I wouldn't even know how to try to be \”Politically Correct,\” so I'll just say \”I'm from Montana, where the men are men and the sheep flee at the sound of a zipper.\”

Natural Disasters and banjo-pickin'-farm-animal-porking rednecks make for a good time when picking on a regions inhabitants, especially those from the South. Thankfully, I'm from Montana, where we don't really have any Natural Disasters and, if we do, there's not enough people for it to kill any of them.

Mostly, people either yammer about how beautiful Montana is, or make some sort of joke about us Montanans doing nothing but drinking and having sex with all of the sheep, which is patently ridiculous.

There're plenty of cows too.

This morning I was watching City Slickers, thinking about my own days as a cowboy back home, and I noticed that the channel was Comedy Central, which always has fairly entertaining commercials. Though I rarely pay attention during commercial breaks, hell, I guess I rarely pay attention during the friggin' show, but I looked up to see a typical Daily Show correspondent interviewing on a crusty, blue-suited, old dude. My first thought was to wonder which politician they were going to pick on now until I realized why the old dude looked familiar. He's one of Montana's congressmen.

The questions went something like this:

ComedyCentralChick: So you've been enjoying your time here in our fair city (assuming she means D.C.)?

Congressman Hick(smiling intently): Oh yeah, yeah, been enjoying myself.

CCC: Have you noticed we have a lot of black people around here?

CH (smile doesn't falter one bit): Oh yeah, sure, sure.

CCC: Have you had your picture taken with any of them?

CH (bigger and sincere smile): No, no, but that's something I'd like to do, sure.

CCC: You don't have any of them in Montana do you?

CH (serious now, but still very earnest): No, we really don't, we really don't have any. You know, some of us grew up never even seeing one.

Laughter ensues.

Yeah, Daily Show people tend to ask questions that knock you off guard, and can sometimes throw off your context. Yes, they tongue-in-cheekingly make fun of our government leaders and other stuffy-type folks they interview. Sure, it's hardly fair for someone with a rapier-like wit to engage someone like a Congressman in any sort of conversation.

Thing is, he was serious.

He wasn't caught off guard, he wasn't thinking out of context, and no, he didn't know he was being made fun of. He was being as sincere as possible for a Congressman, which may be far less sincere than your average Montanan but is still light-years beyond your average D.C. politician. The only reason he speaks about those of the African-American persuasion as if they're an oddity or an attraction, unique to the D.C. area, is because he thinks they are.

Of course, Congressman Hick is wrong, Montana does have black people. I'm pretty sure they're all on the U of M Grizzlies football team though.

I joke wichoo.

Hell, I'd never seen a real-live black person until I was 14 and I flew to Dallas to visit the Mom, and now one of my better friends and teammates in Roller Hockey is a corn-rowed, Nike-wearing, gold-toothed, hooptie-drivin', Pimpjuice-drinkin', trash-talkin', muthafuckah named \"Ant.\" I'm pretty sure his real name is Anthony and, at one point, his car used to be a Jetta before it got plastered with 2-foot square Nike and Broncos stickers, gold-trim, and those tires that improbably hold air even though they're 2 inches tall, but he's nothing if not colorful.

He's an intensely dark brown and quick to flash that gold-trimmed smile, with such stunning contrast to his skin, in the lockerroom and is as gracious as you can get, win or lose. He and I get along great, which is why it's always amusing to see the looks on the other guys' faces when, after Ant refers to himself as a \"Puck-lovin' Niggah,\" I howl with laughter and repeat it to him with my own variations like, \"GOAL-scorin', puck-lovin, Niggah.\"

The other guys look at me like I just shit in my own skates before putting them on.

It's the same look I get from my co-workers when I tell GayBoy that he'd be no good on the company Dodgeball team because every time a ball came at him he'd probably flail his arms around and shriek like a little girl and that he probably throws like one too.

They looked at me like I'd just told them that I routinely \"tea-bag\" my scrotum in the coffee pot every morning.

GayBoy laughed hysterically and agreed with me though, even doing an impersonation of himself with an imaginary Dodgeball hurtling towards his head. Folks, let me tell ya, few things are funnier than a flambouyantly homosexual man imitating an even MORE flambouyantly homosexual man. Comedy. Absolute comedy.

GayBoy is a friend of mine too. He doesn't mind when I hang out in his cube talking about how to brand a cow or shoot a hockey puck, and I don't mind when he sits in my cube and tells me about his upcoming trip to Miami to see Madonna for the 38th time, how his family is all from Spain where they are Cheese Barons, or when he tells me about his first blowjob.

Okay, I minded that last one a little bit and no, I don't know whether it was giving or receiving. I tuned out right after the statement about how some people, \"just have really nice looking dicks\".

*shudders involuntarily*

The thing is, I'm from Montana, where our state motto should be \"There aren't enough of us to say any different, so we just don't know any better.\" Seriously, sheep can't talk (thank God for that) and Cows... well... I'm pretty sure Cows just don't talk out of spite for that whole hot-iron-to-the-ass thing. Either way, nobody told us that you're not supposed to say certain things in the interests of Political Correctness.

In Montana, being Politically Correct is left to the Politicians, and, as you can see, even they aren't very good at it.

---

I was raised to believe that there are no \"bad\" words, just bad feelings and, if a \"bad\" word is used, you have to look at the context it was used in before you can judge it as \"bad\" or \"not-so-bad.\"

Adopted Brother's 2-year old was playing out in the yard one day, when he noticed he was standing on an ant hill and they were crawling all over his chubby little feet. He stomped and wiped them off and then said, \"Fu-King Ants.\"

What were we going to say? The kid used it correctly, you can hardly get upset with him for that, can you?

One of the Girl's best friends, and our 9-ball pool teammate, is a girly-girl we call CuteTits. She's Vietnamese but the given nickname for her came from her artificial endowments and not her heritage. She's fond of screaming \"get in there, you Hooker!\" at the ball, then muttering in Vietnamese, and not telling us what she just said. The only thing she'll teach me is \"How are you doing?\" and I can now say it perfectly, like I'm a foot shorter and grow rice in a patty. I got the guy at the local liquor store to teach me \"You know, you're cute, but a little too old for me,\" but she told me I was literally saying, \"You're pretty like a monster.\"

When she missed a shot and I slapped her on the ass and called her a \"Pretty Monster\" in Vietnamese, an older Asian fellow came over and asked me if I knew I was being such a fuckhead because if I did, he'd happily kick my ass Jet-Li style and then he assured me he could. I explained that she's a friend of mine and that if I meant offense, even in Vietnamese, I could've come up with something better than what I had said. He explained that, for his generation, saying that kind of thing about a woman's looks IS pretty goddam offensive, and anything contemporary like say, \"Rubber-tittied CumC@tcher\" would just be lost on him in it's translation (I offered up the \"CumC@tcher\" thing as I knew he didn't have a clue what I was saying). Plus, I don't even know how to say that in Vietnamese and I doubt the guy at the liquor store would teach me. The old guy softened quite a bit though, when CuteTits came over and gave me a hug while flashing him her copious amounts of cleavage, then he shook his head, shook my hand, and left.

We had a buddy in High School, a Crow Indian, straight of the Res, that we called \"GutEater.\" GutEater's home was literally several miles from where Chief Plenty Coups was born, and about a half-hour from where a certain General Yellow Hair and his unmatched arrogance met their demise, which made for many jokes at GutEater's expense about his people and their famous victory. Testament to how funny we thought we were, as well as how much we all liked him, we gave him the most offensive nickname we could think of, and it never bothered him. He's still fond of saying that the only derogatory name he hates is \"apple.\"

\"Apple? Why do you hate being called an 'apple'?\"

\"Red Skin, you stupid (unintelligible Crow word meaning literally, 'White Demon')! Because I've got red skin.\"

\"I don't get it, you're only slightly browner than me.\"

This is how it works in my head. \"GutEater\" isn't a \"bad\" word, but \"Apple\" can be. \"Niggah\" isn't a bad word, but I absolutely detest it's root word, mostly because of the types of people that use it and the context they use it in. \"SissyMary\" isn't really even a word, but it's context wasn't \"bad,\" it was funny, made even more funny with an impersonation and the fact that GayBoy turned out to be one of the best Dodgeball players on the entire team (and doesn't throw like a girl at all, dammit).

\"CumC@tcher\" can't really be construed as anything but \"bad,\" I guess, but it's not a word either, and \"Pretty Monster\" is classic when it's a 6'2\", 240-pound, white guy saying it, in Vietnamese, to a beautiful young Asian girl with great tits.

It's not about the \"bad\" words, just the \"bad\" context.

That shit ain't gonna fly though, the next time I ask the Park County Police if the P.C.P. on their badges stands for \"Poland China Porkers\".

\"Because, you know, that breed has stripes... and you're wearing stripes... and they're pigs... and you're... c'mon that's FUNNY.\"

I had no idea they could fine you $212 for rolling through a \"STOP\" sign.

If anyone's seen my Utilikilt, or has one I that'll fit, help a bruthah out.

I actually won the much-coveted \"Asshole of the evening\" Award at a wedding last weekend before I even arrived. THAT's true Asshole ability there.

My buddy, Gonzo, was getting hitched to his long-time girlfriend in their backyard last Saturday and it was quite a beautiful white-trash affair. Yeah, I know he's a big, hairy, tattooed Mexican, but at heart he's white-trash and proud of it.

The Groom was bedecked in a black pimp suit with lavender trim and tie, complete with solid black Chuck Taylor's. The Bride, somewhat disappointedly, was wearing a nice lavender dress and looked quite lovely. Especially since she had the dress cut wide enough in the back to display the dragon-circling-the-castle tattoo, and the bloody-thorn-surrounded-rose on her shoulder.

They exchanged vows, said their \"I do\"s, and then had each other's name tattooed in a band around the other's ring fingers.

It was beautiful, I'm told.

I was a little late.

That morning, I was running my ass off around the house looking frantically for my Utilikilt all fucking morning. I looked in every conceivable area, of the house and garage, that could possibly hold it. After an hour it didn't matter if it would be utterly ridiculous to find it where I was looking, I just had to make sure that I could safely rule everything out.

Like the cabinet under the big fish tank.

Or in-between the couch cushions.

Or in the vanity drawer in the bathroom.

Or the crisper drawer in the fridge.

Or in the microwave.

Or in the Girl's underwear drawer (This one was actually kind of fun).

On my way out to the garage I even lifted the lid to the fucking grill, for chrissake. What's even worse is that the thought that ran through my mind was, \"Naw, it couldn't be in there, that would be silly. I mean, you were grilling chicken just Wednesday night and the kilt's been missing for longer than that.\"

I couldn't find that fucking thing anywhere and honestly thought that I may start crying in sheer frustration over losing one of the coolest things I've ever owned (that the Girl bought me, no less). My other kilt was still dirty from the wedding two weeks ago and I had my heart set on showing off my fine-ass legs for the mullet-lovin', neck-tattoo havin', PBR-drinkin' ladies at Gonzo's wedding.

I was becoming very despondent. I couldn't think of anything but where I would have put it, or who would've taken it, because something must've happened to it for it to be so fucking GONE, it couldn't just be sitting somewhere. I tried thinking of where I would have taken it and it hit me.

*smacking forehead*

The cleaners!

Mr. Cho's English isn't fantastic to begin with and my Chinese is for shit, so it took about 15 minutes for me to describe my beloved missing Utilikilt and for him to tell me that he didn't remember any such thing, he didn't have any outstanding tickets for me anyway, and that he couldn't help me.

I was going to ask if I could just cruise through the pickup rack and see if it jumped out, but then I realized that Cho and Mrs. Cho both have to squeeze to get back there and I'm pretty sure a double-Cho-sized kid like me ain't fittin'. Not gonna happen. Besides, Mr. Cho didn't seem to keen on letting me behind the counter anyway.

He kept asking incredulously, \"Skuhr?!? Fo' a mah? Rika dress?... Nah... Naaheeyah.\"

\"Kilt. Like if Carhartt made kilts. You know, Caaaarrrr-haaarrrrtt's.\"

\"Cah-haht? Nah, noh Caaaaahhh-haaaaaahhhhhhtt heeyah.\"

I drove hastily across town to Saudi Aurora, getting stuck behind every single old person, handicapped person, person eating McNuggets and spilling sauce in their crotch, and complete gotarded fuckbag on my way over.

Rant

Seriously, what the fuck is so dangerous about the goddam speed limit? It was established a long fucking time ago for cars that couldn't travel on roads like these while going very fast. Times have changed, so has your car.

It's the fucking pedal on the right side of the floorboard.

Oh, and the handle sticking out behind the wheel tells others when you're going to come bombing into their lane.

Become familiar with both, fuckhead, and Judd won't try and fucking kill you.

End Rant

I knew the general area of his house (based on Gonzo's proximity to a bar, how sad is that?) so his directions were short, and I waited until I was a mile or so away until I pulled them out. I was already cutting it short on time and needed to make sure I didn't miss any turns, so I pulled the piece of paper close to my nose.

*flutter*

*SHOOP*

Straight out the fucking window.

No problem, I'm a visual learner, Once I write something down I tend to remember it almost perfectly. Lessee, go past the big intersection of the two main roads, take the second right, then 3 straight lefts. Awesome.

Shit, which main road though?

Fuck it, this one looks right.

Crap, I must've been out in that neighborhood once before because every fucking street looked familiar.

How much time do I have? Hmmm... the directions took flight at about 10 to 2, the ceremony, though promised to be very short, is scheduled for promptly at 2. It's now 2 'til 2. Fuck.

I guess I'll just sit here and listen to the Oklahoma/Oregon football game and thumb my s@ck (purposely misspelling means the sick fucks that Google for that shit will miss me).

I'll wait until about a quarter after, then I'll call somebody's cell phone. Shit, I've only got one guy's number, El Capitan, and he's more than likely IN the goddam wedding. I know it's going to be very casual, even for white-trash, but I'm pretty sure a cell phone ringing wouldn't be appreciated. Then, I figured El Capitan SURELY wouldn't have the ringer on, so I can just leave him a voice mail.

*Ring-ring*

*Ring-ring*

*Ring-ring*

El Capitan answers, in a very hushed, whispered tone, \"can't... talk... now...\"

*Click*

Sweet. I'm not even there and I've fucked up the wedding. Oh well, it's like, 20 after, they've got to be wrapping things up by now. Certainly I didn't disturb their nuptials or anything. Capitan calls back a minute and a half later and gives me directions to the house. Turns out that I passed the turn for his Cul-de-sac twice and am now a mile and a half away. Awesome.

Yeah, because I didn't feel like a complete numbnut before.

The Cul-de-sac is packed with cars and I can only remember the colors \"blue\" and \"white\" and the words \"house\" and \"trim,\" not necessarily in any particular order so, since one house is white with blue trim and two are blue with white trim, I just head towards the music into the first backyard I come across. It's not the best neighborhood but I figure that, if it's the wrong yard, I can just jump the fence and avoid the killer Rottweiller's altogether.

I head around the house to find 3 full-sized grills, all covered with a variety of charred flesh, and a lone black dude spritzing them with a squirt bottle and running a sauce-covered brush over them quite Picasso-like. Despite my 4 years in hated Texas, I've never understood any of the secrets to good barbecuing, so I sat transfixed for a minute and watched him work.

\"Hey goalie! What the fuck are you doing?\" the Groom yelled happily from the next yard. I stared at the dapper Gonzo thinking, \"Boy, he does clean up nice,\" and also, \"why the fuck is his neighbor grilling an entire pig and cow when Gonzo told me there wasn't going to be any food,\" and then, \"I wasted 3 bucks on a fucking Big Mac and I'd only saved room for cake.\"

Eating beforehand turned out to be a not-very-bad idea as \"Wedding Cake\" turned out to be \"Wedding Brownies\" and by \"brownies,\" I mean dry, crusty, brown squares of avoidance.

Also, I learned that my inopportune phone call didn't happen to have bad timing.

I had the worst timing ever.

Capitan may have been the asshole for forgetting to turn off his phone, but he knew that anyone that could possibly be calling him for a non-emergency would know not to call at that exact moment. You know, like I did.

\"Do you Tracy, take this tall, hairy, tattooed Mexican hockey-playing goon to love and honor, til death takes you?\"

*sniff*

\"I do,\" she replies shakily.

\"Do you Gonzalo Rodrigo Esperanza Chimichanga Burrito take Tracy as well?\"

\"I...\"

*RING RING*

\"...do...\" turns and glares angrily in general direction of cell-phone menace.

\"Then, as a dude that can do this shit in the state of Colorado...\"

*RING RING*

\"Answer that fucking thing will ya?!?\"

It's too bad that I manage to fuck with one of the few holy unions that I'm firmly behind. Why couldn't I have pulled that trick during ShitHead's wedding. Or my brother's? Or my adopted Cousin's? Man, those fuckers sure needed it.

It's all good though, I heard the bald dude with the 10-inch goatee, in the cut-off desert-camo pants, knee-high, black, leather, jackboots and black T-shirt with a flaming skull on it, got pissed when they wouldn't let him do a keg stand with the New Belgium 1554.

Maybe he and I could share \"Asshole of the Evening.\"

I've got two weeks until one of the other hockey buds is getting hitched and it's at the Brown Palace downtown (where the Beatles stayed), so I'll certainly get my chance to be a complete ass there.

Heh, Gonzo'll be at that one too.

Maybe he'll bring keg-standing Baldy.

Betcha I can get him to do a keg stand before the Brown Palace's security staff forcibly remove him.

If that doesn't work, then I'll do one too.

In my kilt.

True Scotsman-style.

Meh, who needs that dump just 'cause them hippie Brits made it famous?

Wish me luck.

Sometimes you just get the perfect shot.

We all have those moments when we have the perfect shot. Somehow, someway, the forces of the Universe align and whatever we haphazardly attempt is pulled off perfectly, without a hitch.

It may be a moment, like in High School when me and the Girl's older brother, Shithead, had sat parked in his old '78 Jeep outside the video rental store on main street of our pitifully tiny mountain town. He'd run into the bar (heh, \"the\" video rental place, \"the\" bar... Fuck our town was small) to get our order of Finger steaks and fries, and I'd been absently picking through the ashtray, the source of our funds for dinner, for cool-looking coins. I found a penny that was 50 years old, glared spitefully at the now-closed video rental place (we had planned on renting Blues Brothers for the 112th straight time), and chucked the penny forcefully at the door. It sailed perfectly into the video-drop slot.

Our town is small, but also very old, so the sidewalks are probably double, or even triple, the size of the standard sidewalks here in Denver, so my throw was probably around 13 feet in distance.

Shithead looked at me with astonishment, rooted through the ashtray for another \"cool\" penny, slapped it into my hand and told me, double-dog-daringly, to do it again.

I smirked cockily, turned once to look at the slot, my target, and turned back to arrogantly look him right in the eye as I let the second penny fly.

Another perfect shot.

I could try every day, 180 times a day, for the rest of my life, and never make two in a row like that.

Once, when I was about 8 or 9, we were chasing this kid, Red, around our small town on our bikes. He didn't necessarily do anything to incur our wrath, he was just the kid we picked on. We cornered him in the lot surrounding this little British girl's house. We knew we weren't allowed on the property, so we began picking up Crab Apples from the ground beneath a neighbor's tree and throwing them at Red.

Brit girl and her little 3-year old sister came outside to join in the fun of these 3 idiots chucking Crab Apples 100 yards at this poor kid we were after. The 3-year old was running around, squealing with glee, and we, of course, went out of our way not to throw in her direction.

At one point, I swore that I saw Red duck behind the family's old Station Wagon. I picked a particularly large, semi-rotten apple directly from the tree and heaved it at least 200 feet, angling its trajectory to just clear the car and land on the other side of it.

It was a perfect throw.

*WHAP*

The wet smacking noise, combined with a dull thud, told me that I'd scored a direct hit. The incredibly high-pitched cry told me that I hadn't scored the hit on my intended target.

The 3-year old then ran screaming and crying from behind the Station Wagon, at top speed, into the house, a batch of fresh applesauce streaming down her head.

Given another 100 tries, I could never throw that exact same apple the exact same way.

Once, when I was a senior in High School and a bit of a prankster, I had found one of those big, red, rubber bands, about 10 inches in diameter. It had broken perfectly at a point that made it one long elastic strand suitable for extending and snapping.

By \"broken perfectly,\" I mean I cut it, intending to use it as a fiendish weapon.

If held correctly, under a desk, it could be stretched and released in the direction of a classmate, causing them a sharp pain and lessening the chance that a culprit could be identified.

I was walking down the hall, snapping my rubber band into the picture frames of the previous graduating classes, wondering if anyone I disliked enough would be naïve enough to present themselves as an unwilling target.

While walking by the snack stand, a target appeared. A girl that I didn't necessarily dislike, but probably deserved a snap for being so smart and always wrecking the grading curves, was leaning well over the table, examining the possible snacks she could purchase. I recognized her from her white polka-dotted stretch pants, and they were the most enticing target I could have ever hoped for.

I spaced myself a perfect 4 feet from my target, aimed my right hand, extended my left hand to well above my head, stretching the elastic band to its fullest extent, and released, all while walking extremely casually by.

Two things I hadn't thought of.

One being that I had forgotten that no matter how casual I appeared to be, I was the only fucking person in the hallway, so probably wouldn't be able to pull of any sort of innocent act.

Two being that the possibility of two people wearing similar style pants, while remote in such a small population (150 students, middle school through high school), was still a possibility.

*SNAP*

A perfect shot on the left asscheek.

\"OOOOOWWWWWWWWW, JUUUDDDDD, YOU JERK!\"

Instead of the brainiac girl, Mrs. E.T.-Finger, my English teacher, turned, both hands clutching her ass, her face a shade of red I'd never seen and her anger and embarrassment flushing quickly up the veins of her neck and emitting from her eyes, like a flashflood of pain, spilling forth onto my guilty face.

\"Uh... I... uh... I thought you were... someone else...\" I stammered.

\"SURE ENOUGH!\" she screamed back at me. Despite her small stature, I was sure that, at that moment, she could easily have killed me with her candy bar.

I guiltily half-ran/half-walked away as quickly as I could, hoping that whatever punishment she had in mind for me would wait until I had ran away and would see her in class.

She never punished me, and I can only think that the embarrassment of what must've been a huge welt on her ass kept her from ever mentioning the incident to anyone.

Fast Forward to yesterday morning. That goddam fucking Marching Band, having taken Thursday morning off, was back in full force, now that I was mildly hungover due to the celebrating our 9-ball Pool team had partaken in after our playoff win the previous night (a dramatic win in which our opponent's best player choked on the shot that would have won it for them and our best player sunk the ensuing shot, winning it for us).

As mentioned before, I'd set my sprinklers up to point out into the street. I had forgotten that they only run every other day, so I quickly went out into the garage, fiddled with the settings and opened the garage door, so that I may target the approaching mass accordingly.

I saw the Band approaching. Oh, this was going to be sweet. If I'm not going to jail for swinging my schlong around in front of the flute section, then this will certainly get me a citation at the very least.

The sprinklers take a minute or so to get the water running through them, and I realized that, at the rate the Band was coming, I was going to nail the first and maybe second rows perfectly and probably thoroughly douse all of those hapless, innocent kids.

I had an attack of conscience.

Despite the fact that every ounce of my early morning headache was directed firmly at them, despite the fact that they sounded like they were all forced to play left-handed while chewing gum and jumping rope, despite the fact that it would be some of the funniest shit I could ever pull off, I wasn't sure I could go through with it.

While the Angel and Devil on my shoulders were shouting their respective opinions into my ears a la Animal House,

the sprinklers sputtered to life, spraying a fine mist a few feet in the air that acted as a Herald of the jetting stream of water that was to come in mere seconds. I thought, \"Oh well, it's too late now. Shut the fuck up, Angel.\"

Then I saw him.

The nice, quiet, unassuming, bleached-hair, trampoline-bouncing, Boy-Scout from next door, Jake, was playing trumpet in the first row, second from the end, directly in the path of the first sprinklerhead.

My house is the first one Jake hits whenever he's selling something for the Boy Scouts because he knows I'm a sucker. His father gave me about $300 worth of coral for my saltwater fishtank, for nothing other than he wanted rid of it and I'm a good neighbor. While Jake jumps on the other neighbor's trampoline and I sit on the back patio and drink beer and smoke, I shout at him different tricks to try, and he pulls them off with the form and grace of a Gold-Medalist. He came over to ask to borrow something once, and ended up watching the second period of the University of Denver's National Championship Hockey game with me and some friends.

I really like this kid.

For once, I have to do what I can to STOP the perfect shot.

It would have been perfect too.

I could feel the ambient air around me charged with anticipation of the coming shot's perfection, my one chance at revenge for the theft of my peaceful mornings by the talentless Marching Band.

I hit the \"Off\" switch the exact instant the water was starting, and a flaccid stream of water spurted once out of the sprinklers, landing 5 feet away on the sidewalk.

A couple students turned and looked at the sprinklers suspiciously, but then quickly focused their attention back on their marching and awful attempt at music. Except for Jake, who caught sight of me, lurking in the shadows of my garage (wearing underwear this time), and gave me a big, friendly smile and wave of his trumpet.

Revenge thwarted, but perspective gained, I guess.

And the Band played on.

I really just have to rant for a bit. Go ahead and go take a leak. I'll still be going when you get back.

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.

A Highland Wedding, if not a Highland Fest.

A sullen, overcast sky greets me this morning from the West. I'm actually relieved by this as I've come down with a hellish Cold, and am planning on spending the entire day right here in the big, comfy chair, with a speckled gotard curled up between my feet. It's a good day to cuddle up and write. To be introspective while feeling all poopy.

I started feeling kind of yucky Friday night, but we had big plans for Saturday and there was no way I could bail just for having some snot running freely.

The Estes Park Scottish/Irish Highlands Fest is this weekend and me, the Girl and the Girl's brother, Shithead never miss it. It's fantastic, we get to cruise around in our kilts, quaffing mass amounts of Guinness and Caffrey's, mingling with other kilt-clad drunkards, and paying obscene prices for simple items like socks and pins. It's a bit spendy to get in too, but the events make your time well worth it.

The Gargantuans that are running around in kilts and black, hooded sweatshirts, with their names on the back, are there for the Athletics. They'll be on ESPN2 in a month or so, in the Caber-Toss or the Hammer Throw. The best part of the Athletics is that the person that finishes second in all of the throwing events is almost always this Norse-Goddess-looking blonde chick that's bigger than Arnold and quite pretty.

I could spend all day watching the Pipe and Drum Bands wend their way around the fairgrounds and up the fields. The stoic pride and majesty, that these musicians carry themselves with, is truly something to behold.

Clan Row is great because it's filled with the booths of almost every major clan you can think of, and has whiskey tastings going on at either end. The tartan (color pattern of the kilt) of each clan is proudly displayed above each clan's booth. I actually made my kilt on my sewing machine out of the only wool that Denver Fabric had on sale (Wallace tartan, not my actual clan). This is why I always try to avoid walking to near the Wallace booth, as they all start shouting at me to come over when they see me, and I'm sure they'd all take turns head-butting me to the ground if they found out I'm not really a Wallace.

We wander around watching the Highland dancers doing their thing and, though it may be a little too much like \"RiverDance,\" they are a blast to watch in their traditional dress and music. Plus the chicks have great legs and frequently kick them way up high, giving one a nice peek (HEY, I get enough females peeking up MY kilt on any given night, it's only fair).

Then, we wander drunkenly over to the Jousting. Oh man, is this shit something cool. It's set up just like an authentic competition from the Middle Ages, and those crazy fuckers actually barrel down that line and bash the shit out of each other. The combat is great too, when they fight with swords and maces and axes and shit. I can't even imagine running around wearing 75-100 lbs of armor much less swinging an actual 25 lb sword at some dude trying to hit me at the same time. It's awesome.

I'll stop sounding like a frickin' commercial from the Estes Park Chamber of Commerce now, and tell you that we ended up not going.

---

A very good friend, former co-worker and former roommate of the Girl's was getting married yesterday, and we were figuring that we would try and work both Highland Fest and the wedding in on the same day.

We found out that the wedding was literally down the road from HF. Yay.

Then, we found out that the ceremony was at 2 and you had to take a shuttle up to the chapel starting at 12:30. Boo.

Then, we figured that the reception is at 5 and we wouldn't necessarily have to go to the ceremony and could spend most of the day at HF. Yay.

Then, I got sick and the Girl told me that she wouldn't want her friend skipping our ceremony for some silly annual event. Boo.

It worked out rather well though, as I got a chance at some decent rest and we didn't have to drop $15 a piece for a measly 2 hours each at HF.

The wedding was amazing.

I realize I'm a romantic and I like all that kind of shit (well, the CAKE anyway. And the free beer.), but this one was just about friggin' perfect.

For starter's, it's in this picturesque valley, overlooking the Continental Divide.

That's pretty much the view from the huge picture windows of the chapel (below) where the ceremony was held.

This is the view of the chapel from the reception hall.

The chapel is frickin' tiny and, when me and the Girl there, we filled the last two seats up in the 6 x 10 ft loft. Coincidentally enough, we were the last two people to depart from the shuttles too. We'll be late to our own wedding probably.

The Groom showed some surprise at seeing us saying that we didn't need to be there and that we could've just come to the reception. The Girl figured that maybe we got our invitations screwed up and weren't supposed to actually BE at the wedding since the chapel was so crowded, but I found out that the Groom knew that we wanted to go to Highlands Fest and felt kind of touched that we would miss it just for his nuptials.

The ceremony was beautiful, and not just because the Bride is a total hottie-boom-bottie, but because the two of them really are in love and, for only the second time in about 7 weddings, I was firmly in support of the couple's decision. Plus, they had a kilt-clad Highlander, perched up on the rocky hillside above the chapel, playing the bagpipes before, during and after the ceremony. It was pretty cool just seeing another dude in a skirt, other than myself, let alone one playing the 'pipes.

The Groom has always been an honorable Patriot his whole life and decided not long after the events of 3 years ago to enlist and serve his country. I suppose few other things could explain why he chose to have his wedding on that particular date, but it was tastefully done and I was extremely touched at his dedication.

The Bride and Groom had just come down from their extended picture session at the chapel, riding in a Budweiser-style carriage, to greet those of us that were eagerly waiting dinner and drinking the free beer that was more than plentiful.

I helped Highlander boy with his guitar and bagpipes and he played soft guitar and sang in the background while the Bride and Groom made a few toasts, thanked some folks, and told us when and where we were to be fed. Then the Groom solemnly asked us to bow our heads for a moment of silence in memory of those of our countrymen that had given the ultimate sacrifice so that we may live the way we do.

I spent a considerable amount of my formative years purposely NOT taking part in any pre-meal prayers, purposely NOT bowing my head in memory of some dude's birthday that means we ALL exchange presents and sing carols, and purposely thought of something else during any of the \"moments of silence\" that I was asked to give. I was a bit rebellious and somewhat of an asshole about the whole religion thing.

I've grown up a bit since then, and now I muster every amount of respect and reverence I can when someone asks me to show my respect for something that they hold worthy. Especially if it's something that I've learned to hold worthy, as those things have been few and far between in my life.

When I thought about the lives that have been given and the times that those I love have gone through, whether it be war or terror, I heard the Highlander start to blow softly on his bagpipes as \"Amazing Grace\" started to fill the air around us.

It flowed around us on the winds that rustled the Aspens, whose leaves are just starting to turn. It came from the smoke from the giant campfire, wafting slowly through the crowd, stinging several eyes. It came through all of our hearts, so subtly that we may not have noticed that we were all feeling the same thing, every one of us.

Until a gentle thump, thump, thump started.

The Highlander was beating out the time of the music, but not in the toe-tapping-keeping-time way.

He was marching in place.

He was a formation of one, but no band in the world could have looked more gallant or earnest than he, as he united the crowd with each \"thump\" of his feet, representing the beating of our collective heart.

Our sadness, our somber thoughts and feelings, faded with him and his music, as his solo procession marched off the meager stage, through the silent crowd, up the rocky path, and out of sight.

\"Amazing Grace\" didn't end, it just faded away.

It was time to celebrate.

---

Of course, the copious amounts of Guinness, the whiskey, the Carrot Wedding Cake (moan-out-loud good), and the staying up late did nothing but make my cold worse and worse.

I sat growing more and more miserable while the snot ran down my face, the Girl kept leaking out of her eyes every time she saw the Father of the Bride after she witnessed the Father and Daughter dance (during which the terrible leaking started) and our good friend, TallKid, drank with me and bemoaned his single status.

Despite the Girl's melancholy, romantic or nostalgic tears (we had all 3, I can assure you), despite the TallKid's misfortune in love and despite the fact that I felt like someone had smacked the back of my head with a frozen baseball bat before spraying Tobasco up my nose, we had a wonderful time.

The Groom must've mistaken my cold-induced, pre-sneeze, tearing-up-of-the-eyes as a sign of emotion, because he and the Bride got a bit weepy as we were leaving. It really meant a lot to them that we were there.

He was wrong though, I don't cry at weddings.

I'm a big, tough, kilt-wearing, Guinness-swilling, hockey-playing motherfucker.

I love weddings.

Especially the cake.

And the beer.

And the cake (did I mention it was Carrot Cake?).

Okay, I cried a little bit. But I'm still tough and all that.