Foot Massage and BBQ!

I'm reminded of the old joke about the biker who pulls up to a bar and sees a sign advertising $1 grilled cheese sandwiches and $5 handjobs. He approaches the beautiful blonde waitress.

"Are you the one who gives the handjobs?" he asks.
"Yes," she coos softly.
"Well go wash your hands and make me a grilled cheese."

Except I don't think anyone involved in this is asking for hand washing.

Kudos to this guy for combining his god-given talent (throwing things into a vat of boiling oil) and his kinky sexual fetish (rubbing feet) into one money-making bonanza.


Midwest Livin': I can't walk the streets.

So Kat and I have temporarily relocated to the Midwest because the economy sucks and we're broke and it's cheap to live here. Also, I have been out of work for almost a year and need to use some connections to make something happen or we're going to starve to death.

So we're living in Swansea, IL, which is a shithole of a town that seems to believe strip malls are the solution to life's problems. I can't complain though, because my dad hooked us up with his old apartment complete with one month free rent and no lease to break when we're ready to move.

I can complain, however, about the fact that every time I leave my house someone yells at me.

Kat and I like to walk around town together. It's nice to get some sun, move around a little bit, and we get to explore our new neighborhood and talk about how depressing quaint it is. We also have a membership at a gym about three miles away and I like to walk there since it feels really stupid driving to go work out.

The first time we ever went for a walk, though, some kids in a pick-up screamed "FUCK YOU!" at us as they drove by. There's something a little jarring about walking along, having a conversation, and suddenly being verbally raped by a 15-year-old with rage issues.

There's something about Southern Illinois that people can't not stare at you while you're outside. Everyone in their car has to turn their head to see who you are or what you're up to, because no one has anything better to do in a town of 11,000. I went from LA, where 13 million people couldn't give two shits about who you are, to this paranoid fucking Mayberry where everyone has to peek out their windows and crane their necks to figure out if you're black dangerous or not.

The last time I walked to the gym my neighbor stopped and honked at me, then drove off without saying anything. Then a girl on a school bus screamed, "HEY SEXY!" and giggled maniacally. Then, on my way back to the gym, a woman pulled over so her 9-year-old son could scream something at me before laughing and speeding off. Do I have a fucking sign on my back or what?

Of course this is what morons in the Midwest do for fun and excitement, and I'm sure they'll all have a good laugh at the dinner table about screaming at the fat guy, but when I finally snap at being jobless and accosted by mouth-breathing hillbillies and chase down a Geo Metro to kill all the occupants, I want this blog entered on behalf of my defense.

An Etiquette Question...

What's the proper way to tell a (female) friend, "Hey, I had this dream last night that I was at the video store with my wife and we saw a porno box with you on the cover and we were going to rent it but then I woke up,"?

Because honestly, it's a funny story, but there's no way to tell someone that without coming off as completely and totally creepy.