I'm at that beautiful point in getting rid of a Cold that I've got the really chunky phlegm kicking around in my lungs when I talk and breathe.

If that isn't the grossest thing you've heard today, then think about what happens when I cough before my hand makes it completely over my mouth, and one of those chunky, slug-like little guys hits my keyboard.

Now, how the fuck am I going to clean that out?

Exactly.

I'm not.

Somehow, someway, I've infected approximately one third of the Denver Metro population with my Cold. On my way to work yesterday, 3 of my favorite DJ/Talk Show Hosts were out sick with Colds.

5 people from my office were out today with Colds.

3 from my hockey teams, out with Colds.

I even got the Girl sick.

I warned her about kissing me while I was sick. Is it my fault she didn't listen?

I'm some sort of superhuman, I guess.

---

My buddy, Dozer, was at his office yesterday while El Presidente was speaking across the back parking lot and security was tight.

I mean TIGHT.

They actually asked him to refrain from standing in front of the West-facing windows, from the 4th floor on up, for long periods of time.

Geez, they may as well frisk everybody and make 'em give blood samples.

I mean, Hell, the loss of personal freedom is deplorable!

Dozer, a natural smartass, pressed himself against the West-facing windows and stuck his tongue out whilst doing a little Cha-cha.

He quickly gained an audience of around 17 Secret Service agents, both prowling the top of the neighboring parking garage in dark suits as well as wearing S.W.A.T. gear and laying prone, perched in high places around the building.

Two of them then made a visit to his floor and politely asked that he not do that anymore.

We didn't theorize about this level of security and the confidence, or lack thereof, it inspires in us.

Not out loud anyway.

They may have followed him and been listening. They already know what he looks like dancing with his tongue out.

They know everything.

---

Yesterday was the two-year anniversary of the Girl and I purchasing our house. This apparently called for a parade this morning, complete with a Marching Band from the local Middle School.

At Seven FUCKING Thirty.

These fucking cocksucke... I mean, cherubic Junior High Students, have been practicing their tappity-taps and their marchity-march during the third week of September every fucking year.

I've called the School. I've called the Band Director. I've begged, I've pleaded, I've hinted around at threats. Nothing works.

That fucker marches those little shitbags up and down every single surrounding street in our neighborhood.

I understand that 7:30 isn't that early but, when you had a late hockey game, your girlfriend is sick and your dogs are complete fucktards that pitch a fit if a mouse farts within 200 yards, that last twenty minutes of sleep is precious like rare jewels and a FUCKING MARCHING BAND is a shitty way to greet the new day.

I got up this morning, made coffee and stood, looking outside the front picture window, and waited to see what that fucking Band Director Shitwag looks like.

When the band came by, I got a good look at him, and that pisshead is mine.

I was taking a sip of my coffee when I noticed how giggly and silly the predominantly female band was as they intermittently looked towards my house and burst into fits of wide-eyed laughter.

"Hmm," thought I, "they must be making fun of my rednecked Dakota and it's badass pimped-out self. Maybe my personalized plates, extolling my physical virtues, as well as my hockey playing abilities, are too goddam funny."

Then I realized I was still naked.

No problem. I'm far enough from the window that they shouldn't be able to see me with the way the sun is hitting the glass.

My morning thought processes apparently don't extend towards physics and the properties of lights reflection because later, on my way out to the truck, I noticed that the way the sun was hitting the front window meant that I could see all the way into my fucking dining room from the street. Oops.

I'm expecting a visit from the friendly neighborhood Fuckba... I mean, COPS, when I get home.

Shit. Maybe those little assholes will finally stop marching by my fucking house.

If my raw sexitudiness isn't enough to drive them away, I've got my automatic sprinklers recalibrated to point directly into the street and set to go off at 7:30 tomorrow.

Either way, I win.

Unless I get arrested.

Those giggly little girls surely wouldn't complain about a full-frontal shot of my fine-ass self though would they?

Yeah, I'm going to jail.

---

I don't knock anybody for not liking football. I mean, it's okay with me if you don't need to consider yourself a man anymore, I'm alright with that.

But, riddle me this, Batman.

How do the two, biggest, flamingest, show-tune-lovinest, Cher/Madonna-followingest, flambouyantly homosexual dudes in my company tie for the office football pool?

Sorry, I take that back.

They, in fact, didn't tie.

One of them picked the Monday Night winner and score perfectly. Fucking perfectly.

I cornered him in the kitchen and threatened to spit tobacco juice into his coffee if he didn't tell me his secret.

"Oh sweetie," he lisped happily, "I jussst go for the team whosssse colorssss I like the besssst."

There's something so wrong with that.

I may have to start smokin' pole if I'm gonna do any good in this football pool.

That may not happen.

Unless I only get 5 out of 16 again.

---

What's up with the freaks that fuck with people's comments sections?

Kristin-baby shut hers down because some fucking troll was all in there. Jen-baby had to shut hers down because some absolute shitbag was fuckin' with her and her current situation, which is beyond wrong (and she handled it beyond gracefully, if you ask me).

There's an old saying:

"If you can't say anything nice, don't be surprised when Judd pounds on you until he punches a hole in your fucking chest."

That's all I have to say about that.

---

*Sigh*

No more hockey.

Part of me feels saddened and lost. What am I going to do until the lockout is over? What will I watch when I'm sewing? What are we going to talk about in the hockey lockerroom? What will I do without my beloved Avalanche?

Then, I think about it.

Spoiled-ass, stupid, greedy, monkeyfucks.

Some fucking perspective please.

Bear with me while I rant.

YOU PLAY A FUCKING GAME FOR MONEY.

A SHITLOAD OF FUCKING MONEY.

YOU MAKE MORE MONEY IN A YEAR THAN HALF OF THE TICKET-HOLDERS WHO PAY YOUR FUCKING SALARY MAKE IN THEIR LIFETIMES.

Get a salary cap.

Get a season going.

And get the fuck over it.

You're not the NBA, NFL or Major League Baseball. Just because I love you with all my heart doesn't mean that you're getting better ratings than the fucking WNBA.

The. Fucking. W.N.B.A.

Women's Basketball.

Yeah, I dig athletic, sweaty chicks too, but no one is watching hockey anymore, and that means you shouldn't be making as much money as everyone else. End of story.

Okay, I'm done now.

Sorry, this entry sucks.

Like many of my entries, I just needed to get that out.

Like particularly noxious gaseous emissions in an elevator, I just had to do it.

Thanks for riding all the way up and not jumping off screaming at the next floor.