Here’s another story that I’m sure many of you can relate to (and yes, I know you aren’t supposed to end sentences with prepositions, but it still works conversationally so I don’t care).

I used to be a juicing freak.  No, not steroids.  I’m talking about making freshly squeezed fruit and vegetable juice.  I’ve owned four different juicers over the years if that clues you into my obsession.

It’s ironic that I juice since I often eat fast food and hardly exercise.  But anyway.

I had never thought of juicing a beet before.  One of the guys I worked with, Kevin, told me they were great for your liver.  Since I was a pretty awful booze-bag, this seemed like a good idea.  If you haven’t seen a raw beet, they’re kind of intimidating.  They’re really hard and big.

Like a pomegranate if it tasted like shit.

Trying to cut into a beet is not easy.  You need a decent knife.  Also, do it in the sink, because your hands will look like you just committed homicide.  It will freak you out.  If you get any of it on your clothes, you may as well toss ‘em.  I cut beets with my shirt off and my chest hair would end up looking like Ralph Malph’s head.

Great hair - unfortunate color.

Okay, let’s move this story along.  Actually to the end.  So I juiced a beet and mixed it with spinach and six other vegetables.  Yes, I know – this is riveting storytelling.  An hour later I went to the water closet.

Now, if you know what I’m going to say next, YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY NEXT.

I nearly fainted.  If you’ve never experienced what I’m talking about, I’m sure you have a pretty good idea.  Beets do a very interesting thing to your insides.  I really have no idea what, but man is it intense.

Because when you go to make number one, it will test your ability to not pass out.

We’ve all giggled about how asparagus makes your pee smell.  And by the way, I would amend that with “makes your pee smell AWESOME” – it’s like a little magic trick you can do with your body.  God, that’s fun.

Beets do something fun too, but you have to know in advance.  And somehow, my entire life, nobody had clued me into this craziness. Maybe less people know because beets sort of suck?  Nobody really hits the raw beet aisle over asparagus at the grocer.

I was trembling and I called Kevin.  ”Hey man, do beets, uh, make things red?  Because I may be dying.”

He was laughing when he told me, “Same thing happened to me!  I freaked out!  Yes, they turn your pee red.  Wait until you see what they do to your shit!”

He was totally right.

Pull out one of your hands (choose the one that is shoved down the front of your pants – and no I don’t mean because you’re doing that.)

Hold it up in front of you.  Pay particular attention to the pinky.  Notice it’s length.  It’s longer than you thought, right?

Get this.  My second toe is longer than your pinky.

No need to comment on the obvious lack of care I provide my feet.

And even though I have super long fingers (great for playing guitar), even my pinky is about the same length at what I’ll hence be calling “Spear Toe.”   Here’s a photo for scale.

It you're going to retch, now is the time.

Notice all that white shit on the front of Spear Toe?  That’s dead skin.  I get that because Spear Toe finds out what’s up way before the other toes.  It’s the scout of my feet.  Also, the first line of defense.  I wear a size 13 shoe (at Aldo, I wear a 14).  That’s a lot of foot in shoe.  More than necessary.

Without a shoe, Spear Toe takes the brunt of everything stubbable.  Spear Toe is also very monkey-like.  I have a feeling I could stand on a branch, lean forward, and Spear Toe could curl around that bastard and keep me upright.  I’m also confident that I could probably open jars with Spear Toe.

In fact my other toes have never touched anything that Spear Toe hasn’t touched first.  When walking through the sand at the beach, is the next step going to be a hot patch?  Spear toe knows.

I’m not a foot guy.  I don’t care about high heels on a woman, which nails are painted what color, and when you last used the pumice stone.  I won’t suck on a toe, or stare one down seductively.  It’s kind of far away from the areas I do enjoy.  So, I’m not sure what a sexy foot on a woman looks like.  Here’s what I know is NOT sexy.

No good.

More shoe - less toe.

And while it’s easy to poke fun at women with nasty toes, I get to keep Spear Toe hidden away inside the big clown shoes I’m forced to wear.  Spear Toe only really makes it’s appearance on the beach during the summer or on vacation.  When I’m sleeping on my back, Spear Toe pushes the sheets up a little higher, making it look like I have two tiny toe erections.

Maybe I should start wearing socks when I make love.  That would prevent me from stabbing my partner’s soles with Spear Toe.  But then you would realize I wear those super high dress socks that go halfway up the leg.  Not sure which is less sexy.

Oh well, I have Spear Toe.  You have imperfections, too.  Probably really obvious ones that people make fun of when you leave the break room at work.  There – I just made myself feel better about Spear Toe.

Actually, this dude looks like he's doing... Yuck.

I vow upon awaking that I will write this gem down and create that day’s blog post around it.  I get excited and actually think that this will be funniest post I’ve ever written.

Yes, this all happens during a dream.  I know I’m dreaming, but I still don’t have any control over my lucidity, despite having read all of the LaBerge books that claim it’s possible.

By the way, I did some investigating and you know why when you need to run in a dream it’s next to impossible?  Your legs feel like they’re underwater, and you can’t run fast enough?  There are dream interpreters that claim it means all sorts of figurative crap like how you’re purposely holding yourself back or sabotaging your own progress.  Turns out it’s most likely just a response from the body that prohibits you from actually getting up and running around while dreaming.  You’re bumping up against that mechanism and it’s working overtime to make sure you don’t leap out the window.

Also, remember that when you’re trying to figure out the meaning of a dream that dogs have nightmares, too.  Your dreams are probably not any more significant than my cat’s.

So, I realized on the subway this morning that the joke I wrote during the dream was not exactly a home run.  Maybe a six, tops.

But, fuck it, I’ll throw caution to the wind and reveal it here.

So, the idea is this – there’s a room with a bunch of chairs in a circle and a sign on an easel that reads “Hollaback Girl Support Group.”

It’s all women who are each holding their cellphones up to their face, inches away.  Some have mascara running down their cheeks from crying.

That’s the joke.  Didn’t get it?  I don’t blame you.

A “hollaback girl” is a girl who is sadistically insecure and dependent on a man who treats her like dirt.  She allows herself to be stepped on repeatedly by jerks.

The joke is basically that a hollaback support group would be a group of women trying to break free from this behavior, but still obsessively checking their phones waiting for text messages from their man.

Okay, maybe only a three.

She thought it was funny.

Well, I’m white.  He’s white.  We both play guitar.  We’re both in bands.  We both have giant skulls.

And we both love a challenge.

In 1981 George did probably the coolest thing a rock star could – he booked and performed fifty shows in fifty states in fifty days.

Also, we are both Bad To The Bone.

I committed in January to writing a post every day.  One reason was to stretch my creative muscles.  Another to deliver quality content to my readers who have been so great to support this blog.

I’m going to keep it up  for as long as I can (I’m sure I’ll miss a day here and there), because I’m envigorated.  In the past six months, the traffic has doubled about 6x over, and I now have some advertisers who help keep this pirate ship afloat (to borrow a phrase from Adam Carolla).

I’m ready to move this thing full steam ahead in 2012.  I have some ideas of other verticles I’d like to roll out, and I can only do it with continued support.

So – if you like what you read here, please tell a friend.  Send out a link via Facebook or Twitter to your favorite post.  Keep commenting on posts and connecting with other readers.  Tell people in your office.  Etch the url onto bathroom stall doors with a pen-knife.

So please tell a friend – it’s the best thing you can do for this website.  I thank you very much for your readership and continued support.

Here’s a story that you’ve probably missed that I feel is a classic. My Handerpants Amazon.com review.

And just to clarify, I was absolutely joking when I said I was anything like George Thorogood.  He’s way cooler.

Today’s story, believe it or not, is even more embarrassing.

And lest you think I exaggerate, I can even ask the person who witnessed this almost twenty years ago to verify.  His name is Justin, and has been a great friend for twenty-five years.  In fact, when I got married, he got a marryer (that’s probably not a word) license and became our officiant.  I also blame him for the subsequent divorce.

Anyway, back in high school when I was sixteen a bunch of us were in Justin’s folks’ kitchen.  I’m sure we were waxing something mature like which girls were in our “five hottest” list.  I almost certainly was not on anyone’s list.  I think I must have become better looking over time because since I’ve left school, a number of female classmates have told me that I’m handsome.  Think about it – for people you’ve known for years, you would only say, “You look so thin!” if the person was huge before.

Somehow the conversation moved over to pasta – who knows why.  And I said something like this…

I think it’s just amazing how they find pasta and harvest it – so much work!

Justin looked at me and saw an opening.  He jumped in.

“What do you mean ‘find pasta’?  Where do you think it comes from?”

Wait – doesn’t pasta come from the sea?

“There’s no way you just said that sentence.  Say it again.”

Uh oh.

I’m not sure why, but I had no idea that pasta was a wheat product.  I mean, I saw when my mom would make spaghetti using one of those circular measuring things.  I knew it came dry.  I had just assumed that when it was pulled out of the sea (note – I didn’t know if “sea” meant ocean or freshwater), it was dried and then packaged.

This shit so totally comes from the sea.

Please realize, that I was not a total moron.  In school I was in all accelerated classes (except math – NERDS!), and was generally believed to be intelligent by my peers.

I think I somehow linked it up with rice, which grows on paddies in water.  Which, you have to admit, is sort of in the ballpark of pasta.

No?

Before I wrote that last piece about rice, I absolutely Google’d “where does rice grow” and read the Wikipedia article on rice, just to confirm.  Bear in mind that I have been to four foreign countries where I have actually seen rice growing on water in paddies.

No, that’s not true.  Nobody yells out, “Fool!”

I wasn’t particularly paying attention to this story, as is often the case.  I enjoy talking to myself.  But I did hear this olive story in the periphery and I became instantly confused.

I said aloud:

You know what?  I didn’t know that either.  I just thought olives grew that way!

C'mon - it totally looks natural.

The whole room turned at once to face me and fell silent.  You know that expression “my jaw fell open” in literature where something dumb or shocking is said and nobody knows how to react?  We all know that doesn’t really happen in real life, but imagine that’s what everybody did.

Then, Jessica said, “Um… you think it’s just part of the olive?  The red thing?”

Yeah, well, that’s what is so weird – I mean, why would they take the red part out, and then put it back in?  Do they pickle the pimento or something?  I don’t understand.

“D.J., the pimento is not part of the olive.  It’s red pepper.”

You’re shitting me.  No – wait.  Is it?  Like red pepper, the vegetable?

“Holy Christ.”

Mind you that not two years before I had been to an olive orchard in Tuscany and watched how they made olive oil.  I had never in my life thought that the olive and pimento were not united from birth.  I just thought that was the middle of the olive.

Please understand I can’t eat green olives.  I mean, olive oil is great, but green olives are just too goddamn strong.  I have never voluntarily eaten one on my own volition.  I can handle shaved pieces of black ones on a sandwich or salad, but even those are a little intense.

So, no martinis, no olive bar at the grocer, no drinking olive juice when I get desperate.  I stay away from olives.  I just don’t like them, and they make me queasy.  Even those little ones, capers, are kind of too much.

10x smaller, 10x more intense, 10x nastier.

I swear to God, at 35 I had never heard somebody mention that pimento means “red pepper” or whatever.

There, I exposed my food idiocy.  Please reveal yours.

One of my good friends, Bill Flynn, is known for saying that doing emotional work is much more exhausting than physical work.  I have found this to be true as well.

Today, I woke up at nine am, which gave me a solid nine hours of sleep.  For some reason I’m a nine hour guy.  It’s virtually impossible to do, of course, with a full-time job, this blog, the band, and a girlfriend.  I can really only crank it out on Friday and Saturday nights.

That last sentence doesn’t read too well, now that I’m thinking about it.  Screw it – not going to change.  Accidental double entendres are kind of cool in my opinion.

So, I woke up and had two bratwursts for breakfast.  I got excited last night at the grocery and had realized that I had all but forgotten bratwurst were a food.  I cooked up two last night, and two this morning.  That’s a lot of low quality meat within a twelve hour window.

When you look at it uncooked, it's kind of gross.

Then, not surprisingly, I became tired again.  And why shouldn’t I?  I was up for a good three hours.  I laid back in bed and started checking emails, and then trying to impress comedians I follow on Twitter.

I burned Matt Ruby! Burned Matt Ruby good!

I received an email that really angered me.  I immediately wanted to lash out and punish this person (don’t worry friends and family, it wasn’t you), and then I realized, “Holy shit!  I’m angry!”

Usually anger to me equals action.  Since I’m so uncomfortable with my anger, I must act upon it, which usually means doing something hurtful to the person that I believe is making me angry.  Obviously this is not always a good idea, and I most times I have enough sense not to pick up the phone and start screaming the c-word.

Obviously, I would have dialed someone first, as screaming the c-word into a dial tone is not very satisfying.

Instead of action, however, I decided to go within.  I turned off my brain and went to the feeling.  Tried to sit with it, which is difficult for me.  Eventually I was transported back to other times I was angry, and eventually it turned into sadness.  Actually deep sadness, which nearly brought me to tears.  Thoughts of my ex-wife flooded me and a little kid voice screaming, “Why did you leave me?” as she walked away.  Which I totally thought I was over by now.  Awesome to realize I’m not.  Ha.

I then promptly passed out.

I awoke three hours later with my dog and cat curled up on top of me.  I started to feel shame about wasting the day, but you know what?  I’m hoping my body knew what to do.

Can you imagine me as a father?

Excuse me, children.  Daddy needs to go process anger and then fall asleep.  Here’s a DVD.  Stay away from the outlets.

I feel good now, because I did what I had never, until recently, taught myself to do – stay with the tough feelings, let my body do the work, and then go eat a bratwurst.

Copper, you're my best friend! Now, if only you could protect me from daddy's abuse...

If you want to read the article, click here!

I had written this piece last year and totally forgot about it.  As I was reading it back I was pleased to see that I follow most of the rules that I recommended.

However…

I’ve never asked you guys who else YOU are reading!

There are other funny and touching bloggers out there and I’d like to know who they are!  I’m making a list, see, of… Well, it’s a list.  It’s not exactly a I’m-sending-over-a-large-Mexican-that-I-paid-fifty-bucks-to-shiv-because-they-aren’t-going-to-be-a-more-successful-blogger-than-me type of list.  Well, actually, it sort of is.

No, seriously, please comment below and let me know who I should be reading to poach their best material and rewrite as my own.

Note : This is probably the ONE time that I’ll allow some self-promotion should you have a blog.  I have advertisers that pay good money to be here, and will not be happy I’m doing this.  For you, I’m giving an extra two days of ad exposure past your agreement.  So, if you decide to list your own blog, do them a favor and click on the advertisers on the right.  They want your love!