Think I'm drunk enough to drive you home...

Name that band!


Don't look. Don't look. Don't watch the cents turn to dollars. High gas prices are like Pennywise the Clown. If you don't believe in them, they can't hurt you. Just swipe your card, pretend it's connected to the International Monetary Fund instead of a bank account a couple bucks away from resembling the year of Christ's birth.

I never, ever, ever fill up an entire gas tank. But tonight, I did. Because I have a card now, so I didn't have the tactile sensation of actually being robbed blind that actual paper money tends to provide. I could pretend the Conoco manager was just compin' me the gas for being such a class act, and that the numbers rushing by before me were actually representational of my skyrocketing self esteem.

Then, driving home from the gas station, seven o'clock or so, the rim of the sky still had a touch of light blue, just skirting the mountains. That wouldn't have been there a month ago. Warmer weather with the early warning. This year will have three seasons: Spring, Summer, and New York. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited, or scared. And I wouldn't be lying if I said I couldn't believe it was already almost March.

I've decided not to get another job until after the musical. I need green like a rainforest, bread like a bakery, but I also need to kick it one last time on the stage where I first said what's up to the person I am now. And if I can do it while singing like a moron, well, even better for everyone involved. Still bag-jockeying at the F-R-Y on the weekends, though.

Sir Monster Of Hose tonight composed what may be one of the seminal blog entries of this or any other time: A way for the ladies to evaluate potential mates based solely on their feet, and not in the standard old "You know what they say about a man with big feet" way either. Oh no. This man is all about science. The most enlightening part is exceprted below:
We’ll start with the right foot. Check the first digit in from the big toe (...) The index toe on your foot indicates your level of intelligence. A long index toe indicates an enhanced level of intelligence.
Let’s switch to the left toe. On the left toe, you will find a very important source of information. The index toe on your left foot is the revered Sex Toe.

Go through the same index toe analysis described above and pray you find a long one. If you find yourself a man with a long Sex Toe, you’ve found yourself a tiger in the sex. You’ve found yourself a guy who knows his way around your body (...)You’ve found yourself a guy with deft hands and a great rhythm. (...) You found yourself a dedicated chauffeur to take you to Happy Orgasm Land.

You can't argue with Hosemonster Logic. Which is why from now on, my new motto is as follows: Two long index toes and a lot of free time. Trust it.

THE ROOTS IS COMIN'. That warms the cockles of my whack-ass whiteboy heart.

On these seventy three keys, the ivory and ebony
I swear solemnly to forever rock steadily

This entry updated...no, Alecia, I still have my old job


Feb. 19th, 2003: The Post My Computer Apparently Doesn't Want You To See, considering the bitch froze up on me three or four times before I even started then deleted the whole thing halfway through. But maybe it's the consistent freezing-up that makes me love this bitch so much. (Note To Self: When the time comes, write own wedding vows.)

Break out the champagne and spray it on the nearest authority figure. HFT, a blog that rose from humble beginnings to become a blog that makes it humble beginnings look really classy by comparison, has just breached 10,000 hits. 9:30 tonight was the time. Someone on a Mac was the culprit. If you'd like to come forward, you'll be handsomely rewarded.*

*(Handsome reward may not actually be handsome and may be in fact quite revolting. Handsome and/or revolting reward not valid outside the Continental US, you damn dirty Eskimos. Guests of HFT stay shivering in the vast and bitterly cold chasm of loathing that is my soul.)

Damn. Ten thousand. That's more people than paid to see A Guy Thing. Okay granted, ten thousand people haven't visited this site. But I know it can't just be one guy in his underwear who's been hitting "reload" ten times a day for the past six months, either. Dude offed himself in December after I filed the court order.

Seriously, though, I'm now getting anywhere between sixty and a hundred hits a day, and it's all thanks to the grace of people I've never met in the flesh, people like Hosemonster and Dan the Goose and Kool Keith and the Madpony girls, and several more, to boot. Thanks, ladies and gents.

This blog is, in a way, exactly what I don't need: One more excuse not to go to bed. One more outlet for my self-absorbed cleverness. But in a way, it's exactly what the world needs: A chance to bask in the nourishing light of my brilliance. Drink up, world. I swear there's more where this came from, and if there's not, I plan to fake it until I can figure some way to embezzle money out of this whole scheme.

You keep reading occasionally, I'll keep writing underwhelmingly. I tell ya, kid, we can't lose.

You can add this to the list of "Things I need in my life that were also the recent cause of controversy in the NFL" (along with keeping a pen in my shoes to sign autographs after a touchdown): Instant replay. I need someone to fast foward really quickly through, oh, I don't know, the past six months. Then I need John Madden to reach over, stop the tape, and then, all the while drawing on the screen with his white pen, say: "STOP! Right there. Right there, Pat. That's the exact moment he turned into a jerk. Whoa, Nelly." If he could scribble a lot of circles and lines and things to explain how such a thing happened, that would be nice. Because today I wondered, nearly aloud: When did I become an asshole? It's not all the time, and half the time it's not even conscious. I'll just be walking along, thinking happy thoughts, when all the sudden I'm mentally wishing someone severe physical deformity. If someone could tell me when exactly my inner monologue took on such a spiteful, jealous, defeatist tone, that'd be great. And if there's some sort of camp in the woods where inner monologues can reconnect with themselves, I might just have to send him.


See? What did I tell you?


This is just way more entertaining than I'll probably be tonight, so I'll just defer to the laugh-or-you'll-cry brilliance of The Tard Blog.

T-Spot introduced me to it, and I believe he found it via The Ward.

Such good times. See you tommorrow.


Add me to a strange situation, and it'll no longer be strange. Now it'll be just completely fucked up.
One, two, three and to the four.

D to tha motherfuckin' C is at the door.

I wouldn't be here 'cept for I promised you a post in that last scant post about me and Arizona not gettin' any sweet sweet love. Sweetheart, you oughta know by now that I break hearts, not promises. And not the good china, either. It used to be my great grandmother's, you know. If I break that, we won't have anything to eat off of when company comes.

My parents have been gone all weekend, and Friday night was Valentine's. It was, for some alternate-universe me that exists three dimensions away from ours, a perfect situation. For the me of this lame dimension, it was not much more than an excuse to stay out late, play music loud, and pee with the door open. Anyone who says they don't take every opportunity to pee with the door open is a DIRTY STINKING LIAR. You can relieve yourself and still keep track of what's going on on Fox News in the other room. The words "what heaven must be like" come to mind.

So the weekend wasn't a total loss. And there's one day left, thank you very much Mr. Washington and Lincoln. Although since my grandma brought my brothers back tonight, it will be a day with decidedly less open-door-pissing.

Several bullshit theories keep my life afloat.

One of them is that there's a nebulous conspiracy of timid girls who are secretly in love with me but are too intimidated to say anything. A code of silence and fear of humiliation keeps their secret...well, secret. What they don't realize is that I'm all too accommodating of nubile young girls who are head-over-heels infatuated with me. But they'll never, ever know. Poor imaginary bullshit in-love-with-me girls. Tragic, really.


And now, to premier a new feature here at HFT, behold the succintly and catchily titled:

A line from one of DC's friend's blogs taken completely out of context, with a snarky comment added on at the end.

Today's line is from Jaclyn's 2/13 post.

Probably because Arizona never gets any.

Dude, Arizona. I sympathize.

Full post later. Promise.