Monthly Archives: January 2012

Things CCB Says

Yes, sorry, it’s recycled content. But hopefully we can make this an ongoing collection…

Death of a nation.

CCB: There are 55 people in the U.S. named Hannah Wallace. There are 2,304 people in the U.S. named Steve Jones.
ME: I’m special.
CCB: My army would kill your army.
ME: My army would write poetry while it died.
CCB: My army would put all the Hannahs on little reservations. And let them open casinos


Turn on a fan, dumbass.
While using cleaning products with improper ventilation

 It hurts me in the head on the inside.


Dot dot dot (dot dot).

ME: There’s a tad too many periods in your ellipses.
CCB: I like……long dramatic ellipses.


Necessity is the mother of invention.

CCB: I wish they could make something that I could spray that would put my clothes away and take out the trash.
ME: You could spray yourself back to the 50s and get married.
CCB: Nah. I’ll just spray myself with some get-off-your-ass-and-clean.


Prep the epidural.
Pretending his beer gut is a pregnant belly:

 CCB: The twins are sleepy.
ME: Twins?
CCB: I hope it’s twins. Otherwise, that’s going to hurt.


Time to cry?
Realizing he’d stayed up too late on a work night.

What do you call the time between Wednesday and Thursday? The time that sucks?


Low tolerance.

You ‘can’t take Bud Light’?!  That’s like saying you can’t go outside because the air is too deadly.


Blue Ribbon at the sideshow.
Re: his relative lack of chest hair.

It’s a contest. My back is winning.


Apoplexy accompaniment.
After dragging me onto Splash Mountain.

You see? Listen to the happy music. [Beat.] You’re having a stroke, aren’t you.


Lactose intolerance.

It’s easier to get too much cheese than to get too much whipped cream.


Classy all around.

I’m going to club you to death with my penis if you fart on me again.



CCB: What’s “svelte”?
ME: It means crazy-thin.
CCB: Oh, that’s not me. Is there a “svat”? Can I be that?


Primate ink.

CCB: I need more tattoos.
ME: What do you care about?
CCB: Monkeys.


Calling the Southern Anti-Defamation Alliance.

In-breeding leads to small penises.



ME: You’re a Virgo?
CCB: Yes. I’m waiting until marriage to change my Zodiac sign.


On patience.

It’s like, say you just kidnapped Aaron Sorkin and said, “Write me a play!” You can’t come back five minutes later and say, “Bitch, is it done?”


Foul demons.

That’s not me smelling. That’s the things I’ve told, “NO! You are not allowed in my body.”



There was a kid staring at my wee-wee in the bathroom. I said, “Stop staring at my wee-wee. I smack you with it. Without even moving.”



CCB: My throat hurts. There’s a big thing in it.
ME: A big thing?
CCB: Yeah. I think it’s a monkey. [Pause. Frowns.] I don’t like monkeys anymore.


Auto Parts.

ME: That’s what turn signals are for!
CCB: Is that what they’re for? I thought they were for blinky. Driving down the road: “ I want to blinky now.”


Building character.

 Ooowwww. Hannah goes punchy punchy.



I could be a cow and no one would notice, except I am a boy.



I believe not drinking during the week has made my ability to get drunk easier.


Corporate account.

What’s wrong with kittens?! I’m gonna start a business and our corporate card is going to have goddamn, motherfucking kittens on it!


Divining rod.
Re: his buttonless boxer shorts (believe it or not).

My penis is like a…[makes a swimming fish gesture]…I don’t know what. One of those things that always finds a hole and…goes through it.



Numbers yay! You and your letters. And these things you call words and sentences.


Sports fans.

ME: We’re going to Nascar this weekend.
CCB: We’re going to drunk this weekend. And I think there’s going to be a race there.


Tools of the trade.

You can’t solder a toilet back together without a beer!


Too Favre.

Bret’s gotta start packing a cane so he can get off the fucking field.


There’s always a catch.
In response to a KFC family meal commercial.

Look! We’re healthy! We have grilled chicken! Here, have a FUCKING CAKE!


Warning Nemo.

ME: We should get a cat. Or a dog. Something snuggly. Something not a fish, ’cause fish aren’t snuggly.
CCB: Fish can be snuggly. Just only for a very short period of time.


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Float With It

Sometimes I don’t know what mood I’m in until I write it down. The past few days, with features and other obligations looming, no new blog entry here (nor in my other, more professional manifestation), I’ve been searching for some temporary identity to assign myself so that I can go ahead and get writing. No deal. No assigned point of view means the ideas just come at the page from every which way, which is no fun for my fingers to sort out on the keyboard—and less fun for your brain to sort out through your eyes.

Still with me? Good. Now I think I’ll be a princess.

And despite the fact that I still haven’t fulfilled most of my writing obligations, it’s Friday afternoon, 70 brilliant frigging degrees outside, and nothing on the schedule for the whole weekend but to eat, drink and corral Krazy Kevin. I think I’ll be a happy princess.

O’Leary’s in the late afternoon: the barely cool breeze and the gently warm sun, the crunch of shells under your flip-flops and a sip of cold beer—I captured it once in writing as best I could. That was in retrospect, though, and happiness works better in passing waves. You can’t hold it in your mouth and turn it over and over like hard candy. It’s better appreciated in retrospect. Sitting here, trying to capture the feeling of Friday afternoon, 70 and sunny—it’s like when I go to a big game or a new city, and I find myself stuck looking through my camera the whole time, trying to grab everything as it goes by.

Friday afternoon, 70 and sunny. Time to take a lay back, let go of the ground and just float with it.

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Desktop Tour

Having just discovered that my underwear accidentally matches my shirt, I have decided to take better stock of my surroundings.

Y’see? Purple.

And I have concluded that I have a lot of weird shit in my cube. (And if my coworkers didn’t think I was weird for all of this weird shit, they certainly do now that I’ve been taking pictures of all the weird shit.)

(The underwear pic was taken in the bathroom, I promise.)

Ma gave me the pink monkey thing years ago for Feb. 14. It sings “It’s Raining Men.” When Jenny Lewis sings “a Valentine from your mother,” I like to think she’s talking about pink disco gorillas.

This is an actual ad from a fitness magazine. It also includes the phrases “lactating man boob,” “anal leakage” and “spasmodic sphincter backlash.” Mmm…peanut butter brownie…

There is a story behind this, but…do you really care?

Everybody needs a rearview mirror on their monitor. Hey, you might also need a list of keyboard shortcuts for special characters. I know I do.

Oh Alf, you and I are so totally on the same level. I always knew.



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Tournament Resolutions

I talk about it every year: I can’t do resolutions. Trying to plan an activity over 365 days is just too daunting, and whatever I choose, I wind up forgetting in five minutes anyway.

So let’s start smaller. Hockey tournament in Miami this weekend. Let me set some goals for myself (and hopefully score some, too). But, let’s face it, I probably won’t be able to keep track of all these goals, so I’m going to let you vote to pick which ones are most important.

…and yes, as is among my usual New Year’s issues, most of these things are the same resolutions I’d have any random October. But maybe the magic of 2012 will compel me to keep them, at least for the weekend.

Any other suggestions?


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