I've turned over a new leaf. No more screwing around at work (especially in the men's restroom). No more talking shit to, or about, other hockey players. No more saving cats. No more stealing buffaloes.

This diary will now be dedicated to the love that I've found with the Girl and the happiness we enjoy every second of every day.

Our hopes, our dreams, the beauty to be found in...

BWAhahahahahaa... ahhhhhhhh... man, I almost made it all the way through that.

Seriously though, thanks for all of your kind words of congratulations and for your uninhibited, unwanted sexual advice.

This'll be my last sappy update on the engagement, then I'll write about all that fun wedding shit. No. Actually I won't. I still have to tell you about the time I mooned Mel Gibson. Later.

After I proposed and she was done leaking, the Girl called her father, the Caveman, got his voicemail and left a very brief message, "you gave him your fucking blessing?!?"

She's classy like that.

He called back a little later:

Girl: What were you thinking, giving him your blessing?

Caveman: Well, when we came over, you never had any bruises or anything, so I figured he's alright.

Girl: Well, the wonders of modern make-up, you know?

Caveman: Well... (pause) Whatever works.

Again. Classy.

The time I mooned Mel Gibson

I was about 15, working on with my adopted brother, Norty, on his cousin's ranch in a peaceful valley in Speckonthemap, Montana, and bigshot Mel got tired of wiping his ass with 100-dollar bills so he decided to use them to buy up some land. He came through our valley and bought up a bunch of ranches that were borderline struggling.

He seemed cool, though. He threw a couple big parties for all the folks whose land he now owns, and didn't really fire anybody or ask them to make any huge changes.

Except move the junk pile.

The junk pile was a mishmash of old, rusted farm equipment, used oil drums, ore carts, about 400 railroad ties, and it needed to be across the property lines (about a mile).

Guess who got to move it?

Yep, with a ratty old tractor, circa 1963, and a flat-bed trailer that lost parts every time it moved over 50 feet.

The junk pile was on top of the valley side on "the flats," named so because they're a hot, dry, desert wasteland... and 'cause they're flat.

We were about 2 weeks and halfway through moving all this shit and our boss, Norty's cousin, tells us that our new "boss" will be bringing us our water that day (while boss makes his rounds, he brings us fresh, cold water). Not knowing who this was, we figured we'd just look for the "boss" pickup, an old, white Ford.

Climbing the stack of railroad ties, stacking and wrapping chain in the 90-degree heat can work up a guy's thirst, so we were eager to meet our new boss and gratefully bathe our nasty, sweaty selves in his water.

An hour passed after we were supposed to get our water, and we were mildly put off, but the guy still meant more to us than Jesus.

Another hour and we were pissed.

Then we see the Ford driving on the main road.

Salvation.

Then we see the truck miss the turn for the junk pile and keep on going.

Frustration.

We figured he'd get us on the way back.

The Ford comes by again.

Salvation?

And keeps going.

Wannakicknewbossass-ation.

The Ford comes by two more times. Salvation, asskickation, salvation, beat-about-the-head-with-a-lug-wrench-ation.

We're waving for the fucker to come over, but he must not be seeing us. He's close enough, but somehow he's not seeing us. Fuckin A.

Thirst has addled my teenage brain enough to where I'm going to take drastic measures.

I climbed the stack of railroad ties (about 20 feet tall) and, not having a distress flag or bring-us-our-fucking-water-gun, I drop trow and wiggle my ass at the passing truck. THEN, the head in the truck seemed to snap over at us and stare.

But, the truck still did not stop.

End of day, we're tired, smelly, dirty, and thirsty as fuck. We get back to the ranch house, where we'd normally just pick up the car and go home, and spend 10 minutes each under the water pump, bathing like we're being baptized by Christ himself. Still pissed, we figure we're going to go inside and see what the hell was up with our no-water-bringin-assmonkey boss.

The ranch wife allows no boots in the house, shit, she barely allows nasty dirt-kids like us in, but we're pissed. I do notice, though, that there's a nice pair of boots there that have some kind of funky wedge inside them. I look closer.

Lifts? Who the fuck wears lifts in their boots?

Ranchwife: Hey boys, how was your day?

Us: grumble... mutter... grumble grumble.

Ranchwife: Oh, this is Mel, your new "boss" (gestures towards tiny, little guy with wavy-movie-star hair).

NoWaterForYou Gibson (in Australian): Noice tah meet yah, fellas (his accent's not that bad, but it's way funnier this way).

Knowing we can't go and kick the shit out of the star of Lethal Weapon, we just stare at him.

And marvel at how short he is.

I'm only 15 and I want to pat him on his head 'cause he's so short and cute.

He leaves and Ranchwife tells us that he forgot he was supposed to bring us water. We grudgingly forgave him. Mostly because he's our favorite movie star, he never mentioned getting mooned, and he's three and a half feet tall.

We saw him a couple more times over the next couple years and he turned out to be a really cool guy (and not so tiny and cute with his lifty-boots on).

He sold the ranches eventually, and he never mentioned being subjected to seeing my ass and sack dangling in the summer heat.

I can't say as I blame him.