I love sex. I also love prime rib. In the same fashion that a chick has to smoke after sex, I truly enjoy post-sex prime rib. I guess it's not really post sex, rather it's post sex and post-chick leaving my house/me leaving her house. Either way, as soon as the obligatory hugs, kisses, good-byes, and/or payment is taken care of, I can't wait to get to the Skyland and order up some prime rib.

It's probably a fat-kid thing to say, but I'd venture that it's possible that sheer bliss could be felt by me if I could convince a girl to let me eat prime rib while I'm having sex with her. I can't imagine a relationship where you're so comfortable that you'd feel free to try to introduce red meat into the bedroom. You could ask, even if only to make any future requests seem normal by comparison.

Honey, would you mind if I set these prime rib pieces on your back and eat them while we make love?

Are you out of your fucking mind? Get the fuck away from me!

Okay, well then how about some anal?

Sure, whatever, just get that hot plate out of here.

I had sex this morning, then I had prime rib, now I want to have sex again. It's a vicious cycle. I'm going to have a heart attack by noon tomorrow.

Meg: click on the "Columns" section on the menu above for more suggested reading.

I wore a shirt, tie, backpack, and bicycle helmet as a costume last night [mormon].

Happy birthday John Barr.

Gooch: Out.

I was illin' in need of penicillin but now I'm chillin' like a villain with a bouncer gig as a fill in but last night I was drink spillin' today I'm sharp like a porcupine quill an' filled up on Hydroxycut so now I'm able and willin' did a lot of work so now I'm billin'...

Shake it like a Polaroid picture: I dig the new Outkast track "Hey Ya." The first time I heard it I knew it'd be some funky hit. I've had it on the mp3 player for a while now. Can't get sick of it.

Stop the planet... I want off: Macho Man Randy Savage, aging wrestler, has released a CD titled "Be a Man." OH YEAH, indeed. Machoman.com

Embrace the wife beater: I've gotten back into the T-shirt wearing world with a purchase of the wife-beater styled, or "Athletic cut" T-shirt. Combined with the bad-ass shirts on which I maxed out my Meier and Frank card and my gold chain, I look like a bloated Ricky Martin.

OUR FOUNDER, CIRCA 2003

I think the clock is slowwwwww.... After enough Jack Daniels to sedate, well, me, I sang Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher" at a Karaoke bar last night. The second I finished, you could hear crickets chirping following by some pity applause. Fuck all 'yall: I kicked ass. I know when I suck at karaoke and I can honestly say I knocked it out... made the song my own... oh fuck it.

Yo, I'm sick. If I haven't returned calls, it's because my throat hurts so, so fucking bad.

The Captain of the Staten Island ferry that crashed today tried to kill himself with razor blades and a BB gun? That totally reminds me of a friend of mine who tried to kill himself with fluoride pills.

True story, unfortunately. I still laugh at him for it, 15 years later.

I promised to give someone a computer and two nights before I was to deliver said computer, it crapped out. What the fuck? Now I'm scrambling through my computer graveyard for another Pentium II (Pentium IIIs are reserved only for those who have performed fellatio on me. You don't want to ask about the Pentium IVs) and what's cool (or sad, depending on your view of geeks with offices filled with computers) is I found one. Sweet!

I now have Five (5) neon signs up in the office. Now I'll feel more natural when I drink while I work. I'll put on my bouncer shirt and if a customer gives me shit, I'll throw him down the fucking stairs. Unless he or she is bigger than me, then I'll crawl under my work table and cry until they leave. Then I'll do the honorable thing and put a BB gun in my mouth. What happened to going down with the ship? Anyway, it's a strange world out there.

Feng Shui? Feng Shit.

I've recently gotten the urge to start making improvements on the condo. All the 70s era overhead lights have been replaced with brushed nickel fixtures. Holy shit, brushed nickel is sexy as fuck. I got a sweet deal on a hanging light fixture for over the kitchen table. It's in and it's on. I turned the wrong breaker off at one point and unwittingly jammed an all metal screwdriver into a wire-release in a light switch and CHRIST, that sucked. I think the thing about my house is that no matter what I do to it, it'll always look like I live there. Bottles of booze, tacky movie memorabilia, a television mounted on the wall of my bedroom, and neon beer signs in the office. The TV on the bedroom wall makes my bedroom look like some hospital room. Chicks LOVE to tell me that. One girl told me to get a Craftmatic adjustable bed to complete the hospital theme. They're so cute at seventeen.

Rush Limbaugh is addicted to pain-killers? How liberal of him. I've been living on a diet of Viagra, whisky, Diet Coke, and Xanax for eleven months. I'm not blaming anyone. Although, it's amazing how easy it is to get prescription pills over the internet. I've done it. A little disturbing. Heading for the coast tomorrow. Very excited. It's nice to go on a vacation, even though my life closely resembles most people's vacations. Gotta go; I've got to get up at 11am tomorrow.

It's 5:30am and I just woke up with an intense urge to play dodge-ball. God damn. Dodge-ball? As the fat kid in middle school, I hated that game. I knew I was going to be, like, THE FIRST FUCKING TARGET. I hated dodge-ball. Ten-seconds into the game I'd get hit and spend the next twenty-minutes watching my classmates have fun while I sat on the bleachers. Eating a candy bar. And now I want to play it? I should be like a dodge ball assassin. Fuck yeah. I should find all of the kids that used to throw the ball at me first during a game. They're grown up, many married with children. I wonder how they'd feel when they woke up and saw at the foot of their bed a silhouette of me holding a red, rubber dodge ball. WHAM! I'd hit them in the head with the 35 psi overinflated rubber ball. WHAM! I'd hit their spouse, too. Fuck 'em. Fomer class chums pushing a grocery cart through a Safeway and SMACK! I've struck again. Don't think you're safe in church either, you bitches. I'll smack the yamulka or the communion bread off your heads and right out of your mouths (respectively). Who's out now, motherfuckers? The game didn't end at the lunch bell. It's on, cocksuckers.

Dating tips for men from Gooch: Don't talk during sex. Nothing you will say will enhance the moment. I don't care what happens or what you hear in porn movies. Just shut the fuck up.