This week was the Ass, and I was the Wedgie.

I've been fairly angry all week. Don't worry, I won't go into it here. You don't care and I don't feel like sharing. However, WARNING: This might turn into an angry blog.

Today was my last day in my department. I will be moving into another gig in my company and far, far away from Douche Nozzle, the guy whose work I've been doing for the past 6 months. I'm as excited as a blonde with two dildos.

Let me tell you the shit I won't miss about this guy -

* I won't miss his disgusting Philly accent.
* I won't miss that gorilla mask on his face he calls a goatee
(gorilla mask: when a person shaves their pubes & glues them to a sleeping persons face.)
* I won't miss the, "I love you...I love YOU...No, I love YOU more" whispers on the phone to his equally hideous, shovel-faced girlfriend who has a complexion greasier than a truck stop kitchen.
* And most of all, I won't miss doing his work, then watching him get presented with a pseudo "Employee of the Month" award.

Believe me, while I have a great imagination, even I can't make this shit up. He was presented a $100 gift card and a pat on the back two weeks ago by our Regional President for how great he was at the job I was doing. I was dumbfounded. I mean, SERIOUSLY?! Who do you have to blow in this place to get recognition, because obviously this lazy turd whipped out a few Chapsticks and knee pads to get his sweet deal.

(Deep breath) But that is all behind me. It's over; The fat lady has sung and I no longer have to suffer through him (or his work) again.

I have a feeling there's going to be some crazy celebration in my house tomorrow night - just me, some wings, a 40 of Miller High Life (don't judge) and Battlestar Gallactica. Yeah, I'm badass. And you can admit it: Man or woman, you've got a crush on me. I get it. Whenever I shave my legs, I have a crush on me, too. And if I wash my hair that same night? Sweet Jesus, I can't keep my hands off myself!

Having more than 5 of anything makes you a fanatic - unless it's plates.

It's that awkward time between Thanksgiving and New Years. A lot of suicides and a lot of breakups happen right around now. But what exactly constitutes "a lot?"

I am not against collections. What I do have a problem with is the prejudice of women and collections.

Let's face it - a guy can have a huge comic book collection, or 15 baseballs, and no one bats an eye. A woman, however, can have 16 Good Luck Trolls, or 23 candles or 37 cats and suddenly, she's a "Crazy Lady" (heavy quotey fingers). Add the factoid that said woman is also single, and you can bet the neighbors won't let their kids stop by her house as they go trick-or-treating.

What if I really like unicorns? Maybe I want to stock up on apple cinnamon candles in case the electricity goes out...for months? And dogs are social creatures, it's a fact - If I want to own 63 of them so they are never lonely, that's my right as a taxpayer.

So when I start collecting these things because honestly, a girl can't live on insurance and pasta alone...I don't think I should be judged harshly for it. I think I may have to put the "spin" in Spinster. I'm going to bring it back and make it cool. If George Clooney can make being a single, middle-aged man seem cool, I sure as hell can turn "spinsters" into "spinkickassters". I'm working on the name.

In other news...I went to Home Depot and got a tree. Sure, it's about as tall as I am, but you make do with what you have. 'Tis the season, and I'm just trying to make it to January 2nd.

I'm the best business decision you've made all year.

There I was, minding my own business at work when an email popped up from my friend S., inviting me to a party at her house on November 21st. Always one to hang out and eat other people's food, I immediately RSVP'd that I'd be there.

This was no regular party. This was one of those "pleasure parties," where they sold lotions not found in CVS, and toys you could never get at Toys R Us. These were things that required car batteries for power, and one even came with its own saddle. Oh yeah, and veggies would also be available for snacking. Sign me up!

The night was a blur of wine, rubber, baby carrots and water-based lubes. The woman presenting was pregnant (bonus for me and things to blog about), but she also had about as much of a sense of humor as The Queen's Guard. Do I even have to tell you she was not at all amused by me?

Like when I asked if some of the toys were dishwasher safe; or when she rubbed lotion on my arm and I asked her what she was doing the next night (her response: Hanging out with my HUSBAND and SON.) At one point I wanted to say, Lady, lighten up. One, you're not my type. And two and three, you're holding a tricked-out vibrator named after a Disney character in one hand, and a book titled, "How to Have Circus Sex Without Banging a Clown," in the other. AND you're pregnant while you do this. I think the moment of seriousness has passed.

Although, I couldn't help but notice that halfway through the 'show' we had all started avoiding eye contact with each other. I guess that's to be expected. No one wants to openly acknowledge that even though we all have cars, sometimes we have the urge to ride the bus. Hey, we're human. It happens. You can't look at Skid Marks sitting across the table from you every night at dinner and feel that same excitement after 10+ years, each and every time. Because trust me, he's looking back at The Nag Master and you're not exactly revving his engine all the time, either.

All in all, a really good time was had. I think if I ever decide to pick up a part-time job, it's going to be to sell sex toys to women. I'd make a killing.

A pre-emptive "Sorry, Mom" goes out.

The End

Ever hit a cat on your way to work? Me neither, for as hard as I've tried.

There are a few things that can happen in the morning that indicate your day is going to be shit. One of those things is stepping IN shit when you take the dog for her morning walk. Another is when you think you've set up the coffee pot the correct way, only to get out of the shower, go into the kitchen and find coffee juice all over the countertop and floor. And lastly, the realization you should've kept your ass in bed is when you get to work and open an email from a friend that starts with, "You might want to get a new accountant." You click on the link, which takes you to a news article where you find out the guy who did your taxes last year is now in jail for embezzling $1.5 million. Nice mugshot, you world-class douchebag.

Does it get any better than that? Funny you should ask.

It's when a fart squeeks out as you stand at the copier and you realize a coworker is right behind you. It's when you suddenly notice your nipples are tweaked in two completely different directions (I like to call that the "crazy eyes" look). Or when you remember that you forgot to put deodorant on that morning.

Jesus, this is beginning to sound like that "Ironic" song by Alanis Morrisette. And ironically, hardly anything mentioned in that song was a true example of irony.

So here's the thing - the globe is warming, my accountant is in jail, my car needs an oil change and at the end of the day, I really don't give a rat's ass about any of it. Is this a sign that I've reached ultimate enlightenment? Have I finally learned to "not sweat the small stuff?" Absolutely not. It means I remembered the stash of baby vodka bottles in the cabinet.

It's not drinking alone when you talk to the TV.

I think it's time I got my own reality show.

I don't see why I can't have my own TV show. There are bigger idiots, bigger douchebags out there who have them, or who crash them. I mean, some knuckle draggers don't even HAVE shows and yet, they are all over TV! Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan...ugh. Lindsay Puke-han.

I live a pretty exciting life. I took the dog to the vet tonight. As I was paying the bill, I looked down and there she went, scootin' across the floor on her ass. I tried to get her to stop but she was on one of those industrial rubber mats - it must have felt good because she wouldn't quit. As I eventually shuffled her out of the office, some moron guy chuckled as we walked past. It could have been the dog-ass thing, it could have been my shirt. Or, it could have been that he sucked. Either way, I bet if I had cameras following me he wouldn't have doubted my coolness.

I think society would enjoy watching me eat. I'm pretty good at it. I can eat a whole box of pasta (white, wheat, gluten free, you name it) in like, 45 minutes. Sometimes quicker if I unhinge my jaw. I'm like a magician - now you see the Whopper, now you don't.

I brought home a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts yesterday. There are two left. I live alone. That can't be healthy, but it sure is fun (not to mention utterly delicious).

I enjoy watching both shows on TLC that are dedicated to midgets (Uh, Midget Show One and Midget Show Two). I want a pet midget. I would make it clean under the bed. I would teach it how to swim. When I wash my car, it could scrub up the tires for me. How many times have your socks fallen down and you wished you could call a midget over to pull them up for you? EXACTLY. Midgets are God's way of saying, "If you keep one of these around, you'll never have to tie your own shoes again!" I like God. He's clever.

Or maybe I could be a reality show scientist person. My first discovery will be to uncover how birds can whistle when they don't have lips. And then I'll see if fish ever get itchy.

And now I'm down to one donut. Don't judge me.

I've been told I should do stand-up. I've also been told I should floss more.

I only venture out of my house for 3 reasons:

1. Walk the dog
2. Go to work
3. For the stories

If not for these 3 things, I may never leave. As a result, I live a sheltered life. I'm sure my lack of life experience hurts me in the long run. I don't understand the difference between bruschetta and fresh salsa. I still forget what side of the car my gas tank is on and I occasionally slam my limbs in things - arms in shower doors, legs in car doors, and I recently smacked my skull off my desk at work when I tried to grab a dropped pen (is the head considered a limb?).

Last week I hit a happy hour with people I don't work with anymore. My one friend, "S," only drinks Coors Lite...as far as beer goes. If you throw wine, mixed drinks or shots at her, she drinks like she's homeless. But beeer? Coors Lite or nuthin'. I never realized how picky she was until I watched her send two beers back because they weren't Coors Lite. It was like watching Ed Norton break up with Selma Hayek. Ugh, what is this hoppy monstrosity, Sam Adams? Bring me a frosty glass of gerbil urine. I will not tolerate anything less than Coors Lite to pass these lips! Well, uh, yeah, of course...because there isn't any other beer in the world that's "less" than Coors Lite (that statement includes Mexican beers).

Before the happy hour came to a close, a chick I also used to work with dropped by our table to say Hey. She was that almost-friend/coworker you regret giving your cell phone number to because you didn't realize how insane she was until you got her text message one morning which was a picture of her with her boyfriend's d--k in her mouth. (and yes, of course I forwarded it to every other person I knew. You can't send me things like that) She was a nice girl, I guess. Behind her back, I called her "Krazy Kate," and it was an understatement. I ended up going to her wedding, which was...surreal, in a gross way. The bride was 7 months pregnant, 'dinner' consisted of mac & cheese which was served buffet-style with plasticware and styrofoam plates, and the open bar consisted of 3 types of beer, 2 types of liquor (bottom shelf) and Boone's Farm Strawberry wine. I gave the happy couple $100. Here's where I get petty:

I'm still waiting for my Thank You card (it's been over a year) and if I knew where she lived, I would send her a preemptive "You're Welcome" card, just to drop the "You're an ignorant, white trash, welfare case,"-hint.

Too much? Probably. And yet, deep down, I think we can all agree I haven't said enough.

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. - e.e. cummings

Before I get started, please note that I am, by no stretch of the imagination, an expert on video games. Not what they are, or how to play them...anything related to them. When it comes to video games, I am like Helen Keller behind the wheel of a racecar. Fun to watch, but a personal disaster.

In watching a short documentary on the man who created video games, I was reminded of the time I had the chance to play The Sims 3. For those of you unfamiliar with it, it's a game where you create people and then live their lives. It sounds easy enough. I live life every day. Sign me up! I was ready to live the shit out of that fake life!

I created my character and named him Bill Cosby. I made him a black, charismatic bookworm with mucho cooking ablities (in a Sims game several years ago, my Sims character died in a house fire from a cooking accident. I wasn't going to make that mistake again.) I got him a job at a hospital (hmmm). After working for a bit, he had enough money for a TV.

Then it all became...the same.

The days went by like this: He woke up, made breakfast, went to work, came home, had dinner, watched TV, took a bath, went to bed. Repeat the next day. Then repeat again. And repeat AGAIN. By Wednesday (in game time), it hit me that I was playing a video game that mimicked my own life. The only difference is that I don't work in a hospital and I'm not a middle-aged black man.

Here I was, given the chance to be a Pseudo God and go hog wild with anything I'd ever want to do in a fake world, and I fell right back into my own life structure. I was like Michael Jackson - by the time he died, he was imitating a white woman, but not very well. Put me behind the wheel of a Sims game, and I become a black man...poorly, or at least, very boring.

I think that should have been my big wake up call - so tomorrow, I've got a plan. I'm waking up, going to work but I'm quitting my job. Then I'm packing up my stuff and moving out to Los Angeles where I can get the job of my dreams - doing hot dog commercials. I'll make tons of money and retire young.

Laugh all you want. When you see me holding a big beefy dog in one hand, and raking in all my money with the other hand, we'll see who's laughing.