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Britney Does Dallas

Britney Spears and her babydaddy, Kevin Federline, were in Dallas this past weekend, and our fair burg may never be the same.

Papparazzi caught them exiting the posh Hotel ZaZa in Uptown, complete with bodyguards and entourage, sending about two or three people into a full-fledged tizzy (ok, maybe their 'entourage' consisted of just one fat guy wearing a really bad cardigan underneath a sportcoat, but you get the idea...).

According to sources close to the couple, Her Fatness and K-Fed jetsetted into town to promote the wigger's new hip-hop single (titled "Yo, I Suck, Dawg!" or something similar to that). Why the tawdry twosome chose Dallas -and not New York or L.A.- to gauge the public's response to K-Fed's lukewarm new hymns is not yet known.

Perhaps they thought that club-goers in our usually benign BibleBelt hamlet would not be too harsh in their critique of Hubby's musical talents, on the off chance--of course--that his tunes sucked).

Unfortunately (but not unexpectedly), they were wrong:

Here's Mrs. Federline, looking less-than-demure in an $11.99 off-the-shoulder number from TJMaxx. Note that her Seven jeans are looking more like a 14 these days...


thanks to gabsmash for the pic :)

Here's a firsthand account of this weekend's goings-on:


"...They hit a North Dallas club and word is it was embarrassing to watch. He had them spin a new single and it went over in a bad way.

A witness said, "The song came on and the dance floor cleared. The crowd started booing. Kevin took the mic to sing and the booing got worse... And yeah, Britney is definitely pregnant."



Ouch.

Well, I don't know about "definitely pregnant"... but I do know she is "definitely fat."

Surprisingly, this story got very little play from the local media. Even the Dallas Morning News social pages, usually the purveyors of all things haute in Dallas, missed this scoop. What gives??

Perhaps the editors figured that Britney, being a non-native outsider from the Louisiana backwoods, is unworthy of even a few drops of ink. Better to gossip about the locals, they may have reasoned...

More likely, the local scandalmongers invoked their little-known Weight Clause, wherein the only women who receive mention in the newspaper's gossip pages must be anorexic, bulimic, or-at the very least-visibly suffering from the effects of a $1200-a-day cocaine habit.
Britney obviously did not meet these requirements...

Or maybe the reporters skipped over this juicy tidbit because they did not realize that Brit was famous. What if their papparazzi eyes are trained to photograph only "Dallas women"? You know: the overly-platinum blonde in a size negative-2 miniskirt; the one wearing the 5.25 carat diamond ring on each hand, the one who's endured nine facelifts and thinks she still looks hot because she drives up and down McKinney Avenue in a convertible Mercedes paid for by her 57-year-old married boyfriend...

Awwww, who am I trying to kid?!?

Britney was (thankfully) ignored because she is a 5-years-past-her-prime overweight disgusting pig. The guys at the Morning News aren't idiots: they know that nobody wants to read about a slutty, washed-up, Louisiana feral hog who hasn't had a hit song in four years.
They are well aware that the general public gets waaaaay more than their daily dosage of scantily-clad fat chicks in the form of those hideous beasts in the Dove Soap ads plastered all over the sides of city buses and billboards. We don't need to see another one...

Ahhhhh... That's more like it!

What If....

When I'm not too busy eating sunflower seeds, or watching Felicity reruns, I like to spend my spare time appraising the sorry state of my life.

I try to imagine what my life might be like had I, just once since 1975, fully applied myself to what was asked of me. These moments of self-analyzing reverie are made that much more difficult when I arrive at the conclusion--after about four seconds of contemplation--that all of the blame for my pitiable plight can be placed entirely on--you guessed it!--me.

What if I had not taken the easy way out during my college years?? What if I'd decided to actually use the powerful brain God gave me, instead of being more than satisfied earning average grades in blowoff classes, conserving my cerebral energy and presumably stockpiling my brain cells to use on more noble tasks (drinking inexpensive beer and refereeing poorly-played intramural football games are two that immediately come to mind).

For starters, rather than the Communications degree which I now possess, I would have earned a B.B.A., which would be framed and prominently featured on my wall. Or perhaps I would have a earned a Political Science degree, enrolling in challenging and thought-provoking courses that would have prepared me for law school, from which I would have earned another degree, which would be not only framed but also positioned directly above my oversized leather office chair.

With my hard-earned Juris Doctor diploma would have come a myriad of different (and enviable) life scenarios, not the least of which would be the quadrupling of my current teacher's salary. This marvelous (though entirely deserved) influx of capital would put my current daily deeds to shame:

As a high-dollar lawyer, I would enjoy a breathtaking view of the Dallas skyline (or even better- Fort Worth, where folks are nicer) from my firm's 24th-story perch. My secretary would be too young and wear short skirts, and my corner office would have mahogany to spare.

"Hey girls, can you put on another pot of coffee? And while you're at it, my hamstrings are feeling kinda tight, could ya'll work on that, too?? Thanks...."



My lawfirm's galas and awards banquets would be the envy of the Metroplex: swank black-tie soirees where the tenderloin is always succulent and the escorts' dresses are always low-cut.
Hobnobbing with bigwigs and beautiful women would be a normal part of my life, and my "Top 100 Lawyer" photo would be in Texas Monthly more often than Kinky Freidman's.

A short commute from my Fort Worth highrise would bring me to the South Arlington mansion which I'd call home. Greeting me (with plunging neckline) at the door would be my gorgeous trophy wife, who would not need to work, but who works at the neighborhood arts-and-crafts store anyway, if only because she truly enjoys how the employee smock tends to enhance her already well-enhanced bosom. Trophy wife and I would retire every night to my solid oak sleigh bed, the two of us falling asleep only after embarking on our nightly 90 minutes of "humina-humina."

With just a liiiiiiittle bit of effort, my Saturday nights could have looked like this...

As it is, this is all I ever see at the end of a long night out...



Oh, what just the tiniest speck of self-motivation would have gained me!!

My career in law would afford me a small army of mexican boys to tend to my lawn, a middle-aged black woman to clean my mansion twice a week, and an underage asian girl to do my nails every Saturday ("for ten dollar more you get happy ending...").

My decoration dame and I would enjoy the best seats in the arena at Mavericks games, while the rest of the overweight rank-and-file crane their necks just to get a glimpse of me and my trophy girl.



"...You can't see the game?? Tough luck pal; looks like you gotta stand up!"



But noooooo, I had to be lazy! I never did graduate from law school, and now I'm paying a stiff price:

My apartment is no bigger than a 1-car garage, and I see one roach for every dollar I pay in rent. The closest I ever get to a sleighbed occurs as I walk past Crate and Barrel on Knox Street (and am discouraged from entering the store by the looks of disdain I receive from the haughty gay salesmen). I tend to my own fingernails--chewing them off and smoothing them down with the dull metal file that is connected to the nail clipper. And the only awards ceremony at my job consists of me handing out homemade Perfect Attendance certificates to three out of my 16 students ( "...Mr. G, that's all we get?!?" )

Yes, that's all you get, you little sh*t!!

Now go do your homework and hope you don't end up like me...

How To Lose Friends and Alienate People

Follow these three easy steps:

1. While observing the time-honored traditions of St. Patrick's Day, such as drinking beer and taking shots of Irish whiskey.... turn up your nose, extend your pinky, and sip on a glass of wine.

2. After you finally (after hours of belittling and name-calling) agree to guzzle some Irish whiskey, act as if you have just swallowed a glass of elephant urine.

3. You're annoying, and everybody now hates you.

The Breakfast Club

Last night I fell asleep at 8:15pm.

Not surprisingly, I woke up this morning at 3:05am.

After I moaned and groaned and peed and blew my nose, it became painfully clear that my brain was in no mood to re-enter REM, and I was going to have to rise from my 400-thread-count womb and actually do something.

"I might as well be productive," I thought to myself. So I brushed my teeth, put on a sweatshirt, and jumped in my sedan to begin my day.

I took out the garbage; I dropped off some letters at the post office; I cruised the drive-thru at Taco Cabana (breakfast taco combo with a small hot coffee); I thoroughly scrubbed my car at the neighborhood do-it-yourself car wash (this task was not as dangerous as you might suspect, if only because this particular car wash is located on the peaceful corner of McCommas Blvd and 75, nestled safely between Highland Park and the M-Streets, thereby almost completely negating the possibility that I would be accosted by one or more of the usual cast of miscreants and scofflaws that you would expect to find at a Dallas car wash in the middle of the night, namely: The Defiled and Undesirable White Trash Prostitute, The Unemployed and Shifty Mexican, and The Cunning Negro).

It was now 4:30am, and the only errand left to do was fill up my car with gas. So I pulled into the very desolate (though well lit) Shell station at Greenville and Belmont.

Except for the Pakistani gentleman working the cash register, the gas station was dreadfully quiet and completely void of humanity. As I inserted my card into the pump and shoved the hose into my thirsty Honda's fuel tank, I scanned the surrounding area for any suspicious activity.

The coast was clear.

I exhaled and started pumping the unleaded. Almost immediately (as if I'd tripped his radar), a black homeless guy popped out of the store.

"Son of a bitch," I said to myself, "I hate bums!"

I visually gave him a once-over, to gauge his threat level. He looked pretty harmless. When my eyes made their way up to his face, I was shocked at what I saw:

In both of his hands he cradled some kind of sausage/biscuit/sandwich substance, and he was forcing this breakfast phenomenon into his mouth with great speed and commotion. The humor in this situation arose from the sheer size of this sausage-biscuit-thingy: it was roughly the size of a softball, with a clearly-defined wedge of meat in the middle, and it was crumbling at the edges as he struggled to position it safely in his piehole.

So overwhelmed was his mouth by this strange breakfast concoction that the bum was forced to lean his head faaaaaar back while he chewed and swallowed, presumably to keep from dropping any part of his valuable (though probably inexpensive) repast onto the gasoline-stained cement below. Like a bird of prey (or, like a common parakeet) his head shot back with each swallow of the grub. The hungry bum took great care to ensure that not even the smallest morsel of his meal was wasted.

In what seemed like three seconds the entire concoction was gone. I was mildly impressed (and wildly amused) with this man's sausage/biscuit-guzzling prowess (perhaps he had learned to eat like that in prison; or maybe he used to be a schoolteacher, and had mastered the art of eating a full lunch in under two minutes).

I was still pumping gas when he began moving towards my car. I had yet to finish chuckling at what had just transpired, when suddenly he was upon me ("He's deceptively quick at all he does," I thought).


Bum: "Say man, I'm trying to get to Oak Cliff... can I borrow a dollar?"


Two things about his comment jumped out at me: first-- is it just me, or is the new trend in panhandling to announce to your mark that you are currently "stranded"?? For the past year or two, the "stranded" angle has been all the rage among the homeless. "I just need a few cents to catch the bus to Duncanville, can you help me out?" or "I'm out of gas and I need 50 cents to get the train down to DeSoto." Nevermind that you will see the same guy tomorrow... he's still trying to get to Oak Cliff, right??!

It's as if the keynote speaker last year's Bum Convention announced this new strategy and all of his minions quickly followed suit: "Oooooh! Great idea! I think I'll try it every single day for the next two years on the same street corner!"

(and why do the bums never have to catch the bus back to Coppell?? Or Plano?? Why do bums desire only to go south of downtown?? What does Oak Cliff have that McKinney and The Colony lack??)

The second part of his comment that irked me was his use of the word "borrow."

Attention bums: unless you are going to come to my house and pay me back when your nonexistent paycheck arrives, you are not "borrowing." You are taking.

Back to the bum and I:


Me: "Do you have a cigarette?"

Aha!! I had him right where I wanted him! Not wanting to give him something for nothing (and feeling a slight chill outside), I asked for a smoke--something that was valuable to him, but probably not valuable enough not to give to me for an entire dollar. Sure, bums love cigarettes, but I was offering him a dollar for just one!! It would "hurt" him to give up a cigarette, but it wouldn't really hurt him...
At long last, I had beaten a bum at his own game!

He paused and stammered and began nervously grabbing at all of his pockets, as if trying to remember where he'd placed his smokes. "Got him!" I thought. Finally, he answered.

Bum: "No... but if you give me a minute, I can get you one..."

Damn. The wind was knocked out of me. I was speechless. Was I supposed to wait there while he ran off to get a cigarette from God-knows-where?! And if he did bring me back a cigarette (off of a rotting corpse? from inside of his favorite dumpster?), would I actually put it in my mouth and smoke it?!?

Damn. I sadly realized that I'd lost again.

Me: "Dude... nevermind."

The bum clutched his new dollar bill and jogged away.

Olympics Review (part 2)

I am not gay.

That fact has never been in doubt. I am as manly as they get.

Notice the overpowering odor of HETEROsexuality in this photo: That's me, at a SPORTS BAR, taking a shot of WHISKEY, while manly SPORTS are shown on every television in the background. Heck, I probably had big-time gambling ACTION on those games!

But recently, I've taken lots of heat (from loved ones and strangers alike) for my decision to become a mildly-obsessed fan of the Winter Olympics in general, and women's figure skating in particular.

I should not have to explain myself. A 30-year-old (and very straight) man should be allowed to curl up with his cat and watch whatever he wants; even if owning a cat is somewhat gay, and what that Very Straight Man wants to watch is nine hours a day of anorexic, pre-pubescent girls inexplicably sobbing on an ice sheet and stoned snowboarders wiping out while speeding down a mountain in blizzard conditions.

What's so bad about that? Besides, this Olympiad will occupy only sixteen days out of my life; let me have my fun! Let me practice my spins and jumps in the hallways at work. Let me experiment with many different shades of blush, in an attempt to find juuuust the right shade of rosy red. Let me wear a teal and purple sequined tutu with nude hose underneath. I've got the Olympic Spirit!




Come here, boy. Just four more hours of skating, Chewie. Yeaaaaaah little guy, bring your cute little spayed ass over here and let's watch Sasha Cohen... No boy, we'll watch Sex And The City tomorrow; tonight is the women's long program!



I wish I could say that my Olympic Fever is caused by the fact that the U.S. is second in the overall medal count (behind only Zee Juhhmans), but then I realize that the only medals we have won are in snowboarding and speedskating. Great. All of our gold medals were won by a bunch of potheads from the X-Games, in a sport we invented. Pardon me if I'm not doing backflips. Any "sport" in which the winner can be (and usually is) higher than a hundred-dollar kite should not be considered a genuine Olympic event.

Speaking of... Did anybody notice that some of the stonedboarders--I mean, snowboarders--actually competed in their events while listening to their iPods?! I even saw one girl scrolling through her playlist as she was about to drop into the halfpipe! Forget the outdated concepts of "concentrating" or "focusing" on that possible gold medal, these chicks are looking for just the right Green Day song to put them over the top.

Maybe we would not have this problem if they weren't giving out silver medals that double as compact discs. Perhaps--in between hits from the bong--the snowboarders got confused and thought they were competing for a $50 gift certificate to CD World on Greenville Avenue.

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Stoner #1: "Gnarly, dude, I won the new Deathcab For Cutie CD! What did you get, bro?"

Stoner #2: "Duuuude, I got shafted, bro. They gave me Jock Jams Volume 2."

Stoner #1: "Duuuude, you got hosed."

Maybe that's what happened to Lindsey Jacobellis. Maybe, as she coasted to an apparent gold medal, and was 700 yards ahead of her nearest competitor, and as she was on her last jump, and as she tried to show-off and foolishly attempt a Method Air, and as she nailed the cool-looking trick but botched the landing, and as she fell on her ass and allowed the second-place stoner to pass her, she might have done it all on purpose!! Maybe she wanted a silver medal because she thought it was the new Kelly Clarkson CD.

"Since you've been gooooone, I can breathe for the fiiiiiiirst tiiiime...."



And what of the Bizarre Gay Love Triangle between Shani Davis and the White Guy On The Team Who Is Mad At Shani (WGOTTWIMAS)?? I don't want to dwell on the "homosexual angle," but in this case there is no other explanation for this type of behavior. Shani and the WGOTTWIMAS have been at each other for two weeks now, and frankly, if these two are not gay, then I don't know who is...

If any two normal guys treated each other the way these two do, there is a 100% chance that the day would end in a fistfight. But with Shani and WGOTTWIMAS, it's just more backbiting and sniping and name-calling. And not a single fistfight. Hmmmmm....

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"I wish I knew how to quit you!!"



How can you people sleep through such a roller-coaster of human drama?! I love this stuff. But every time I bring up this subject to my friends, everybody just rolls their eyes and scoffs. What? Are the medal ceremonies on past your bedtime? Are they terribly insecure about their masculinity, and thus don't want to "risk it" by watching women's ice skating?? I don't get it...

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"Sir, here's your 5 bucks. Now can you say what I told you to say about the Winter Olympics?? Sir? Wake up, sir. Uhhh... how about 10 bucks? Will you say it for 10 bucks?!"



Sadly, my sweetheart Irina (the) Slutskaya, faltered and did not win the figure skating gold medal... However, her butt--her fit and toned and perfectly round and absolutely phenomenal skater's butt, which seems to just gush forth out of her skimpy ballerina outfit; her glorious backside, to which I would award every precious medal known to man if I had a say in the matter--has me in a trance. How anybody can sleep while Irina's butt is still eligible for a medal is beyond me...


Any female Olympian whose butt is so powerful that it emits fireworks is the girl for me!!


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"Becky, wake up, Irina is about to begin!!"
"Mmmmmuuuuhhhh, mmhuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh. Olives... Baklava... Hummus... hmmhuuuuuuh..."
"Nevermind."

Olympics Review (part 1)

With Dallas locked in the throes of a week-long deep freeze; with temperatures hovering in the 20s since last Friday; with a dangerous sheet of ice on our roadways making any travel perilous at best... a single man in a frozen metropolis does not have many options with which to cure his boredom (at least, not many that can be discussed in a family blog...).

So instead of whittling away the frostbound hours in pursuit of some unsavory, flesh-oriented goal, I decided to brew some hot coffee, don my long underwear, sweep the decaying JumboJack wrappers under the sofa, and settle in for a Winter Olympics marathon.

Under normal circumstances, I cannot be bothered with anything Olympic-related. Any sporting events which boast Norwegians and Swedes as the favorites cannot possibly be worth my (or any other self-respecting Texan male's) valuable time. But something changed over the course of the last week.

I discovered the greatness of Johnny Weir.

That's right, Johnny Weir. The overly-flamboyant, resplendently gay American figure skater whose swank ensembles and willowy moves on the ice have had me spellbound for days.

Admittedly smitten at the first sight of this ice-skating sprite, I discovered some veeeerry interesting facts about Johnny while I was reading his bl-- er, I mean, his blog just popped up, or something, while I was looking at all my usual boxing and hunting websites (websites which I have bookmarked, I'll have you know!).

Anyways, little Johnny seems to be dealing with some, shall we say, identity issues these days. Here's a quote:

"...I don't think I'm a diva, or pompous enough to be in the position of acting like a diva. I like things to be the way I like them to be. And if that's diva, then I'm sorry for that. I wasn't born to be the next Michelle Kwan or Dorothy Hamill."

Uhhh... just a regular guy's observation here, Johnny.... but Michelle Kwan and Dorothy Hamill are chicks. You're a dude. You may not be the prototypical "man's man," but--and I'm just assuming here--you do still have the requisite parts that make you a member of the male gender....
Or maybe I'm just behind the times on this one. Maybe I missed the interview with LeBron James when he compared himself to Sheryl Swoopes.



"Yes, I'm beautiful. I see you staring at me. Ask yourself-- 'why can I not avert my gaze from Johnny's sculpted physique?'"



But how can I sneer at a (wo)man who is so intensely athletic, yet also so fabulously privy to the latest trends in fashion and accessories?? Another quote from Johnny:

"...The next morning the papers came out and all of a sudden I was causing a stir because I was wearing a chinchilla scarf that someone thought was a boa. First of all, boas are so out. Secondly, I would never wear a boa to a press conference."

Gasp!! A boa to a press conference!!? The gall! The nerve! Johnny would never do that!

Actually Johnny, you would do that. You know why? Because you are a flaming homo. You're a queer for the ages. Not only that, but you're a figure skater! Nobody cares what you do. You're not misunderstood, you're not misquoted, you're not persecuted... you're a gay ice skater. You wear glittery costumes and you hang out with little girls and you skate in front of a crowd once every four years. We don't care. Now go away.

One just loves lipstick and spandex and all things sparkly.... the other one is the girl on the left.

Glittery spandex unitard- $100... Live-in hairstylist- $4000... Ice skates- $150... Being totally oblivious to the smoking-hotness of the two Russian skater chicks in short skirts next to me because my loins are quivering to have gay monkeysex with the dude at the other end of the photo- PRICELESS.

One more great quote from Johnny's blog:

"...I got a lot of criticism about my costumes, my hair, my programs, basically everything that was visible to the eye got picked apart. Why am I skating? Why do I keep putting myself through this? I decided to get back to that happy place where I can do no wrong..."

Ok Johnny, you get back to that happy place. Just make sure I don't have to hear a word about you for another four years.

Sure, I soured on Johnny Weir, but that was before I became enamored with the beautiful Russian skater, Irina Slutskaya.

Athletic, graceful, and flexible, Irina Slutskaya is the best thing to happen to me since, well, Johnny Weir. And can you really blame me?? If I've learned one thing in 30 years, it's that any super hot, extraordinarily limber Russian girl whose surname begins with the word "Slut" is worth a second--if not a third and a fourth--look.

Irina embodies everything that's right about the Olympics: she's young, she's talented, she can easily position her leg behind her head for extended periods of time while still wearing her boots. And if that's not the Olympic Spirit, I don't know what is...

So much more caught my eye during my Olympic marathon, and I'll share the rest of my thoughts tomorrow. But honestly, I'm just counting down the hours until my sweet Irina Slutskaya begins her quest for the gold (tuesday night). Until then, I'll ruminate on the plight of speedskater Shani Davis, and attempt to determine if his deep-rooted, seething anger has anything to do with this hilarious picture of him:

Heck, I'd be mad too...

Oscar-caliber

Caller-Times photographer and avid shooter George Gongora simulates Saturday's accident with a 28-gauge shotgun.


At the behest of one of my three readers, I have decided to start blogging again.

What's that you say?-- "Paul, I was unaware that you quit blogging..."

Well, I did not actually "quit" so much as I was forced into a semi-sabbatical. Without divulging too many of the gory details, let's just say that the antibiotics have finally taken hold, the "infection" is under control, and I've been cleared to return to action.

My elite team of physicians banished me to bed rest last week, which enabled me to catch up on the hours upon hours of mindless television viewing that I usually miss while leading my normal, hectic life of teaching 2nd grade, fishing, hunting, and attending monster truck shows.

And oh, what a great week to be immobilized in front of the tube!

For starters, we had wall to wall Winter Olympics on NBC. Over on Fox channeI, I learned that American Idol is aired every single night of the week, and I cannot stop myself from watching it. On ABC, the pale female doctor (or intern? or whatever the heck her job is, she never seems to get dirty...) on Grey's Anatomy single-handedly saved the hospital from blowing up (though the hunky bomb squad guy was not so lucky), and, hmmmm.... let's see..... what else happened last week.... oh yeah, our Vice President shot somebody.

By now, everybody knows the story, and you are probably tired of hearing it. But imagine my shock and surprise as I was groggily watching some show on MSNBC, and I caught a glimpse of....

My dad.

That's right- my father.

George. My Pops. The Bossman. Big Poppa.

He was shooting a gun on some MSNBC news show, the show that nobody knows the name of, because it too closely (ok, exactly) resembles about 29 other news shows on about 15 cable news channels. But that's not the point. The point is, I saw my dad on the national news shooting a gun.

After picking my mandible up off the cut berber, my emotions alternated between extremely uncomfortable queasiness and unbridled, unadulterated jubilance at the sight of my dad on the television, explaining and demonstrating (with a shotgun and live ammunition) the logistics of just how Dick Cheney gunned down his hunting buddy.

Those unlucky few of you with the misfortune of never meeting George Gongora likely have no grasp of the massive amount of humor inherent in this situation.... If you have met my father, then I'm sure you will agree with my assessment that this video scores a 8.75 out of 10 on the George Gongora Unintentional Comedy Scale.

After watching him perform on MSNBC, I scoured the internet looking for more of his sublime thespian talents. This is all I could find. And it has proven to be more than enough.

My computer now plays this on a nonstop, continuous loop.

Yes, that's my dad, George, gleefully firing a .28 gauge shotgun at a simulated human target, re-creating the Dick Cheney incident for the whole world (or, at least the few hundred folks in Corpus Christi, Texas, with cable television capabilities) to see.

In case you missed it: click here.

Or here.

I'll write more later today; I've gotta get back to Googling my dad.

Bad Big Brother

It all started so innocently.

A kids traveling game. The kind you played 20 years ago, when the 2-hour drive to grandma's seemingly took all day. The harmless kind you played with your siblings to pass the time in the backseat, because iPods had yet to be invented or because you were still too young to enjoy a good novel or (most likely) because your parents were too cheap to buy you a Nintendo Gameboy.

Fast Forward to 2006:

Rebekah had spent her Saturday afternoon at NorthPark Mall, getting overcharged for a haircut. She stopped by my apartment afterwards--as is her custom--to have lunch [Figure 1] with her older brother and discuss the latest goings-on in our lives.


Figure 1.

Lunch. "Mmmmmmmm.... Hummus!!"

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After lunch we drove to Kroger, to purchase salad supplies (later that evening, Rebekah was to attend the St. Sophia Greek Orthodox Church Winter Funstival, and had volunteered to make (what else?) a Greek Salad [Figure 2]. We bought the ingredients and sped home.


Figure 2.
Making the Greek Salad

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On the drive home Rebekah chimed in, "Remember the game where you look for out-of-state license plates, and the first person to find one gets to hit the other person according to the last number on the license plate?"

Her question struck me as rather odd, but I nodded my head and said yes, if only because agreeing to play her game might afford me the opportunity to legally beat the crap out of my little sister. On paper, it sounds evil and heartless, but that's just what big brothers do- we kick little sisters' asses.

"OK, let's play!" I said, and immediately I began furiously scanning every car on Mockingbird Lane for foreign plates. Rebekah, though she had (just 10 seconds ago!) brought up this game and explained its rules to me, did not at all seem interested in playing. She just quietly tinkered with her phone, sending a text message or whatever it is that kids do with phones nowadays.

There!!! Pulling out of Mockingbird Station!

"Mississippi," I screamed, "eight!!"

Before Little Sis could so much as flinch, my fists of fury were pounding her thighs, arms, and kidneys.

"Onetwothreefourfivesix," and so on... With each haymaker that connected, I counted: "Sixteen..."

Whack... Crack... Bam... Slap... Pow... etc, etc...

"TwentyfourTwentyfiveTwentysix..."

She was yelling something about stopping at eight, but with all the noise coming from the beating, I could not hear very clearly. [Figure 3.]

I thought she'd meant multiples of eight!


Figure 3
"Fight!"

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She curled up in the fetal position in the passenger seat and started using her arms and hands to block my punches. I figured I'd get in a few more solid blows before calling off the dogs. Just then, I heard a strange and grotesque sound. It was a sound I'd never heard before. It made me queasy. I knew it was not good.

Rebekah fell deathly quiet and gasped.

I was worried for a second, and my mind raced to try to figure out how I had somehow managed to accidentally kill my little sister.

She let out a whimper and started crying. I still did not know what I'd done to injure her so severely, but I already felt pretty bad about it.

She slowly placed her left hand in front of us, focused on her middle finger, and that's when we grasped the full magnitude of what I'd done:

The horrifying sound we heard was one of her beautifully-manicured fingernails breaking under the pressure of my knuckle sandwiches. Now I really felt bad.

It was a freakish-looking injury.

Her fingernail was ripped badly, and it was ripped waaaaay below the skin level, and it was quite painful to even look at. It just dangled there, spilling blood and waiting to be pulled (at the horrible expense of the person from whose hand it is being pulled). Simple clipping of the nail would not be enough to remedy this injury.

Fixing this was going to involve some degree of nail-skin separation. She was in tremendous pain, and the worst was yet to come.

"I'm sorry," I said over and over, and I immediately began offering penances:

"I'll make your Greek Salad for you," I said, as if that would shoo away the pain, "Becky, you know I've got mad skillz in the kitchen!" [Figure 4.]

"Who cares about the damn salad?!" She sobbed. "My finger is dead!!!"

Figure 4.

Mad Skillz in the kitchen

.

How could I have done such a horrible thing to my sis? I was racked with guilt. I hated myself. I was the worst big brother ever...

An hour or so had passed and Rebekah was still curled up in a helpless ball and mumbling incoherently. "Are you going to be much longer?" I asked. "Because I've gotta go hang out with a bunch of hot chicks, [Figure 5] and you're kinda holding me back right now."

.

Figure 5

Hot Chicks

.

"I hate you", she cried. "You don't even have any chicks, you fat loser! You killed my nail! I nearly bled half to death! And all you care about is girls?!!"

She began yelling and speaking in tongues and spitting on me... Something about "curses" and "witches" and a "lifetime of erectile dysfunction." [Figure 6] But I ignored her and soon left to go chase women.

Yeah right, like she knows any real-life witches!

What the heck was she talking about, anyway??

.

Figure 6

B F F

When I moved to Dallas almost four years ago, I was alone and despondent. I had no friends.

All of my longtime buddies were 270 miles south, in San Antonio, where I had spent the previous eight years of my life.

I was sad.

But now I have some of the greatest friends ever! Here's just a sampling of who I like to call "My Inner Circle":



This is Bubba H.

<===

Bubba has three postgraduate degrees, and I consider him to be the smartest, most disciplined man I know. He is the embodiment of a "scholar and gentleman."
Bubba is a Professor of Mexican-American Studies at Brookhaven College. He is a very motivated man--a straight arrow, if you will--and I constantly strive to model my life after his.
Bubba's doctoral thesis was titled, "Booze and Its Effects on Interracial Dating," and he consistently attempts to test his hypotheses (6 nights a week) at various unsavory gathering places in the Addison area. I envy his dedication to his profession. Taking the Golden Rule one step further, Bubba lives by the Silver Bullet Rule: "If she's ugly, drink 18 Coors Lights until she's cute enough to bag..."




This is Abby G.

Abby is an absolute doll. She is the quintessential "modern, successful, confident woman." A woman of her stature is finicky about who she lets near, so I consider myself blessed to be one of her closest chums.
Abby hosts the finest, most exclusive dinner parties East Dallas has ever seen. The guest lists at her soirees read like a 'who's-who' of Texas' most rich and famous, and Abby is always a model of decorum and poise while entertaining.
Her restrained and dignified manner makes her pleasing to keep company with, and I can only wish to someday possess even 1/10th of the class that Abby possesses.

This is Gabriel H.
I admire Gabriel for his tireless devotion, loyalty, compassion, and dedication to his girlfriend. Their relationship is the stuff of dreams (or, of a cheesy Disney movie).
His significant other always comes first, and I respect the manner in which he revolves his life around her every whim. Spend just five minutes in their presence, and you will hear pure, unbridled love coming from his mouth: "Baby, can I eat a bite of real meat tonight, instead of the veggie stuff?" "Baby, is it okay if I sit on the sofa--instead of the floor--tonight?" "Honey, can I have two slices of bread on my sandwich today? I promise I'll workout an extra 10 minutes..." "Sweetie, can I watch SportsCenter while you go to the mall? I promise I'll TiVo Oprah for you..."
Gabriel's a good man, and we should all aspire to be more like him.



This is Michael R.
Michael is studying to be a Catholic deacon, and he lives his life accordingly. Except for the occasional sip of wine at mass, Michael leads a ramrod-straight existence. He sets a high standard for me to follow and, though I rarely measure up, his grace and compassion towards my sordid lifestyle are wonderful to receive.
In between bible studies, Michael mentors a group of underprivileged youngsters, taking them to football games and demonstrating how a real man of God should live his life. He is the perfect role model.

I'm sorry if I left anybody out... But I think it's obvious-- these guys clearly are the cream of the crop.

See you soon, everybody!!

BFF, paul :)