Dear Guapo:

First off, let me congratulate you on your achievement as "Head Janitor" of my building (although you are the ONLY janitor for my building, this really must be an ego boost).

However, I have a few complaints to lodge.

I will be writing this in English, and not your native language of Assbackastan, so I hope you don't mind.

I woke up this morning with that feeling.  No, not the spinning, dizzy in the head hangover feeling, the other feeling, the one that means I’m getting sick.  It starts with that sensation that someone has been scraping the spot where your nasal passages meet your throat, and is generally followed by a sore throat and all your energy retreating to some hidden corner of your body, leaving your limbs all wobbly like Bambi's before he figured out that a skunk is not a flower…or was it after he found out?

My son, much like his mother, loves television.

Most of all? He loves the shows about animals. Because when he grows up? He’s going to be an Amazing Crocodile Hunter/Pro-Wrestler/Really Awesome Dentist. Possibly? A dentist for animals. He’s not sure yet.

Living amongst my peers for the majority of the year has allowed my use of obscenities to blossom into pretty much every sentence I use. However for those few weeks of the year when I return home to get my bed sheets washed and dine on food that hasn't turned a bit too grey I have to curb my love for the swear so as not to tarnish my parents 1950s lifestyle. 

This dieting thing is really no fun, but since I am thinnish now, I will have to keep it up until the dawn of time. It is just a question of mindset. I mean, when I got married, sure, I could lust after a young buck with firm abs, but I'd stop at the point of chatting up said buck in a bar or starting a raging passionate affair. Because you just don't do that, do you? 

Dude, what are you looking for....f*cking eggrolls?

Sometimes I wish I'd think of this sh*t when it comes to me.

But I digress.

I just returned from Disney World in Florida (Florida state motto: You WILL be old).  During my trip, I had the pleasure of going through multiple security checks at both the airport and the stupid f*cking theme parks.

When was the first time you saw a penis? I don’t mean as an adult when you already knew what it was, but as a kid, for the first time ever. Was it your Dad’s? Your brother’s? Maybe it was your weird Uncle Harold who was always trying to get you to hide in the closet with him? I remember my first time like it was yesterday. . .
 

I have a lot of music. And when I listen to music, I usually sing along – especially in my car. But while I like to imagine myself on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, exuding an image of totally awesome coolness, I'm almost certain that I look like a deranged doofus to anybody who pulls along side me.

Lock the doors, Ethel, the guy in that green Honda Civic is yelling at the voices in his head! He'll probably pull an Uzi out any second!