I want you all, as my friends, to promise me something, please.

This is important okay? Like this is of tantamount importance to say, following my dying wishes, or making the right decision if I am remitted to a life support device, so really, really, listen to me here and promise me that you will do the RIGHT THING.

Here it is-

If I ever become obsessed and start carrying on serious, heartfelt conversations with other fatasses about American Idol, I want you, as my friends, to summarily execute me with the largest pistol you can find, right on the spot. If I ever start caring about this show it will be a sure sign that I was exposed to some sort of mind weakening experience that lowered my intelligence so dramatically that I actually care about which vapid fucktards can actually hit the notes in a Janet Jackson song.

I bring this up because I happened upon a group of women at my work who were talking about this show. The thing that got me is that they were using tones that I would normally associate with discussions of great importance like world affairs. I mean, they were treating this show with the same reverence that you would apply to say, the decision on whether or not to turn the key and initiate a nuclear response, but it was about a freaking TV show, and a really stupid one at that.

The other thing I noticed is that when they talked, although not overtly apparent, I picked up on the fact that every single one of them talked in a mildly retarded tone, as though they had a partial lobotomy that went unfinished, leaving them just slightly slow. It was creepy.

Ok, now finally, I will close this with a little story. The only reason I am divulging this story is because I feel the world needs to know of my turgid tale. That and I am totally sleep deprived and am somewhat lacking in the judgement department right now...

Here is my story on why I have such ire towards punk rock chicks. Waaay the hell back in the grand year of 1993 I dated this girl, a punk. It was one of those relationships that you have and you have it because, well, it seemed OK at the time but was something you figured was going to last like a month because the person already bugs the shit out of you. I was 17 at the time.

Well, Sara and her step mom, Greetis (how is THAT for being FUCKED in the name department at birth? Greetis! Wah!?) had a fight. So me being the nice guy I am drove way out to her house to pick her up and take her away for the evening. I explained to my mom what happened and that Sara was going to hang for about 5 hours while I was at night school. Well, when I got home my mother informs me that hey, great news! Sara is going to be living with us from now on! Yaaaay!

At this very point I came to a very startling and disturbing epiphany about life, and that revelation was-

>>>>All of YOUR lives most important decisions will be made by people other than yourself, while YOU are out of the room.<<<<

Anyway, thanks to my mothers extended generosity I was now cohabitating with my girlfriend.

Well, one day we were getting frisky and I decided that I would show my industrious sexual prowess by going down on her. Well, everything went fine and about an hour later I went to the bathroom.

As I am there I look at the mirror and this really weird thought comes into my head as I am looking at my face in the mirror.

"Hey, I didn't drink any cherry Kool Aid today! Why the hell am I covered in it?"

Then I looked at my right hand and go "And I sure as hell didn't stick my middle two fingers in any either! In fact the only thing I stuck these guys in today was..." and then it slowly dawned on me...

She was on the rag and never bothered to tell me! GAH! I totally earned my 'red wings'!

Yeah, so punk rock chicks, no longer a big turn on for me.