I’m gonna be a RockStar, I already drink like one.

Allow me to be sappy yet again, for but a moment, and give big ‘ol wet smackers to all of you for your thoughts and prayers and such.

StepMom is all good.

Seriously, you guys are the best, you deserve big hugs with lots of accompanying inappropriate touching.


I woke up this morning feeling kind of odd. I couldn’t quite figure out why either.

Could it be that I am still sick with that damn Cold?

Did I sleep wrong on my head or something?

Is there a Carbon Monoxide leak in the house?

Did I really drink half of that bottle of Vodka last night?

Turns out that I actually DID drink an obscene amount of Vodka. Granted, recent events in my life kind of called for it, but FUCK ME, half the bottle’s probably way too much at once.

Especially when I come cruising into work an hour late… and still drunk.

Classy.

Actually, truly “classy” is tripping as I enter my cube, bouncing off my chair and into the whiteboard while giggling madly.

The number of ways that I continue to astound myself grows each and every day.

At the moment, for example, I’m astounded that I made it through today, walking, talking, and eating like a normal person, while my head is literally off-set on my shoulders by about a foot (least that’s what it feels like) and my stomach has been balled up so tight that any force applied to it would surely result in massive spewage.

Imagine poking the Pillsbury Doughboy and instead of emitting an endearing giggle, he bursts forth with stomach juices. Not cool.

My physical condition was only helped by a burger that dripped enough grease to lube the chassis of my truck, and fries that Good Times has highly appropriately dubbed, “wild.”

Immediately after shrinking my arterial passageways, I began to feel better.

Until the fucking fire alarm went off.

My cube is roughly 8 feet from that blaring motherfucker and when it started screaming… it hurt me.

It didn’t help that HeliumHead the Receptionist shouted over the P.A. that it was only a test and that it wasn’t necessary to exit the building. Tears were forming through my scrunched-shut eyes, and all I truly wished to do was leave as hastily as possible. Headfirst through our 6th floor windows, if necessary.

That’s when I clapped both of my hands over my ears as hard as I could.

TOO hard, I found out, as I’m fairly certain my head almost burst like one of Gallagher’s Watermelons.

I also felt a brief moment of panic when I realized that I could now hear nothing. NOTHING.

“Fuck,” my inner-voice said as the hot fire of shame crept up my face, “I’ve just burst both my eardrums. I’m now deaf.”

I was preparing for a life of witnessing extremely poor hand-gesturing when that same voice gently suggested to me, “You’re not deaf, you Dickhead. The alarm just turned off.”


I’m not really much of a music fan, compulsively purchasing CDs and such, but I’m a firm proponent of supporting your local music scenes, so when I was last in Montana, I picked up The Clintons latest CD. I’d heard a snippet of one song about wearing a G-string in downtown Baltimore, and that was enough for me.

Not only are these guys from my native Montana, but they’re good. They’re my new Favoritest Bandenest Ever.

I know Jack Shit about music classifications, but they’re kind of like Barenaked Ladies, I guess.

Fuck, I don’t know, they rock, BUY them.


I was listening to their CD “Kinky” at work and decided that I should probably start singing the correct lyrics instead of whatever makes the least amount of sense and gets me to giggle.

I was checking out the band members profiles when I ran across a name that struck a chord of recognition. It took me a full minute (because I’m pretty fucking dumb sometimes) before I figured out that I went to Grade School with the guy that plays the bass guitar.

I realize that Montana has like, 12 people, but still, the World is crazy small. First that wackiness on Saturday, and now the bassist in my new favorite band is the kid that I used to tell wild lies to about killing bears in my backyard and robbing convenience stores with a pellet gun.

I may or may not have peeked in on his sister in the shower too, I’m not sayin’.

Seriously, go buy their CDs, they’re a good deal if you get them here and not from those rotten cockbags at Amazon. You can probably guess where I purchased mine without shopping around.

Fuckbugger.

All the guys in the band have blogs too, so I’m not feeling as special anymore about my fame. I mean, these guys are freaking Rock Stars and here I am just writing about kilts and getting drunk and shit.

I just found out that my old Elementary School Chum isn’t even in the band anymore, so I can’t even be a Rock Star by association.

But hey, I can play the bass guitar.

Actually, I can’t.

I can fake it through an audition for the band though.

I mean Hell, they ARE just Montanans. If I bring ’em beer, a snowblower, and a couple of sheep, they’ll probably make me their manager and give me first dibs on all their groupies.


Oh, The King Pimpin Ninja of Diaryland hooked me up, and I’m all registered and shit.

This place is now officially The JuddHole.

You can send me emails too, at any address you want. I already checked, and fucknugget, hamburgerbuns, and monkeynuts all show up in my InBox.

How cool is that?