Going Camping

When going camping you shouldn't just assume it's going to be fun, because it won't be. Not unless you take the proper precautions and bring all of the necessary supplies like water, bug spray, and anti-bear riot gear. If these prerequisites are met your chances of having fun are as good as a Snickers bar.

After I have all of my camping gear assembled I load up my car and head to a small patch of woods commonly known as my backyard. Before setting up my tent I need to find a nice, flat area without too many rocks, roots, or bears. Not that I don't like those things, I just can't sleep if I know there's some big rock in the vicinity.

Now that I've found the perfect spot, it's time to pitch the tent and get a nice camp fire going.This however, is often the time when I realize I forgot the matches. No problem, I'll just use the time honored tradition of not having a fire. Once the fire is out of the way I move on to the pitching of the tent. Tents can be tough to set up, but luckily I won't have to worry because I forgot that too.

Since I don't have to deal with building fires or setting up tents it leaves me more time to enjoy nature, just as I must have intended. Breathing deep I take in the rustling of the leaves and the moist country air as I decide that the great outdoors is one of the only places where you can get wet when it rains.

Once I'm all bundled up and cozy in my Subaru I turn on some soothing rock music and relax. There's nothing like the patter of rain on the roof and a little Tom Petty sifting through the air to make me feel like I'm sitting in my car in the backyard. "I'm camping now!", I think to myself.

As night sets in it starts to get a little cool so I turn the car on to get some heat. Not long after I run out of gas and have to resort to the time honored tradition of shivering. By around midnight I'm shivering so ferociously that you'd think I'd burst into flames. Luckily I don't. In fact, I find I can shiver as violently as I want and it doesn't even matter, so that's nice.

By the time 3 AM rolls around I have the car vibrating madly and most of my teeth chattered out, but at least I don't see any big rocks anywhere that would prevent me from sleeping.

Once 4 AM hits I'm not sure if I'm still cold or just completely numb, dreaming or having an out of body experience. I try pinching myself but it's a bust. I didn't feel it, but I don't know if I pinched myself.

After the clock hits 6 AM I'm quite confident that I'm either fast asleep or dead. This is what I love about camping, it's back to the basics. Though, the next time I go I'll probably wait until one of the Spring, Summer, or Fall months, just to spice things up. Not that this time wasn't spicy. I love camping.

Fat Man Serial Killer

Once upon a day there was a man named Bufert. Bufert wasn't just any man, however, he was a fat man. But he wasn't just any fat man, he was a fat man who was fatter than any other fat man who came before him, or would come again.

This downward spiral into fatterdom started when Bufert's mom, a cow tamer, went to a sperm bank looking for a donor. Instead of being impregnated with sperm like usual, however, the doctors accidentally injected her with vegetable oil. Once the doctors realized their mistake they attempted to redo the injection, but it was already too late. The woman's egg had eaten all of the fatty oil and was so content it decided to fertilize itself.

As Bufert grew in his mother's womb it became apparent that he was not a normal fetus. Where normal fetuses liked to run around and play, Bufert chose to just sit there and feed. The bigger he got the more he ate until he was eating everything his mother swallowed, leaving nothing for her. She started thinking there might be a problem when she no longer had the energy to do simple tasks, like climb stairs or blink.

Eventually, Bufert grew inside the womb until he was so big that his mother toppled over onto her stomach, allowing Bufert to crawl around on the floor from inside her belly. As he crawled, dragging his mother to and fro, he decided the best thing for both of them would be to head to McDonald's for a Happy Meal.

After reaching the front door of the restaurant, Bufert realized something horrifying; McDonald's had a very strict policy against serving unborn babies. Crawling behind the building, Bufert began crying hysterically. As he cried he noticed the womb was filling with tears. Now on the brink of drowning, he had no choice but to either stop crying, or eat his way through his mother's stomach. Realizing only one of those options dealt with eating something, he began chewing his way to freedom.

Once in the outside world, Bufert revealed himself to be so unrealistically fat that it was difficult to tell if he was really a human being or just a stack of beached whales covered in butter and vanilla pudding. One thing was certain, however, he was hungry. As he looked at the McDonald's building that he was still behind, he decided he'd first take a nap before doing any kind of moving. While napping, Bufert had a terrible nightmare; he dreamed that he didn't have any money to pay for a Happy Meal. Awaking in a cold, buttery sweat, he was pushed to the brink of insanity when he realized the dream wasn't just a nightmare, but a true story. As he nervously waded back and forth in his own pool of fat, he began to meditate. How would he solve this predicament? Then, it hit him. Where do people who pay for food put it once it's purchased? That's right! In their stomach! He decided that all he had to do was eat people's stomachs and he'd be saved.

As Bufert slowly made his way to the front of the building, he waited until a satisfied customer came walking through the exit. Then, he skillfully crept toward them with the athletic locomotion of a slug, the grace of a two legged turtle, and the ambition of a cold hot dog. When Bufert's victim caught sight of this gigantic pile of sludge lurching toward him, he was so dumbfounded that he couldn't move. For the next three days the man stood and stared in complete bewilderment as Bufert slowly undulated as fast as he could toward his prey.

Upon reaching his victim, Bufert tore through and devoured his stomach quicker than you could say, "Pope John Paul the second." Once the meal was finished, the hunger pangs finally subsided, giving way to feelings of euphoria, achievement, and new hunger pangs. This time, for KFC, which was right next door. Before making the trek, Bufert first observed the McDonald's customers through the glass door one more time. He waited until he saw one of the patrons finish a milkshake, as Bufert was quite thirsty. Then, just as before, once his chosen victim was in striking distance he attacked with the viciousness of a rabid turkey on Thanksgiving. This time, however, he didn't eat the stomach, but just ripped it out along with its attaching esophagus. After this was completed he slung it around his neck like a canteen and began his long, arduous pilgrimage to KFC, fifty feet away. He figured if he just rationed his food supplies and kept moving through the night, he could be there by this time next month.

As Bufert undulated, it became apparent that the trip wouldn't be as easy as he thought. The sidewalk was uneven, his confiscated stomach was running low on milkshake, and he hadn't even started the voyage yet. Slurping some beverage through the esophagus of his makeshift canteen, he set his sights on the big, red KFC sign and moved toward it without looking back. During his journey he took some time out every now and then to snack on pedestrian stomachs. They didn't contain much; a bagel, some pretzels, a hamster, but it was enough to tide him over until he reached his destination.

Finally, after three grueling months, Bufert arrived at KFC. But it was at that point in time that the police were beginning their investigation into a string of murders believed to be the work of a serial killer. They didn't have much to go on, though, because witnesses of the crimes couldn't describe what they saw. Indeed, Bufert was so fat that the people couldn't grasp it. Without any concrete evidence to work with, police reports simply said, "Watch out for, um, something."

Bufert continued his reign of terror until he was so fat that his fat cells began having children. Now, it was go time. With an ever increasing appetite and kids to feed, he knew it was time to get serious about stomachs. He needed to go to a place where people took the art of being fat very seriously. A place where laziness reigned supreme. A place like Wal-Mart. As he gobbled up every single customer belly that came out of his new favorite eatery, Bufert grew to unprecedented sizes.

Continuing his reign of terror, Bufert knocked off department store after bakery after dairy farm with such raw passion that it was almost touching. People from adjacent street corners couldn't understand what they were seeing, but if they could, it would've made them cry. Bufert's conviction was that powerful.

Now spanning two city blocks and towering above even the tallest of buildings, Bufert had reached a new dilemma. What can you eat in a city when you've already eaten everything? Darting his eyes back and forth Bufert didn't see any signs of life in any direction. Panic began to set in as his rumbling stomach grew louder and louder. Eventually, his tormented belly reached such a fever pitch that it could only be described as a deafening roar. Glass windows shattered and the earth quaked as Bufert wept massive globs of salty blubber from his eyes. Realizing he was wasting valuable bodily fats, Bufert forcefully calmed himself and did the only thing he could. He left his home town in search of a snack.

Undulating with a new sense of purpose, Bufert slimed his way across the countryside devouring everything in his path. Some villagers here, a flock of sheep there, things were looking up. As Bufert grew, scientists from around the world began reporting seeing some kind of "blobular structure" in their satellite images. Indeed, Bufert could now be seen from space, something the earth was running out of.

The globe began to panic as these satellite images flooded TV sets. People speculated what this giant, pail sludge patch on the earth could be. Some thought it must be an equipment malfunction of some sort. Others thought the earth itself must have developed some kind of massive tumor. Then there were others who desperately tried to blame it on El Nino. The only thing everyone could agree on was that it was growing, fast.

Countries tried to declare war on the ungodly, gelatinous blob of lard but their constitution didn't specify how to proceed in a case like this. As they raced to amend the constitution, allowing for the attack of unidentified blob monsters, it became clear it was too late. Bufert had blubbered them before they could even hold a vote. As the blob of buttery blubber moved across the globe it left nothing but destruction, toppled governments, and empty cupboards in its wake. Day and night he fed until the planet was nothing but a baron wasteland.

With Bufert now at such an utterly farfetched and improbable size, his fat began to hang off of all four corners of the earth, completely engulfing it in vast oceans of liquid lard. There was nothing left for him to eat, but it didn't matter. Due to his sheer size and density, nuclear fusion began to occur at his core. Fat cells fused with other fat cells to create even fatter fat cells. As he went orbiting around the sun he grew at an exponential rate, gobbling up first Mars, then Venus and Mercury.

Eventually, Bufert became the most massive body in the solar system, sending the sun and all the other planets collapsing into him. After that he went shooting into space, consuming anything in his trajectory. As time passed Bufert grew and grew until he reached a critical mass. His density was so great that he came upon a point in which fat becomes unstable. Bufert exploded with such tremendous brilliance that even the Big Bang was jealous. Gigantic globs of buttery fat went flinging to all corners of the freshly repopulated universe.

This isn't the end for Bufert, however. Oh no. Bufert now waits. He waits until his pieces which are scattered across the universe can feed and grow once more. He waits until they eventually coagulate back together to become the impossible lard bomb that is Bufert. He's not done yet, not by a long shot. Bufert is living proof of a nightmare that many refuse to admit; you can never get rid of fat. It isn't something that can be bargained with or killed off. Fat is forever. And so is Bufert.

Throwing a Party

Whether you've bought a new house, graduated from college, or just want to see who can fit the most light bulbs in their mouth, throwing a party is a great way to bring everyone together for some fun.

When planning a bash the first and most obvious step in the process is sending out invitations. People need to know I'm throwing a party, otherwise I'm not. Friends, family, people I see on the street, TV, or in my dreams, they're all getting an invite. No one is off limits. Not illegal immigrants, not even Eskimos.

Once the invitations have been sent all I need to do is sit back and watch as the RSVPs flood my mailbox. And I know they will. It's not every day that I send a party invite to every man, woman, and child in the western hemisphere. No sir, that is a weekly thing.

After I've received my mountain of RSVPs, or three, it's time to stock up on supplies. This is the part where I have to remember that even too much isn't enough. If I normally buy two of an item, I need six. If I normally buy six, I need eighteen. If I normally buy eighteen, I need a calculator. And the list goes on and on.

Once I have all of my supplies stockpiled the only thing left to do is wait for the guests to arrive. As I'm waiting I like to give myself a pep talk. Going over to the mirror I look myself dead in the eye and say, "This party is going to rule. You have six bottles of soda, eighteen bags of chips, and countless light bulbs. Barring some freak natural disaster, nothing could ruin this, not even a bear."

With my pep talk wrapped up, I look at my watch and realize that everyone's running a few minutes late, give or take a couple hours. No big deal, I think to myself. But after two more hours pass, I begin to get worried. The deal seems to be getting bigger. What if no one shows up? What if I bought all of these supplies for nothing? What if the same thing happens next week? But that's when I remember that people never show up to my parties, and that must be getting pretty tiring. I know I'm sick of it.

As the clock strikes midnight I figure I'll give one last effort to get this party started. Opening the door I yell, "PARTY!.....PARTY!.....PARTY!" into the neighborhood. I know it's a long shot, but nothing says "party" quite like me. After the fifth yell, I get that sinking feeling that no one is going to respond. Oh well, there's always next time, I tell myself. If at first you don't succeed, try, try again weekly.

Being a Good Roommate

Being a good roommate is important if you enjoy things like peace, harmony, and not being murdered. This is why I always go out of my way to be reasonable when sharing a living space. Because let's face it, you never really know what someone is capable of until after you've drank all of their milk or annihilated their favorite washing machine. I had to find that out the hard way.

Let's take it from the top. So it's a nice, sunny afternoon and I find myself moving into an apartment with another occupant. This is great, I think to myself. We'll be able to watch movies together, make dinners, videotape each other sleeping; fun roommate stuff. But that's where I've already made my first mistake. I'm just assuming he or she will like these activities. Some people can be very touchy about things like movies and dinners. One unannounced pot roast can send a man over the edge. That man was my last roommate. That pot roast was his, just like the first two.

Once I've managed to avoid things like untimely dinners, I need to focus on cleanliness. I can't count the number of times I've had arguments over things like dirty dishes or who should do my laundry. I've always tried to keep things simple; if it's yours, you do it, if it's mine, you do it. That way there's no confusion as to who's doing what. But this, I have found, is a mistake. You have to share chores, even when you don't want to. They're a lot like a venereal disease in that way. That's how my roommate put it anyway. Though, when he said it he pointed directly at me and yelled, "You're just like a venereal disease!", but I knew what he meant.

After chores have been sorted out it's time to tackle privacy. This one's a biggie. There are many gray areas on the continuum between being sociable, being intrusive, and being creepy. Basically, I've learned that being intrusive is when you're trying to be sociable at an odd time or location - like while they're sleeping or in the bathroom, and being creepy is when you're being intrusive, but now you have a video camera. My roommate was a stickler about this one. He would always get really upset whenever I filmed him in the shower or woke him up at night to tell him I cooked all of his hot dogs. I remember one time, after I'd just captured some footage of him in his natural environment, he came out in his bathrobe and said, "Film me one more time and I'll smash your camera!" Well, I did film him one more time, and he did smash my camera. Luckily I captured it all on my second camera.

Ok, so against all odds I've mastered the art of negotiating pet peeves, being tidy, and film etiquette. The last and arguably most important part of being a good roommate is all about money. I need to pay my share of the rent, the utility bills, and the pot roasts. Money talks. And if it doesn't, my roommate will talk for it. They may even scream, claw, and sue for it. I've tried the barter system but, and I quote, "You can't pay the rent in tacos." I knew it was a long shot but money was tight due to a slowdown in my line of work. And sure, it's easy to say I should switch careers, but unemployment is all I know.

As you can see, I've learned a lot about being a roommate over the years. It's not all me, me, me. Sometimes I have to just step aside and say, "Why don't you eat some of your food this time?" This will make things go much smoother when it comes time for me to get creepy.

Even though we had our quarrels, I could tell my former roommate thought it was all worth it by the way he looked at me and said, "What doesn't kill you, makes me sad." I just smiled and thought how he was almost as emotional as he was camera shy. Then I asked if he wanted some of his pizza. Of all the things I miss about my old roommate, I miss his food the most.

How to Tell if Your Spouse is Cheating

Is your spouse always "working late"? Are they often "too tired" for intimacy? Do you no longer feel the need to "practice hygiene"? If you've answered yes to any of these questions then there's a good chance your spouse is overworked, underpaid, and cheating. You shouldn't take my word for it, though. I know when I'm dealing with such a personal issue I need to hear it straight from my sister's coworker's friend, instead of some stranger.

Whenever I suspect my wife is cheating one of the first things I do is allow for a moment of quiet introspection as I try to remember my ex girlfriend's number. After that I tell myself I shouldn't jump to such hasty conclusions. So she's been working a lot lately. So someone's been calling and hanging up when I answer the phone. So I've caught her having sex with another man. There's literally a thousand other things that could mean, I just haven't thought of them yet. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let my lack of imagination ruin something that's quite possibly very special.

As the days go by I find myself unable to think of any reasonable explanation for the things I've witnessed. Though, I do have several unreasonable ones, so I know I'm making progress. Finally, no longer able to resist the urge, I do a little snooping. I decide to start with her purse. What better place to find some incriminating evidence like a cell phone number or a bunch of used condoms. Luckily, I don't find those items, just some chap stick and a few nude photos which probably came with the purse. Next, I move to her email. There I find a lot of back and forth correspondence between my wife and some guy named Johnny10. Many of the subject lines read things like, "I've got a BIG problem down here below my desk" and "I think we'll be working late again tonight *Wink* *Wink*."  As I look at all of these emails I feel anger rising up inside of me. I need no further proof now. Companies are just working everyone to death and they don't even care. Calming myself I realize that's an issue for another time.

Focusing back on the task at hand I call my wife's gynecologist to ask if they've seen any suspicious activity lately. This turns out to be a dead end though due to client-patient privilege. I even try invoking the Freedom of Information Act, but it's a no go, just like it was when I asked them to explain immaculate conception, as my wife seems to be suffering from it.

Once I've rifled through my wife's purse, email, and genital records, all with varying degrees of success, I decide I've been going about it all wrong. She's always been very good at keeping things from me, especially her vagina, so I need to think outside the box. Taking a deep breath I decide to do what I swore I'd never do; I sit her down for a conversation. As we're sitting face to face I like to test the waters first by saying things like, "So what do you think about the decor of our living room? The walls could probably use some more pictures, huh? Do you want to nail them up, or would you rather screw your coworker?"

After this little conversation starter my wife suddenly seems to be all gung ho about redecorating. I can tell by the way she starts chucking vases, lamps, and psychotic looks at me. She's always been crazy about home improvement. I ask if we should rearrange the bedroom next, but she just screams, "How about I rearrange your face with a frying pan?!" I just laugh because I don't see how that's going to add value to the house.

When everything is over I find myself out on the street with all of my belongings. Apparently my wife didn't think I went well with the house. At least not as well as the guy she has moving in. I smile to myself as I realize she feng shuied me out before I could even ask if she was cheating. It's funny how interior decorating just kind of takes over once you start.

Opting for Adopting

Adopting a child is very serious business, not unlike buying a car. There's a big financial investment involved, it includes a lot of paperwork, and you can't return it after it's been used. Then there's also the fact that since adopted children are pre-owned, they also come pre-named right out of the box. Maybe whatever the previous owner chose is fine, and maybe it's King Kong, Pikachu, or Tim. This is why it's so important to think everything through before beginning the process.

Whenever I'm about to make a huge decision like adoption, I always put together a list of pros and cons. This method is much more thorough and respected than going with your gut or flipping a coin. I know that now. On the pro side of the adoption equation there's things like companionship, life fulfillment, and bigger tax returns. On the con side however, there's the fact that I don't know if I'll be a good parent, but I also don't know if they'll be a good kid, which brings us back to the fact that they're non-refundable. If I get a bad kid but I'm also a bad parent then I don't have to worry because we both got what we deserved. But if I get a bad kid while I'm a good parent then I want a refund. That's the dilemma.

Now that I have my list compiled I can clearly see that I need to do a coin toss. A quarter may not buy much but boy is it good at making decisions. If it comes up negative then there's nothing I can do but try again in the morning.

Eventually, as I consult my decision making tool, it'll come up positive. This is both exciting and terrifying. It's exciting because I'm about to add a new family member, and terrifying because I used a coin to do it. Add that to the fact that the kid could be a lemon and I've got myself some interesting prospects.

Throwing caution to the wind, I grab my car keys and head to the nearest adoption center to pick out a kid. As I'm browsing through their most recent catalog I remind myself to keep an open mind, though I know I don't want a child who is too old, too young, or looks too much like that Chucky doll. Everything else is fair game.

As I'm leafing through the pages I'll usually come across a child who just screams, "I'm the kid for you!" but I convince myself to move on because I don't like screamers. Other pictures seem to stare innocently into my eyes as if to say, "If you raise me right, I'll grow into a respectable, upstanding citizen" but I move along because that's a lot of pressure. Then, once I'm about to give up, I'll happen upon the most precious little child who just radiates, "I'd be the perfect kid for you in every way! I'm kind, caring, and will always be respectful" but I continue on because they look too much like a Tim. I glance at the last few pages of the catalog but all of those kids look refurbished.

Trying to pick out a child is tough work. I wish I could take a few home to test out but there's a policy against that clearly written all over the face of the agent who I've just asked. It's like, excuse me for trying to find the perfect match. Half jokingly, I take a coin out of my pocket and say, "I suppose you'd rather I just flip for it?" Then, I fully seriously start flipping. After a few flips I get frustrated, though, because it keeps landing on Tim.

Once I've spent the better part of half an hour at the adoption agency I decide that adopting is for the birds and I go get a dog instead. At least they come with a more lenient return policy. I'm sure I'll try my hand at adoption again one day, but according to my quarter, not today.

Attending a Funeral

Going to a funeral is often one of the saddest things we have to do in this world. Whether it's for a friend, a family member, or yourself, it always proves difficult to get over.

Whenever I'm invited to be a guest at a funeral I always feel honored and humbled. This is the deceased's final get-together and everyone wanted me to be a part of it. To show my gratitude I like to make sure I dress appropriately. I know many events have very strict rules when dealing with dress code; no white at a wedding, no hats in church, no yamakas at a rave, etc. Then there's the more intricate regulations like you shouldn't wear a ski mask on a date, but you should for a robbery. It's almost impossible to keep them all straight.

After thinking about how many ways there are to violate dress code, I finally throw on a tie-dye bandana and a pair of swimming flippers and head out the door. There is no rule against these items to my knowledge.

Upon pulling into the cemetery I'm finding it difficult to stop my car without first hitting every other vehicle in the parking lot. Flippers may be great for swimming and funerals, but driving is a whole new ballgame. Once I've cleared the last car I make my way into the cemetery where I begin plowing over all of the head stones. It'd be interesting to stop and mingle with the funeral folks, all of whom seem more curious about my goings ons than the funeral itself, but off the top of my head I can't think of a way to get my flipper out from under the gas pedal. Thinking outside the box, I reach my hand into the bag of apples that I brought for a dish to pass and start chucking them at the brake pedal. Every little bit helps.

I finally manage to bring the car to a halt through a skillful combination of throwing it in neutral, pulling the emergency brake, and crashing into a tree. Getting out of my now totaled car, I waddle in my flippers up to the ceremony feeling completely ridiculous that I no longer have a dish to pass. And by the way everyone is gawking, it's obvious they were expecting some fruit.

Once I'm standing with the congregation I let out a few bellows to convey my sadness. Then I jump into the hole they've dug for the casket to make sure it's regulation depth. Everyone just kind of gasps and looks around at each other as they anxiously await my findings. Usually the plot is the right dimensions, but if it's a bit shallow I may do a little digging.

After I'm done digging I often find it difficult to get back out of the hole. I try asking for help but everyone just stands there like they've seen a ghost. I just laugh and say how we're here for a funeral, not a haunting. Then I dig foot holds into one of the soil walls to use as a makeshift ladder. As I begin my ascent the side usually gives way burying me beneath earth, rock, and the funeral director. Wrangling my way out from underneath everything I can't help but feel ridiculous once again about the whole dish to pass thing. I tell myself to let it go, but it's hard. It looks like everyone would kill for an apple right about now.

As I collapse a few more walls I finally manage to scramble back up to the surface. Once I'm on my feet I'm usually confronted by someone who screams, "Who are you?! What are you doing here!? You've ruined the funeral!" To which I calmly respond, "Come on, it's only fruit." Then I push the casket into the hole to keep things moving along.

When all is said and done and I'm being lead away by police officers, I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right. Why did they ask who I was? There was an ad for the funeral in the obituary section of the local paper. Of course I was going to attend. I just laugh as I think about how some people are really bad at marketing.

Having a Wedding

Getting married is one of the most memorable occasions in life. It's right up there with buying a new home, having your first baby, and going bankrupt. All are unforgettable.

Preparing for a wedding is a lengthy process that involves a lot of steps; the first and arguably most important of which is deciding on a partner. This is generally someone you know, are close to, and can picture yourself having a harmonious divorce with. Once you've found that special someone all the other pieces seem to just fall into place, as if by court order.

After finding a person of marriage quality, it's time to plan the wedding. To make sure I cover all of my bases I like to go through all the what, where, why, and whens of the joyous occasion. What is the date? Where should it be held? Why am I doing this? When will I learn?

Once all of these questions are answered I can feel confident that I'm ready to postpone everything. But, since I'm told that isn't an option, I move on to phase two: sending out the invitations. This part is tricky because I run the absolute certainty of offending everyone I've ever met. Friends, family, my first grade teacher's Great Dane's adopted step-puppies; they're all going to be upset for one reason or another. If they didn't get an RSVP they'll be upset that they weren't invited. If they were invited they'll be upset they're not in the wedding party. If they are in the wedding party they'll be upset they're not the best man. If they are the best man they'll be upset that I'm marrying their fiance. I just can't win.

Now that I have the invitations sent and everyone offended, it's time to prepare for the big day. One important step in this preparation is the writing of the marriage vows. This is my chance to show my partner how much they mean to me, to let them know I'll stay by their side even when they themselves, their family members, and the law don't want me to. This is true love. And the last time I checked, true love trumps restraining orders. I need to make sure they know that.

After I have my vows prepared, which the priest has been so rudely prodding me to finish as we stand at the altar, it's time to take a deep breath, put on my tux, and turn and face the wedding congregation. I think doing things at the last minute is good sometimes, especially when you didn't do them beforehand.

Eventually, as the ceremony proceeds, it'll come time to read each other our vows. This is what my partner and everyone else has been waiting silently for an hour and a half for, so I have to make it good. As I look deeply into the love of my life's eyes, I read, "To my best friend, lover, and former mistress, I will always be there for you. Through thick and thin, I'll be there. Even when we have our spats, as spouses sometimes do, just look beside you, and I'll be there. Even when you change the locks on the doors, as spouses also sometimes do, just look out your bedroom window, and I'll be there." After this I give a pause as the room erupts with silence, then I continue, "If eventually you decide to pack up your car and move across the country, just think about all the good times we've had, then look deep within your trunk, and I'll be there." At this point, if the cockles of her heart aren't quite warm, I'll finish her off with a romantic, "There is no one else I'd rather be with, not even your sister."

I'm so pumped upon finishing my vows that I wipe the tears away from my eyes and proclaim, "I'm kissing the bride now!" I then go on to rigorously consummate the marriage. Once that's done I go over to the bride's maids and scream, "If they're good enough for my wife, they're good enough for me!" Then I make out with all of them as a form of acceptance and good will.

When everything wraps up and I've made out with all of my wife's friends and family, I feel this tremendous sense of belonging. And I know everyone else feels it too by the way they're taking turns giving me bear hugs and love punches to the stomach. Eventually, someone will become so overwhelmed with love that they can't help but drop-kick me in the face. I would say, "Right back at ya!" but I'm just too tired and unconscious from all of the festivities.

Once I awaken in the ER a big smile goes across my face because hey, I've got something good. Then I crawl off the gurney, down the street, and into my wife's trunk to see where we're going. I hope it's someplace warm.

Going Clubbing

Going clubbing is not one of America's favorite pass-times. But it should be. With its offerings of flashing strobe lights, blaring music, and binge drinking, you're sure to achieve your goal of going blind, deaf, and dumb all at the same time.

Whenever I go clubbing I'm always prepared to leave ten bucks and all of my five senses at the door. After that the world better watch out, because I can't. One of the first things I like to do upon entry is feel out the scene. You usually have the wallflowers standing at the back, sipping their drinks, the ladies up near the front, sharing gossip with their girlfriends, and the bimbos in the center, sharing their insecurities and underwear. All ready to have a good time.

Once I've got the scene scoped out I usually grab a pair of underwear and head to the bar. As I'm walking I like to put out the vibe that I'm ready to party; then I pull out a 750 piece puzzle to prove it. Grabbing a stool, I empty the puzzle pieces onto the bar and give the bartender a look of, "Yeah, this is happening now." Then he gives me a look back of, "What are you even thinking?" This always intimidates me a little. But then I remind myself that I've completed 750 piece puzzles before.

After I've completed the puzzle I'm ready to tone it down a notch. Looking around the club I decide to go mingle with some of the wallflowers hanging out in back. As I stroll I'll usually spot some interesting fellows who are just standing around, looking into the crowd and preparing their roofies. I like to start up some light conversation by saying something like, "Hey guys, here on business I see!" Then I do a quarter turn and pull out my walkie-talkie and say "Yeah this is Officer Miller. We've got a 10-30 down here at the Night Owl." I'll start turning back to laugh with my new buddies but they're usually pretty late for something and go running out the door.

I start walking back up towards the bar but that's often when some tipsy clubber pulls out the underwear that were sticking out of my pocket and starts waving them around. We both have a good laugh, after which they ask if I want to do some Ecstasy with them and their buddies. "Ecstasy!?" I say, "I've got something even better!" They all watch in anticipation as I pull a bottle of Pepto Bismol out of my pocket and take a swig. Everyone stares at me like it's some kind of joke, but I just stare right back like, "And my stomach isn't even upset." Then I laugh to myself thinking how I was supposed to be toning it down.

Once 8 O'clock rolls around I figure it's getting pretty late and I ought to head home. As I walk I smile and think about all the wild stories I'll be able to tell my children someday. "You were a party animal!" they'll say. "And you always managed to stay regular!" With a sigh I climb into bed, shoot up some heroin, and fall fast asleep.

House Hunting

Buying a house is one of the most important and exciting decisions one can make in life. There are so many different things to consider. Do I want a three bedroom or a four bedroom? How much can I afford? In case of hard times, how does a cardboard box sound? If it sounds good, would I mind being murdered and stuffed into a dumpster at some point, or would I prefer a friendlier neighborhood? These are all tricky questions.

Buying a house certainly can be a scary proposition. If I'm not careful I run the risk of ending up with more bedrooms than I need. This is why it's important to have a knowledgeable real estate agent at my side.

Once I've decided to get an agent, I have to be sure to find one who has my best interests in mind. To do this I usually pretend I'm from the CIA. Now we'll have a sense of camaraderie since we're both agents. Another benefit is that I get to use the whole "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you" routine to break the ice. Though, I'd probably make sure they knew that even though I'd be required to kill them, I'd enjoy it too. This way they'll know they have a fun guy on their hands and not just a stick in the mud.

As soon as I've found the ideal real estate agent, the exciting part begins. While he drives me around to look at properties, I have to make sure I don't miss anything. If I think we've driven past something worth seeing I'll just politely reach my leg over and slam on the brakes. I may even climb into his lap if I feel he has a better vantage point. Usually, after I've brought the car to a screeching halt for the seventeenth time, I'll decide the house is either too big, too small, not for sale, or not a house and we continue on for another few feet.

Not long after we've hit the streets my agent starts getting fussy and tries to persuade me to pull over. But I'm not giving up that easy. And besides, as luck would have it one of those trucks with the "Wide Load" signs just drove by carrying a brand new house, still in the plastic wrap. This was obviously meant to be. We need to catch up to that thing and schedule a tour before someone else does. As I steal the wheel away from my agent and put the pedal to the metal I have only one thing in mind, determining how many bedrooms the house has. I swerve in and out of traffic like I'm some kind of crazed lunatic as the tires squeal, people's horns blare, and my trusty agent sits beneath me and cries with what I bet is joy. "Oh yes!" I say, "We're house hunting now!" Then I pull out the pistol I usually carry with me and begin wildly firing it out the window to release some excitement.

As we approach my potential dream home, with police sirens roaring behind me, all I can think of is how I'll decorate the bathroom. Pulling up alongside the truck which carries the object of my affection, I motion for them to pull over, then I shoot out one of their tires to let them know I'm really interested in seeing the house. After this I watch in disappointment as the truck loses control, jack-knifes, and goes plunging off an overpass.

Standing at the edge of the overpass, I stare down at the wreckage in utter disbelief as I realize the house was only a two bedroom. Hardly worth getting all worked up over. Needless to say I no longer planned on setting up a tour. Now I just have to shake it off, reload my pistol, and jump back in my agent's lap for round two of house hunting.

As it turns out, however, my agent is usually pretty spent at this point. I can tell by the look of sheer terror on his face. And I know how he feels. That last house was such a big letdown that I'm half afraid to continue looking myself. No matter, I'll just put him in the trunk for safe keeping and continue my search.

When all is said and done I can pretty much guarantee I'll find the perfect home. And I don't care if it takes all year and a trunk full of agents to do it. When you are house hunting it is persistence, determination, and marksmanship that win the day. Luckily I have all three.

Landlording

Being a landlord can be a very rewarding experience. You get the opportunity to provide a place for someone to live, and in return, they get to give you all their money. It's a wonderful relationship.

Before I become a landlord, however, I first need a place to rent out. I've tried renting the back seat of my car and the old baby crib in the backyard, but people usually want more. This can actually work to my advantage. By throwing in some luxury items like air conditioning and a warm, cozy ceiling, I can charge top dollar for my space.

Once I have a place to rent, it's time to put up an ad to try and attract tenants. This part is critical. I want to make sure I find responsible people who will pay the rent on time, be respectful of my property, and not bother me over trivial things like blown light bulbs, drafty windows, or missing toilets. I need to find people who are problem solvers and can think for themselves.

After I have applicants interested in renting from me, I need to perform rigid interviews to ensure they'll be the right fit. To accomplish this I usual do my interviews in a meat locker. I don't know when the furnace was serviced last and I don't want to find out halfway through the lease that my tenant can't handle the cold.

If the applicant seems to be doing alright in the meat locker I usually take it a step further and dump a bucket of ice-water over their head. This let's me see how they might react to a leaky roof. Most likely they'll understand that all of this is just part of the interview process, but if not I'll have to tell them it's not going to work out. Then I'll light them on fire to warm them up. This will show that all the other stuff was just business and I'm really not a bad guy.

If the applicant is still in the running after the first tests then I need to continue on and check their level of patience. Sometimes I can't get to a problem right away and they need to be able to take this into consideration. This is why I keep them in the meat locker until I'm done with my impression of them. As I stand over them shivering and chattering my teeth they usual grow furious and have a look of, "I don't think I want to rent from you." This is when I know I need to turn them down. They may even say things like, "You're insane! I'm calling the cops when I get out of here!" But I just let them know that threats aren't going to land them a room to rent.

Sometimes, after I'm done with my standard interview routine, I'll be on the fence about an applicant. Perhaps they broke out of the meat locker before I was finished, or maybe they're unconscious on the floor, making an assessment difficult. In this case I usually take the interview a step further and test their pain management skills. I don't make ceilings like they used to. One good storm could send the rooftop of my rental caving in. I need to make sure the applicant is OK with that. As a check I'll hit them over the head with a baseball bat to simulate falling beams. Three or four whacks should do. After this it's important that I monitor their body language. You can tell a lot about a person's mettle just by the way they fall down. Was it smooth and quiet, or abrupt and whiny?

Needless to say, when all the interviewing is over I can almost guarantee I've found the right tenant. It's a good feeling knowing that not only will I get the rent on time, but I also won't be hassled every time a stiff wind blows the house over. As a landlord, that's the kind of peace of mind worth going the extra mile for.