NICE GUYS FINISH LAST

I’ve decided to be a bad guy. A louse. A no-good, irredeemable, malignant, nasty, nefarious, unscrupulous, vile son of a bitch. I tried to be a good guy. I’ve helped old ladies cross the street. Put my coat in a puddle so a pretty woman wouldn’t get her feet wet. I’ve donated time and money to charities and the community. I’ve been a good friend, a good son, a good brother and so forth. Trust me, I’m not stroking my ego here. I am a deeply flawed person, but I’ve always had good intentions, and I’ve always put others before me. I even created The Timmy Fund, which is like The Jimmy Fund, except all the money goes to one boy named Timmy. Timmy isn’t even sick. He’s just a nice kid and I wanted to help him out. Timmy is now 13, worth $15 million dollars and no longer returns my phone calls. But I still love him to pieces. Anyway, my point is, I’ve tried to be an altruistic, kindhearted, caring, benevolent and philanthropic person for 33 years.

But not anymore.

Because here is a fact, folks, an irrefutable axiom that, once you understand and accept it, will change your life forever: Nice Guys Finish Last.

I began to realize this during my marathon training. Even though I was running more and drinking less (I cut down from 9 days of drinking a week to 7. I invented two new, imaginary days—Runday and Laturday—so I could pretend I wasn’t getting drunk daily), my times were getting slower. At first, I thought it was my running shoes. I had went the costly route and bought the most expensive running sneakers in the world: Nike Gold. The sneakers are literally made from two bars of gold, and while they look fabulous, they weigh 50 pounds apiece. Running with those things feels like Kirstie Alley is holding onto my ankles.

So I got new sneakers (Nike Steel—they’re made from the popular alloy, and are 20 pounds lighter), but that STILL didn’t work. I tried changing my diet, and switched from all-fried food fare to a regimen of amphetamines, steroids and painkillers, but that didn’t cut it, either. Flustered and fatigued, I started to realize that every time I committed a good act or deed, I got SLOWER. If I held the door for someone, that cost me 10 seconds. If I said “Please” or “Thank You” to someone, that cost me 15. If I helped out a co-worker who was behind schedule, that was 20. You get the point…

What verified and validated my assumption was when I checked the history of EVERY marathon ever run. And, you know what? In EVERY SINGLE FRIGGIN’ race, a NICE GUY FINISHED LAST. It’s unbelievable. In fact, everybody who finished at the tail end of the field in every marathon was a Nice Guy. Immorality has prevailed in every marathon, sport, business and enterprise since the beginning of man. Checking the fastest runners in the history of men’s marathons backed it up for me: These guys—all the winners and frontrunners—were PURE EVIL. And they were speedy!

So that did it for me. Gone are the days of goodness, righteousness and rectitude. Integrity and probity my ass! I’m no Luke Skywalker. I’m Darth Vader, baby! I bow to the altar of Hannibal Lecter, Freddy Krueger and Kiefer Sutherland in THE LOST BOYS. Wait, those aren’t real people. Well, I guess that’s beside the point.

Ever since I’ve dedicated myself to a life of wrongdoing and peccancy, my legs have felt stronger, I’ve had more energy and I’m the fastest I’ve ever been. Man, it’s awesome being a rotten son of a bitch. So for all of you out there in TV Land who are reading this and want to change your un-wayward ways, here’s a list of unforgivable acts I’ve recently committed to make myself a worse (and therefore better) person:

DARTMAN’S ACTS OF DIABOLICAL CRUELTY TO MAKE HIMSELF A FASTER RUNNER

1) I laughed uncontrollably at the end of MILLION DOLLAR BABY.
2) I became a Cub Scout leader, and took a group of 11-15 year old boys on a 30-mile hike in the Adirondacks. Come nightfall, I abandoned them without food, water or shelter and sprayed their bodies with a special homemade concoction that enrages and attracts carnivorous bears.
3) I pretended that I was terminally ill and was granted a wish by the Make A Wish Foundation. My wish was for them to never grant another wish to another sick child again. Bound by their rules, they had to agree, and thus, the Make A Wish Foundation exists no longer.

I could go on with my multitude of transgressions, but I just swiped a wallet from a blind man on the subway and am feeling particularly fast today. I gotta tell you, people, it feels good being this bad. Like I said, nice guys finish last…

STATS FOR THURSDAY 8/15

DRINKING
10 Beers

RUNNING
Nada

SLEEPING
5 hours

NUMBER OF SONGS I DRUNKENLY SANG ALONG TO DURING THE NEIL DIAMOND CONCERT
3

DIAMOND IS FOREVER

Hello again, hello...

A picture speaks a thousand words, so I'll keep this post brief and just let you soak in this ultra-cool picture of Neil Diamond. I have tickets to see him play at MSG tonight, but Louise can't make the show 'cause of work, and nobody else I know seems eager to pay $70 to see a sexagenarian songbird serenade an audience with "I Am, I Said" while dressed in a 1970s gold-sequined outfit and a girdle to hold his gut in. Go figure. My plan was to get hammered with Louise and then see the show, but now I don't know what to do. Here are my options:

DARTMAN'S OPTIONS FOR THE NEIL DIAMOND CONCERT

1) Go to a homeless shelter and find someone who is a huge fan of THE JAZZ SINGER and JONATHAN LIVINGSTON SEAGULL and offer them 50 cents and three bottles of OLDE ENGLISH to go to the concert with me.

2) Get drunk at a TGIFriday's, put on my "Kentucky Woman" T-shirt, go solo to the concert and then wallow in depression throughout the show as I realize how pathetic it is to be alone, drunk, 33 and singing "Song Sung Blue" with a crowd that is basically twice my age.

3) Scalp the tickets and use the money to by a super-intelligent chimpanzee. We'll become instant best friends, I'll teach him to love Neil Diamond (and malt liquor) and we'll get drunk every night and listen to "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" over and over again until we pass out.

I don't plan on running tonight. I do plan on drinking. As for sleeping, I accidentally cut off my eyelids yesterday while trying to trim my lashes, so I don't think slumber (or blinking) is in the cards for me for quite a while. 

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

Greetings and salutations, fine readers. With the Olympics going on, the war in the Middle East, a distressed U.S. economy and the death of Isaac Hayes (“Yeah, I’m talkin’ ’bout Shaft!”), I know what’s on your mind: How is Dartman doing in his marathon training?

Well, thanks for asking. Actually, I’m doing just peachy keen. I’ve increased the running, decreased the drinking and accepted Christ as my savior. But enough about me. Wait, this is MY blog. These posts are all about ME, ME, ME! I don’t have to be parsimonious with my words. It is my right, my entitlement, to bore and tax you with my list of complaints, achievements and endeavors. So here’s the latest rant from the running, drunken reprobate (I’m so vain, I now refer to myself in the third person. I tried referring to myself in the second person, but every time I used “you” in a sentence, the other person thought I was talking about them.)

So, I gather you’re surprised about the decrease in my alcohol intake. Don’t fret. I still enjoy my cocktails, but I’ve found new and exciting ways to abuse my body: 1) Painful and dangerous piercings (I just got an earring put in my frontal lobe), and 2) Having the unhealthiest diet possible. Because of the former, please forgive me if I ramble; my memory isn’t so good since my cerebral cortex was punctured.

Anyway, most marathon runners consume complex carbohydrates, lots of protein, fruits, vegetables, etc. for energy and endurance. Smoothies, energy bars, whole grain foods…blah, blah, blah. You get the point. Most runners eat EXTREMELY healthy. But not yours truly. I don’t eat vegetables, stay away from fruit and haven’t eaten anything healthy since the third grade, when I accidentally took a vitamin, mistakenly believing it was a Quaalude. I concentrate on eating meat, fat, fried foods, desserts and humans. Did I mention that I was a cannibal? Did I mention that I ate my twin in the womb? And did I mention that I ate my entire family when my hunger got the best of me during a NY to Orlando flight that was 30 minutes behind schedule due to turbulence? Anyway, here are my basic food staples that I’ve been eating during my training

DARTMAN’S RUNNING DIET
Ice Cream
Chocolate Bars
Pepperoni Pizza
Hamburgers & Steaks
Tacos & Burritos
Potato Chips & Onion Dip
Nachos & Salsa Con Queso
Anything to do with a potato (including “Spuds” MacKenzie)
Anything to do with BBQ (including humans)
Naked Mole Rats
So, as you can see, I abuse my body in a multitude of ways, but this past Sunday, I finally paid for it. I did my long run on Sunday, and I promised myself on Saturday that I would eat healthy and abstain from alcohol. Well, I kept one of my promises: I didn’t have any beer on Saturday. Instead, I waited until the clock struck midnight, officially making it Sunday, and then I had three pints of Captain Lawrence Pale Ale. But my Waterloo was what I ate for dinner on Saturday night: I pigged out at Taco Bell.

I love the Bell. It’s by far my favorite fast food. But eating two Big Beef Burrito Supremes and a Gordita wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my life. And it didn’t help that I ate a homeless person’s appendix (my cannibalism got the best of me). Come Sunday morning, I downed a cup of coffee (also not a wise idea), ate a bowl of cereal and a spleen (left over from the homeless person the night before) and went out for my two-hour run.

Make that my ONE-hour run. With all that Taco Bell in me, plus the coffee and those organs extracted from that inebriated hobo, and all that jostling going on in my stomach as I pounded the pavement… Well, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what happened next. Thank goodness I’m actually a good runner now, because if I hadn’t gone supersonic and sped to my house, I probably would have ended up with a Nachos Bell Grande in my pants.

But I made it. Crapping myself would have been REALLY embarrassing, especially since it would have been the fourth time that week. (After numerous co-worker complaints, I now wear adult diapers at the office.) But something good came out of all this, because I learned a valuable lesson: If you’re going to eat a homeless person, stay away from the spleen. It tastes awful. Go for the liver instead. As for eating healthy and staying away from Taco Bell, hell, I STILL haven’t learned a thing. Excuse me, but I must go. I have to do a run today and I need to have my lunch. Let’s see, I’ve got a six-pack of beer and a burrito the size of Fatty Arbuckle. Oh well, if I get the trots later, at least I’ve got my adult diaper on…

STATS FOR SUNDAY 8/11/08

RUNNING
13-14 miles

DRINKING
4 Dogfish Head India Brown Ales (48 oz.)
5 North Coast Red Seal Pale Ales (60 oz.)

SLEEPING
6 hours

BRETT THE JET?

Screw running. Screw the marathon. Screw everything. The Packers have just traded Brett Favre to the New York Jets. It's the worst thing to ever happen.

TOP 5 WORST THINGS TO EVER HAPPEN

1. Brett Favre being traded to the Jets

2. The Holocaust

3. Louise ditching me as a running partner

4. The Vietnam War

5. Brett Favre being traded to the Jets

I'm currently buying a ticket to Green Bay so I can visit the Packers' management, rip out their large intestines and beat them to near-death with them. Then I will put their half-alive bodies in shallow graves, drive to the nearest chili festival, find the four nastiest port-a-potties and dump their foul contents into the graves and bury Packers General Manager Ted Thompson and Coach Mike McCarthy alive with that excrement.

Brett has been wronged, and now I am a broken, broken man.

RUNNING

Who cares?

DRINKING

Keep 'em coming!

SLEEP

Who can sleep at a time like this?

SHE'S GONE

She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’d
better learn how to face it.
She’s Gone, Oh I, Oh I’d pay the devil to replace her.
She’s Gone…what went wrong?

Remember “She’s Gone,” that song by Hall & Oates? Well, now that Louise has left me as a running partner, that is one of the songs that I perpetually listen to on my iPod as I run back and forth on the West Side Highway, unattended and abandoned, an outcast forgotten and forlorn. Like Neil Diamond once sang, I truly am a “Solitary Man.” That is another tune that I listen to while solitary forging ahead in my marathon training. The other melodies this woebegone loner listens to while I melancholically and miserably count the miles I tread are “One is the Loneliest Number” and “All By Myself.” I also listen to “Someone Left a Cake Out in the Rain” by Richard Harris, but that has nothing to with my running companionless. I once left a strawberry shortcake out during a thunderstorm, and I just really relate to that tune.

Yes, dear readers, I have been betrayed and discarded by my running mate. Yes, dear readers, it is true, I am a running cuckold. At first, I believed the lecherous Louise’s explanation that she was now working for TOP CHEF and could no longer participate in the marathon training. But now I have my suspicions that she has left me for another runner, and I am plagued by self-doubt: Am I too slow? Is my gait off? Are my calves to small? My quads undersized? Do I sweat too much? Should I start wearing underwear when I run so my balls don’t hang out of my shorts? Man, that’s a GROSS image.

I’ve been keeping my eye on Louise. I would keep both of my eyes on her, but I lost one orb three years ago when a beautician with dangerously long nails accidentally skewered my left eyeball while plucking my monobrow. I won’t tell you what happened when that beautician waxed my nether regions using those same Freddy Krueger-like talons, suffice to say that I’m now circumcised and, like Hitler, only possess one testicle. Man, that’s even a GROSSER image. (OK, I pledge, no more ball jokes.) Anyway, Louise says that she isn’t running anymore. She swears that she doesn’t have the free time now that she’s constantly working and, plus, she claims to have hurt her neck while mimicking Steve Wonder’s side-to-side head sway during a live performance of “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”

But I suspect that Louise is running behind my back. Last week, she was wearing her running shoes and wolfing down energy bars. Another time, I saw her varnished in sweat. And Louise NEVER sweats unless she has the DTs or is failing a lie detector test. Then, two days ago, I barged into her apartment and caught her watching RUNNING MAN with a Kenyan wearing a headband and a JACKRABBITS RUNNING CLUB T-shirt. Yes, dear readers, I think I have been played for a sucker. I believe my marathon compadre has ditched me for a better runner. Also, yesterday probably cinched it for me when I spotted Louise running by me on the West Side Highway with Renaldo Villarubios, my despicable archenemy and also the best runner on Team Tiger. Still, I’m not sure. Maybe they were just walking together really fast.

Lachrymose, disheartened and dewy-eyed, I am a lost and broken man, traveling this world alone like David Banner in THE INCREDIBLE HULK—except I’ve never been exposed to Gamma radiation and only turn green when I drink too much whiskey. Damn it, I’m welling up again. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Between Louise going all Judas on me and Brett and the Packers fighting, I’m a friggin’ mess. Like my sole testicle, I have no counterpart to hang with. (OK, I truly avow to tell no more ball jokes.) I run. And I run alone. Actually, it’s time for me to hit the West Side Highway right now. Excuse me, dear readers, I must go. “She’s Gone” is playing on my Ipod, and this sniveling, broken-hearted shell of a man must train for a marathon. I only hope I have the balls to go through with it. OK, I had to tell one more sophomoric gonad joke…

STATS for 8/5/08

RUNNING
9 miles

DRINKING
2 Smuttynose IPAs (32 oz.)
1 Victory Baltic Thunder (12 oz.)
1 Stoudt’s Fat Dog (12 oz.)
2 Brooklyn East India Pale Ales (24 oz.)
1 Sierra Nevada Anniversary Ale (12 oz.)
Flying Dog Wild Dog Dopplebock (12 oz.)
Ommegang Chocolate Indulgence (12 oz.)

SLEEPING
4.5 hours

R.I.P. LOUISE

It’s time to talk about it. No more Corey vs. Corey debates. No more procrastinating. No more delays, deferring, dillydallying and foot-dragging. This scrimshanker ain’t evading nor shirking no more. The proliferation of my grief has reached a point in which I must either plummet into a valley of despair or rise to the summit of my ambitions. And, dear, readers, I have chosen to plummet. Quitting is so much easier than giving things a second chance. You know that saying: “If you fall off a horse, you should get back in the saddle again.” That’s bullshit. Just ask Christopher Reeve. OK, that was vicious. But I’m hurt and I’m angry. And I never proclaimed that I was a good man. I’m a damnable, odious son of a bitch who is a master of malefaction and whose impenitence knows no end. And, like I’ve said before, I’m also a natural born quitter.

And what do I want to quit? I want to quit this dreadful marathon training. And why do I want to quit? Because, as I noted in my last post, I lost my running partner. Louise is dead. From the account I was told, apparently Louise was drunk as a fiddler, having a jag on, three sheets to the wind, under the sauce, crocked, cocked and blotto—enough, you get my point. Disoriented, confused and clothed only in a discarded garbage bag and a pink pillbox hat, Louise attempted to cross the West Side Highway during rush hour and, I’m sorry to say…this is so hard to recount, excuse me, I need a moment…

Well, that’s when Louise was mauled and killed by a mountain lion that had recently escaped from the Central Park Zoo. The damage and disfigurement was so extensive, identifying the body was difficult. Fortunately, I know that Louise is a hermaphrodite, possesses a vestigial tail and has a superfluous third leg (from a twin that never fully developed). After seeing the corpse’s third leg, useless tail and reproductive organs of both sexes, I told the coroner with a heavy heart (my heart weighs 18 oz., which is 6 oz. more than the average male) that, yes, indeed, this dead body was Louise. I then asked the coroner for a moment alone with my former running partner. When he left the room, I gathered myself together, stole Louise’s wallet and jewelry (unfortunately, I had to clip off one of her fingers to get her diamond ring) and got the hell out of there.

OK. I lied. Louise DIDN’T really die (I told you I was damnable and odious). At least not literally. But figuratively, she’s dead to me. And that’s because she has stopped being my running partner. Yes, it is sadly true. Louise has left me to go on Rumpsringa, that rite of passage for Amish youths. OK. I lied again. Louise DID leave, but not for Rumspringa. She left the Tiger for 7 weeks to work on the TV show TOP CHEF. It’s a 7-days-a-week/long hours commitment, and so she’s unable to run with me anymore. To say that I’m crushed would be an understatement. Upon first hearing the news from Louise, I caused a scene, bawled like a baby and tried to kill myself by swallowing my tongue. But since I was born without a tongue (Did I tell you that I’m a mute?), my suicide attempt was fruitless. Instead, I told Louise she could go to Hell (not that place where Satan lives; HELL is actually a clothing store on Bleecker Street where I figured Louise could pick up some nice threads for her new job) and ran home to make a second attempt at doing myself in by listening to “The Best of Bread” for 58 consecutive hours.

There is much more to tell of my tragedy and this travesty, but I’m writing this post on my laptop as I sit on a bench in Central Park and, oh my God!, there’s a mountain lion coming my way…

TO BE CONTINUED…

RUNNING
3-4 miles

DRINKING
1 Black Forest Chocolate Doppelbock (16 oz)
1 Black Forest Imperial Stout (16 oz)
1 Growler of Black Forest Choc. Doppelbock (64 oz)
½ bottle of Jose Reyes wine

SLEEPING
5.5 Hours

COREY VS. COREY

I am a wreck. Devastated. Demolished. Quashed. Bulldozed like a building in Williamsburg to make room for luxury apartments. I’m a month behind in my blog, I’m two weeks behind in my marathon training and I’m way behind in my child support payments. It just seems that no matter how hard I try to catch up, I remain off the pace. (OK, I don’t have kids, but if I did, my child support payments would most certainly be in arrears.). Every epic journey—from THE ODYSSEY to THE LORD OF THE RINGS to the POLICE ACADEMY saga—has that moment of crisis, that point of seemingly no return, that moment of truth where all seems lost, never to be regained again.

OK, my training for a measly marathon is NOT an epic journey, but like the U.S. economy and a balloon vendor, I’m prone to inflation. Much the same as when I’m discussing my sexual conquests, size of my manhood and the number of times I’ve been arrested for loitering, I tend to exaggerate and amplify—in this case, I’m speaking of embellishing the drama in my life. Yes, my Internet extended family, I plead guilty to that. When the most interesting thing going on in my life is finding out that pomegranate-blackberry is the upcoming flavor in my Jelly of the Month Club, I HAVE to add a little flair to my blog. So my transgression is I try to add a little panache to my posts. Sue me. Actually, please don’t—I’m REALLY behind in those child support payments…

Anyway, the reason for my despondence is… Damn it! I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry. Grown men shouldn’t cry. Midgets are allowed to cry, ’cause even though they’re men, they’re not really “grown,” so it’s OK for dwarfs to let the tears flow. But normal-sized guys shouldn’t weep. It’s not a manly thing to do, and it’s also offensive to midgets, because crying is one of the few things that little people can do that we normal-sized people can’t. It’s one of the benefits of being a little person. That, and they’re very rich and have hidden treasure chests. Oh, wait, that’s a leprechaun. My bad. Anyway, just like the pervert at the peep show, excuse me while I grab some Kleenex. I haven’t felt this bad since The Spin Doctors broke up. I apologize. It’s just that… it’s just that…

I lost my running partner. Louise is gone. I…I… I can’t talk about it now. It’s too soon. So, like I do with all of my problems and difficulties, I’m going to ignore the issue and focus all of my energy and efforts on something unconstructive, inconsequential and beside the point. That’s right, folks: I’m going to rate the Two Coreys and decide who is the better of the two: Corey Feldman or Corey Haim.

• Both share the same first name of Corey.
ADVANTAGE: EVEN
• Feldman shaved his head and killed Jason with a machete in FRIDAY THE 13TH: THE FINAL CHAPTER. In SILVER BULLET, Haim played a paraplegic who kills a werewolf and has Gary Busey for an uncle.

ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman fought GREMLINS and acted with Sloth in THE GOONIES (in which Feldman wore a PURPLE RAIN T-shirt throughout). Haim co-starred with Burt (ROCKY’s Uncle Paulie) Young in the short-lived TV series ROOMIES.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman starred as Ricky, “the hottest water instructor around” in the lamentable MEATBALLS 4. Haim starred as Griffin, “a rollerblader in the not-so-distant future of LA” who fights a rollerblading white supremacist youth gang in PRAYER OF THE ROLLERBOYS.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman played DONATELLO in TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES I & III. Haim has never played a pizza-eating, crimefighting, talking reptile who knows kung fu.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman divorced his parents when he was a kid. Haim did not.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman released the atrocious album FORMER CHILD ACTOR. Haim released the atrocious album YOU GIVE ME EVERYTHING. Feldman’s band is called TRUTH MOVEMENT. That ISN’T a joke.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN
• Feldman was “close friends” as a kid with Michael Jackson (and even dressed like him), but says even though Jackson supposedly showed him nude photos, the two never got it on. Haim was “close friends” with (and was even engaged to) CHARLES IN CHARGE’S Nicole Eggert. Even though the two didn’t marry, the two DID get it on.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM
• Feldman got married on THE SURREAL LIFE, in which he dressed up as Louie the XIV. The ceremony was officiated by M.C. Hammer (an ordained minister). Motley Crue’s Vince Neil and WEBSTER himself, Emmanuel Lewis, were in attendance. Haim is still single, has never married, but did blow up to 300 pounds at one point in his life.
ADVANTAGE: FELDMAN

Last one, and we’re all tied up at four apiece. Isn’t this exciting? So, who will be my favorite Corey? Ladies and gentlemen, drum roll please…

• Feldman is allegedly sober, drug free and has gotten his life in order. Haim is allegedly a mess, NOT drug free and reportedly showed up “disoriented” on the set of LOST BOYS 2.
ADVANTAGE: HAIM!!!!

There you have it, folks! COREY HAIM is now officially my favorite of the Two Coreys. And what does that mean? Jack shit. But it was a nice diversion and kept me from thinking about losing Louise. My running partner. My little buddy. My soused sidekick. My colleague in crapulence (that doesn’t mean shitting our pants; I’m referring to a gross excess in drinking). Great, now I’m crying again. I’m just a boo-hooing, blubbery, sobbing sad sack. Like the flat-chested girl stuffing her bra said to her best friend, “Could you please pass me a tissue?”

Monday, July 7 to Sunday, July 27 (Hey, I’m trying to catch up here)

RUNNING
23-25 miles/week

DRINKING
7-8 beers a night/5-6 days a week

SLEEPING
20 hours/day (I got hit in the head by a leaping sting ray and was in a coma for two weeks. OK, that’s bullshit, but I DID get hit by a leaping sting ray, although it didn’t put me into a coma. It just rendered me impotent. Now I spend all of my time re-reading THE SUN ALSO RISES and responding to Viagra spam e-mails. Man, I’ve got shitty luck.)

SLEEPING (FOR REAL)
5 hrs./night

BRETTBACK MOUNTAIN

It’s hard for me to concentrate on my marathon training these days. That’s my latest excuse for falling behind in my posts. You see, I’m a die-hard Green Bay Packers fan. In fact, once, when my Dad and I got into a knife fight at a nudie bar (he’s a Chicago Bears fan), he stabbed me in my left ventricle and I ACTUALLY bled green and gold (the Packers’ colors). I also bled red as well (and lost 5 pints of blood). Pops stabbed me in the back, too, but that wasn’t with a knife; that was figuratively—I caught him having sex with my fiancée. Needless to say, I didn’t end up marrying Carol. My Dad did. Now, Carol is my stepmom, which is kind of weird. And did I mention that Carol was carrying my baby at the time? So now, three years later, my son is also my stepbrother. That’s kind of weird, too. And did I mention that Carol’s my stepsister? And that… Well, let’s just not go there.

So there’s a Wisconsin civil war going on in Green Bay now, with QB Brett Favre and the Packers feuding over the possibility of Brett coming out of retirement. I love Brett. I love the Packers. Who do I choose? Who CAN I chose? This decision is tougher than Sophie’s Choice. And there’s more on the line. But I’m gonna have to go with Brett here. The man is my idol. I have his jersey, action figures, posters, address (I hired a private eye to get it, but the restraining order prevents me from any further attempts at trying to invade the Favres’ home). I even once dated a girl just because she looked like Brett (although kissing a chick with beard stubble is weird). And when I save up enough money, I plan on having plastic surgery so I look exactly like Brett.

Unfortunately, though, I’m still paying off the bills from my last facial plastic surgery from 12 years ago. You see, my former idol was that kid from JERRY MAGUIRE, and unwisely, after seeing and falling in love with that film (JERRY MAGUIRE had me at the opening credits), I had my face reconfigured so I looked like Jonathan Lipnicki (come on, that kid stole the movie!). But there’s something strange about having a six-year-old’s head on a 21 year old’s body. I haven’t really been a force on the dating scene since then.

Anyway, I’m straying off the subject and, once again, babbling like a brook. I guess I’ll talk more about Brett in future posts, so I’ll just leave it at this for now: I love the Packers, but I love Brett more. Just like the way Jake Gyllenhaal felt about Heath Ledger in BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, I wish I knew how to quit Brett. But I can’t. And I don’t mean quit Brett in a gay cowboy sort of way (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I mean it in a scary, taking-things-too-far, devout, extremist football fan way (and there’s probably SOMETHING wrong with that).

Brett is like the father I never had. Well, as you know, I DID have a father, but he stabbed me with a knife once and then stole my fiancée and turned her into my stepmom, and now I go to therapy three times a week because I have a serious oedipal complex. Brett would never do those things to me. And if he did, well, I’d be OK with that. Because having Brett Favre as my father would be the coolest thing on earth, and I would let him stick a knife in my heart and bang my girlfriend any day of the week. Did I mention that my REAL father is also my uncle…

Monday, June 30 – Sunday, July 6

RUNNING
24 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs./night

COCKAIGNE ADDICT

Sorry that it has been two weeks since I last posted, but I have a good excuse: I was in rehab. No, you suspicious little bastards, I wasn’t in rehab for being an alcoholic. Or a drug addict. Or a sex addict (I only wish). No, I was rehabbing my knee, which I unfortunately injured during a Pilates class in which I was extremely intoxicated. From what I understand, this is a Pilates first. I was also kicked out of the class for indecent exposure (my fifth time). And, from what I understand, this is also a Pilates first.

Still, there’s no excuse for not posting on this blog for two weeks. My knee was actually better by the next day, and I didn’t miss any running. Well, I guess there IS a good excuse: Someone cut off my thumbs. Yeah, I may not be a beer, drug or sex addict, but I am a gambling one (and the beer dependency is debatable). I owed $2,000 for betting on the Packers last weekend, and since the NFL season doesn’t begin until next September, that meant the Packers weren’t even playing a game, so I was destined to lose. And I originally DID have the 2 grand to pay my bookie—I’m not stupid—but I filled up my gas tank 30 times over the weekend in a cross-country trip from NY to California (I own a Humvee), and so I spent $1,500 in gas. (Note to self: NO MORE cross-country road trips). I spent the other $500 buying the first photos of Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt’s twins, which turned out to be fakes. (Actually, they were baby pictures of Chang & Ang, the famous Siamese twins).

So, since I didn’t have the dough, my bookie cut off my thumbs POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE-style, and I was unable to type for the last two weeks. (When I type, I’m ALL THUMBS—yuk, yuk). Luckily, however, I came across a dead hitchhiker on the side of the road yesterday. The dude had two healthy digits, so I clipped them off with some wire cutters and got them reattached to my hands at the hospital. I also sliced off the guy’s right arm just in case I might need it in the future.

Anyway, besides being a gambling addict, I’m also a COCKAIGNE addict as well. Now, don’t go thinking dirty here. Cockaigne (kah-KAYN, noun) has nothing to with either sex or drugs (unless you want it to be). And I AIN’T talking about an addiction to a certain male organ, either. “Cockaigne” is an imaginary land of ease and luxury, and when I’m scurrying throughout the city, training for the marathon, I often find myself creating a fantasy world in which everything in my life is perfect and rosy. I conjure up a “cockaigne” and escape from the pain, exhaustion and the occasional vicious, explosive case of the trots. (Note to self: Bring a back-up pair of underwear on EVERY run.)

Since this post is becoming protracted, I won’t tell you all of the things in my perfect cockaigne, but I will give you my top three:

1) A buck-naked Liza Minnelli singing “New York, New York” with me in a martini-glass-shaped hot tub filled with champagne, hot sauce and drowned midgets.

2) A pet feline named Stevens, so that when people come to my home, I can tell them, “This is my Cat Stevens.”

3) A different ending to THE CRYING GAME, in which Jaye Davidson is NOT a dude but a gal. (Note to self: Never pleasure yourself to a chick in a movie until you’re ABSOLUTELY sure that said chick doesn’t have a schlong.)

In the interest of saving time, I’ll sum up my activities of Tuesday, June 24th until Sunday, June 29th by stating my average run, beer intake and sleep. I promise to get up-to-date soon. Although, I have another $2,000 in my pocket, and I have a feeling the Packers are going to win this weekend…

June 24 – June 29

RUNNING
17 miles (total for week)

DRINKING
8 beers/night (approx 112 oz., with Sunday off)

SLEEP
Approx. 5 hrs/night

POOP & POETRY

Not much time to write
Please excuse my brevity
This haiku must do

Sorry for this shitty post, but I’m trying to catch up. The best I can offer you is this weak-ass haiku and a picture of a midget vampire.

So, on Monday, June 23rd, I ran with Team Tiger. Like the porn star said in the scheisse video, “Here’s the poop”:



RUNNING
5 Miles

DRINKING
5 beers at the Tiger (approx. 68 oz.)
2 train beers (24 oz.)
2 home beers (12 oz.)

SLEEP
4 hours