I Seriously Considered Hiding Under Their Car Like Max Cady

I went to a Cardinals game yesterday with my family. They won; there were fireworks at the end and everything. Not that I watched any of it. I was too engrossed in the couples in front of me. Let's meet them, shall we?

Eddie, who dates Maggie, who is best friends with Jill, who dates Frank. Eddie and Frank are meeting for the first time. Eddie and Jill are the only smokers, and leave every other inning for about fifteen minutes, leaving Frank and Maggie alone to make awkward small-talk.

First date-free smoke break:

Frank: You been to the new stadium before?
Maggie: No. First time. It's okay, I guess. Different.
Frank: Yeah, it's different. If you sit over there, you can see the Arch.
Maggie: Oh.

Second smoke break...

Frank: Non-smokers sure get left out a lot, huh?
Maggie: Yeah. I used to, but I quit, and now I'm waiting a lot, while he goes outside to smoke.
Frank: I wish Jill would go outside. Her house stinks like smoke.
Maggie: She probably doesn't notice because it's hers.
Frank: Smoke and shit.
Maggie: What?
Frank: Smoke and dog shit. She got that dog, and it shits everywhere, and her house smells like his shit and she doesn't do anything about it.
Maggie: Well it's a puppy. She'll train it.
Frank: No it's not. It's not a puppy. It's just new. He's like seven. And she won't train it, because she doesn't care. Her smoking stinks, and her dog stinks and her house stinks, and after a while I'm just starting to wonder if maybe she stinks and I can't tell because we're always at her house.
Maggie: Yeah, I can see that.

Okay, so I'm not even pretending to watch the game at this point. Next time they got up, I was all hell yeah and leaned way in, like I was super into the game, but come on, they kept walking Pujols and I couldn't see the Arch from my seats either.

Frank: I hate Jill's mom.
Maggie: I know! She's awful.
Frank: And anytime I say something, Jill gets offended.
Maggie: Because it's her mom. You can't say anything about somebody's else's mom.
Frank: If I go over there and her mom's there, I just wanna kill myself. Jill hates her too, but she won't ever stand up for herself.
Maggie: What I do is try to bait Jill into talking about her mom, and then when she starts complaining, I agree with everything and comfort her. That's when you can get your digs in. She's a bitch.
Frank: God, she is such a bitch.

And I counted. Frank and Eddie high-fived seven times, but every single time, Eddie had to hold his hand up in Frank's face and then say, "Hey Frank, high-five me." But, the thing is, Frank would high-five Maggie, completely unprovoked. And later, Eddie was all crazy drunk and begging Maggie to dance with him, and she was embarrassed, but somebody did stand up and do the bump with him and woo-hoo it up holding her beer above her head: Jill. And when she offered him a nacho, and he said yes? Fed it to him. Had to reach over his girlfriend and everything. Shit was brilliant.

What If I've been Whispered to and Dignified? Where's my show?

Tomorrow on Oprah: "If you've ever been screamed at, humiliated or called names, don't miss this show!"

That doesn't sound like a very fun show. I'm guessing it's not one where everybody's jumping up and down because Oprah's giving out boots and iPods. That would be pretty cool though. "First, we meet a woman scarred by verbal abuse. But then...NANO! I-POD-NA-NO!" And everybody screams, unitentionally creating even more scars for that poor guest.

What I Need is Spider-Sense. That Would Rock.

In Eighth Grade, on the first day of summer camp, I was competing against another swimmer who said he could hold his breath longer. He won when I bashed my face against the bottom of the pool. I had a big pool-floor scrape on my nose all week.

The next summer, at a pool party, I went down a slide head-first, and did the same thing. This time it was more than a scrape: blood, snot, two black eyes.

I got hit in the face with basketballs probably ten times between my sophomore and senior years. Once so hard I bit through the side of my tongue.

Three years ago, I was walking through a parking lot when a ladder slid off the top of a truck and hit me right between the eyes. After picking myself up off the ground, I stumbled to my car where the rearview revealed a gash across the bridge of my nose and a face only the kids at Carrie's prom could truly appreciate.

And then, last night, I tossed a heavy box onto a hand dolly, only to see it tip forward and smack me in the face. You know, like Elmer Fudd stepping on a rake. And again, with the slice across the bridge of my nose, and the blood and the ow.

I'm gonna have to get a helmet, I think, and protective goggles, and maybe a welder's visor. My nose is already so jacked I can barely wear a pair of sunglasses (I have to bend them out of shape the day I buy them. If you tried them on, you'd probably be looking through both lenses with one eye. You heard right, ladies. Here's your catch.)

Oh well, maybe the extra scar will instill fear on the streets or something.

More to Love, Right Ladies? Ladies? Hello?

A bit of a bone to pick with you people: You could have said something. Maybe something like, "You do laundry in hot water?" Or maybe, "You sprain an ankle or something?"

My brother mentioned it today. Here's how he put it: "You ever tried the diet Red Bull?"

You're all horrible jerks. Somebody should have said something. You should have said, "Hey Ryan, I couldn't help but notice that in the past couple months you've become a big horrible fat f--king fat-ass f--king stupid fat f--ker." Something like that.

Dude. Fourteen pounds. Since January 1.

I looked at that new "addiction is a medical problem" ad featuring Chris Farley today for about ten minutes before I realized I was LOOKING IN A MIRROR.

My brother has lost 80 pounds in less than a year, so I'm already more aware of stuff like that than I would have been a year ago. And we hung out today with my grandparents. He had already made his Red Bull crack when my grandma told me I was so tall and skinny and handsome. Uh, we know tall ain't true, which means Grandma thinks I'm a big fat stupid fat f--ker too! And ugly! My own grandma thinks I'm ugly!

And I'm vegetarian! I've been eating that crap for a decade! Ridiculous! Exclamation points!

I Always Figured that was more of a Wendy's Thing.

I'm normally not that squeamish. Honest. For example, three nights ago, there was a spider in my bed. It was significant enough, spider-size-wise, that it woke me up. I'm sure it was all ready to lay eggs in my nose or whatever, but I woke up and smashed it against the mattress. Still groggy and half-asleep, I managed to get the fitted sheet off my bed and onto the floor without actually getting out of bed, and without waking up Bandit. We slept the rest of the night folded in the little pita I fashioned from the remaining sheet, keeping us off the bare mattress. See? Not squeamish.

And last week, I watched The Ice Man Confessions, which is a documentary about this former mob hitman who killed over a hundred people. They detailed several of the hits, complete with autopsy and crime scene photos. I just sat there.

Tony Soprano's open gut-wound? Neat.

Whitney Houston's filthy bathroom? Bring it on.

But today, I found the line in the gross-out sand. I have reverted back to hyper-sensitivity. I was trying to eat a bowl of Berry Rice Krispies--which are awesome, by the way--and the gag reflex was in full-effect the entire time. I have washed my hands for no reason. I have done about ten involuntary, full-body shake/flinches (complete with cold chill 'boogida-boogida" noises). I think I might throw up.

I was walking Bandit about ten minutes ago, and on the path with the scary dog (which yesterday? Gate open. Bastard chased me.), near the convenience store that closed the other night while the clerk smoked a cigarette and I had to wait outside with him until he was finished so I could buy an apple juice (he said he'd put it out if I needed to use the bathroom, but otherwise, he'd just be a minute. It took him five at least, and dude made no small talk. Awkward.) right there, on the sidewalk:

A McDonald's cup. Full of needles.

Not sewing needles. Hypodermic. Okay, and it wasn't full of needles. There were two. I know what you're thinking: there were more than two needles in Whitney Houston's bathroom, and you've been showing that shit to everybody.

I think I may have dislocated Bandit's head or something. I pretty much dragged him home, not screaming, of course, but making that sound you might have made had you found that big-ass spider in your bed.

Note to self: wash sheets, brain.