Finally!

Today, I realized a lifelong ambition to drive a true muscle-car. Here, I am defining "muscle-car" as a vehicle produced somewhere between 1965 and 1975.

The car I drove was a 1969 Chevy Malibu Chevelle (yes, that's all one car). Although it had an SS tag on it, it only had a 327ci engine in it, which was the smallest engine available in the Chevelle SS package (I could be wrong, so don't quote me on that).

All that being said, it was a fun ride, except the guy who was selling the car wanted to join me for the test drive, so I felt kinda weird while I was smoking the tires at the stoplight. But, since I had to pick up my daughter from school, I thought it'd be a cool treat to pick her up in some genuine vintage American muscle.

I arrived at the school and parked in the front. As I walked to the front doors, I was secretly hoping (and I think this hope, shared among all men, is the underlying reason that musclecars were invented in the first place) that the cute college girls who run the after-school program would happen to glance out and see what I was driving, become so overwhelmed with lust for me and my "boss ride" that they would tear off their clothes and insist in strident tones that I take them in a manly fashion, right there on the floor of the cafeteria, consequences be damned.

Of course this didn't happen. The closest I got to this scenario was when a heavyset woman pushed past me on her way out the door and said, "Excuse me." Harumph.

Anyway, I got to drive a real musclecar and feel like a real man for about 20 minutes, so I guess that's a start. The next step in my quest for manly manliness is to take up hunting, which is a popular pasttime here in Michigan.

Frankly, and this is probably because I'm a lowlife piece-of-shit pinko commie fag, but I'm really not sure what the attraction is to hunting. From what I've seen, you hide in a "deer blind" (which is a fancy hunter term for "treehouse") in freezing, miserable, pre-dawn weather with a high-powered rifle, drinking beer and waiting for some random animal to walk by so you can shoot it.

Most animals will stupidly continue to forage for berries or flowers or contact lenses or whatever the hell they spend all their time looking for, regardless of the sinister presence of the hunter as he acts in deadly earnest, springing to life in one swift, well-rehearsed movement to pee over the side of the blind.

I can hardly wait to try this. I can feel the hairs growing out on my chest already!

Drinkers have better stories

It struck me the other day that all of the best stories I've heard have come from people who were under the influence of drugs or alcohol.

Since I am a non-drinker, my repertoire of stories is woefully inadequate, and my sole "beer" story consists of me trying to pour salt in my beer, only to have that beer foam up out of the bottle and onto my friend's parents' glass-topped coffee table. I think his sister got a picture of me wiping the beer up with a paper towel.

Man ... I'm surprised I lived to tell THAT one. WHOOOOOOOOO.

I've often thought I should become a drinker, just so I'd have some cool stories to tell at a party. I know that's an immature attitude to have and that drinking to excess can cause serious problems, including sickness, death, waking up with an ugly chick and more drinking.

However, you know EVERYONE perks up and listens when a story opens with "So I'm in the emergency room at 2 a.m., wearing only my girlfriend's bra and a golf club stuck up my ass ..."

And, even though smoking and drinking go together like frat boys and date rape, I do NOT envy smokers because, well, smoking doesn't make you do the silly and/or life-threatening shit that makes for great stories. The best we can hope for from a smoker, story-wise, is: "So I woke up this morning and hocked up a black loogie the size of a minivan. I put it in a jar on the windowsill next to my pickled pig fetus."

And I most definitely do NOT condone the use of any type of illegal drugs, but I have to admit that one of the funniest stories I've ever heard came from a friend who, while tripping on acid, became convinced he was being stalked by creatures from a bad 80s horror flick (C.H.U.D., for those of you who remember). In his haste to escape these creatures, he performed several daring and spectacular feats that defy the laws of physics.

See what I mean? That's good story material right there! I'm just not getting those effects from cookies and milk, so I need to switch to something stronger like, say, vodka and Red Bull.

So, if you don't see a post within the next few days describing my hilarious escapades that result from getting drunk on a co-ed fad drink, then I'm either dead or in jail.

Or I chickened out and spent the night licking the white filling out of Oreos. Sigh.