Creed Thoughts #1

Hey-o, everyone out there in SyberWorld. It’s old Creed Bratton coming at your again, here from my perch as a Quality Assurance Manager at Dunder Mifflin paper. Just a few observations on the world around me.

What do you guys think is the best kind of car? To me, you can’t beat motorcycles. They’re small, and dangerous.

I got into a car accident yesterday and I just took off. It didn’t look too bad. The guy was making a big deal out of it, but come on – dogs don’t live forever.

Sometimes when I’m sick, or feeling blue, I drink vinegar. I like all kinds: balsamic, vodka, orange juice, leaves.

Working in an office is fine, but I’d rather be a millionaire. [Elaborate on this. It’s interesting. Maybe Trademark it, too.]

Today in my office where I work as Director of Quality Assurance, we went to the beach for some reason that was never adequately explained. When we were there, our manager told us to eat hot coals. I thought that was a little bit untoward so I ate a fish. Then a woman I have literally never seen before in my entire life started talking very loudly about something involving Halpert. She was agitated, I’d say. From what I could guess, she was definitely on drugs of some kind, perhaps cocaine, or maybe ‘drines. Also, she is a knock-out. She reminds me of a young Daphne Du Maurier. Also, I stupidly ate the fishbones. I told myself “never again” after the last time, but then you turn around, and bam, they’re in my mouth. I also ate 55 hot dogs in 15 minutes, which is a world record.

Everybody remembers: “April showers bring May flowers.” But no one remembers how the rest of that goes. Which I find so frustrating.

Prediction: the Orioles will win the World Series over the Pirates in seven games.

Prediction: the space program will be renamed the Outer Space Program by 2060.

Prediction: someday we will be able to travel faster than sound. We will “break the sound barrier.”

Prediction: [note – need more predictions.]

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 26-32-20.

The worst part about Raisin Bran is the bran. Hands down.

I saw a man fishing bottles out of a garbage can yesterday and it reminded me of a funny story.

I don’t like hockey. They should get rid of the pucks and put those shoe blades on their sticks – then you’d have a game on your hands.

To be a good pick pocket, you’ve got to look like a regular Joe. Don’t dress up in fancy colors or jewelry. That’s where the Gypsies have it wrong. Pair of slacks, t-shirt, hat – that’s all you need. And it helps to have tiny hands, too.

I’ve had enough of this LBJ character.

If I had to pick between a chimp and a spider, I’d take the chimp. Harder to forget where you left it.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 26-22-30.

Where’s Thousand Island? I’ve got some vacation time saved up and it sounds like a delicious place to visit.

Root beer floats. It does. I’ve tested it.

There’s a fat man that sits by me. He has some sort of jar of multi-colored power beans. I need those beans, man.

The last thing I want to deal with at work is people.

I’m thinking about buying a horse. Great for transportation and once you’re done with it, you’ve got about seven days worth of meals.

Never trust mailmen.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 20-22-36.

Boxers or thiefs? Who wants to know?

This might not be “Peacie,” but I think we should segregate the ghost population from the living. Thoughts?

I’d chew ice cubes all day if they weren’t so sharp.

If you want to be a good hitchhiker, you’ve got to think outside of the thumb. Don’t just stand there when you could be dancing.

Types of girls I like: Brazilian, Ukrainian, South African, Canadian [the further North, the better], short, Wisconsin.

You’d be surprised to know how many passports I’ve got.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 23-20-26

Winning is everything when it comes to Russian Roulette.

I tore my rotator cuff. I always hated that thing.

Screw parasailing, man. Make the handicapped sail like the rest of us.

I’m really bad at remembering birthdays. I think mine’s in June, but who knows?

I’ll take the moon over the sun any day of the week.

Man, what ever happened to Zaire? That place was crazy!

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 23-26-30

I turn all kinds of things into pies.

Who hasn’t lived in a cave at one point or another? That’s what they’re for.

You say diabetes, I say diabetos.

Give me a mug and some beans and I’ll find a way to make your damn coffee.

Every time I step on a nail, I thank my shoes for doing their job the best they could.

I’d grow a beard but I don’t have the time.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 33-26-30

Who decided that pigs are for eating but rats get a free ride?

I’d play the lottery if they let me pick the balls.

Television hasn’t been good since “The Goldbergs.”

I’ve played Monopoly in real life and bankruptcy is a lot harder to get out of than the game makes it seem.

Music really makes me want to sing, man.

They should rename the Virgin Islands. That was an expensive mistake.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 36-22-62

Toes are a luxury, not a right.

I fought in the Korean War. For both sides.

If you ask me, the quick money’s in billiards.

I love the smell of gasoline right after you light it on fire.

Restaurants were created to take advantage of the lazy. If you’ve got a forest and a lighter, you’ve got dinner.

I like my women LOUD.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 3-22-26

Visors are hats for people that like getting ripped off.

Here’s the thing about handcuffs: there’s only one key for all of them. It’s not like the Tampa cops have their own special key and the Saskatchewan Mounties have a different one. They’re all the same. So the one true goal in any criminal’s life is to get a copy of the handcuff key. I’ve got thirty. If you want to buy one, you know where to find me.

What ever happened to free love, man? Now I’m paying ten, fifteen dollars for it.

My favorite part of the newspaper is the fun little stories about the dead people and their relatives.

Do you remember where I parked my van?

A pinky’s always a pinky, but a pointer and a ring finger are pretty interchangeable if you need them to be.

There’s nothing better than a wishing fountain. Go ahead, idiots, keep throwing your cash away. Old Creed will make those wishes come true.

I’ve got an idea.

About thirty years ago, I fell in love with a blond woman. She wore vests and skirts and had flowers in her hair. I think her name was Nancy. If you’re out there, Nancy, I’m not mad at you anymore. You can keep the hundred bucks you stole. I just want you back. And my birth certificate.

Books are great when you can’t find a pillow.

Reminder: Michael’s safe combo: 2-33-26

In my younger days, I spent a lot of time sleeping in a lot of places. Some of those places were bus stations. Everyone knows that hotels are for suckers, so why pay for lodging when you can get it for free? The problem is, there are a lot of crazies out there, so if you’re going to sleep in the bus station you’ve got to be savvy about it.

First of all, make friends with the night watchman. That’s the guy that can have the fuzz come and take you away. Find out what kind of candy he likes and bring him some. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stayed in a station worry-free because of a few Bit O’Honeys.

Pick up an old bus ticket. That way, if somebody gives you trouble, you just say you’re waiting for a bus and show them the ticket. No one ever really bothers to look, so you should be golden. If they do look, run like hell.

Some idiot security guard comes by and asks why you’re sleeping on the benches? You’re from the bench company and you’re testing comfort levels. Be creative. Whatever you do, don’t say you’re the bus driver. I made that mistake once in the 60’s and I ended up driving a busload of people to Jacksonville.

It was a weeklong trip and it was hot as hell. By the third day, some of the passengers started cooking bacon on the floor. I couldn’t complain, though, because I was driving the best smelling bus on the East Coast.

There was a young man sitting in the back of the bus who claimed to be a magician. Said his name was “The Great Alamundo.” He went up and down the aisles doing card tricks for people to pass the time. His deck of cards only had diamonds and clubs, though. He told me he sold the spades and hearts a while back for a few packs of cigarettes. Now that’s a smart magician. When we stopped in Macon, GA, I bought a new deck of cards for the guy, but he wouldn’t accept it. Didn’t want to be a charity case, I guess. His loss.

Once the card tricks lost their fun, the passengers started to get rowdy. I knew I had to keep them occupied or they were going to revolt. Long story short, I got everyone singing Johnny Mathis songs and the mood changed in a hurry. By the time we got to Jacksonville, I could hardly pry those people out of their seats. I ended up selling the bus for $400 and living in Florida for eight months. All in all, it was a pretty good trip.

So I’ve been thinking about running for Governor. There’re a lot of things wrong with Pennsylvania and since nobody’s answering my letters over at the Governor’s Office in Philadelphia, I think it’s time to take matters into my own hands. I know what you’re thinking and yes, they are wrinkled, but they’re still strong.

Number One on my list of changes: Pennsylvania should change its name to Transylvania. Lots of idiots buy all kinds of vampire rings and vampire necklaces and garlic-flavored vampire gum. There’s a lot of dough to be made from these suckers and I’m tired of seeing it go to foreigners. If we change the name of the state, we can probably do away with property tax considering the amount of souvenirs we’re going to sell. Also, vampire fans are notoriously good tippers.

Number Two: Cops’ uniforms should be neon yellow. The get-ups they wear now make it too hard to see them coming at night and I’m tired of those jerks sneaking up on me. If I’m elected Governor, I want to make sure that people know where cops are at all times.

Number Three: Soup kitchens have to offer more variety. From what I’ve heard, they serve the same soup two, three times a week. People really get sick of mushroom barley all the time, you know?

Number Three and a Half: Mushroom Barley soup will be illegal across the state. Honestly, I don’t think anyone’s going to miss it.

Number Four: Increase funding to all public schools.

Number Five: I will institute a database with pictures of every resident in the state naked. Every five years, a citizen can request to view any one person’s naked picture for a viewing period of ten minutes. After they’ve used up their viewing, they have to wait another five years until they can view another. It’s just not fair for all these foxy ladies to be walking around without anyone being able to see them naked. This is going to be the cornerstone of my campaign.

I’ve got a lot more ideas for making this state the best in the country and if you vote for me, I promise to listen to everything you have to say. Now, I know I haven’t voted for the past fifty years, but I think that’s going to give me a real leg up on the competition because they can’t attack me for my voting record. Stick with me and we’ll make some real changes to this stupid square state.

Vote Creed for Governor: “The Guy Who’s Going to Make You Rich Off of People Who Believe in Vampires!”

Fall is just around the corner and you know what that means: Crab Apple Season. I’m getting hungry just thinking about them. These little buggers pop up all over the place and nobody wants them because people are idiots. As a result, they’re absolutely free, which is my favorite price of all.

Crab apples have a whole stinkload of benefits. Back when I was little, my grandpa used to stick a crab apple in my mouth every time I stuttered. And guess what? I don’t stutter anymore. Crap apples are tiny miracles.

Anyway, farmers usually get mad when I help myself to their apples but when I’m picking up crab apples, I’m a real American hero to them. Also, crab apples are an instant cure for cancer. Plus, crab apples are useful in all situations. You can use them in jelly or applesauce or one time I cut myself real bad trying to get over some razor wire. Took out a crab apple, sliced it in half, rubbed it on my wounds and a few minutes later I was better than new. Ended up getting a pretty nice TV out of that night, too.

I can’t think of anything else in my life that I look forward to more than Crab Apple Season. Maybe 4th of July, but that’s just because I know when everyone’s going to be out of their houses watching fireworks. If you’re looking for a free nutritious food that’s available without dealing with the jerks at the grocery store, you really can’t beat crab apples. Stay away from Scranton, though, because those crabbies belong to me.

Side Note: Crab apples have nothing to do with real crabs. I don’t want to get into some kind of lawsuit because you made an idiotic assumption, so I’m setting the record straight right now. Crab apples contain no actual crabmeat. There you go.

I have this computer at home. A friend needed to get rid of it fast and he needed a vacuum, so I traded him. Anyway, I don’t even use it that much. Sometimes if I’m going to a coffee shop to look at women, I’ll bring it with me to look busy, but that’s about all.

The other day, I overheard some dudes at work – the fatso and the fruit – and they were talking about some internet video of water buffaloes fighting lions. I don’t know about you, but that’s the kind of thing I can build a whole night around. I stopped at the supermarket on the way home and picked up some things to get me in the mood: Buffalo jerky, buffalo wings, Frosted Flakes, some cupcakes, and a bottle of white wine. (Side note: I couldn’t find any lion-related items at the store, so I settled for the Flakes because of the Tiger. It was the best I could do.) When I got home, I was really jazzed for a good old-fashioned jungle fight. I turned on my computer and boom – nothing happened. Just a weird clucking noise and a black screen, so I did what anybody would do. I punched my computer and then I called tech support.

This Indian dude takes my name, my phone number, and my email address. I gave him some fakes. I have enough problems in India without the cops finding out where I live. Then he wants me to tell him the problem with the computer. “The damn thing don’t work!” I say. He says “Okay, Sir, it would be my pleasure to assist you with that today.” I’m thinking, it would be my pleasure to stick your ass on top of the Taj Mahal, but I don’t say it because I’m smart. You catch more flies with really friendly decoy flies, that’s what I always say.

So I let this guy tell me what he thinks is wrong and then he asks for the serial number. I give that to him, too, and then he tells me I don’t have a warranty anymore. I’ve been on the phone for ten minutes already and now he tells me he can’t help me because of some stupid warranty. I’m ready to kill this guy, but I play nice and then the guy tells me he can help, but it’s going to cost me fifty bucks. Fifty bucks? If I’m paying you fifty bucks to fix a computer, (a) you’re going to do it naked and (b) you’re going to cook me dinner. Well, you can’t do either if you’re halfway around the globe so I hung up on that idiot.

Long story short, I got rid of the laptop right away. Did what I always do with broken gizmos: Threw it into the dumpster and filed a police report saying somebody stole it. Next time somebody turns in a lost laptop to the fuzz, I’m going to have myself a new computer. It just goes to show you: you can screw with Old Creed all you want, but in the end he’s always going to win.

p.s. If I ever find you, “Franklin,” I’m going to take you out Tamil Tiger style and I never forget a voice, even when you’re talking in a fake American accent.

I’m a romantic guy. Always have been. Fell in love for the first time in the fourth grade with the Truancy Officer. Ever since then, I’ve had a thing for women with badges. Cops, security officers, DEA — doesn’t matter to me. They’re all foxy.

Love is tricky. It makes you do crazy things. Back in ’73, I got into a love triangle. Love pyramid, really. Put $6,000 into a cigarette resale venture and just waited for the dough to start pouring in. It never did. Lost my savings for a shot with the DePalma sisters, but it was worth it. I’ve still got some old smokes sitting in a storage shed up in Delaware. It’s my little reminder of the price of love.

If I ever wanted to get married again, I’d go for height over substance. Pretty wives are good for taking to buffets, but tall wives get you noticed. Wealthy’s also a good quality to find in a lady. I’ve got to find me a rich, tall broad. That’ll keep me happy.

There’s one lady who might fit the bill and her name is Louise. She works as a toll collector at the Wilkes-Barre exit on the Pike. Lou’s a big woman, really fills out her uniform and I like it. I’m going to show up at her tollbooth next weekend wearing my lucky socks and my sex pants. Then I’m going to read her a poem I’ve been working on, in the style of my man Willy Carlos Williams. After that, I’ll spray paint all the windows in her booth black and show her why they call me “The Guiding Principle.” It’s going to be smooth. Don’t know if she’s rich, but she definitely has access to a lot of change and that’s good enough for me.

There’re only six things you need if you want to snag a good woman: A guitar, chicken, wine, a car, running water, and some permanent markers. If you don’t have a guitar, a lute will do. You get those six things and you’re Don Juan, trust me.

I’m a big fan of snacks. Meals are great, too, but who has time to sit down and eat a whole ham these days? That’s why I get most of my chow from the Vending Machines. Fills me up and it doesn’t empty my wallet. I don’t get why it’s just food in there, though. Why can’t they throw a pair of briefs in the machine for a buck? Sometimes mine break down and I don’t have next month’s pair with me, so vending machine skivvies would be the perfect replacement.

Here’s what I know: People buy a lot of stuff from vending machines. Also, I know a lot of people who are really into misdemeanor crimes. Makes them feel alive. So I want to make a special line of vending machine snacks based on people’s favorite crimes. They’d be delicious, exciting, and fun for kids.

First on the list: Safecracker Crackers. Perfect for the guy who likes to break into safes, but gets hungry after all that work. They’d be crackers shaped like little safes with a tiny, spicy combo lock in the middle. Who wouldn’t buy that? Or steal it.

Next up: Larceny Bars. The first thing people think when they steal something is, “Damn, I should have eaten something ahead of time!” That’s where Larceny Bars come in. They’re energy bars for thieves. Keep one of these bad boys in your pocket at all times and the next time you’re picking up a new TV from some rube’s apartment, you’ll have a little pick-me-up waiting for you. Plus, it keeps you nourished until you find where they stash the diamonds. I’m going to throw all kinds of stuff in there, too, like chocolate and nuts and caffeine and whiskey and maybe even a little bit of dope.

Let me know if you want to invest in my Crime Snacks business. I’m taking on cash investors starting right now. Give me a call or just leave some dough with your name on it by that big rock across the street from Dunder Mifflin.

Most people have a thing against bugs, but not me. I love the little guys. The way I see it, there’s more of them than there are of us, so you have to respect them just in case. If they ever got their stuff together, they could really do some serious damage. I’m talking city destruction, livestock relocation, and political domination here.

If I had to pick my favorite bug it would have to be a spider. They’re creepy as all hell but real smart, too. I lived in a barn once and there was this one spider who I made friends with. Real classy dame of a spider. We’d talk about life and love and music. She was really into Jefferson Airplane. After our talks, I’d fall asleep and wake up to find little messages written in her web and that’s how I formally learned to read.

I wonder if land insects ever get jealous of the flying ones. I bet they do. If I saw a man flying around while I had to walk around like an idiot, I’d be jealous. I’d shoot that guy down the first chance I got.

In the late 70’s I tried to get into Flea Circusing. It’s not nearly as easy as it sounds. I bought a group of fleas from my pal Gerry and he told me they all had previous circus experience, but it was a total rip-off. They couldn’t do any tricks at all. At least not that I could see. Maybe they were just camera shy. Whatever it was, they pretty much just sat there, so I dumped them in the creek behind my hostel.

People have to stop saying “that bugs me.” It’s racist.

What’s better than a good old-fashioned cookout? Maybe a duffel bag full of unmarked twenties, but besides that, nothing. I used to run a summer camp over on Martha’s Vineyard for a few years. Best business I ever had. Rich idiots would drop off their little ones at this spot I found in a state forest and then they’d pay me to babysit the kids for the day. We had all kinds of fun activities, like Sprint Races, Instructional Walking, Move These Rocks, Singing, and Full-Contact Red Rover Red Rover. I didn’t want to waste my profits on something stupid like food for the kids, so I had to find a way to get some grub on the cheap. That’s when Crafty Creed got to thinking. Why not make money off of this untapped pool of adorable labor I was sitting on?

So I contracted with a textile dealer and had the kids make “friendship bracelets” all day. Sold them at tourist traps as authentic Indian crafts and made a bundle. Ended up trading a case of bracelets for a freezer full of hot dogs and boom – the kids were happy. And that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? Sadly, I had to shut down the camp when one of my six-year-olds complained to his parents that his fingers hurt from all the bracelet-making.

Went to six barbeques on Labor Day. They were great, Made some new friends, ate my weight in encased meats, and drank my way into $300 after challenging some guy named Tiny Franklin to a drinking contest. First time I’ve ever beaten a midget in anything. It felt good.

Most people like cookouts for the camaraderie. Not me. I go for the free drinks and the relish. You don’t see relish used a lot anymore, but it’s my favorite condiment by far. I can eat it for every meal. In 1981, I ate relish every day for three months. I tell you what, you get into a bind and all you’ve got is a jar of relish, just heat up that jar and you’ve got yourself some delicious relish soup. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.

This has been some crazy week. On Saturday, I went over to the mini-mart to pick up a bunch of breakfast burritos and some rolling papers. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw all the stuff they sell there now. Disposable cameras, fancy lighters, portable phones. You name it, they had it. I thought I had jumped into the future or something, which was weird because I usually think I’m back in the past. As a joke, I asked the skinny dude behind the counter how much he wanted for the portable phone, thinking he’d say two, three hundred bucks. When he said twenty bucks, I just about dropped a bomb in my skivvies. I bought one immediately. Best purchase I ever made in my life because now I don’t have to stand guard outside my phone booth at the bus station waiting for calls. If someone needs to find me, they can just call my portable and, if I feel like it, I’ll pick up. Technology, man. It blows my mind.

Hey – you know that rumor about if you feed antacid to birds, their stomachs blow up? Is that true? No reason, just is it true or not? No biggie if you don’t know, and there’s no particular reason why I’m asking the question, but I would like to know soon, not for any real reason, but I would like to know, so let me know, if you know, so if it’s true I can start making bird bombs.

Football started back up and I’ve got to say, I’m disappointed. It just hasn’t been the same since they switched over from the leather helmets. It’s too easy now. That’s why I’ve always preferred street fighting. No stupid referees, no lame rules, and you’re guaranteed to see some blood. That’s my kind of sport.

Don’t try telling me that you’re only as strong as your weakest link. My weakest link is my ankle and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it stop me. I’m as strong as my neck, the strongest part of my body.

Man do I miss the days of fondue. I don’t know who decided that fondue wasn’t hip anymore, but I want to take that guy behind a dumpster and teach him a lesson with a fondue pot. If I ever go the chance, I’d take a bath in a giant fondue pot. No lie. Special Note: To Osama Bin Laden: Watch out for my bird bombs, sucker. You better duck every time an eagle flies by.

Sad week for the Creedster. My girlfriend decided to call it quits on me. She’s been locked up over in Muncy for the past seven years on a bogus B and E with intent to commit a felony. I can tell you with absolute certainty that LaDonna didn’t intend anything. She never does. Maybe that was the problem. With only a month left on her sentence, she told me she got cold feet. Wanted her options open when she got sprung, I guess. If she played nice, she could’ve gotten out a few years ago, but my little devil has lots of issues with authority. That’s one of the reasons we made such a good couple.

Me and LaDonna met in an airport bar back in the mid-Eighties. After eight rum runners, the bartender decided LaDonna had had enough. I didn’t agree. I ordered her another and put it on some pilot’s tab. That skinny bartender saw her drinking it and tried to kick her out, but I said hell no and threw my glass at the wall. At the same time, the dumb pilot noticed someone had been piling up drinks on his tab and that got him pretty steamed. So here I am, with the bartender yelling at me, the pilot yelling at the bartender and LaDonna whispering “mess ’em up real good” into my ear. So I did what I had to. I took out a smoke bomb I smuggled back from China, threw that sucker on the floor and made a break for it with LaDonna. Now that’s love.

When she got locked up, I went a little nutso. Wrote her name all over my body with a permanent marker. It didn’t help me feel any better and I got some kind of ink poisoning, but once I got out of the hospital, I felt like I could deal with it better. She made me promise never to visit her in the clink and I agreed. Nobody wants to see visitors when they’re in a cage. We wrote letters, though. Long, intimate letters where we invented a new kind of kama sutra. You should see the one she called the dangling moose. It was sexy as all hell.

I’m going to miss LaDonna a lot, but lucky for me I’ve got the perfect cure for break-ups: half a bottle of Jack, six jalapeno poppers, and an unauthorized biography of Elizabeth Taylor. It also works for hangovers.

Fall is in the air and that means seven things: Political elections, Lyle Lovett’s birthday, the holiday where ghosts make candy, April Fool’s Day, it’s too cold to play tennis, look out for skunks, and most of all, baseball.

I like winners. That’s why I only watch baseball for the last month of the season. Every other month is about losses teams rack up, but September is for winners. Same goes for handball, but nobody pays attention to handball anymore. Handball’s become soccer for people that think soccer’s too mainstream.

Never been to Cooperstown, but if I had to pick my own quintet of Hall of Famers, they’d be Stormin’ Gorman Thomas from the Brewers, Tommie Agee from the New York Metropolitans, Oakland Athletic Matty Keough, Boog Powell over in Baltimore, and my father, John Kinsella of the Chicago White Stockings. I’d put those five guys on the field against any team of nine you’ve got. They’d whoop ’em.

When I was little, I took the cover off a baseball and made it into a hat for my schnauzer.

I hear the Cubs still haven’t won the World Series. Let that be a lesson to everyone: That’s what you get for making love to a goat in center field.

When will baseball teams learn? If you want your league to survive, you’ve got to have cheerleaders. I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t know how long baseball’s going to be around if they don’t get their act together. Let the ladies cheer!

I went through a stretch a few years back where I wore batting gloves to work because my hands were so slippery. I was wearing special deodorant at the time because I tend to sweat a lot and it made the sweat come out of my palms instead of my pits. The batting gloves helped out, but with all the moisture, they ended up smelling like death and who likes to be reminded of that? I donated them to the Baseball Hall of Fame and took it as a write-off.

I’m giving thirty to one odds on Cincinnati for the Series this year. Let me know if you’re interested.

How’s this for a slogan for Major League Baseball: “Baseball: We’re just like the other sports you like, but we play more games and the score’s a lot lower.” I’m going to make t-shirts. Who’s buying one?

When I get hungry – and I mean hungry – there are only five words that can satisfy me: All-You-Can-Eat Buffet. They’re like libraries of food, but instead of late fees, they’ve got soft-serve. I hit up the local buffets at least once a month, sometimes more depending on how business is going. It really breaks up my normal routine of soup, soup, tuna, soup, microwave pasta, tuna-soup casserole.

Most people think you’ve got to eat meat to fill up at buffets. No way, suckers. It’s all about the sauces. Think about it: your body is mostly made up of fluid. Blood, water, guts. It’s all liquid. So does it make sense to shove a whole bunch of solids down your gullet? Think again. You want to stock up on the sauces because they’ll keep you full the longest. Go for a big old glass of Alfredo sauce and you won’t eat for weeks. Chinese buffets are great for this, too. Kung pao might be spicy, but you drink enough of it and you won’t even be able to think about eating.

It drives me crazy when buffets only offer one type of Jell-O.

Regular restaurants have waitresses that you’re supposed to tip. Buffets have waitresses that you don’t have to tip because you’re doing all the work yourself. These broads have tons of time on their hands because you’re the idiot running back and forth with the food. So here’s what you do: get real friendly with one of them. I usually pick the biggest one because she’s probably the loneliest. Start talking to her, get all buddy-buddy and pretty soon, you’ve the inside scoop on when the fried chicken’s coming out fresh. Basic rule of life: The nicer you are, the nicer they are. One time in Tulsa, I made nice with a gal named Janice and she packed me up fifteen steaks to go just because I said she had a pretty chin. Now that’s customer service.

Seriously, the Jell-O thing drives me crazy. It costs, what, a dollar to make a whole tray? Loosen up the purse strings and throw some lemon and orange in with that cherry. Also, stop suspending fruit in there. If you want to mix something in, try a little meat sauce – it’s be delicious and filling.

I had an idea the other day and if anyone steals it, I’ll hunt them down. Here’s the idea: buffets should start selling different size plates. You pay three bucks for the small, five bucks for the medium, and ten bucks for the large. I’m a real good stacker so I’d just have to pay for the little one and go to town. Fat people would probably shell out for the tenners so they wouldn’t have to get up so many times. I’m telling you, this is pure genius. I’ve been calling around to different buffet companies and one of them is going to make me a rich man, believe me. Honestly, if you steal this idea I will dismantle you.

I house-sat for a friend last weekend. I guess some people wouldn’t really call it house-sitting – it was more like squat-sitting. My buddy Gerson found this great abandoned house over in Honesdale and he’s been squatting there for the past month. It’s one of the best squat-houses I’ve ever seen — four bedrooms, working plumbing, only a few raccoons. If you get the electricity turned on, that house becomes a home in an instant and on top of that, you’ve already got pets.

Squatting can go one of two ways: it can be really great or it can be horrible – truly, truly horrible. I’ve been in both situations. Sometime in the late seventies (or was it early eighties?), I found my way into an abandoned factory on the eastern shore of Maryland and thought I was going to have the time of my life. I hadn’t seen a place that cool since the Playboy Club in Chicago and I was going to make it mine. What I didn’t know was that the factory was abandoned because it was slowly sinking into the Chesapeake Bay. I had a kegger one night and a hundred and fifty people dropped right into the water. Nobody got injured, though. At least I don’t think so. As soon as I saw the ground start to give, I got the hell out of there.

My best squatting experience was about ten years ago. It was early winter and I needed a place to crash. I was cruising around on a moped when I found this ranch house in Wilkes-Barre where the snow had piled up all over the driveway, so I knew it was deserted. I went inside and it was like finding a little slice of heaven, complete with a full wet bar and a somewhat fresh Christmas tree. Anyway, I was living there for a little while when I found out the house wasn’t abandoned at all. I suppose that explained all the food in the fridge. When the family came home after a week, I planned on moving out, I really did, but I had already gotten into a routine and the house was kind of perfect for me, so I decided to stick around and see if I could make it work around their schedule. As it turned out, the family was out of the house by eight every morning anyway, so I could do as I pleased.

One day, about a month into my squatting, I accidentally fell asleep in the tub. Ray, the man of the house, caught me and kicked me out. I learned an important lesson that day: if you’re squatting, take a shower. Nobody falls asleep in the shower. Taking baths, however, just sets you up for failure. I cherish that month with the Fullers, though. It really reminded me what it was like to have a family. I still visit them sometimes – they don’t know it, but I spent last weekend with them. Great turkey chili, Mrs. F! Keep up the good work.

There’s been a lot of bad mojo going on at work lately because of computers. Some kid’s been coming around saying how he wants to replace everyone with robots and calculators and little pieces of fruit. The Bossman listens to him, too, even though the kid’s real scrawny and has a horse face. Don’t get me wrong, I like computers as much as the next Joe, but when they start messing with me, I’m not just going to sit there and take it. I’ve seen the movies. If you want to fight back against a machine, you’ve got to chuck it in acid.

Acid. Oh man. Just writing that word brings back some memories. Not really memories. Flashbacks. Scary ones. I get them all the time. The other day I turned on the TV and everyone on the screen was a caveman. Freaked my bean, man.

My favorite flashback of all time is when I see the black lab puppy I had when I was a kid. Found him when I was walking back from the night shift at my warehouse job. I must’ve been seven or eight at the time. Named the pooch Bozo and let him sleep in my sock drawer when I wasn’t home. My Ma found him one day and threatened to let the little guy loose, but I slipped her a ten spot and she got real quiet. Bozo didn’t make it very far in the game of life, but I still see him about four, five times a year. Even though I can’t pet him, I’m glad that he’s still around, if only in my drug-addled mind.

Dogs make good friends, but if you’re looking for a really dependable pal, you’ve got to get yourself a spoon. Spoons never run away, they never rat you out, they come in handy when all you’ve got is soup, and, best of all, they turn into a weapon during a bar fight. Sure they’re not much when it comes to talking, but who wants a blabbermouth for a friend anyway? I’ll take a spoon over a Chatty Carl any day of the week.

Spoons are one thing, but spooning is a whole other story. I hate spooning. Unless we’re huddling for warmth, I don’t want to sleep anywhere near someone. I need my space. If you get too close to me when I’m sleeping, get ready for some bruises because I’m a wild child at night. Tossing, turning, choking, gouging – trust me, you’re better off as far away from me as possible.

And that’s… my blog for today!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know how, but I found myself at a concert on Saturday night. I started out at Poor Richards with a few Long Islands, picked up some onion rings from the cafeteria over at Marywood, and out of nowhere I was grooving along to some tunes at Battle of the Bands. It was the first time I’ve been to a concert since the turn of the century (this one) and it freaked me out.

Don’t get me wrong: I love music. Music is the only thing I can really remember for at least half of my life and I couldn’t live without it. Concerts, on the other hand, are like magnets for big dudes with hard fists. I had to swear them off — too many jagged bottle cuts will do that to you. Concerts make me feel like a warrior and sometimes that’s not a good thing. Especially in the eyes of the law.

The only band I saw was called “Yule Eric and the Danielles” and they played rocked-out Christmas songs. They sound like Deep Purple if Deep Purple ever cut a Christmas album. There was this real hot number singing back-up – one of the Danielles – and I could have sworn she was the reincarnation of the girl I took to my prom, except this one wasn’t pregnant. She had this whole Italian thing going on with a little bit of the princess from Aladdin thrown in for good measure. Trust me, she was a fox and I don’t mean the animal kind, although she did have a fox-like nose. I’d let her sing to me all night long, but I probably couldn’t afford it. Chicks like that don’t sing for free.

At around eleven, the band started playing a metal version of “Silent Night” and the whole place got kind of rowdy. Rowdy’s my specialty, so I jumped right in the middle of the pit and started bopping. Next thing I know, there’s a kid on the floor with a busted nose and I’m being hauled out onto the street by the security guards. Now I’m not one to complain, but that guy’s face really left a mark on my elbow. I’m no spring chicken anymore and my elbow can only take so much trauma. Spent some time on WebMD when I got home and it looks like I’ve got what they call menstrual cramps. Anyway, I got a bruise that looks like Mama Cass and I never got that Danielle’s number.

Now I wouldn’t say that my return to the concert scene was a bust, but it certainly could have gone better. Next time I go, I’m just going to sit in the back, nod my head, and stay away from the roughnecks. Also, I’m going to bring my brass knuckles. That’ll show those punks.