I originally started this whole diary-bit for many of the same reasons as most of you that are reading this.

It looked fun, it was free, and I loved the idea of a place where I could give the ol' sarcasm glands a squeeze once in a while, lest they fill to bursting and explode all over the old lady in the "Express" checkout lane that does nothing in her life "expressly" and is never, EVER, ready to "check out" when the time comes. Instead she starts writing in her fucking checkbook only after she's examined her receipt with the same scrutiny that I give my cocknballs after I wake up next to a girl I've just met.

I never imagined what would evolve from it though (the blog, that is, not the clitty litter). I won't go into details, instead I'll puss out, and just say that more life-altering shit has happened to me as a result of this blog than I could have ever even possibly pondered.

I've "met" a ton of quality, quality people, and they all make me feel all rosy inside. Dog Bless all of your li'l pea-pickin' hearts.

WarCry, I thought you were fuckin' with me, but I checked, and you started a damn ring. I asked you not to, but you did anyway, and now I may actually start to develop a "healthy" opinion towards my sexy-ass self, Dog Forbid (This is where I get all "Aw-Shucksy" and shit).

So, thanks and whatnot to my readership, and watch out for my ego, that mothah may get wedged in the doorway like Winnie-the-fuckin'-Pooh at Rabbit's house.

Today, though... Today marked a new experience in my "blog-life."

I randomly met my first "fan."

I didn't promise I wouldn't mention her in here, I just told her I wouldn't write about the whole experience and mention her name.

And I'm a man of my word.

So Christie, I'm not going to tell everyone about how you checked my ID and first told me that I didn't look like I was 30 at all, before you looked at the name, gave me a double-take, and asked if I played hockey and had a blog.

I told you I wouldn't write all about that, and I'm a stand-up guy all the way.

(smooches to you, babydoll. Now stalk me like you've never stalked before).

As if this wasn't enough, in the same day I was walking across a very crowded parking lot of a major home-improvement store, and narrowly avoided having me and Asshead turned into road-kites by an outrageously overdone 4x4.

Big, yellow, and nasty, I was surprised that this screaming piece of I-don't-have-a-small-penis-I-really-need-this-for-climbing-the-sides-of-buildings didn't have a Confederate Flag in the back window and 197 stickers supporting "W" as well as Calvin pissing on the head of Osama.

*Side Note*

Do you honestly need a sticker that proclaims your stance on Terrorism? What is it that you expect from us, the sticker-viewing populace?

"Right on, man! Them bastards flew some planes into big buildings, killing thousands, their boss DESERVES to have a cartoon character urinating on his head! Yeah! Fuck anybody that could possibly see that sticker and think that those fuckers are puffin' it up with Allah and 27 virgins!"

(shaking head)

*End Side Note*

After averting death-by-idiot-redneck, I overheard a snippet of conversation from the two dudes behind me along the lines of:

"Holy Shit, that was almost a Pork-mobile."

"A what?"

"You know, that Pork Tornado guy, when he writes in that other place, he wrote about Super Machines and their right of way and stuff."

"Oh yeah, with flame-throwers and shit. Yeah, that was funny."

I'd stopped and turned when I heard the "Pork" reference, but I realized that, if they indeed read his writings in "that other place" then there's a good chance that they know who I am as well.

This is where that whole "feeling-like-a-celebrity" thing cuts both ways.

Yes, I wanted to proudly exclaim something about how the famous "Pork Tornado guy" and I are friends, and the fact that I only touched his penis by accident (ACCIDENT, I tell you!), and what a SkullSplittin' time I had partying it up with him at New Year's, and other such self-aggrandizing nonsense, but I didn't.

Like the chick that checked my ID, I felt a little weirded out.

I thought, "If these two dudes have read anything of my blog, what is it that they think of me?"

To be honest, if I read my shit, and then met me randomly in person, I'd think I was kind of a Fucking Idiot. Funny or not, I'd probably avoid me as much as humanly possible. That, or ridicule the fuck out of me for retarded dancing and kilt-wearing and such (Seriously, I WOULD. C'mon, they're such easy targets).

Of course, what goes into this blog isn't EXACTLY who I am.

But damn... it's close.

Close enough that I feel funky about strangers knowing how I dance, what a chick I am, or any details of my life for that matter.

While standing there, amusedly staring at these two and eavesdropping on their conversation, I just smiled.

The guy that mentioned Pork gave me a look, and then a double-take, but I'm fairly certain that this was only because some random guy and his bitchy little dog where stopped in a parking lot and staring at him.

His face changed from the curious, who-the-hell-are-you-buddy look, to one of slight recognition, and he raised his hand and said, "Hey..."

I nodded my head in a hey-what's-up-you-might-know-me-'cause-I'm-a-complete-retard kind of way, "What's up?"

Smiling now, undoubtedly full of recognition and admiration, "You don't work at Lucent, do you?"

I laughed, heartily, for I once again fell victim to my shazbattin' ego, and said, "Ha ha, no, I don't work for Lucent."

He kept a slight look of recognition on his face, but dropped his smile and said, "Oh, thought I knew you from somewhere."

I laughed again, shook my head, and led the ever-crotch-sniffing Asshead to my Racing-Striped-RedNecked-Out Dakota.

We were parked across the same aisle and, as I loaded my bitch into my pickup and they opened their respective vehicle doors, he asked, quietly enough to be indirect, yet loud enough to be heard, "You don't wear a kilt do you?"

I turned and smiled my patented shit-eating grin.

His look of slight recognition blossomed into full recognition, and he said, "Judd? Right?"

"That's me," I replied, flexing and readying my right hand for the impending autograph request.

"Right on," he replied, nodding and smiling broadly.

He then climbed into his buddy's SUV and they drove away.

I stood there for a full minute before I realized that they weren't, in fact, hastily retrieving their girlfriends and returning with offers of "loaning" them for oral sex, or at the very least, Beer.

With my over-inflated ego now bruised, and my dog curiously tearing at my foil-wrapped-vendor-burger, I climbed into my truck and headed home, sans autographs and "loaner" oral sex.

Humility's a bitch, ain't it?

You know I lovers you all though, right?

Except YOU, Fuck-o, for driving away and not offering me your woman or beer.