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I Wrote What You Told Me (Again)

Once in awhile I have nothing to write about. So I ask you what to do. You tell me. I do.

With the exception of the years I was married I never had a date on New Years. I had a few long distance relationships, but we were never together on New Years. So every year is about the same. If I was at a bar I turned in a circle to find somebody to kiss. It never led to anything more. One year my wife and I had a party at our condo and I watched a guest telling a story and eating the peel and eat shrimp (I have this amazing recipe) without taking the shell off first. I kept wanting to raise my hand and interrupt him with a, “Holy Christ, man! What kind of insanity is this?” but I couldn’t because he hadn’t arrived at the story’s punchline. That was probably the wildest thing I ever witnessed on NYE.

I was sixteen and working in a bar/restaurant called Shooters. The owner, Sue B, was awesome. She’d run you hard but then give you a plastic cup and go, “You have ten minutes at the keg. Have fun.” My partner Reed and I would drink fifteen cups of beer in ten minutes. I’m not joking. We’d get hammered in ten minutes and finish our shift as busboys. Sue would have a holiday party at their house for all the staff and allow us to drink. That was good stuff.

I once stabbed a drifter on Christmas Day. Okay, that’s not true. I don’t really have one myself, but I’ll throw my sister under the bus. My aunt and uncle live in Seattle and always send us these insanely juicy pears. Well, about seven years ago my sister and I got up early and went downstairs before my parents. We found the pears and dove in. When everyone gathered in the living room to open presents she make wind and knocked everyone out of the room. By the way, she’s a VP for the largest cosmetics company in the world. She doesn’t do that. But she did.

Ooh, and last year I vomited and pooped the entire day. I was horrifically sick and still wrote about it. I couldn’t make it even a few minutes without puking. It was hilarious. And terrible.

Since none of the women I want to hit on are into Justin Beiber he sort of gets a pass from me. Sure, he’s lame and I hope he develops a freebasing addiction, but other than that, I don’t care about him. Canadians are just weird in general. Nicest people on the planet, but weird. The stripey shirts, for chrissakes.

Okay, I know all about omens. I studied omenology in college (nearly minored), witnessed seven omens myself over my lifetime, and I own the entire Omen Blueray box set. This is an omen. What kind of omen? How the fuck would I know? Put it on YouTube and enjoy the ten million hits you’re sure to get overnight.

Part II tomorrow!

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