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Hey Paparazzi, why are you wasting your time with all of those celebrities out there? You should take a picture of me instead. Check it out. Look what you’ve been missing:

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I sometimes pick my nose when I’m on the crapper, just like you probably do.

I’ll show off my baby to anyone who wants to see it.

Oooops you caught me going into a fake tanning salon / penis enlargement facility / Science-ology center. Wish you didn’t see me going in there.

This weekend I went to Niki’s parents’ lake house in Indiana for a little R & R. It was just what the doctor ordered. And flying to and fro wasn’t that much of a hassle. That is, until we met a fellow passenger I’ll go ahead and call Gigantica.

He was sitting two rows ahead of us and was taking up both the window and middle seats simultaneously. The poor guy probably has to purchase two tickets every time he travels. And even with this arrangement, he still was crowding into the guy sitting in the aisle seat. So, if Gigantica keeps up this pace, he might have to start buying up three seats at a time.

Besides uncomfortable seating arrangements, Gigantica’s eating habits were probably also disturbed from the new aviation guidelines. I imagine Gigantic digesting as much Mountain Dew and engulfing as many beef burritto supremes as possible right before he boards. So far, Homeland Security has done an okay job combatting terrorists by banning liquids on planes. But they forgot to focus on another possible weapon of choice: gases.

The minute Gigantica sat down, every ounce of his beef burritto supreme exploded out of his ass creating a loud, squishy sound. This caused some snickering between the fellow passengers and flight attendants. But the foul stench that followed turned our smiles into angry grimaces. Gigantica attempted to alleviate our pain by getting up and squeezing himself into the lavatory. But this only made matters worse. Soon enough, Gigantica’s lethal gas had managed to seep under the lavatory cracks and travel back to our seats. Now we were being hit from both sides.

Throughout our gas-induced hostage crisis, all of us passengers bonded and fought off the terrible odor by performing such heroic acts as holding our noses, waving our right hands in front of our faces, and even crouching down in a crash position. When the plane finally landed safely, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in my dream world Samuel L Jackson suddenly appeared and yelled out, “I’ve had it with these mother fuckin’ farts on this mother fuckin’ plane!” But he didn’t.

On Sunday, I went to a free concert in Williamsburg, Brooklyn at the now abandoned McCarren Park Pool. The pool was built exactly 70 years ago (there’s an article in today’s NY Times) as part of the WPA Project, so that thousands of New Yorkers could escape the sweltering heat during the Great Depression:

These days, the abandoned pool is filled with thousands upon thousands of Williamsburg hipsters. At the start of the concert I quickly realized that, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never, ever be considered a hipster. First off, I can’t keep track of the ever-changing cool “indie” bands out there. Sundays lineup included: Deerhoof, Beirut, Apollo Sunshine, and the Harlem Shakes. (But at least, for a brief moment, I out hipstered Will Hines when he mistakenly referred to the band Deerhoof as “Roof Shark”.) Secondly, I’m not dedicated enough to constantly maintain my sweet, sweet looking facial hair. Not only do I not have the ability to grow this sweet looking facial hair, but more importantly, it would be way too itchy and uncomfortable - especially in the summertime.

In addition to hipped out music and awesome looking facial hair, the concert also offered…dodgeball. I eagerly signed up for this. I figured maybe this will be my way to dominate the hipsters. While their sweet-ass mutton chops slowed them down, I could pick them apart one by one by channeling my glory days in 5th grade P.E. Sadly, this did not happen. I was taken out of the game literally within the first 5 seconds. When the whistle blew I sprinted to the middle of the court, only to get immediately pelted by a crouching hipster with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You’re out,” he casually mumbled to me. And I shamefully walked to the sidelines.

Things brightened up for me, though, when none other than ?uestlove, the drummer and leader of The Roots, got on stage and began laying down some DJ tracks. I’ve always been a big fan of ?uestlove (pronounced Questlove), especially after watching him in Dave Chappelle’s Block Party. Sunday definitely confirmed my adoration. After his DJ stint was over, ?uestlove even came over to the dodgeball area and began snapping photos of us. So if you get a hold of his flickr account, maybe you’ll see a photo of me getting pelted in the face by a red rubber ball and making the same expression I’ve grown to live with: doofus.

Since I’ve launched this website (for primarily comedic purposes), I’ve somehow managed to attract the attention of rabid fans of The SugaBabes, as well as the good people at Orvis through a fly fishing blog called Moldy Chum.

Perhaps there are other people out there lurking? Let’s find out in a little segment I like to call, “Who Else is Reading This?” Here goes.

You know who can suck it? The british girl group Atomic Kitten. Man oh man, are they lame. I can’t imagine being a fan of Atomic Kitten.

What else? The other day I went spelunking at Lick Creek Cave in Montana for a friends bachelor party. And the guide was a real dick to me. He was talking all kinds of smack about my spelunking abilities. I wonder what any spelunking blogs have to say about this?

What else? What else? Oh, you know you really bites it? Nixon. That guy blows it hard. That little dorkwad probably has a file out for me or something. The same goes for the CIA and the FBI. Those dudes are a bunch of blowhards. Bring it on, suckas!

So, yeah, who else is reading this?

This weekend I headed up to Vermont to celebrate the bachelor party of my good friend, Teddy Crawford. It was a great idea for a bachelor party - fly fishing, golf, cards, nice sights, etc. Of course, since it was a bunch of dudes without our female companions to guide us, we (well mainly just me) had a little too much to drink. After staying out too late on Friday night, I had a 6:30 am wake up call to go fly fishing with a few Orvis guides - two of which were certified Orvis guides - one of which was not.

The fishing guide assigned to my team was named Chuck, and was the one not affiliated with Orvis. He was from the old school/machismo/tough-guy fisherman mold. It was basically like having an uneducated Bobby Knight barking orders at you about the proper techniques of fly-fishing. For some reason Chuck directed most of his barks at me. It probably didn’t help matters when Chuck asked what skill level we were, and I jokingly replied, “Well I basically taught Robert Redford everything he knows about fishing.” He did not understand that this was a joke. And this set him off on a hate-filled rant. “Robert Redford doesn’t know the first thing about fly fishing!! That little pansy-ass Hollywood false caster would get eaten alive out here!!”

I decided not to mention the name Robert Redford ever again. But Chuck would not let it drop. In between casts, I would hear Chuck yelling at me, “You wanna do your River Runs Through It , Hollywood-style, stand on a rock and do a bunch of pansy false casts, be my guest. But you’re not gonna catch any fish!” Feeling tired, hungover and a little like I was back in high-school getting yelled at my 7th grade basketball coach, I did my best to follow Chuck’s orders. But when I finally got something on my line, the shit hit the fan. It must have been a very large fish, because my rod was bending like crazy. And Chuck was going ballistic: “Don’t strip the line!!! Stop stripping the fucking line, you idiot! What in the hell are you doing?” I had no clue what “stripping the line” meant. But it probably had to do with me pulling at the line with my hand, which is exactly what Chuck had told us to do if we caught a fish. But apparently if it’s a big fish, you aren’t supposed to “strip the line”. I did not know this. And of course, because of my “line-stripping”, my big catch got away.

The minute I realized I lost my fish, I hesitantly glanced over at Chuck to see how he would take it. Not well, apparently. It was as if his star point guard had missed a last second layup attempt in the NCAA Championship game. He grabbed his hat and threw on the ground. Then he sunk his head in his hands and shook his head around violently. “What’d I tell you?” he growled at me. “DON’T.STRIP.THE.LINE.”

Maybe I could impart some wisdom on poor Chuck to calm him down. “Hey Chuckie baby,” I’d tell him. “Don’t forget what my main man, Bob Redford, had to say: ‘All things merge into one, and a river runs through it.’” Then I’d point down to my private region and continue, “I’m referring to this river right here, Chuck. You know: my johnson. You can strip all the line you want here. Oh wait, you’re actually taking me up on my offer. Oh. Well forget what I said.” Luckily I didn’t say any of this. I left all the wisdom to Chuck.

It’s hot out there, huh? That’s why I’ve come up with some nifty ways to beat the heat - in a little segment I like to call “Ways to Beat the Heat.” Here they are:

1. Layer Up. Wear Plenty of Clothing. This way, your skin can breathe easily under all of your heavy layers.
2. Stay Outdoors. Go ahead soak it all up outside. It’s not so bad out there. Show nature who’s boss.
3. Don’t Drink Plenty of Fluids. It’s a well known fact now that water is actually bad for you. So if you must drink something, drink beer or hot bourbon.
4. Run All of Your Errands Today - iron your clothes, cook a turkey, do your laundry (today’s the day, right?), etc. Just do anything to keep active.
5. Spend Plenty of Time in a NYC Subway Station. Get to know your local subway station. Once you’ve made it down inside the deep pits of subway station hell, now’s your time to look around and enjoy the sights. I’d give yourself at least a few hours to really scope the place out. Even if your train comes after waiting on the platform for what seems like an eternity, go ahead and wait some more.
6. Run Around Like a Crazy Person Outside. Some people call it exercise. I call it running around like a crazy person. Either way, make sure you do plenty of it outside. Then start breathing heavily and try to pass out if you can.
7. Get Booked on a Show as Jerry Foxworthy That’ll Require an Outfit Consisting of Jeans, a Velvet Jacket, a Long, Hairy Mullet Wig and a Thick Fake Mustache.
8. Breathe in as Much Smoke and Exhaust From Passing Trucks and Buses as Possible.
9. Pass Out Flyers for a Fast Food Chain Called “Gorilla Burgers” That Requires You to Wear a Gorilla Costume and Dance and Run Around Like a Crazy Person.
10. Go Driving with Mel Gibson.