You Drive an Over-Sized or Over-Priced Car to Compensate for Your Under-Sized Penis or Fake Breasts

I've lived in the south and now Los Angeles. Maybe an F-350, maybe a Lambo. It's stupid. Your car is stupid. You're really stupid.

I'm guessing you're 4. Maybe 4 1/2 inches on a good day. If you remembered to take your Extenze tablet. I know you saw the ads at 3 am. You were probably rubbing it out to one of the commercials. (I won't fault you for that, I probably did, too.)

People think the 'My child is an Honor Student' bumper stickers are dumb. At least the attention is on your offspring. Be grateful to be alive and the opportunity to afford good meals with good people. Don't piss away money on your own vanity.

However, if you do piss away money on your own vanity, make sure to sell out hard and to the right. The way it goes on a 4 1/2 day. Be the best d-bag you can be.

The Fake Dog Feces Pick-Up

It's like the boner tuck. All guys know it. Sitting in some lame survey course with an endless stream of power point presentations in front of you. The mind drifts. The pants buldge. If you're to stand-up, somebody might as well go sleep in the tent you've just pitched.

Similar to the penis tuck, I pulled an almost parallel maneuver when walking my dog to the car this past weekend. Without a grocery bag, paper towel, or New York Post in-hand, I had nothing else to do when I noticed my dog about to lay cable in the lawn of the apartment complex nearby. I looked around. The coast was clear. Quickly and calmly, I removed my running shoe (this has to tie into running somehow). I pulled off my black sock. I scowered the area once more. Two bikers and some passing cars at about 35 mph. I reached down. Fake scoop. Fake scoop. Fake scoop that almost touched.

I know. Judge me how you will. However, if you haven't already, you'll be in my shoes, too. And when you are, you'll remove those shoes, reach for your sock and start fake scooping. Just don't make contact.

Personal Triumph at the Playboy Club

The answer is yes. I had an eight-some. Myself, Hugh Hefner, and then 3 sets of hot blond twin ho's. H.H. was the conductor. Me at the caboose. Cigars. Patron. And low-brow sexual activity.

This is how I spent my Saturday night. Except without everything I just said.

I did, however, get to the top floor of the Playboy Club in Vegas. How? Well, being white and middle class helps. But of course, a friend of a friend who is a hot girl.

Amidst the bunnies, absurdly priced drinks, intimidating body guards and badass view, I realized something. A year ago, to the day, I was driving out to California in my Jeep Liberty (I race soccer moms on weekends). To LA. With about 8 grand in my pocket, no job, no idea of where I was going to live, a dog in my car, and a close friend whom, at the least, would have a drink before my suicidal realization set in.

Now, I proudly sit here with a somewhat regular income, the same Jeep, the same dog, the same favorite "I ran into a wall" haircut, and the same dream with a more defined path. A little further along. A lot further along.

I still wait for my burnout. A demise where the harsh realities of society kick in, and I decide to grow a gut and attend bowling nights on a regular basis. I'm not the Vegas type either. Throw change at my feet, and I'll pick it up and run fast. Somewhere between college football and song-and-dance.

I'm not always entised, I'm not always stable, but I've got my legs under me at the moment.

What I'm most proud of though...even in the depths of hedonism, I haven't wasted many moments.

I guess that's my goal right now...just don't waste many moments.

Me and Julio (and a line somewhere in there I keep coming back to): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqtX4qZBdRs