sap-masters know: most professional athletes will always do whatever they can to insure the length of their careers, the size of their paychecks and their chances of winning.<br /><br />And I say good for them.<br /><br />Because losing sucks.<br /><br />Keep in mind, I’m not advocating cheating. I’m advocating a dose of perspective. Everyone who’s still worrying about steroids in baseball needs to mellow out. Here are two things that will never leave sports or society at large: drug use and cheating. You can cry about the detrimental effects of cheating and drug use, but you will never, ever have a totally honest, drug free world. And if you did, I think you’d be very bored.<br /><br />So, sports fans, enjoy the saga that is Baseball 2005: The Drug Test Year. But do not build a soap box and do not judge. People are people. They do what they feel they have to do.<br /><br />And Commissioner Bud “come one, everyone gets the undercoating” Selig can't stop them.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/tiki-724518.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/tiki-717147.jpg" border="0" /></a>I know it’s been a while, but I’ve got a few more local pub moments for you. If you haven't already, I recommend you read <a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/2005/07/local-pubsrinse-and-repeat.html">Part 1</a> and <a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/2005/07/local-pubsalways-repeat.html">Part 2</a>. But, do what you like. What do I know? After all, I’m not a doctor or anything.<br /><br /><u>Aaron being Aaron<br /></u>The time when Aaron went to a bar in St. Petersburg to find the waitress he took home the night before (because she had stolen all the food from his refrigerator the morning following their tryst). A waitress came over, asked what he wanted, and Aaron replied, “A pitcher of Bud and my food back, you bitch.” At which point Peek said, “Aaron, that’s not even her. Did you even see her face?” Brian followed this up with the line, “Great, now we have to ask them all to bend over.” That story will live in the annals of Tampa Bay lore for like, as long as I’m still around to tell it.<br /><br /><u>No Bud Here<br /></u>The time in Tampa when my step-dad, who only drinks Budweiser, went to a pub and grill with my Mother (they were nice enough to bring me along, too). The place had great steaks, but it turned out to be a microbrewery. So a fifty year old, law-abiding, Fire Chief went out to his car and snuck in some Budweiser from his cooler. Our waiter saw him do it and shot him an angry look that said, “I see that.” My step dad matched that with a look that said, “Do you want your tip or don’t you?” One of the funniest wordless moments I’ve ever experienced.<br /><br /><u>The Bartender Got Your Back<br /></u>The time when buddy Josh and I were lost in Mississippi and we decided to stop in at the most run down shack of a local pub we had ever seen. There were about nine people in there, all men, and they all seemed nice enough. Anyway, we were there about ten minutes when the phone rang, and the bartender (who was seventy years old if he was a day) winced and asked the pub’s clientele, “Who’s not here and who just left?” The response to this question was a chorus of “Just left” and “Not here.” The bartender picked up the phone, answered it, and was heard to say, “No, Molly. He just left.” A mustached man in a plaid shirt quickly finished the rest of his draft beer and said, “Ain’t it wonderful being married?” before exiting the establishment. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a local pub.<br /><br /><u>Shooting with the Harley Man</u><br />The time in Daytona, during Bike Week (an annual Harley Davidson festival) when I was doing shots in a Tiki bar with a biker who called himself (for whatever reason) Wedge. Wedge and I were enjoying a beautiful day, laughing at the morons driving on the beach and swapping stories about (of all the things) classic literature (Wedge was a sucker for the Romantic Poets, especially Coleridge, and he knew more of the writers’ histories than he did of their work, whereas I had the knowledge the other way around, so it was a great conversation). Wedge bought all my shots and introduced me to his late arriving girlfriend, who said, after meeting me, “He’s cute. Can we keep him?” Wedge responded, “I don’t see why not” and stood up like he was gonna kick my ass. I froze, poker face style (I didn’t even stand) and just shrugged Wedge off with a wave. We both laughed heartily. Wedge then uttered a sentence that no adult, before or since, has ever said to me: “I hope my boy grows up to be just like you, Nate. You’re a cool kid.” Classic.<br /><br /><u>The Dutch Man who Speaks no Dutch<br /></u>The time I was at a bar in Zaandfort, Holland, when buddy Jan (Dutch for John, I think) introduced me to his friend Peter. Peter asked me my last name and I told him, “DeGraaf” (pronounced d graph). Peter looked at Jan and asked, “DeGraaf?” (pronounced day gruff). Jan responded, “Yeah, stupid American can’t even pronounce his own name.” For the rest of the trip, all my Dutch buddies introduced me as either the stupid American or the Dutch man who speaks no Dutch.<br /><br />Again, I promise more of these. I think this gimmick could go on forever.
<a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/keg-786329.jpg"><img style="float:right;cursor:hand;margin:0 0 10px 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/keg-783320.jpg" border="0" /></a>A few days ago, editor, web-master, and comment box overseer Court Sullivan sent the 幽默大师 staff the following e-mail.<br /><br /><em>Thought you guys should know about an email I got today, from a "Mark in DC":<br /><br />=======================<br />Hello,<br /><br />My house quite frequently enjoys reading your site, and we feel obligated to invite you and your writers to our Labor Day Kegger in Washington, DC. It will be on Sunday night at 8:30 PM. If anyone would like to come, please email me and I'll give you an address. The main student base will be The Catholic University of America. We've come a long way since being rated as a party school in Playboy, and we'd like you guys to help us further our reputation (especially since most people have never heard of us). We all realize it's a stretch that any of you would actually come, but we'd be honored to have any of you here. Thanks!<br /><br />-Mark in DC<br />=======================<br /><br />None of us live in or close to DC, right? Nonetheless, I can always appreciate a thoughtful, alcoholic gesture.<br /><br />-Court</em><br /><br />Unfortunately, I have busted blood vessels in my face (which is why I’m not allowed to go out in the sun for two more weeks, which is why I’m spending my labor day weekend inside writing instead of outside fishing. Feel free to cry for me) and could not attend the Labor Day Kegger. I can’t speak for the entire 幽默大师 staff, but I wanted to thank Mark for the invitation.<br /><br />So thanks Mark.<br /><br />Seven hours to sunset. Seven long hours.
This is a picture of my niece and me. When I was in St. Louis, we made a pact that every time my mother took a picture of us, we would stick out our tongues. My mom took seven pictures of us over the course of two days before she gave up.<br /><br /><br /><a href="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/katieandnate-714445.jpg"><img style="display:block;cursor:hand;text-align:center;margin:0 auto 10px;" alt="" src="//www.ygggy.com/nathan/uploaded_images/katieandnate-708860.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />About an hour ago, I called up my sister. After speaking with her a little while, she told me that she had to go because she was reading my blog. I was interrupting her from reading me. That’s weird.<br /><br />Here’s an e-mail I got from my mom:<br /><br /><em>OK, your blog made some good points. However (mom, educator and generally nice person speaking here), overuse of f*** becomes boring and redundant and makes you appear less intelligent than you are. Get creative and come up with something else!!<br /><br />All my love,<br />Mom.</em><br /><br />Ahh, family.