I hate losing.

I really do. I especially hate losing shit that I’m drop-dead SURE I’ll win. In this case, I lost a bet. A sure bet. A bet I made specifically because I KNEW I WOULD WIN! You don’t bet against gravity, people, and gravity is my bitch. No way was I gonna lose a bet that involved Elle, water sports (no, perverts, not that kind. The kind actually in the water.), and probably lots of beer. Oh, and gravity. No fucking way would I lose, because I rock like Spock on a dock with a Glock. Trust me on this!

I bet Elle Piratico that she’d faceplant no less than 10 times on one of her numerous lake trips, mainly because on the previous trip, she ate water like fat kids eat Hot Pockets. She damn-near GRAZED the lake, like cattle. And since she can’t exactly practice her form and technique in the desert conditions in Alpha Zeta in her in-between time, I figured I was safe. No way Elle WOULDN’T french-kiss Lake Bustedass 14, 15 times. It was a sure bet.


So, I lost, because not only did she not fall down 10 or more times, she basically didn’t fall down at all. Ever. Gravity, my bitch, abandoned me at the mere hint that a flying scissor kick was heading its way, made worse by the fact that the pirate would never float back to earth afterwards, having kicked gravity’s ass and all. So it folded like a cheap card table, and here I am today, about to eat my words and put my size 14 foot (yes, 14. It got bigger.) all up in my mouth. But I’m no welsher, so I’m gonna do what I said I was gonna do. I’m gonna write Elle a poem. A nice poem. That rhymes and shit. Hopefully I won’t toss my cookies in the process.


An Ode To Elle, On The Eve Of Her Birthday

37 years fly by so fast
It’s hard to count the days
Friends like you are meant to last
It’s hard to count the ways
In which you enrich my world
It’s hard to pick just one
And if I’m forced as a matter of course
It’s hard, ’cause there’s no one
Who makes me laugh quite like you do
Or makes me spit out Tang
Or makes me mad on the radio
When we do our thang
So on this very special day
37 years in the making
Know that your friends do cherish you
Of that, there’s no mistaking

OK. OK. It’s done. And it was surprisingly heartfelt, which is odd, because usually Elle makes me mad enough to want to punch donkeys and midgets, because she’s a witch. But since it’s her “special day” or whatever, I guess I just felt…nice.




What the HELL?

I am so incredibly glad that this so-called “birthday” is a once-per-year thing, because all this nice shit is filling up my toilet and making a mess all over the carpet. But all that aside, I just want to extend my warmest wishes to Elle today. Happy birthday.

And don’t jank on that box I sent you. I LOVED that Starbury shoe box. I thought about parking my car in it a couple of times.  It’s big enough that you can put gutters on it and call it a detached garage. Word.

Peace, peeps. Diatribe later. I promise.