Over and Out

I really don't have anything to write about. I mean, I do, but it's not just flowing out like it usually does. Surprise, surprise. I don't sit in front of the computer and spend time on my blog all day. I'm sure you could tell that in some of my posts. They were random and made no sense. I try to write when I'm pissed off about something or need questions to answers I have in my mind. In a way, it's sad that this is my post. It's like watching a blind man crossing the street. You really don't want him to get hit by a car but in the back of your mind you kind of wish he would, just to tell the story. When he makes it across safely, you realize that it was a waste of time because you spent five minutes watching a blind man cross the street...with no punch line. I'm sure in your busy day, you come here to break the boredom, or maybe just enjoy what I write but I'm sure you are finding yourself looking at your watch right now wondering when it's time to take a break from this blog. The thing is, I can't stop writing. The thing is, I can't make paragraphs. The thing is I'm not sure if this is something brilliant or a science experiment gone horribly wrong. Though, I might add that's how penicillin was discovered. I'd like to say that's how I happened...a mistake, but my parents let me know that I was the child that they actually planned on having. In a way, it's a planned accident. I'm not sure they thought I'd turn out like the way I did. Some what neurotic, talking to myself, questioning everything and everyone I encounter. Then again, I know a lot of things people want to happen don't turn out the way they expect it to. A surprise planned accident. There is no need for proper punctuation in this post. There is no use for ProPER usage of the Caps Lock button. It's free. After lots of debate of what to write about, I've set it free. Just for the night. To let it roam where ever it wants. It could go as far as it wants or sleep beneath the cold, bright screen. Freedom is about a choice and my choice of freedom is to end.

Happy Fourth

A day of celebration. A day when we appreciate what the people from our past have done to make this country what it is today. The trials and tribulations. The death and struggle. A day of remembrance. Or..a day off when we can drink beer, eat hot dogs and watch magical "snakes" come from the warm concrete.

I've always wondered about holidays like this. How we can forget about the meaning because we are too worried about finding the perfect spot for the fireworks and making sure that we get the special musical tribute on the radio of "God Bless America."

Today's write up will be short but to the point. I don't want to come across as bashing the American way because lord knows that I'm not a perfect one. Maybe it is the true American way. That this is what our fore father's would have wanted us to do to remember them. To get trashed somewhere on a boat, hoping to get a blow job from your friend's cute ass cousin. In fact, I know that's how they would have wanted us to celebrate. The hot dog is a perfect representation of our country. Put in as many different and unique things into one small area to create something wonderful for the masses to enjoy and appreciate. GOD BLESS AMERICA!!!

Friend of a Friend

I've always found it funny how you build friendships with people. Some friends were always meant to be and others were always ones that constantly needed work. I guess it's true in any relationship one has with another human being.

It's true, even if you don't want to admit it, that you make sacrifices for friends. These are never verbally talked about, because it's just something that happens. For example, there have been times when I didn't want to go out to the bar but my friends really wanted to. Looking for a lady to dance with, or a chance to just go out, let loose. I know I didn't want to go out, but I did because that's what friends do.

Of course there are much larger events in one lives that test you. That go further then the "wingman" and go beyond anyone's expectations. It's a court date. It's a wedding. It's a birth. Things that you don't agree with, but have to show support, because it's what you do.

Friends also don't ask questions. Though it kills to want to know that answer to what's troubling the other, you know you shouldn't ask. That they'll come to you when the time is right. To me...that's fucking cool. There have been many times when I don't want to talk. Even when I'm in a good mood, I don't want to talk.

But how much should one sacrifice to make sure that their friendship stays strong? How much does one give up of themselves to assure that things stay "cool"? Is it the right thing to do? Is it the wrong thing to do?

When you make a compromise for one friend, then you feel that you should do it for another. "I'll just let it slide this one time." The one time becomes two, and three, and four until you forgot what you were doing. You've gone off the path and in your friends eyes, you see that twinkle in their eye, but they miss it in yours. Assuming, not knowing what you have given up to make sure that there is peace in the world. It's a tough gig..being friends with me. It takes a lot out of me sometimes cause I tend to worry. I tend to make sure that everyone's happy and even though people tell me that I should focus on me first, I never listen. I guess I'm stubborn but it's what keeps me going...being a friend of a friend.

Bless You...More Like Bless Me.

It is official...I have retired from using the term "Bless you" when someone sneezes. I just can't do it anymore. The reason...I just find it stupid. There are many explanations of why this came about. One for example is that people believed that when you sneezed, your soul was escaping. Another reason is that when you sneezed, there was an opening for a demon to enter. The list goes on and on.

With time, the meaning has been lost and when it's used, it's more of a systematic function. When one says, "hello," you reply with, "hello." I'm done now people. I'm just sick of saying it twenty times a day. I really don't see the need for it. Plus, not everyone believes in that method and I guess I'm one who tries to be P.C. (I said tries).

If I fart and burp, I'm the one expected to say, "excuse me." Why would I? I'm farting and burping out loud to be gross and disgusting. I am aware that I am doing it so why would I try and get out of it by "excusing" myself. The thing is, everyone burps and farts, just like how everyone sneezes. So why does the sneeze get to be the exception? This isn't very fair.

I believe that when I fart or burp, you should "bless me." It's the only way that justice is going to be served. I want justice served on a cold platter. With a side dish of "thank you" and "you are so right."

Bram's Panties. By Dave M.

I have encountered a problem. A question of integrity, sentimentalism, and character and now I need the help of the atthecornerbar community to give me guidance on an important, perhaps life altering decision. I could simply ask the question, but the issue is so complicated that it requires some background so that you can fully comprehend the nature and importance of the decision that now lies before me. Please help me if you can.

The roots of this issue arose around about the year 1994. About 11 or 12 years ago I had occasion to slumber through the evening with Dan. By “with Dan” I mean that I spent the night at his house. I don’t know why, I cannot recall the circumstances of this particular encounter. I don’t know if we were hanging out and the night got out of hand, or if we had some early morning engagement that I felt more comfortable sleeping with Dan and embarking on the journey together early in the morning. I don’t remember if we shared a bed or if I took the couch, or if there were more than just us, such a Bram himself, Nathan and Randy all lined up in sleeping bags in front of the TV enjoying an exclusive viewing of “Dawn of the Dead” or some other fine cinematic masterpiece of similar ilk. Like I said, I just cannot remember and it is truly unimportant. It was the next morning when our story, or…happening begins.

It was in the morning when I realized that I did not have a clean pair of underpants to wear. Mine were soiled and I have never been one to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row and I couldn’t just allow my Johnson to aimlessly flap about all day long. I’ve since developed a fondness for a commando style performance, but all in all, I am much more comfortable actually wearing something between my naked body and pants. I didn’t know quite what to do, but Dan had a solution. He let me to borrow a pair of his boxers. But Dan did one better than that even, he gave me a pair of Bram’s underwear. I didn’t ask him why it was that he had Bram’s underpants in his basement, and I didn’t care. I was just happy to get a fresh pair of pants, no questions asked.

Well I comfortably journeyed through the day, no problems. A fine pair of boxers these were. Soft cotton, a white base with vertical lines interspersed with shorter horizontal lines that constructed sort of open ended rectangular boxes pattern. They were comfortable, very comfortable. I suspect their comfort resulted from Bram’s gentle breaking in process coupled with further sessions of Dan wearing them once or twice as well.

As any gentlemen would do, when I returned home I removed the boxers, as nice as they were, and placed them in the laundry. Once they were laundered and folded in a very presentable manner I embarked to return them. I figured that because they belonged to Bram I would return them directly to him rather than take the time it would require to return them through Dan. It was just easier that way. Much to my surprise, when I called Bram to inquire about returning them he stated that he did not want them back. What was I to do? Bram didn’t want me to return the boxers. He said that I could keep them. He stated something about wearing boxers that had touched my ass making his skin crawl. Oh well I thought, his loss is my gain.

So in 1994 these boxers entered into my regular rotation. I adopted them as my own and loved them as such. Wearing them when clean, washing them when dirty, punishing them when bad.

Then 1999 rolled around. I found myself engaged to be married. The tuxedo was rented, the shoes were also rented. My good friend DJ gave me a white t-shirt to wear under the tux and God only knows where the socks came from. The panties however were more important. This garment that would cradle my most important member while I promised my life to the woman of my dreams would be none other than the white pair of Bram’s boxers that he gifted to me through Dan five years earlier. It was a momentous occasion and they performed extremely well. By this time I had worn my own ass grove into the pants. They were perfectly primed for the job. Five years they spent learning my shape, my moves, I had done almost everything in those pants. They traveled the world with me. Living on the shores of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Lakes Huron and Michigan, scuba diving the Great Barrier Reef, camping the outback, mountain climbing, hiking, sailing, Detroit, Windsor, Toronto, Buffalo, Boston, Washington D.C., Nashville, Charlotte, Chicago, Los Angeles, Sydney, Cairns, Alice Springs, and everywhere in between. These boxers were there, providing unmatched comfort through both rejection and conquest. Now I would commit myself to the only woman that mattered at all anymore and no other boxers would do. They of course flawlessly performed, again proving to me that these were special underpants, these were Bram’s panties.

After the wedding they went right back to work in the same rotation that they now commanded. No other boxers had worked as hard as these shorts, no other were worn as often or for as long. Another six year stint as Dave’s boxers and they gave of themselves like no other. They are still to this day in the general rotation. They longer direct the unmentionables drawer, they are getting old, but make no mistake they are there, and they don’t receive any special treatment above the others. They have the same job they undertook that spring day over 11 years ago when I needed a clean pair of pants and Dan was able to come through for me. They still magnificently perform their duty the same as they did in the beginning.

But one must keep in mind that I’ve been wearing these boxers for over a decade. I have no idea how long Bram wore them before they fell into my hands. I don’t really know if Dan ever wore them and if did, how many times. They are worn. They have begun to show their age. They have outlasted any other pair that I’ve ever owned, having long since watched each of their companions from the 90’s waste and pass away under the stress and brutal undertaking it is to perform as my underwear. Only to take in new companions and, over time, watch those pass as well. This pair of boxers have even outlasted countless pairs of jeans. It has been a long road, and only now in 2005 it is clear that the end is near. They have not torn, but the fabric is very thin, with light visible through multiple areas. The opening that allows access to my penis when my pants are unzipped has stretched and remains constantly open permitting my penis to flop out and bang against whatever outer garment I may be wearing at the time.

I have come to an important crossroads with these boxers. This is where you come in dear reader. This is where I need your guidance. I don’t know what to do. My devotion to this pair of boxers has clearly clouded my strict adherence to old boxer policy of throw away and replace the utterly destroyed, but now with this pair at its end, my judgment wanes. I have always believed that boxers were intended to be worn, and no matter how special any certain pair may have been to me I continued to wear them, and when they finally completely disintegrated, or when the elastic broke and they would longer stay up, or when they tore to the point that they no longer served the purpose of keeping butt-hole stink from transferring onto my pants I have always without fail at that point thrown them away without much of a thought. But these pants are different. I can see the end coming and it troubles me. These pants rose above all the others, not just because they outlasted by years any other pair that have ever entered my life, but also because they were loaned to me by my good friend Dan and were given to me as a gift by my good friend Bram. These are a special and intimate pair of panties. They are comfortable, attractive, and helpful; in a word these are a magnificent pair of underpants.

So dear reader, what do I do? Should I wash and press them, seal them away in a plastic bag with my wife’s wedding dress, never to be worn again? I could easily do this. There is a dry cleaner close to here. But that doesn’t seem like the appropriate tack to take with an old work horse such as these, as dignified as they truly are. Should I return them to Bram, their true and rightful owner, with a thank you, explaining their importance and loyalty in order to impart their beauty on their original owner so that he may know the service they have provided to me all these years? Or should I simply continue to wear them, let them gently fade away while wrapped around my buttocks, so familiar to them that it must seem like their only true home?

Whatever the consensus of Dan’s faithful readership that atthecornerbar decides will be their fate. As I wait for your direction, I simply wish to thank Dan and Bram (if he is out there) for my favorite pair of boxers. My wife calls them, “Bram’s Panties.”

24 Hours of the Foo...

WARNING: Do to the amount of sleep I had and the Foo Fighters 24 hour show, this blog may either blow your mind or make you scratch your head. Either way, you will read.

On Saturday MTV2 had the Foo Fighters on for twenty four hours straight and even though there were times when they took a nap or a shower, they were in the studio the whole time. It's kind of fucked up in a way because while I was watching it for eight hours in a row, (I had to work...thank god for vcr's) I just figured that all bands do this...which they don't. So in a way it was yet another moment I shared with the band. I know it sounds stalkerish and it is. I won't deny that. You won't find me hanging out in front of their houses, with the rare Japanese single, asking for an autograph...well not anymore...not since the restraining order...long story.

My point being is that I really don't have one, but I can see why people can have that perspective of actually knowing the band or a movie star. They share intimate moments in their lives with you, a.k.a. as the audience and you can relate, connect. I'm tired...really tired...the 24 hour thing wore me out. Buy that shit on Tuesday...it will be good...I promise you and I don't give my approval on just anything or anyone. And for the record...they are not paying me to promote...it's just things I do when I believe in something. It's always good to have faith and believe in something or someone.

I guess what it comes down to is that people tell me that when they think of the robot (the dance) they always think of me. When they think of a very, passionate lover, they think of me (well I made that up). And when they hear the Foo Fighters, they think of me and I take pride in that cause that ain't such a bad gig to have.

Baby, Come Back To Me. By Dave M.

“Don’t ever let your dreams die”

--famous person quote


I made that up, that is not a quote, it’s bullshit. Someone, everyone, has put the same sentiment into words before, I’m just too busy to find an especially clever one to compliment my current musings. Here I am acting the part of “The Man” reaping all the benefits of my sale to the Devil. I never thought I would miss the soul, but I failed to negotiate my dreams into the deal and now they are lost. New dreams arise, but you can see it there among the riches of my life the original lies dead, unburied, decaying. The rot is unavoidable; it reeks, choking me as I go. Jesus has forgiven me, the Bible tells me so, I got my soul back, but the Devil kept the dream. He and I still collect on the deal. I refuse to let go…

Text Messages

I know I'm going to sound like an old timer but "back in the day" I remember that technology was advancing so fast. The internet, c.d.'s and parachute pants. Each year everything seems to be getting more and more advanced. The one thing that I really don't understand and keeps holding us back from advancing is text messaging. Without any poetic words or fancy build up I'll get right to the point...it is fucking stupid.

With that statement I'm sure the question of why? "Why Dan why?" I'll tell you why...oh don't you worry...but first a word from our sponsor (unofficial).

Don't forget to pick up the Foo Fighter's new double-disc album, "In Your Honor," on June 14th and now back to our irregularly scheduled program.

Text messaging is lame to the extreme because there is no real use for it. If you needed emergency help, you wouldn't send a message to 911, you would call them...unless you were knocked out. If you needed to find out how much flour goes into your mother's home made apple pie, you wouldn't text her, you'd call. The only point to text messaging is when you are bored to the max but don't really feel like chatting with someone. Even when it comes to that point, you still have to punch in the letters.

"Ok, I need a w. I have to hit 9. Alright now where's the h? K, I have to hit four twice. Oh man, I hit it three times, now I have to hit it another two more times to back to the h."

Now this goes on for at least ten minutes until you've finally typed, "What's going on?" Now you have to wait another ten minutes for the person on the other end to type back, "Not much. You?" And this vicious cycle continues until nothing was really determined. To me, this seems like a big fucking waste of time. Time that people are always complaining that they never have enough of. Well, lets micro-manage here and eliminate text messaging. It's lame, it's stupid and it's...oh crap...where's the d...I can't seem to...oh here it is...dumb.

A Once in a Life Time Moment.

Ok...so I'm giving you a once in a life time moment. I know, you are eagerly waiting on the edge of your seats. Ask me anything...ANYTHING and I'll answer it. I figure, or I should say I know a lot of people read this but never post, so if you want to know something about me. Why I fucked you over? Why I didn't go out with you? Why I own all of the Britney c.d.'s? Well, just ask and I'll answer. If no one asks, then of course I'll move on to other subjects and you will have missed your one time chance.

Save a Horse...What the Fuck am I Talking About?

So here I am. It's a late night on...well I guess early Saturday morning. Looks like I won't be getting up for cartoons today. What a night it was. I won money on penny slots so I could keep drinking Gentleman Jack. He was so nice to me.

Now don't get any thoughts of me drinking all the time, alone. I think it was just a special night. Sometimes we all need those nights and instead of staying at hope eating Ben and Jerry's ice-cream, watching Beaches I went out and enjoyed a couple of drinks. I went to bar to bar, and for some strange reason I avoided the strip clubs. By the end of the night, after drinking in a small irish type pub (who by the way hooked me up with drinks) ended up at a country western bar. This is what I had to say...I hope you enjoy.

Let Go. By John Doe

I'm sitting here in a dark room listening to music. I've emailed everyone I know, even people I don't know but saw their names on forwards received by people who think that I'd enjoy them...even though I hate them. I'm sitting here sweating, like I always do in this room. I've had ten thousand glasses of water and the quench is still there. I would try drinking something else but I know I would get the same results. So what do I do? Do I stay up all night asking myself hypothetical questions? Questions I ask but don't really want an answer? Why don't I want the answer? Is it something that I know I want to hear? Is it something I don't want to hear? Six questions into it and I'm still at the same place. I still haven't passed go to collect the two hundred dollars I need to get out of this jail that I'm in right now. That's all I need, but it seems that when you need it the most, it's always the hardest to get. I don't get that. I guess if it was easy, everyone would be doing it and then it wouldn't be that special. If we all did the same thing where would the innocence be? I'm sure it would be sitting in the jail cell next to me, but the only thing is, it's blind and deaf and I don't have the patience to teach it to speak. So I’ll sit here and wait. Waiting for someone, anyone to bail me out of jail, marking the days on the cold, concrete wall with a broken piece of metal.

The End of an Era...Or is it???

It is now 3:27 in the a.m. I know it's late because I'm listening to Stern... first run (they re-air it at six). That's always a bad sign. The next bad sign is when I can see the sun begin to shine through my window. Luckily, that won't be for a couple more hours.

Being born in 1977, I was never able to see all of the original Star Wars movies in the theater. I do remember seeing Return of the Jedi with my mom and brothers. I didn't know what was going on, but I loved it. Tonight marks the end of the new, original trilogy. It was everything that I had hoped for and more. Why? Well the main reason is that I was so sick of hearing people, mainly older friends, complain how badly episodes I and II were, that this one will hopefully put their foot in their mouth. With any story, there is an act I, II and III. I don't know what people expected. I'm sure they wanted Lucas to jump right to Darth Vader. When you look at it in the long run, everything makes sense. Lucas had his mind set and whether you want to accept it or not, they are there.

I could go on all night but I'm not. You can tell me that Jar-Jar Binks was a fucking waste of space. The love story was pointless. But this guy's not hearing it. So go out, enjoy the third movie. Don't fear it. Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. I sense much fear in you. So stop it already. Why are you still reading this? GO!!!

Episode III: Revenge of the Writer

Episode II: Attack of the Stud

Episode I: The Phantom Post

Dave Chappelle, You So Crazy.

Wow...that was one of my more popular posts. In fact, I think it is the most popular one. Wow, the pressure. Now people are going to expect that kind of quality out of me each and every time now. What should I do? Will I break down? Can I handle the pressure? I'm not sure...I may have to commit myself into a mental health facility in South America...wait...somebody already did that. Dave Chappelle. Did you like that lead in...I am quite proud of myself.

Comedy Central has postponed season three of the Chappelle Show…twice. Apparently there is no say on whether or not it will ever see the light of day. It is not certain on why he did this. Of course the rumors are flying; drug rehab, mental break down, etc. I mean a fifty million dollar check would put a lot of pressure on anyone. I put pressure on myself to make people laugh and I do it for free…sometimes I even pay them to laugh at me. But do you want to know my theory? I think he is sick. I really do… sick of people coming up to him and saying, “I’m Rick James, bitch!” or asking “So do you like to piss on your wife too, just like you sang about when you made fun of R. Kelly?” I’d get sick of that too.

In all honesty, I see celebrities as people. So when I see them out in public I don’t go up and talk to them. Why? Because I don’t know them. I wouldn’t want random people I didn’t know coming up and talking to me. Why? Because I don’t know them. The press says that it’s part of their duties as being a celebrity. To please their fans and their audience. Nobody forced them to become actors and yes that is true, but they found something that they really enjoy doing. I know it's not brain surgery, but it's a job. I really don't care if "Britney washes her own car," or "Brad drinks coffee just like us." No shit, ya think, because I do the same thing. I'm just like them.

My point being is that pressure can be good, pressure can be bad. It's like drinking...a beer or two is good for the heart, but if you drink ten beers every day for a month, not so good. So Dave, I'm sure everyone and their mother has given you advice and suggestions...but fuck em. What do they know. If checking yourself into a mental institution is what floats your boat and will help you find peace, more power to you...bitch!

The Atkins-Friendly Diet is No “Friend” of Mine.

“Why don’t you go on a diet?”
“Because I like to eat. Is that such a crime?”
Jack Black – School of Rock


I was at a friend’s place the other night and he offered me some ice cream. Having a sweet tooth I took him up on it. Mint Chocolate Chip, one of my favorites, but after the first bite I started looking for the hidden cameras. This is not Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream, this is not even food. The chocolate chips tasted like chalk and even though the ice cream was frozen, it tasted room temperature in my mouth.

“What’s wrong with this ice-cream?,” I ask in a confused state of mind.
“Oh, it’s Atkins-Friendly ice cream.”
“Why does it taste so bad?”
“It’s not that bad.”

Oh but it was that bad. In fact ladies and gentlemen, it was terrible. Why would they want to make ice cream taste bad? Why would they want to make it look like ice cream was good for you? And this event opened my eyes. It was like I was in a slumber for a very, very long time and I started to notice other things around me.

I was at Burger King waiting in line, waiting to buy a nice greasy chicken sandwich and some onion rings (because that’s what you do at a fast food place). It was when I looked to my right and saw that they had an Atkins-Friendly burger.
First of all, it’s taboo to eat a burger without the bun. Second, it’s a burger from Burger King. I doubt that it’s the cream of the crop of meat so just because there are no carbs in it, it doesn’t mean that it’s gonna be great for the ol’ ticker
There was another time I was sitting on the couch drinking a delicious Coca-Cola when I saw a commercial on t.v. for the new C2, which is a new Coke product that has half the carbs of a regular Coke. It had people jumping out of their cars, with “I Want to Break Free” by Queen in the back ground, revolting from the harsh days of regular Coke and it’s “evil” carbs.
They are trying to make C2 look healthier then Coke, which I guess in some weird way it is, but in the long run people, IT’S STILL SODA. This isn’t something that your body needs to survive. You can either have a really sugary soda with lots of carbs, or you can have a really sugary soda with half the carbs. It’s your choice.
And the list goes on and on and on of junk food type related items. They even have low-carb beers. The last thing I’m thinking about when I drink a beer is my carb intake. It is as pointless as buying non-alcoholic beer.
So why am I seeing these junk food items presented to me in an Atkins healthy manner? This was starting to look like one of those get rich scams. You know the type where they say, “It’s really easy to do, there is little work involved and the final results will amaze you.” In all honesty I have seen people lose some weight on it. So it can’t be that bad can it? So I emailed my good friend Bram Spitael and asked why we needed carbohydrates and why is the Atkins diet so popular and this is what he replied,

“In a nutshell, your body NEEDS carbohydrates because it's our number one source of energy. But maybe even more importantly, if you don't care about having energy, you will have one heck of a hard time getting the proper nutrition (i.e. vitamins, minerals, fiber, etc.) from a predominantly protein rich diet. It's your fruits, veggies, legumes, beans, whole grains that contain most of the bulk of these all important nutrients that you simply can not replace by popping a multi-vitamin/mineral supplement while on the Atkins diet. A balanced diet helps your immune system, metabolism, reduces heart disease, lowers risk of certain cancers, energy system,
The problem with the Atkins diet is that it works. People LOVE results and will sacrifice the above mentioned benefits from a balanced diet for the quick fix Atkins diet. Who doesn't LOVE a breakfast of eggs, ham, bacon every morning? A cheeseburger for lunch and a big juicy steak for dinner? See ya in the hospital in about 5 years when all that artery clogging saturated fat finally blocks your arteries!
Bottom line, get OFF your LAZY FAT ASS and do some MODERATE exercise, EAT healthy 5 or 6 days a week, and PIG OUT once or twice a week and vegetate.”

And that paragraph did it for me. There is a difference between eating good and dieting. Eating good is a nice chicken breast, some rice and some steamed vegetables. Dieting is something people do as a New Years resolution or right before it’s time to go to the beach for the Summer. It’s something that you kind of want to do but not put the time into it and this is why the Atkins diet is such a big craze. That’s why it hasn’t faded away like other things such as tight rolling jeans and parachute pants.
The Atkins diet is the lazy man’s diet and that’s why they are gearing it towards people who like to eat. These big time corporations distribute these “friendly” foods for you. The Atkins diet allows you to eat whatever you want, as much as you want, just as long as you don’t eat carbs.
So why do I hate this Atkins diet so much? Well besides the fact that it’s not good for you and is totally going against the Four Food groups that everybody learned in first grade, remember the one that told us to eat our fruits and vegetables, dairy, meat and oh yeah, grains? It’s tainting one of the last pure things that I have left in my life, and that is junk food. It’s one of my guilty pleasures and I want to enjoy a Snickers bar from time to time and don’t want to worry about how many carbs are in it.
I’m not one to preach but you got to open your eyes America. It’s time to take back what is ours. It’s time to say, “I got to break free,” from this Atkins diet and come back to reality. You can’t have both. You can’t have junk food that’s good for you. It’s time to make a choice. I don’t care what they say to you, no matter what, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, even if it is Atkins-Friendly.

Dead? To Be Continued...

Like Pogs and Slammers and Fruity St. Ides...my blog has lost the powerful force that drove it. Why is this?

Route 66

You know what's really weird is seeing someone you haven't seen in a long time. You know what's weirder then that? Seeing a girl you haven't seen in a long time. And do you want to know what tops that? What tops it all? It’s seeing a girl, that you used to sleep with, that you haven't seen in a long time, and meeting her finance for the first time two days before their wedding.

The countdown has begun. They are coming to Vegas to get married. They have a kid together. They are happy and for some strange reason, all I can think of is that I was the last person she slept with before the guy she's going to marry. I’m the last representation of her single life. Now call me egotistical. Call me paranoid. Call me Dan. All I'm saying is that it's going to be an interesting situation. I don't know how open their relationship is. I don't know what he knows about me. All I know is that he doesn't know me, he's big and strong and I don't know what kind of guy he is after a couple of drinks.

I can say that we didn't date (well she may tell you a different story, since women tend to think differently then men), she's a great person (I mean I wouldn't still chat with her if she wasn't) and that they are getting married (that is self explanatory) And It's not that I wasn't important in her life, it's that there's another 1,897,446,000,984,322,400 miles left on her journey and I'm just a big, fat, juicy bug on the windshield, not slowing her down, but just a reminder of the previous miles she's traveled.

A New Recipe For Preparing Eggs. by Dave

Alright gang, I'm back from L.A. I have some good stuff for you but we'll have to wait until I catch up on some beauty sleep. Lord knows I need it, a lot of it. So until then, enjoy this delicious recipe by a good friend of ours here At The Corner Bar.


Everyone has eaten eggs before, everyone knows how to prepare eggs for a tasty “anytime” treat. Simply crack an egg into a hot pan and let it cook until the “white” becomes solid, and depending on your personal preference, it can be flipped or simply removed from the pan without any need to turn it over and cook its top side. These egg preparation techniques are called “over easy” and “sunnyside” up respectively. Or, depending upon how long left to cook after flipped, “over medium” and “over hard.”

Well, I must report that I’ve discovered a new way to prepare these tasty little menstrual cycle byproducts. I don’t simply throw the little lost hopes of life into a hot frying pan. First I pull out a bowl and crack the egg and put it, yoke and all, into the bowl. The great thing about this recipe is that you can use as many eggs as you desire. Simply include in the bowl a tablespoon of milk per aborted chicken fetus. I really don’t know how much milk to include, I just poor from the gallon until it feels right. But I’m guessing that equals about a tablespoon, or quarter cup per egg.

Then take out a fork and vigorously stir the eggs and milk together. Don’t go to long or it will turn to butter. You didn’t know that every time you enjoy a slice of butter you are contributing to the deaths of untold numbers of unborn baby chickens? Did you, you heartless bastard.

Now for the first time you heat up your frying pan and poor the concoction of death inside. Grab a spatula, and as the flesh begins to cook scrap it off the pan’s bottom. Don’t worry about damaging the eggs, they are dead anyway. Just mix those little snuffed out beating hearts up while they cook in the pan. They will slowly begin to turn from the yellow blood like liquid into a light chunky mass. When done they look like fluffy yellow clouds on a clear summer day.

Your eggs are ready to enjoy. Remove them from the pan, placing them on a small dinner plate. They are best served with a slice of toast. You may want to add some salt and pepper.

I call them, “mixed up eggs,” you heartless, baby killing, fuck.

Enjoy!